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And careless desolation, tamed to yield By misery, strong as death, will lay their souls E'en at the conqueror's feet, as nature sinks, After long torture, into cold, and dull And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour Of fierce atonement? Aye, the slumberer wakes With gathered strength and vengeance. And the sense And the remembrance of his agonies Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path Is like the path of ocean, when the Heavens Take off its interdict. Wait then the hour Of that high impulse.

Sebast.Is it not the sun Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou speak'st, Itself, with all its glory, is the work Of some commanding nature, which doth bid The sullen shades disperse. Away!—e'en now The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true, Shall know they have a leader. Is not this