And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!"
Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight,
And sears my brain with its dark hideousness!
Spirit.
'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears.
Werner.
A frame which may be that of Hercules,
It hath such giant members! and its port
Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving.
Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow
Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand
It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes,
It vainly beats the unresisting air,
As if in battle with some phantom foe;
And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality
Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast,
Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone,
It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,--
"I fought for fame and won unending wo."
His agonies seem like himself, immortal.
Spirit.
Justice is blameless of his sufferings:
For many years his busy, plotting brain,
Made discord out of union, strife from peace,
And set the nations warring till the earth
Was crimson with the blood poured out for him!
He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass
And mark what follows him.
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