XXXIX.

Still roars the volleying thunder. Dost not feel Appalled, thou villain, by that lightning-flash, Nor dream when brandishing thy dripping steel, That crimes like thine the Eternal arm will lash? Doth not that thunder-clap thine eye abash? For not more fell was Attila than thou; Not Alaric’s self, whose Visigothic clash Made Spain and Rome, beneath Honorius, bow, Led monsters to the assault of much more shameless brow.