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Hath gone its way as by a miracle.
What wish had I that was not gratified?
The nations 'neath my yoke have bent their necks.
I 've but to say the word to be made king
To-morrow.—In my most delirious dreams
Have I e'er dreamed of greater eminence?
Reformer, conqueror, and judge and king—
Have I not reached my goal?—A noble end,
In sooth, to play the archer at this gate,
On sentry-go, for hire!—What outward pomp!
What inward bitterness!
[Another pause.
What inward bitterness! A frigid night!
'Twill soon be twelve o'clock, when every ghost
Comes from his coffin forth and shows his murderer
His bloodstained hand, his fatal, gaping wound,
And on his winding-sheet a bloody stain!—
But what new dream is this? A grievous thing
It is to be alone!—Am I a child?
Ah me! would that I were!—That cursèd Jew,
With all the horrid visions he evoked,
Left me a-creep with fright; he chilled my blood,—
I tremble even now.—It is so cold!—
To counteract his sacrilegious words,
Suppose that I repeat the sacred verse
'Gainst sorcery?
[A clock begins to strike midnight with slow strokes.
What noise is that?—The clock! it is the time!
[He listens.
I ne'er had heard it at the midnight hour.
'Tis like a knell! 'tis like a weeping voice!
[He pauses and listens again.
'Twas it that struck a martyr's final hour!
[After the last stroke of the clock.
Midnight!—I am alone!—Should I invoke