But, like the Midianite of old,
Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controlled,
I feel within my aged breast
A power that will not be repress’d.
It prompts my voice, it swells my veins,
It burns, it maddens, it constrains!—
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow
Hath at God’s altar slain thy foe:
O’ermastered yet by high behest,
I bless thee, and thou shalt be blest!