Wildfire

When summer suns had dried the bush and Autumn came along,
A match lit up the withered leaves (the breeze was blowing strong)
That night the fire was fearful—it rolled and raged and roared.
And over hills and gullies its blazing bellows poured.
It rose in tongues of scarlet-red—it curled and hissed and reared.
Wher'er it breathed it withered up—wher'er it licked it seared,
It lit the snowy mountains as brightly as the day,
And whirled aloft volcanic bursts, and shoals of starry spray
It howled down the gorges like tortured souls in hell
Sometimes it seemed to slumber as for a breathing spell,
And then superb splendor and wilder fiercer rush,
It scorched with hot sirocco blast the green and standing bush.
Ten million sparks blew on the gale right down the back of the ridges,
They tired the Wild Horse Clearing—burnt down the wooden bridges,
The still creek it lighted up with giant torches round,
And never slacked until it reached the indian burial ground,
For days it burned adown the creek, and many a mile afar,
And falling tree-trunks volleyed loud like cannonades of war,
Great balls of fire careered aloft high o'er the treeful crags,
And sheeted flames flew on before like shredded battle-flags.
Dante's dream compared to this was commonplace and tame.
Noon-day black with murky clouds, midnight red with flame
As if the stoker Lords of Hell had 'oped their furnace grate,
To wrap the monarchs of the bush in crimson robes of state.