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But when she darts three looks, a Cromwell bursts
From the dark germ, a Wasa, or the man
That on our Globe is thrice a Hero, thrice
In wrath strikes foes, priests, kings, a thundering Jove,
Leave in its awful silence, golden harp!
The deeds tremendous of dark ancient times,
Empires gigantic crushed, colossal kings
Hurled headlong down, thrones splitted, drear in flames
And blood a thousand cities reddening the sky,
Forts tumbling, all the world one scream of woe.
Leave in its awfull silence, golden harp!
These dreads of old, for more tremendous is
What wild, majestic Milton saw, not sung.
Down moulder Pyramids, Greece basely serves,
Turks shake the world, imperial Rome itself
A bonfire is to Gots, from its dust up
Starts dire a Ghost of all its Tyrants, starts
The Pope, giant of hell, mocks heaven and reigns
Through horrid lie, with pompe declared divine.
From dread lo! nations quake, from misery groan;
Wars furious rage for words, from syllables
Burst flames, and thunders from a letter’s sound;
Sect all of God act Devils, bloddy piles
For truth and genius high blaze up to heaven,
Kings sway in terror, Bishops fatten, hell
Smiles in its gloom, and roars with joy. Yet all
Leave in its awfull silence, golden harp!
For more worth thee, more terrible and grand
Is still the song of Cromwell, mortal Jove,
The Hero chosen of Revenge Divine.
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