Meanwhile, where is the hero of the piece—the successful Guy Fawkes of the cathedral? Perched on a locality which never would have occurred to any but the most exalted imagination. SUMMIT OF THE PILLAR OF ST SIMEON STYLITES. FIRMILIAN. ’Twas a grand spectacle! The solid earth Seemed from its quaking entrails to eruct The gathered lava of a thousand years, Like an imposthume bursting up from hell! In a red robe of flame, the riven towers, Pillars and altar, organ-loft and screen, With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed, Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars, And all creation trembled at the din. It was my doing—mine alone! and I Stand greater by this deed than the vain fool That thrust his torch beneath Diana’s shrine. For what was it inspired Erostratus But a weak vanity to have his name Blaze out for arson in the catalogue? I have been wiser. No man knows the name Of me, the pyrotechnist who have given A new apotheosis to the saint With lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell! And yet—and yet—what boots the sacrifice? I thought to take remorse unto my heart, As the young Spartan hid the savage fox Beneath the foldings of his boyish gown, And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven— My heart is yet unscarred. I’ve been too coarse And general in this business. Had there been Amongst that multitude a single man Who loved me, cherished me—to whom I owed Sweet reciprocity for holy alms And gifts of gentle import—had there been Friend,—father,—brother, mingled in that crowd, And I had slain him—then indeed my soul Might have acquired fruition of its wish, And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin! But these—what were the victims unto me? Nothing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods, Uninspired dullards, unpoetic slaves, The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind; Whom, having scorched to cinders, I no more Feel ruth for what I did, than if my hand Had thrust a stick of sulphur in the nest Of some poor hive of droning humble-bees, And smoked them into silence! I must have A more potential draught of guilt than this, With more of wormwood in it! Here I sit, Perched like a raven on old Simeon’s shaft, With barely needful footing for my limbs— And one is climbing up the inward coil, Who was my friend and brother. We have gazed Together on the midnight map of heaven,