XXXIII.

Shudder, thou worm that point’st thy petty sting; A breath may quench both thee and all thy line! Fly, passion, hate, ’neath Mercy’s sheltering wing-- Hath not the Lord declared: “Revenge is mine?” Reptile, dost _Him_ defy? Not thus will shine Thy courage when, at dissolution’s hour, The more thou scornest now the more thou’lt whine, And feel no weed that deems itself a flower So mean as man who dares to brave the Almighty’s power!