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C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags
C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question,
Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim! Will it then never—never sink in the earth?
C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses
wander from thee. Man. I say 'tis blood—my blood! the pure warm
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours
C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-
Man. Patience and patience! Hence—that word was made
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,—
C. Hun. Thanks to heaven!
I would not be of thine for the free fame
Man. Do I not bear it ?—Look on me—I live.
C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years, Many long years, but they are nothing now To those which I must number: ages—ages— Space and eternity—and consciousness, With the fierce thirst of death—and still unslaked!
C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.
Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable^
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
C. Hun. Alas! he's mad—but yet I must not leave him.
Man. I would I were—for then the things I see Would be but a distempered dream.
C. Hun. What is it
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?
Man. Myself, and thee—a peasant of the Alps— Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, By danger dignified, yet guiltless j hopes Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,
With cross and garland over its green turf,
lot for mine? Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange
My lot with living being: I can bear—
C. Hun. And with this—
This cautious feeling for another's pain,
Man. Oh! no, no, no!