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Part I. It is a fiend that to a stake

Of fire his desperate self is tethering?

Or stubborn spirit doom'd to yell

In solitary ward or cell,

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

Is it a party in a parlour?

Cramm'd just as they on earth were cramm'd—

Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,

But, as you by their faces see,

All silent and all damn'd!

A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath—

Puzzled he was, and now is daunted;

He looks, he cannot choose but look;

Like one intent upon a book—

A book that is enchanted.