A Sketch. So Stood The Sibyl: Stream'D Her Hoary Hair Wild As The Blast, And With A Comet'S Glare Glow'D Her Red Eye-Balls 'Midst The Sunken Gloom Of Their Wild Orbs, Like Death-Fires In A Tomb. Slow, Like The Rising Storm, In Fitful Moans, Broke From Her Breast The Deep Prophetic Tones. Anon, With Whirlwind Rash, The Spirit Came; Then In Dire Splendour, Like Imprison'D Flame Flashing Through Rifted Domes Or Towns Amazed, Her Voice In Thunder Burst; Her Arm She Raised; Outstretch'D Her Hands, As With A Fury'S Force, To Grasp, And Launch The Slow Descending Curse: Still As She Spoke, Her Stature Seem'D To Grow; Still She Denounced Unmitigable Woe: Pain, Want, And Madness, Pestilence, And Death, Rode Forth Triumphant At Her Blasting Breath: Their March She Marshall'D, Taught Their Ire To Fall-- And Seem'D Herself The Emblem Of Them All!