SEGISMUND. Once more the storm has roar'd itself away, Splitting the crags of God as it retires; But sparing still what it should only blast, This guilty piece of human handiwork, And all that are within it. Oh, how oft, How oft, within or here abroad, have I Waited, and in the whisper of my heart Pray'd for the slanting hand of heaven to strike The blow myself I dared not, out of fear Of that Hereafter, worse, they say, than here, Plunged headlong in, but, till dismissal waited, To wipe at last all sorrow from men's eyes, And make this heavy dispensation clear. Thus have I borne till now, and still endure, Crouching in sullen impotence day by day, Till some such out-burst of the elements Like this rouses the sleeping fire within; And standing thus upon the threshold of Another night about to close the door Upon one wretched day to open it On one yet wretcheder because one more;-- Once more, you savage heavens, I ask of you-- I, looking up to those relentless eyes That, now the greater lamp is gone below, Begin to muster in the listening skies; In all the shining circuits you have gone About this theatre of human woe, What greater sorrow have you gazed upon Than down this narrow chink you witness still; And which, did you yourselves not fore-devise, You registered for others to fulfil! FIFE. This is some Laureate at a birthday ode; No wonder we went rhyming. ROS. Hush! And now See, starting to his feet, he strides about Far as his tether'd steps-- SEG. And if the chain You help'd to rivet round me did contract Since guiltless infancy from guilt in act; Of what in aspiration or in thought Guilty, but in resentment of the wrong That wreaks revenge on wrong I never wrought By excommunication from the free Inheritance that all created life, Beside myself, is born to--from the wings That range your own immeasurable blue, Down to the poor, mute, scale-imprison'd things, That yet are free to wander, glide, and pass About that under-sapphire, whereinto Yourselves transfusing you yourselves englass! ROS. What mystery is this? FIFE. Why, the man's mad: That's all the mystery. That's why he's chain'd-- And why--