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Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in; And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd.
 * "Young lover, I must weep—such hellish spite

With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd—'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy! Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I loved her?—Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl Gam'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold 'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; And all around—But wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see?— I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half-way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame.