Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/25

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      Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
      Heaven's wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
      His beak in poison not his own, tears up
      My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
      The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
      Mocking me; and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
      To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
      When the rocks split and close again behind;
      While from their loud abysses howling throng
      The genii of the storm, urging the rage
      Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
      And yet to me welcome is day and night,
      Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn,
      Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
      The leaden-colored east; for then they lead
      The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom--
      As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim--
      Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood
      From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
      If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
      Disdain! Ah, no! I pity thee. What ruin
      Will hunt thee undefended through the wide Heaven!
      How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
      Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,