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Now my life Is struck to worthless ashes!—In my soul Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness Henceforth is blotted from all human brows, And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, Almost like prophecy, is pour'd upon me, To read the guilty secrets in each eye That once look'd bright with truth! —Why then I have gain'd What men call wisdom!—A new sense, to which All tales that speak of high fidelity, And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, Search'd, and found stedfast, even to martyrdom, Are food for mockery!—Why should I not cast From my thinn'd locks the wearing helm at once, And in the heavy sickness of my soul Throw the sword down for ever?—Is there aught In all this world of gilded hollowness, Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, Worth striving for again?

Father! look up! Turn unto me, thy child!