Seems waving fire—the kindling of his eye
Is as a meteor—ardent with disdain
His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty!
Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear
Some dread archangel through the fields of air.
But who is he, in panoply of gold,
Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form,
Yet in its brightness awful to behold,
And girt with all the terrors of the storm!
Lightning is on his helmet’s crest—and fear