Rev. xii. 7.
To arms, ye starry chieftains all, who lead
The youth of heaven to war--to arms, with speed!
Let each right-hand its untried arrows grasp,
Or its own fiercely-gleaming falchion clasp.
_He_ is _all_ here, and mightier in his wrath,
The Dragon brings all powers the Dragon hath:
Strange forms, curst children of the deepest Night--
What dusky gods he marshals to the fight!
Now he makes ready, fights now, fierce as hell!
Scarce could I say 'He fights,' when, lo, he fell.
Ah, 'twas too much to scar with wrath these faces,
And leave on angel-cheeks such furrow'd traces.
'Tis his grim boast and proudly-swelling fate,
That of a great crime e'en the end was great:
If vanquish'd, that 'twas no mean victory;
Much bolted thunder there requir'd to be;
That with these words his fiery pains he charms:
'Arms I bore vainly; but I did bear arms.' R. WI.