The dream assail’d him still. A wilder form Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, Starting with force revived from intervals Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest; When floating back upon the tide of thought Remembrance to a self-excusing strain Beguiled him, and recall’d in long array The sorrows and the secret impulses Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt Led their unwary victim. The evil hour Return’d upon him, when reluctantly Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate He gave his cold unwilling hand: then came The disappointment of the barren bed, The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, Home without love, and privacy from which Delight was banish’d first, and peace too soon Departed. Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned, ... a spirit like his own, Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother’s joy, ... Oh was it strange if at such sympathy The feelings which within his breast repell’d And chill’d had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun? If all were known, Would it indeed be not to be forgiven?... (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just, ... A passion slow and mutual in its growth, Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceal’d, And when confess’d in silence, long controll’d; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death, ... The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and madden’d him; ... but then As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, And clench in agony his matted hair; While in his soul the perilous thought arose, How easy ’twere to plunge where yonder waves Invited him to rest. Oh for a voice Of comfort, ... for a ray of hope from Heaven! A hand that from these billows of despair May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulph’d! At length, as life when it hath lain long time Opprest beneath some grievous malady, Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength, And the sick man doth feel within himself A second spring; so Roderick’s better mind Arose to save him. Lo! the western sun Flames o’er the broad Atlantic; on the verge Of glowing ocean rests; retiring then Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent Knelt by Romano’s grave, and falling prone, Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould. Father! he cried; Companion! only friend, When all beside was lost! thou too art gone, And the poor sinner whom from utter death Thy providential hand preserved, once more Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak For solitude, ... too vile a wretch to bear This everlasting commune with myself.