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But smothered it within my panting

bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in

the sea. Brak. - Awaked you not with this

sore agony? Clar. – 0, no, my dream was

lengthened after life, 0, then began the tempest to my soul! I passed, methought, the melancholy

flood, With that grim ferryman which

poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual

night. The first that there did greet my

stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, re

nowned Warwick, Who cried aloud, — “What scourge

for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false

Clarence?" And so he vanished: then came wan

dering by A shadow like an angel, with bright

hair Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked

out aloud, “ Clarence is come, — false, fleeting,

perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by

Tewksbury: -Seize on him, Furies, take him to

your torments!" With that, methought, a legion of

foul fiends Environed me, and howlèd in mine

And chastise with the valor of my

tongue All that impedes thee from the

golden round, Which rate and metaphysical aid

doth seem To have thee crowned withal.


Tuis army Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition

puffed, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and dan

ger dare, Even for an egg-shell.



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Though thou see'st me not pass by,
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
As a thing that, though unseen,
Must be near thee, and hath been;
And when in that secret dread
Thou hast turnell around thy head;
Thou shalt marvel I am not
As thy shadow on the spot,
And the power which thou dost feel
Shall be what thou must conceal.

And a magic voice and verse
Hath baptized thee with a curse;
And a spirit of the air
Hath begirt thee with a snare;
In the wind there is a voice
Shall forbid thee to rejoice;
And to thee shall night deny
All the quiet of her sky;
And the day shall have a sun,
Which shall make thee wish it done.

The spells which I have studied baf

fle meThe remedy I recked of tortured

me: I lean no more on superhuman aid, It hath no power upon the past, and

for The future, till the past be gulfed in

darkness, It is not of my search. My mother

earth! And thou, fresh breaking day, and

youl, ye mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love

ye. And tholi, the bright eye of the

universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight, - thou shinest not on

my heart. And you, ye crays, upon whose ex

treme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink

beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to

shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a

Jeap, A stir, a motion, even a breatlı,

would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's

bed To rest forever, — wherefore do I

pause? I feel the impulse - yet I do not

plunge; I see the peril — yet do not recede;

From thy false tears I did distil
An essence which hath strength. to

kill; From thy own heart I then did

wring The black blood in its blackest

spring; From thy own smile I snatched the

snake, For there it coiled as in a brake; From thy own lip I drew the charm Which gave all these their chiefest

harm; In proving every poison known, I found the strongest was thine own.

And my brain reels - and yet my

foot is firm : There is a power upon me which

withholds, And makes it my fatality to live; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have

ceased To justify my deeds unto myself, The last intirmity of evil. Ave, Thou winged and cloud-cleaving


(An eagle passes. Whose happy flight is highest into

heaven, Well mayst thou swoop so near me;

-I should be Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets;

thou art gone Wlrere the eye cannot follow thee;

but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or

above, With a pervading vision. - Beauti

ful! How beautiful is all this visible

world! How glorious in its action and it

self But we, who name ourselves its

sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mixed es

sence make A contlict of its elements, and

breathe The breath of degradation and of

pride, Contending with low wants and lof

ty will Till our mortality predominates, And men are - what they name not

to themselves, And trust not to each other. Hark!

the note, [The shepherd's pipe in the distance

is heard.) The natural music of the mountain

reed, For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable, - pipes in the lib

eral air, Mixed with the sweet bells of the

sauntering herd;

My soul would drink those echoes. –

Oh that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment, born and

dying With the blest tone which made me! Ye toppling crags of ice! Yeavalanches, whom a breath draws

down In mountainous o’erwhelming, come

and crush me! I hear ye momently above, beneath, Crash with a frequent conflict; but

ye pass, And only fall on things that still

would live; On the young flourishing forest, or

the hut And hamlet of the harmless villager. The mists boil up around the gla

ciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white

and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of

deep hell, Whose every wave breaks on a liv

ing shore, Heaped with the damned like pebbles. ~ I am giddy.


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"For words must sparks be of those fires they strike.” – LORD BROOKE.

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