Ye subterranean gods! whose awful sway The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey: O Chaos, hear! and Phlegethon profound! Whose solemn empire stretch… - Christopher Pitt

Arms! arms! my friends, with speed my arms supply,
'Tis our last hour, and summons us to die;
My arms!—in vain you hold me,—let me go—
Give, give me back this moment to the foe.
'Tis well—we will not tamely perish all,
But die revenged, and triumph in our fall.

Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolished bard, Among whose labours I may find a line Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.

So from a brazen vase the trembling stream
Reflects the lunar or the solar beam:
Swift and elusive of the dazzled eyes,
From wall to wall the dancing glory flies:
Thence to the ceiling shoot the glancing rays,
And o'er the roof the quivering splendor plays.