I. 1.

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence!
Thy chain of adamant can bind
That little world, the human mind,
And sink its noblest powers to impotence.
Wake the lion’s loudest roar,
Clot his shaggy mane with gore,
With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine;
Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine!
Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel’d the breast,[^[2]]
Whence, thro’ her April-shower, soft Pity smil’d;
Has clos’d the heart each godlike virtue bless’d,
To all the silent pleadings of his child.
At thy command he plants the dagger deep,
At thy command exults, tho’ Nature bids him weep!