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Rh Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded
 * The road to death as to a festival;

And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded
 * With banner-folds of glory the dark pall.

Who will believe? Not I—for in deceiving
 * Lies the dear charm of life’s delightful dream;

I cannot spare the luxury of believing
 * That all things beautiful are what they seem;

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
 * Would, like the Patriarch’s, soothe a dying hour,

With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,
 * As e’er won maiden’s lip in moonlit bower:

With look like patient Job’s eschewing evil;
 * With motions graceful as a bird’s in air;

Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
 * That e’er clinched fingers in a captive’s hair!

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain,
 * Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree;

And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o’-mountain
 * Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee!

And underneath that face, like summer ocean’s,
 * Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart’s emotions,
 * Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow—all save fear: