Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/311

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Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres Spin round; the stars their ancient courses keep; Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth, Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon; Still buds the tree, and still the sea shores murmur; There is no death in all the universe, No smell of death.—There shall be death. Moan moan; Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious babes Have changed a god into an aching palsy. Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left; Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. Oh! Oh! the pain, the pain of feebleness; Moan, moan, for still I thaw; or give me help; Throw down those imps, and give me victory. Let me hear other groans, [and trumpets blown