Brand.
What mean you?
The Doctor.
In the dying ear
You thunder'd the decree of fear:
To perish, unless All she gave,
And went down naked to her grave!
And that cry rang again, again,
When need was direst among men!
<g>You</g>'re now the shipwreckt sailor, cleaving
To swamp'd boat through the storms of doom,
And from its upturned bottom heaving
To see your tracts on Wrath to Come,
To sea, to sea, the bulky tome
That struck your Brothers' bosoms home;
Now you ask only wind and wave
To waft your infant from death's reach.
Fly, only fly, by bay and beach,
Fly from your very mother's grave,—
from the souls you're sent to save;—
"The Parson does not mean to preach!"
Brand.
[Wildly clutching his head as if to gather his thoughts.
Am I <g>now</g> blind? Or <g>was</g> I?
The Doctor.
Nay,
A father has no other way;
Don't fancy that your act I blame;
I hold you greater, clipt and tame,
Than in your giant strength secure.—
Farewell! I've held you up a glass;
Use it and sigh: "Alas, alas,
Is this a Titan's portraiture?" [Goes.
