And Looks Commercing With The Skies, Thy

The Brazen Throat Of War.

Incens'd With Indignation Satan Stood Unterrify'd, And Like A Comet Burn'd That Fires The Length Of Ophiuchus Huge In Th' Arctic Sky, And From His Horrid Hair Shakes Pestilence And War.

Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground, I Hear The Far-off Curfew Sound Over Some Wide-watered Shore, Swinging Low With Sullen Roar.

Thrones, Dominions, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers-- If These Magnific Titles Yet Remain Not Merely Titular.

These Eyes, Tho' Clear To Outward View Of Blemish Or Of Spot, Bereft Of Light, Their Seeing Have Forgot, Nor To Their Idle Orbs Doth Sight Appear Of Sun, Or Moon, Or Star, Throughout The Year, Or Man, Or Woman. Yet I Argue Not Against Heaven's Hand Or Will, Not Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.