Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/173

And careless desolation, tamed to yield
By misery, strong as death, will lay their souls
E'en at the conqueror's feet, as nature sinks,
After long torture, into cold, and dull
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour
Of fierce atonement? Aye, the slumberer wakes
With gathered strength and vengeance. And the sense
And the remembrance of his agonies
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path
Is like the path of ocean, when the Heavens
Take off its interdict. Wait then the hour
Of that high impulse.

Sebast.Is it not the sun
Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds
Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou speak'st,
Itself, with all its glory, is the work
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid
The sullen shades disperse. Away!—e'en now
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true,
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this