And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

Arms on armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd: dire was the noise Of conflict.

And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.

O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.

Take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.