 | Jason |  |
SCENE III.
The Spiriton the battlement.
Night is collecting all her sable skirts,
To fly th' approaching dawn. Ye loit'ring nymphs,
Hear from your caves, your mountains, woods, and streams;
With awe receive the signal of my voice
For preparation: while in sounds of horror
I rouse the victim from his rocky pillow.
Ill-guided wand'rer, whose advent'rous steps
Have pass'd these lonely confines, didst thou hope
To rest conceal'd from me thy evil genius?
Awake. The raven with funereal notes,
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The tiger's yell, invite thee to despair;
While my infernal cries their discord aid
To pierce with dread thy enterprising soul,
Which shall to vultures leave thy mangled frame
In sight of these impenetrable walls.
| Jason | |