Ode to Vengeance

O Sprung from Heaven's immortal Sire! From whose stern eye the living fire Darts thrillant horror, when thy hand Hurls the dread bolt at his command; Whose plagues transfix the guilty crew, Whom mid the secret haunts of night, Or flying on with wild affright, Thy eager steps pursue.

Tho better pleased, majestic Queen! To sit with aweful brow serene, To sit, and bend thy listening ear To Innocence, thy loved Compeer; Or round her trembling form to spread Thy plumed wing, upon thy breast To bid her lull her fears to rest, And lay her sacred head.

Conscious of thee, when all alone, Or seated on his splendid throne, The Tyrant's cheek grows pale: He hears A nation's groan invade his ears; Th' ideal dagger He espies, With thick short gasp He draws his breath, And knowing He deserves his death, Each hour, in fancy, dies.

Say, hast Thou left th' ethereal height? I see thee thro the clouds of night, Beneath the yew tree's mournful gloom Hanging o'er yonder new-raised tomb, Attentive to the Father's prayer, Who there laments th' ill-fated maid By oaths of perjured lust betray'd, A victim to despair.

He calls on Thee; Oh! steel his nerves! Only thy potent aid preserves Him too from death. Bring face to face Him, and the cause of his disgrace! Oh! give him force, or righteous art! Give, what the partial law denies, Ere He of grief, or frenzy dies, To stab th' Assassin's heart!

To thee the Generous and the Good Yield homage; precious is the food By thee to the great soul supplied, When pondering deep with virtuous pride O'er heart-felt wrongs, his innate worth No sigh affords; but on his prey From the dark den, at close of day The Lion rushes forth.

Tremble, ye Base! affect to scorn The man with nobler passions born, Who drinks not of your bigot draught. But know, that while with justice fraught He dares excite the black-wing'd storm, Know, that the mean-soul'd injuries He dares with vigour to chastise, He never dares perform.