THE SIBYL.

So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair

Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare

Glow'd her red eye-balls‘ midst the sunken gloom

Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb.

Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans,

Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones.

Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came;

Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame

Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed,

Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised;

Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force,

To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse:

Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow;

Still she denounced unmitigable woe:

Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death,

Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath:

Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall —

And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!