CLARIN. A sound of chains, is it not? Some galley-slave his sentence here hath got; My fear may well suggest it so may be. * * * * * SCENE II. SIGISMUND, [in the tower.] ROSAURA, CLARIN. SIGISMUND [within]. Alas! Ah, wretched me! Ah, wretched me! ROSAURA. Oh what a mournful wail! Again my pains, again my fears prevail. CLARIN. Again with fear I die. ROSAURA. Clarin! CLARIN. My lady! ROSAURA. Let us turn and fly The risks of this enchanted tower. CLARIN. For one, I scarce have strength to stand, much less to run. ROSAURA. Is not that glimmer there afar -- That dying exhalation -- that pale star -- A tiny taper, which, with trembling blaze Flickering 'twixt struggling flames and dying rays, With ineffectual spark Makes the dark dwelling place appear more dark? Yes, for its distant light, Reflected dimly, brings before my sight A dungeon's awful gloom, Say rather of a living corse, a living tomb; And to increase my terror and surprise, Drest in the skins of beasts a man there lies: A piteous sight, Chained, and his sole companion this poor light. Since then we cannot fly, Let us attentive to his words draw nigh, Whatever they may be. [The doors of the tower open wide, and SIGISMUND is discovered in chains and clad in the skins of beasts. The light in the tower increases.] SIGISMUND. Alas! Ah, wretched me! Ah, wretched me! Heaven, here lying all forlorn, I desire from thee to know, Since thou thus dost treat me so, Why have I provoked thy scorn By the crime of being born?-- Though for being born I feel Heaven with me must harshly deal, Since man's greatest crime on earth Is the fatal fact of birth -- Sin supreme without appeal. This alone I ponder o'er, My strange mystery to pierce through; Leaving wholly out of view Germs my hapless birthday bore, How have I offended more, That the more you punish me? Must not other creatures be Born? If born, what privilege Can they over me allege Of which I should not be free? Birds are born, the bird that sings, Richly robed by Nature's dower, Scarcely floats -- a feathered flower, Or a bunch of blooms with wings -- When to heaven's high halls it springs, Cuts the blue air fast and free, And no longer bound will be By the nest's secure control:-- And with so much more of soul, Must I have less liberty? Beasts are born, the beast whose skin Dappled o'er with beauteous spots, As when the great pencil dots Heaven with stars, doth scarce begin From its impulses within-- Nature's stern necessity, To be schooled in cruelty,-- Monster, waging ruthless war:-- And with instincts better far Must I have less liberty? Fish are born, the spawn that breeds Where the oozy sea-weeds float, Scarce perceives itself a boat, Scaled and plated for its needs, When from wave to wave it speeds, Measuring all the mighty sea, Testing its profundity To its depths so dark and chill:-- And with so much freer will, Must I have less liberty?