Brand.
Name it then!
The Phantom.
The aged leech,
Who has conn'd so many a page,—
The unfathomably sage,
He discovered where thou ailest.
All the phantoms of thy strife,
<g>Three words</g> conjured them to life.
Them thou boldly must recall,
From thy memory efface them,
From thy conscience blot, erase them;
At their bidding, lo, thou burnest
In this maddening blast of bane;—
O forget them, if thou yearnest
To make white thy soul again!
Brand.
Say, what are they?
The Phantom.
<g>Nought or all.</g>
Brand.
[Reeling back.]
Is it so?
The Phantom.
So sure as I
Am alive, and thou wilt die.
Brand.
Woe on us! The sword once more
Swings above us, as before!
The Phantom.
Brand, be kind; my breast is warm;
