Shakespeare.
6.
And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king? and to enrage the more Thy King and Lord! Back to thy _pun_ishment, _False fu_gitive, and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.
Milton.
7.
These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good!
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair!—Thyself how wondrous, then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
Midst these, thy lowest works!
Yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought,
And power divine!
8.
An hour passed on:—the Turk awoke:—
That bright dream was his last;—
He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms!—they come!—the Greek, the Greek!"
He woke—to die, 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots felling thick and fast.
Like forest-pines before the blast,
Or lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band;
"Strike—till the last armed foe expires,
Strike—for your altars and your fires,
Strike—for the green graves of your sires,
Heaven—and your native land!"
They fought like brave men, long and well,
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell
Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
They saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,
Like flowers at set of sun.