IV.

And this was he who, standing there, Seemed as an image of Despair, Which agony's convulsive strife, Had quickened into breathing life.

The writhing lip, the brow all wet With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat； The hand, that with unconscious clasp, Strained his keen dagger in its grasp； The eye, that lightened with the blaze Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze；

The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came At intervals along his frame； The tremulously heaving breast,—— These signs the inward storm confessed： Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke A soul within, whose haughty will Would wrestle with immortal ill, And only quit the strife, when fate Its being should annihilate.

Silent he stood, until the breeze Bore from his lips some words like these.