Page:Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath 1831.pdf/15

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That hour in silence. Oh! be calm awhile, Thine is not come. My king—

. I am no King, While in the very palace of my sires, Aye, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light, Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke To the high sound of earth's immortal names, Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king, Until I cast him thence.

. Shall not thy voice Be as a trumpet to th' awakening land? Will not the bright swords flash like sunbursts forth, When the brave hear their Chief?

. Peace, Zamor, peace: Child of the desert, what hast thou to do With the calm hour of counsel? Monarch, pause! A kingdom's destiny should not be the sport Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time, When men, in very weariness of heart And careless desolation, tamed to yield By misery, strong as death, will lay their souls E'en at the conqueror's feet, as nature sinks After long torture, into cold, and dull, And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour Of fierce atonement? Aye, the slumberer wakes With gathered strength and vengeance. And the sense, And the remembrance of his agonies Are in themselves as power, whose fearful path Is like the path of Ocean, when the Heavens