For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light,
The ashes of the desolation, cast
Upon the gloomy blast, 40
Tell of the footsteps of the storm;
And nearer, see, the melancholy form
Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea,
Drives miserably! 
And it must fly the pity of the port, 45
Or perish, and its last and sole resort
Is its own raging enemy. 
The terror of the thrilling cry
Was a fatal prophecy
Of coming death, who hovers now 50
Upon that shattered prow,
That they who die not may be dying still. 
And not alone the insane elements
Are populous with wild portents,
But that sad ship is as a miracle 55
Of sudden ruin, for it drives so fast
It seems as if it had arrayed its form
With the headlong storm. 
It strikes—­I almost feel the shock,—­
It stumbles on a jagged rock,—­ 60
Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast.

[A TEMPEST.]

ALL EXCLAIM [WITHIN]: 
We are all lost!

DAEMON [WITHIN]: 
Now from this plank will I
Pass to the land and thus fulfil my scheme.

CYPRIAN: 
As in contempt of the elemental rage
A man comes forth in safety, while the ship’s 65
Great form is in a watery eclipse
Obliterated from the Oceans page,
And round its wreck the huge sea-monsters sit,
A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave
Is heaped over its carcase, like a grave. 70

[THE DAEMON ENTERS, AS ESCAPED FROM THE SEA.]

DAEMON [ASIDE]: 
It was essential to my purposes
To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean,
That in this unknown form I might at length
Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture
Sustained upon the mountain, and assail 75
With a new war the soul of Cyprian,
Forging the instruments of his destruction
Even from his love and from his wisdom.—­O
Beloved earth, dear mother, in thy bosom
I seek a refuge from the monster who 80
Precipitates itself upon me.

CYPRIAN: 
Friend,
Collect thyself; and be the memory
Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow
But as a shadow of the past,—­for nothing
Beneath the circle of the moon, but flows 85
And changes, and can never know repose.

DAEMON: 
And who art thou, before whose feet my fate
Has prostrated me?

CYPRIAN: 
One who, moved with pity,
Would soothe its stings.

DAEMON: 
Oh, that can never be! 
No solace can my lasting sorrows find. 90

CYPRIAN: 
Wherefore?

DAEMON: 
Because my happiness is lost. 
Yet I lament what has long ceased to be
The object of desire or memory,
And my life is not life.