Mysterious.

The morning sun rose bright and fair     Upon a lovely village where         Prosperity abounded,     And ceaseless hum of industry     In lines of friendly rivalry         From day to day resounded.     Its shaded avenues were wide,     And closely bordered either side         With cottages or mansions,     Or marked by blocks of masonry     That might defy a century         To loosen from their stanchions.     Its peaceful dwellers daily vied     To make this spot, with anxious pride,         A Paradise of beauty,     Recounted its attractions o'er,     And its adornment held no more         A pleasure than a duty.     But, ere the daylight passed away,     That hamlet fair in ruins lay,         Its hapless people scattered     Like playthings, at the cyclone's will,     And scarce remained one domicile         Its fury had not shattered.     Few moments of the tempest's wrath     Sufficed to mark one dreadful path         With scenes of devastation;     While over piles of wild dbris     Rose shrieks of dying agony         Above the desolation.     Oh, mystery! who can understand     Why, sudden, from God's mighty hand         Destructive bolts of power     Without discrimination strike     The evil and the good alike -         As in that dreadful hour!     Alas for aching hearts that wait     Today in homes made desolate         By one sharp blow appalling -     For all who kneel by altars lone,     And strive to say "Thy will be done,"         That awful day recalling!     We dare not question his decrees     Who seeth not as mortal sees,         Nor doubt his goodness even;     Nor let our hearts be dispossessed     Of faith that he disposeth best         All things in earth and Heaven.