The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly In Two Volumes |
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SATAN.
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 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
270
SATAN.
FROM A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
“Satan dilated stood.”
Milton.
Prince of the fall'n! around thee sweep
The billows of the burning deep.
Above thee bends the vaulted fire,
Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire.
And on thy sleepless vision rise
Hell's living clouds of agonies.
The billows of the burning deep.
Above thee bends the vaulted fire,
Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire.
And on thy sleepless vision rise
Hell's living clouds of agonies.
But thou dost like a mountain stand,
The spear unlifted in thy hand;
Thy gorgeous eye,—a comet shorn,
Calm into utter darkness borne;
A naked giant, stern, sublime,
Arm'd in despair, and scorning Time.
The spear unlifted in thy hand;
Thy gorgeous eye,—a comet shorn,
Calm into utter darkness borne;
A naked giant, stern, sublime,
Arm'd in despair, and scorning Time.
271
On thy curl'd lip is throned disdain,
That may revenge, but not complain:
Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale,
There smote the blast of fiery hail.
Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there,
The wreck of an archangel's sphere.
That may revenge, but not complain:
Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale,
There smote the blast of fiery hail.
Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there,
The wreck of an archangel's sphere.
No giant pinions round thee cling,
Clouds and the thunder are thy wing.
Thy forehead wears no diadem,
The king is in thine eye-ball's beam.
Thy form is grandeur unsubdued,
Sole chief of Hell's dark multitude.
Clouds and the thunder are thy wing.
Thy forehead wears no diadem,
The king is in thine eye-ball's beam.
Thy form is grandeur unsubdued,
Sole chief of Hell's dark multitude.
Yet, brighter than thy brightest hour,
Shall rise in glory and in power,
The lowliest of the lowly dead,
His ransom'd, who shall bruise thy head,
The myriads for His blood forgiven;
Kings of the stars, the loved of Heaven!
Shall rise in glory and in power,
The lowliest of the lowly dead,
His ransom'd, who shall bruise thy head,
The myriads for His blood forgiven;
Kings of the stars, the loved of Heaven!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |