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All duly subject to thy sovereign sway,
That live and breathe beneath the lunar ray—
Beneath that orb, which, nearest of the seven,
Divides things mortal from th' eternal heaven.
Proud purple kings shall kneel before thy throne,
Mix'd with the poor, their pomp, their glory gone:
All vain distinctions levelled by the grave,
Thy righteous sentence shall condemn or save;
And thou—the secrets of their hearts confest—
Adjudge the sinner woe, the godly rest.
On thee the duteous Destinies shall wait,
Thy rule be boundless, and thy will be fate!"
This said, he gave his joyful steeds the rein,
And sought, in milder mood, his realm again.
About him throng the souls, in number such
As leaves that fall at Auster's angry touch;
As drops that issue from a cloudy sky;
As waves that break, as sands that whirling fly.
The dead of every age may there be seen,
In haste to gaze upon their glorious Queen;
And he, unlike himself, moves on with smile serene.
Vast Phlegethon to greet them rears his frame,
His face and rugged beard distilling flame.
