Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

If the will, which in the law of our nature, were withdrawn from our memory, fancy, understanding, and reason, no other hell could equal, for a spiritual being, what we should then feel from the anarchy of our powers. It would be conscious madness,--a horrid thought!

Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.