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And bleeding spectre, wilt thou never cease To haunt my steps, to fix thy glassy eyes Upon thy murderer, and with thy gaunt And bony finger point to that dread shape That steals behind thee? Whither shall I turn? Where fly to scape these ghastly phantoms?—Blood— A sea of blood floats round me. If I raise My burning eye-balls to the shrine where stands The statue of the Thunderer in grand And awful majesty, it disappears, And the vindictive shade from Jove's high throne Glares on the suppliant;—to earth I turn My conscious looks, and stretched upon the ground Beneath my feet, two mangled corses lie. My wife, my son! why are ye silent?—why Do you not charge me with my crime? The deed Accursed in the eyes of gods and men So nameless, foul, unnatural; so black That shuddering fiends disdain me.—Heaven and hell Have shut their gates, and leave me for the prey