On the pyramid, he noticed
Many pictured presentations
Taken from those mythful fables
Handed down from olden ages.
Still the moon stole higher, higher,
Over arabesques and garlands
Till it reached the very apex,
Reached the picture of St. Michael
In his struggle with the Satan.
With one foot upon a cloudlet
Stands the archangel while raising
O'er his head a lance of lightning.
Other foot stands on the Satan
In the dust before him cringing,
Vainly with one hand concealing
Forehead, marked with scars of lightning.
What a depth in his expression!
Uncurbed pain and untamed anger,
Shame, disgrace and meek submission,
All are struggling in his features.
In his eyes coarse sneer, ill-hidden.
With his other hand he raises
Heavy shield with eight sharp edges,
Armor 'gainst the angel's lightning.
With an all observing vision,
Long, long while the prelate gazes
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