XXXVIII.
“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.”
XXXIX.
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.
XL.
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?
