Sonnet

Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good,

Or propagate again her loathéd kind,

Thronging the cells of the diseaséd mind,

Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood,

Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat

Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat

Of their broad vans, and in the solitude

Of middle space confound them, and blow back

Their wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slake

With points of blastborne hail their heated eyne!

So their wan limbs no more might come between

The moon and the moon's reflex in the night,

Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.