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To win me into sweet forgetfulness. I am cut off, abandoned, left to pine In solitary misery. Is there then No source, no spring of hope, to bring me bliss? This desolated bosom answers,—No! Then, like the demon of the air, the fiend Who raises tempests, revels in the roar Of hurricanes and overwhelming waves, Laughs at the shipwreck, feels a wild delight Whene'er the furious avalanche descends In ruin o'er bright nature's fairest works, I will transform these maddening shouts of joy To bitter lamentations of despair,— These festal dresses, splendid theatres, To mourning robes, and scaffolds red with blood:— My fevered lip shall never more repeat A prayer, an unavailing prayer, to Heaven. Spirit of Evil! wheresoe'er thou dwell'st— Or mid the torrid zone, hatching red plagues And yellow pestilence, beneath the beams