Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 3.pdf/97

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Or. Look there; behold that strange gigantic form Which yon grim cloud assumes; rearing aloft The semblance of a warrior's plumed head, While from its half-shaped arm a streamy dart Shoots angrily? Behind him, too, far stretch'd, Seems there not, verily, a seried line Of fainter misty forms?

Cath. I see, indeed, A vasty cloud, of many clouds composed, Towering above the rest; and that behind In misty faintness seen, which hath some likeness To a long line of rocks with pine-wood crown'd: Or, if indeed the fancy so incline, A file of spearmen, seen thro' drifted smoke.

Or. Nay, look how perfect now the form becomes: Dost thou not see?—Aye, and more perfect still. O thou gigantic Lord, whose robed limbs Beneath their stride span half the heavens! art thou Of lifeless vapour form'd? Art thou not rather Some air-clad spirit—some portentous thing— Some mission'd Being?—Such a sky as this Ne'er usher'd in a night of nature's rest.

Cath. Nay, many such I've seen; regard it not. That form, already changing, will ere long Dissolve to nothing. Tarry here no longer. Go in, I pray.

Or. No; while one gleam remains Of the sun's blessed light, I will not go.