When storms are his chariot, and lightnings Try what repentance can; what can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? his steeds, The black clouds his banner of vengeance un- O wretched state! O bosom black as death! furled, O limèd soul, that struggling to be free, And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken Art more engaged! world; Not such was the rainbow, that beautiful one! sun; A pavilion it seemed which the Deity graced, SHAKSPEARE. I have gnashed My teeth in darkness till returning morn, BYRON. |