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This vital weight upon the struggling heart,'

Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—

In all the days of past and future, for

In life there is no present, we can number
How few-how less than few-wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment's. I have one resource
Still in my science-I can call the dead,
And ask them what it is we dread to be:
The sternest answer can but be the Grave,
And that is nothing-if they answer not—
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag
Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit
An answer and his destiny-he slew

That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,

And died unpardon'd-though he call'd in aid

The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused
The Arcadian Evocators to compel

The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,
Or fix her term of vengeance-she replied
In words of dubious import, but fulfill'd3.

If I had never lived, that which I love
Had still been living; had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful-
Happy and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now?-a sufferer for my sins-
A thing I dare not think upon-or nothing.
Within few hours I shall not call in vain-
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze
On spirit, good or evil-now I tremble,

And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart,

But I can act even what I most abhor,

And champion human fears.—The night approaches.



The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain.


The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright;

And here on snows, where never human foot
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread,
And leave no traces; o'er the savage sea,
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice,
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam,

Frozen in a moment-a dead whirlpool's image; And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,

The fretwork of some earthquake-where the clouds Pause to repose themselves in passing by

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ;

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night

Is our great festival-'tis strange they come not.

A Voice without, singing.

The Captive Usurper,

Hurl'd down from the throne,

Lay buried in torpor,

Forgotten and lone;

I broke through his slumbers,

I shivered his chain,

I leagued him with numbers

He's Tyrant again!

With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, With a nation's destruction-his flight and despair.

Second Voice, without.

The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast,
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast;

There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck;
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair,
And he was a subject well worthy my care;

A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea

But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me!

FIRST DESTINY, answering.

The city lies sleeping;

The morn, to deplore it,

May dawn on it weeping.

Sullenly, slowly,

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