Ezra Stiles and the Dark Day

Twas on a May-day of the far old year Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, A horror of great darkness, like the night In day of which the Norland sagas tell The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs The crater's sides from the red hell below Birds ceased to sing, and all the barnyard fowls Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars Lowed and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings Flitted abroad; the sounds of labour died; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky. (J.G. Whittier, "Abraham Davenport," lines 10-26)