XXXV.
On the high Teocal, in reverie lost,
Still as a statue, save the glancing eye
That traced each movement of the starry host,
He saw not, rising slowly, gloomily,
Like spectre giants far off in the sky,
The mustering clouds—but gazed as tho’ he meant
The world’s portentous horoscope to try;
Alas! how hard to rest in faith content,
E’en if from God himself a heavenly guide be sent!
XXXVI.
But faith prevailed. “No will,” he said, “or thought,
Or power, I find within your orbs of light.
Tho’ sages teach that your fair rays are fraught
With evil destinies, that all your bright
And marvellous host but blazon o’er the night
The doom of realms, ordaining kings to die,
And beautifully beaming on the blight
Yourselves have wrought, and on crushed hearts that lie
As now—to-night! beneath your ruthless tyranny.
XXXVII.
“Falsely they teach! The glory that is strown
O’er your mysterious path He will uphold
Whose ministers ye are, around whose throne
Ye tremulously move in awe controlled.
And we shall live! and you, even as of old,
All impotent to harm shall still appear:
No beam annulled, no dire confusion rolled
Amid your ranks, nor thro’ the darkened air
Shall nature’s death-song sweep from falling sphere to sphere.
