Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern; concern. 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.' 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. '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 Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 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, Woven with dark characters; then thus address'd Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 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? Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 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. R TRIBUTARY VERSES. LINES AND NOTE-BY LORD BYRON. UNHAPPY White!* while life was in its spring, Which wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. * 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! * Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, Th' Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. BY A LADY. IF worth, if genius, to the world are dear, Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret, C. L. * Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory. |