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Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye
Full on the speaker ; dark it was and stern; He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily,
And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts
Him Moloch mark’d, and strove again to turn His soul to rage. Behold, behold,' he cried,
• The lord of Hell, who bade these legions spurn Almighty rule-behold he lays aside The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied.' Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning) tongue
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat In slaughter. So, his native wilds among,
The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat,
Press’d on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet. Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword
Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, [seat As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde.
powers of Hell, I am 110 coward. I proved this of old. Who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your scattered powers ? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? he who preys only on the defenceless—who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention? Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation ; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled purposes determinedly. In power we have learned, by that experiment which lost us heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer: --In subtlety-in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.
* Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the race
Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall, We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
Of vengeance wrings within me! Warriors all, The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
Away with coward wiles ! Death's coal-black pall
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves,
Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves
And sighing_his papyrus scarf survey'd, Woven with dark characters; then thus address'd
The troubled council :
Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme
With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I in early days have strung;
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more re-animate the lay? Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree !
I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. TRIBUTARY VERSES.
LINES AND NOTE-BY LORD BYRON.
UNHAPPY White !* while life was in its spring,
Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued: His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE.
Presented to me by his brother, J. N. White. BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame! While on these awful leaves
fond On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd, I pause;
and gaze regretful on thy name. By neither chance nor envy,
time nor flame, Be it from this its mansion dispossess'd !
But thee Eternity clasps to her breast,
An imitative radiance :* thy pure lyre
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire :
TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE.
BY A LADY.
IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory