The Lightning travels not so fast, And now behind him he hath left And still erect as on the tomb In impious act he stood, Is he rapt onward. . . onward... still In that fix'd attitude. But as he from the living world Shapeless, and scarce to be descried In darkness where they flew; But still as they advanced, the more And more distinct they grew: And when their way fast-speeding they Thro' their own region went, Then were they in their substance seen, The angelic form, the fiendish mien, Face, look and lineament. Behold where dawns before them now, Sole daylight of that frozen zone, In that drear realm of outer night, Like the shadow, or the ghost of light, It moved in the restless skies, And went and came, like a feeble flame That flickers before it dies. There the fallen Seraph reign'd supreme There on the everlasting ice Son of the Morning! is it then As if dominion here could joy Thither the Evil Angels bear The youth, and rendering homage there Their service they evince, And in the name of Abibas Present him to their Prince : Just as they seized him when he made The fallen Seraph cast on him “Ay, . . love!" he cried. "It serves me well. There was the Trojan boy,.. His love brought forth a ten years' war, "And when my own Mark Antony And Rome's whole world was set in arms, "Some for ambition sell themselves, "Yes, of all human follies, love, "Well then, young Amorist, whom love I am willing to perform the word 66 Thy Master's daughter shall be thine, "Yea, more; • • I give thee with the girl, Thine after-days to bless, Health, wealth, long life, and whatsoe'er The world calls happiness. "But, mark me! . . on conditions, youth! No paltering here we know ! Dost thou here, solemnly, this hour "Dost thou renounce thy baptism, "No lurking purpose shall avail, When youth may fail and courage quail, To cheat me by contrition! I will have thee written down among "Remember, I deceive thee not, "Dost thou, who now to choose art free, As I shall help thee, say!" ... "I do; so help me, Satan!" said "A resolute answer," quoth the Fiend; Swift as thought a scroll and a reed were brought, Just where the heart-stroke plays, the point It pierced not in, nor touch'd the skin; A sense no sooner felt than gone, And with that pen accurst, he sign'd Whereby he to perdition bound |