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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
In all which was served up to him, until
190 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, (11) 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 mountains : with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 200 A marvel and a secret-Be it so.
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What 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 woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should 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
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
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 resistance, And his sad unallied 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.