248 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
Forbear ! Man's temples must be mine no more !
My fane I'll seek in yon blue vault immense, Hymns in the chiming spheres ; my search is o'er ;
I've found Him, but in such magnificence That sight grows dark. His veil I cannot rend ; He lives, but without origin or end.
��THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.
Come, pierce this bosom, welcome Death !
No enemy thou art ; Thou stifiest but the hated breath
Of one whose broken heart No refuge finds but in despair — Abhorred, detested everywhere.
Where'er I go, men frown on me ;
I walk like Cain on earth ; All shudder when my face they see ;
Even in the halls of mirth. At sight of me, the voices gay In secret whispers die away.
When on some gala day I hear Men cry, " God save the king ! "
The very mob, if I come near. Point at the hated thing.
Shrink at my vile name's very sound.
And empty space straight girds me round.
O that, in hot pursuit close pressed,
I might but make my stand, Bare to the stroke a warrior's breast.
And lift a warrior's hand. And, bravely fighting with my foes. Hail the swift shot that brought repose !
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