IV.

    And this was he who, standing¹ there, Seemed as an image of Despair, Which agony's convulsive strife², Had quickened into breathing life.

    The writhing³ lip, the brow all wet With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat； The hand, that with unconscious clasp, Strained his keen dagger⁴ in its grasp； The eye, that lightened with the blaze Of frenzied⁵ Passion's maniac⁶ gaze；

    The nervous, shuddering⁷ thrill, which came At intervals⁸ 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 spoke⁹ A soul within, whose haughty¹⁰ will Would wrestle¹¹ with immortal¹² ill, And only quit the strife, when fate Its being should annihilate¹³.

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