Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the

seat

Of the arch-fiend all turned with one accord, 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 determinately. 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 rings 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 unheaped the sacred pyre,

And nightly magi watched the everlasting fire.

He waved his robe of flame, he crossed his breast,

And sighing his papyrus scarf surveyed,

Woven with dark characters, then thus addressed The troubled council.

I.

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 spirit's 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.

II.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate 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.

These last two stanzas were discovered by Southey written on the leaf of a different book, and apparently long after the first canto.

LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE

HEAVENS,

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.

YE many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions! Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems! - big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye
Small as the glowworm's lamp! - To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warped with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven,
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,”
In varied harmonies. The glorious sounds

Roll o'er the air serene- - The Eolian spheres,

Harping along their viewless boundaries,

Catch the full note, and cry, “The Lord is great,"
Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all

From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.

Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height! What even are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence? - Thou canst: For Thou art full of universal love,

And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,

The gauds, and honours of the world appear!
How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatched the slow-paced night!- Why on the

page,

The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employed
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay