The Sibyl.

A Sketch.     So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair     Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare     Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom     Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb.     Slow, like the rising storm, in fitful moans,     Broke from her breast the deep prophetic tones.     Anon, with whirlwind rash, the Spirit came;     Then in dire splendour, like imprison'd flame     Flashing through rifted domes or towns amazed,     Her voice in thunder burst; her arm she raised;     Outstretch'd her hands, as with a Fury's force,     To grasp, and launch the slow descending curse:     Still as she spoke, her stature seem'd to grow;     Still she denounced unmitigable woe:     Pain, want, and madness, pestilence, and death,     Rode forth triumphant at her blasting breath:     Their march she marshall'd, taught their ire to fall--     And seem'd herself the emblem of them all!