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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.

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'Ye powers of Hell, I am no 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 Be now our standard !-Be our torch the glare Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air !'

Him answering rose Mecashphim, who of old,
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
Was worshipp'd, god of Fire, with charms untold
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves,
And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire,

Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves
And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre,
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.

He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast,
And sighing--bis 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

no more.

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.

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LINES AND NOTE-BY LORD BYRON. UNHAPPY White! while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son! Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, Which wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

* 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.

Presented to me by his brother, J. N. White.
BARD of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame!

While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest,
On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late press'd,


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,
And in celestial splendour thrones thy claim.
No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace
An imitative radiance:* thy pure lyre
Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace,
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire:
Th' Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone
Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own.
Bury, 11th Jan. 1807.

C. L.



IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear.
His worth on no precarious tenure hung,
From genuine piety his virtues sprung:
If pure benevolence, if steady sense,
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense;
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined,
Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret,
Ye sons of genius pay the mournful debt:

* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a


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