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(Coming forward) He is here.

Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; Reveal thyself; what art thou?

One, whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim.—But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come To this, my native land, that I may rest Beneath its vines in peace.

Seek'st thou for peace? This is no land of peace; unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call'd.

There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, That it should irk my spirit to put on Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best May suit the troubled aspect of the times.

Why, then, thou art welcome, stranger! to the land Where most disguise is needful.—He were bold Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow