Page:Stanzas on an Ancient Superstition (1864).djvu/16

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“Once arbiters of fate, your host did seem;
 * Prophetic sovereigns of all good or ill.

New-wakened to the thought of God supreme,
 * I come, as tho’ His mandate to fulfil,
 * I come to break your fancied power—to still

The tumult of despair.No more to me Shall purposeless destruction mark the will Of nature’s God.E’en now, as mine shall be, The souls of all, from doubt and maddening terror free.”

But while he spake, the lightning flashing forth
 * Darted its signals thro’ the distant air,

Calling the pitiless storm-God to the earth—
 * Slowly he turns, a pile immense to rear
 * Of resinous wood heaped up with many a layer,

Where sleeps the strength of roaring flames.But fast
 * The storm assails him, lifts his hoary hair,

And round him whirls, as round some stately mast, Alone and tempest-tossed, that scorns the howling blast.

Hark! on the wild wind comes there not a shriek!
 * Or do the demons whom he dares betray

Even at their holy shrine, draw near to wreak
 * Their vengeance ere his proud words pass away?
 * Again that cry! the wail of agony,

Heard shrilly from the mount thro’ wind and rain
 * And deafening storm.But still without dismay

He stands.Why haste to seek his friends again, Whose horror would but hear his soothing words in vain?