majestic, All thy terrible part is now played! Noble abased one! Thou, of thy race beginner and ender! Wondrous son of her fearfulest humor, Mother Nature's blunder sublime! Through cloud-covered night a radiant gleam! Hark how behind him the portals are closing! Night's gloomy jaws veil him darkly in shade! Nations are trembling, At his destructive splendor afraid! Thou art welcome! 'Tis ended! Oh thou sinner majestic, All thy terrible part is now played! Crumble,—decay In the cradle of wide-open heaven! Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes, When the hot thirst for glory Raises its barriers over against the dread throne! See! to eternity shame has consigned thee! To the bright stars of fame Thou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame! Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee, When admiration at length will be thine! With moist eye, by thy sepulchre dreaded, Man has passed onward—     Rejoice in the tears that man sheddeth, Oh thou soul of the judged! With moist eye, by the sepulchre dreaded, Lately a maiden passed onward, Hearing the fearful announcement Told of thy deeds by the herald of marble; And the maiden—rejoice thee! rejoice thee! Sought not to dry up her tears. Far away I stood as the pearls were falling, And I shouted: Amalia! Oh, ye youths! Oh, ye youths!—     With the dangerous lightning of genius Learn to play with more caution! Wildly his bit champs the charger of Phoebus; Though, 'neath the reins of his master, More gently he rocks earth and heaven, Reined by a child's hand, he kindles Earth and heaven in blazing destruction! Obstinate Phaeton perished, Buried beneath the sad wreck. Child of the heavenly genius! Glowing bosom all panting for action! Art thou charmed by the tale of my robber? Glowing like time was his bosom, and panting for action! He, like thee, was the child of the heavenly genius. But thou smilest and goest—     Thy gaze flies through the realms of the world's long story, Moor, the robber, it finds not there—        Stay, thou youth, and smile not! Still survive all his sins and his shame—      Robber Moor liveth—in all but name. 

        THE BAD MONARCHS. 66 Earthly gods—my lyre shall win your praise, Though but wont its gentle sounds to raise When the joyous feast the people throng; Softly at your pompous-sounding names, Shyly round your greatness purple flames, Trembles now my song. Answer! shall I strike the golden string, When, borne on by exultation's 

 Prev. P 13/26 next