16.

Then, Adwick saw, approaching nigh,
A form of haughtiest dignity.
Never was grander presence seen,
Or loftier stature.
The demon in his nature
Wore a sublimely mournful mien;
And as he trod
The shrinking sod,
He seem'd not less than demigod.
Crisp, curl'd his locks of auburn hue
O'er features beautiful,
High brow, thin lips, arch'd nose;
A face of marble-like repose,
Whose coldness sham'd young June's white rose.
Yet on his front scowl'd rigor. Blue,
Watch'd his fix'd eyes — small, cavern'd, dull;
And cuplike ears, plac'd wide apart,
Before a knotted mass of skull,
Proclaim'd a tyrant's brain and heart;
Though his sad smile turn'd dim
The sun's glad calmness, as he set,
And Autumn's violet
Stole a sweet look of tears from him.


17.

" Infidel! " Slowly, thus, he spoke,
In tones that on the hearer broke
Like dying thunder. " It is well
That we are mighty. Infidel!
Or tortur'd human life, in vain,
Would petrify Love's tears with pain.
Live, then, to feel, in heart and brain,
Worst pain's intensity of pain,
Ere death dismiss thy atheist soul,
To tenant some vile toad or owl,
Or stinking fox, or filthier swine,
And find no beastlier shape than thine. "