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Rh And rising with the wonted blush of morn

Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne.

Of torments this the longest and the worst,

Which adds all other agony to thirst,

That day by day death still forbears to slake,

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake.

"Oh! water—water!"—smiling Hate denies

The victim's prayer—for if he drinks—he dies.

This was his doom;—the Leech, the guard, were gone,

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone.

X.

'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew—

It even were doubtful if their victim knew.

There is a war, a chaos of the mind,

When all its elements convuls'd—combined—

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force,

And gnashing with impenitent Remorse;

That juggling fiend—who never spake before—

But cries "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er.

Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent,

May writhe—rebel—the weak alone repent!