IV.
And this was he who, standing1 there, Seemed as an image of Despair, Which agony's convulsive strife2, Had quickened into breathing life.
The writhing3 lip, the brow all wet With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat； The hand, that with unconscious clasp, Strained his keen dagger4 in its grasp； The eye, that lightened with the blaze Of frenzied5 Passion's maniac6 gaze；
The nervous, shuddering7 thrill, which came At intervals8 along his frame； The tremulously heaving breast, These signs the inward storm confessed： Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke9 A soul within, whose haughty10 will Would wrestle11 with immortal12 ill, And only quit the strife, when fate Its being should annihilate13.
Silent he stood, until the breeze Bore from his lips some words like these.
