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With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly--
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar--this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me--with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
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