Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt,
Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light,
A ghastly furrow leave.—A solemn pause ensues:
As when, of old, the monarch of the floods,
’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves,
Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft
His awful brow.—Sudden the furious winds
Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage:
Or when (if mighty themes like these allow
An humble metaphor) the sportive race