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The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed with years,
Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart
Over the heads of men, under which burthen They bow themselves unto the grave: fond wretch !
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years To come, and how in hours of youth renewed He will renew lost joys, and
Victory! Victory! [The Phantom vanishes.
What sound of the importunate earth has
My mighty trance?
Weak lightning before darkness! poor faint
Of dying Islam!
Voice which art the response
Of hollow weakness!
Do I wake and live?
Were there such things, or may the unquiet
Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old Jew,
Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear?
The future must become the past, and I
Never to be attained. I must rebuke
Victory! poor [Exit MAHMUD.
Shout in the jubilee of death! The Greeks Are as a brood of lions in the net
Round which the kingly hunters of the earth
The cup is foaming with a nation's blood, Famine and Thirst await! eat, drink, and die!
Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, Salutes the risen sun, pursues the flying day! I saw her, ghastly as a tyrant's dream, Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, Beneath which earth and all her realms pavil
In visions of the dawning undelight.
Who shall impede her flight?
Victory! Victory! Russia's famished eagles Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. Impale the remnant of the Greeks! despoil! Violate! make their flesh cheaper than dust!
Thou voice which art
The herald of the ill in splendour hid!
Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode
When desolation flashes o'er a world destroyed:
Oh, bear me to those isles of jaggèd cloud Which float like mountains on the earthquake, mid
The momentary oceans of the lightning,
Or to some toppling promontory proud Of solid tempest whose black pyramid, Riven, overhangs the founts intensely bright
Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire
Before their waves expire,
When heaven and earth are light, and only
In the thunder night!
Victory! Victory! Austria, Russia, England, And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France,
Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs speak.
Ho, there! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes,
These chains are light, fitter for slaves and poisoners
Than Greeks. Kill! plunder! burn! let none remain.
Alas! for Liberty!
If numbers, wealth, or unfulfilling years,
Alas! for Virtue, when
Torments, or contumely, or the sneers