That mak’st the lightning’s withering glance thy scribe,
And on the hissing cauldron’s breath dost ride—
With all thy boasted sciences, must thou
Before the sworded angel veil thy brow?
Art thou, too, vulnerable with all thine arts?
Hast thou no shield to ward the lethal darts?
No potent balm, whose virtues can expel
The lurking venom from its citadel?
Must thou, too, pray for some Araunah’s floor,
Whereon the wasting vengeance may give o’er?