 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
XVI.
Like that same hill, of streams that frownAbove the waves on high,
Which throws his thundering tempests down
To ocean from the sky;
Thus towered Lothbroch's giant-form,
Superior to his ruffian band,
Who sways to swell or still their storm
With high and haughty hand,
More stern, more rigid, more severe,
His gesture fierce, and gloomy air;
But in his sovereign voice and mien,
And piercing eye, was heard and seen
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For other purposes designed,
Abused to deeds of infamy,
That, well employed, had given
A name of immortality,
Which might have bloomed in Heaven.
Yet who his lofty mien could pass
Without repeated look?
Although that something in his face
No common eye might brook —
That something which appals and awes,
And yet again the chill eye draws,
Unsatisfied, yet dreading too,
At full to meet his fearful view!
'Twas that the greatness of his soul,
Perverted from her first intent,
Yet still retained her high control,
And to his frowns and glances lent
Her native energy divine;
Like Demon, bent on fell design,
Applies his pristine Angel-force,
To aid the horrors of his course.
| The Legend of St. Loy | |