Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/162

122 23.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,

The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,

Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

24.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,

Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er;

Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.

25.

Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:

What satellites declare her dismal reign!

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,

To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.

26.

Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel

The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies;

The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.

27.

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;