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And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls phrenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness.
Making the cold reality too real!

VIII. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded bim were gone, Or were at war with him, he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountaios: with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To bim the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret-Be it so.

My dream was past; it bad no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

* Mithridates of Pontus.

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness--both in misery.


Titan! to wbose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
Wbat was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of wo,

Whicb speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lets the sky
Sbould have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given

Between the suffering and the will,

Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die;
The wretched gift eternity
Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which fung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with bis own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable Spirit
Which Earth and Heaven could not conyulse,

A mighty lesson we inherit;
Thou art a symbol and a sign

To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;-
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness and his resistence,
And bis sad upallied existence;
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself-an equal to all woes,

And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry

Its own concenter'd recompense,


Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.




The effect of the original Ballad (which existed both in Spanish and Ara

bic) was such that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death within Granada.




Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport,

THE Moorish King rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town,
From Elzira's gates to those
Of Bivarambla on be goes.

Wo is me, Albama!

Letters to the monarch tell
Huw Alhama's city fell;
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.

Wo is me, Albama!

3. He quits his mule and mounts bis horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Albambra spurring in.

Wo is me, Alhama!

4. When the Albambra walls he gained, On the moment he ordained That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round.

Wo is me, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That tbe Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain,

Wo is me, Alhama! i

Then the Moors by this aware,
That bloody Mars recalled them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Wo is me, Albama!

n. Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, • Wherefore call on us, oh king? " What may mean this gathering?"

Wo is me, Alhama!

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