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O'er th' unblest head? Ay, thro' its deaf'ning roar I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice, And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength, Still sounds upon the far-receding storm Their distant growl. 'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up To lord it in the air. The very wind, Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds, Like bursts of damn'd howlings from beneath. Is this a storm of nature's elements? O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place, Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest The unblest head. (Knocking heard without.) Ha! knocking at my door! Say, who art thou that knock'st so furiously? Think'st thou the clouds are sparing of their din, That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art, And what thou would'st at such an hour as this, In such a place?

I am a lone, and tempest-beaten traveller, Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.

Then art thou come where guest yet never enter'd.