Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/140

 To-morrow shall the many-color'd main In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

Wild, as th' autumnal gust, the hand of Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance Th' alternate groupes of Joy and Grief advance Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate. The Swain, who, lull'd'by Seine's mild murmurs, led His weary oxen to their nightly shed, To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile Survey the sanguinary Despot's might, And haply hurl the Pageant from his height Unwept to wander in some savage isle.