Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around, There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, Form a gigantic hall, where never sound Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye Thrones him,--and, fix'd on his primæval mound, Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. IX. In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; The dancing heart's blood in an instant there Would freeze to marble.--Mingling day and night (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light) Are there unknown; while in the summer skies The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise. X. 'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, Satan had fix'd their next consistory, When parting last he fondly hoped to shake Messiah's constancy,--and thus to free The powers of darkness from the dread decree Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, Discern the colours clear of every dark event. XI. Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall, Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall, Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. XII. High on a solium of the solid wave, Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, He stood in silence;--now keen thoughts engrave Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd, He fears to say that every hope is lost. Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute; So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. XIII. At length collected, o'er the dark Divan The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began His fierce harangue:--"Spirits! our better days Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. Lo! the light breaks;--The astonish'd nations gaze, For us is lifted high the avenging rod! For, spirits! this is He,--this is the Son of God! XIV.