XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the Sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent Nations meet, To shed before his Shrine the blood he deems most sweet.