When sudden ... how think ye, the end?
Did I say “without friend?”
Say rather from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the sun’s self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see! Just my vengeance complete,
The man sprang to his feet,
Stood erect, caught at God’s skirts, and prayed!
—So, _I_ was afraid!
“Instans Tyrannus,” the _present_ tyrant, the tyrant for the time only,
whose apparently illimitable power to hurt shrivels into nothing in
presence of the King of kings, whose dominion is everlasting.
The poor victim of this tyrant’s oppression is a true child of God, but
the nobility of his inner life is of course concealed from the proud
wretch who despises him, and who, it must be remembered, is the speaker
throughout. We must be careful, therefore, to estimate at their proper
worth the epithets he applies and the motives he attributes to the
object of his hate. _He_ can, of course, think of no other reason why
his victim “would not moan, would not curse,” than that, if he did, “his
lot might be worse.” And again, when temptation failed to shake his
steadfast patience, the tyrant is quite consistent with himself, as one
of those who call evil good, and good evil, in speaking of him as still
keeping “to his filth.” The last stanza is magnificent. Has the power of
prayer ever been set forth in nobler language?
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