PHANTOM: 
I come
Thence whither thou must go!  The grave is fitter
To take the living than give up the dead;
Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. 
The heavy fragments of the power which fell 865
When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds,
Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices
Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose,
Wailing for glory never to return.—­
A later Empire nods in its decay:  870
The autumn of a greener faith is come,
And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip
The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built
Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. 
The storm is in its branches, and the frost 875
Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects
Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil,
Ruin on ruin:—­Thou art slow, my son;
The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep
A throne for thee, round which thine empire lies 880
Boundless and mute; and for thy subjects thou,
Like us, shalt rule the ghosts of murdered life,
The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now—­
Mutinous passions, and conflicting fears,
And hopes that sate themselves on dust, and die!—­ 885
Stripped of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. 
Islam must fall, but we will reign together
Over its ruins in the world of death:—­
And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed
Unfold itself even in the shape of that 890
Which gathers birth in its decay.  Woe! woe! 
To the weak people tangled in the grasp
Of its last spasms.

MAHMUD: 
Spirit, woe to all! 
Woe to the wronged and the avenger!  Woe
To the destroyer, woe to the destroyed! 895
Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver! 
Woe to the oppressed, and woe to the oppressor! 
Woe both to those that suffer and inflict;
Those who are born and those who die! but say,
Imperial shadow of the thing I am, 900
When, how, by whom, Destruction must accomplish
Her consummation!

PHANTOM: 
Ask the cold pale Hour,
Rich in reversion of impending death,
When HE shall fall upon whose ripe gray hairs
Sit Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity—­ 905
The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed with years,
Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart
Over the heads of men, under which burthen
They bow themselves unto the grave:  fond wretch! 
He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years 910
To come, and how in hours of youth renewed
He will renew lost joys, and—­

VOICE WITHOUT: 
Victory!  Victory!

[THE PHANTOM VANISHES.]

MAHMUD: 
What sound of the importunate earth has broken
My mighty trance?