BOOTH’S RICHARD.
The sceptred Gorgon of the Isles,
The fiercest of the kingly brood,
Weaves o’er again his deadly wiles,
Again appears with flesh indued.
Promethean will uncrushed and calm,
His blighted sinews nerved and strung,
All foes he met without alarm—
At fiend or god his gauntlet flung.
His spirit was a dark abyss,
Its surface glassed with summer smiled;
But deep below the dragon hissed,
And thoughts like hydras lurked and coiled.
The bright-haired shadows drenched in blood,
The stifled Princes sweet and pale,
Athwart his dim pavilion strode—
His heart of iron did not quail.
Though from beneath Gehenna stirred,
And sent its legions to the fray,
The war-cry from his lips was heard,
Like blast of bugle far away.
Girt lion-like with countless foes—
On earth, in heaven, without a friend—
With clenching teeth and gathered brows
He battled bravely to the end.