Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.
The look, the air, that frets thy sight,
May be a token that, below,
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal, fiery foe
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast thee shuddering on thy face.
The fall thou darest to despise—
Perhaps the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise