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Rh

Of the fierce sun that shines to curse, not bless, The withered earth; or in the frozen realms Around the northern pole, nursing bleak winds, And arming tempests with their fury; or Deep, deep beneath the centre, flinging forth Thy golden baits to win the souls of men; Or gathering amid the elements Foul poison from dense vapours, forging darts And thunderbolts, and drawing up to Heaven The billowy flood, sucked in by sable clouds, In black gigantic columns, to give back Their briny cataracts upon the deck Of some tall stately vessel;—wheresoe'er, Spirit of Evil, thou delight'st to dwell, Attend my summons; heart, and mind, and soul, I now devote to thee: crown with success My devastating projects.——Who goes there? Geraldi Sforza! to my wish he comes.— What can have brought thee to this desert spot— The hero of the hour?——Expecting crowds