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The dazzling veil is off; I see the world.
O Muse of heavenly charm, my mortal hand
Let, let not faint on thy immortal harp.
Curst be thou, Servitude; by nations curst,
Mad dread of superstition! for from thy
Vast dismal den impure Oppression rose,
Spectre of mental night, meteor of hell,
Monstrous or formless rose, gren huge, rude rolled
As dire a midnights cloud vide o’er the world;
Three periods slow yet horrible it grew
Only by darkness, then more firme compressed
Upon the nations its drear masse, and squeezed
The mortals unto groans; and tears and blood;
For groans delight it, and it sucking feeds
On tears and blood insatiable: still grew
Three periods more, when from its bulk burst out
Two heads stupendous: Rex and Pontifex
Called, and these were words, they inslantly roar’d loud:
Wars, wars! Gold, gold! for wars give blood, and gold
Gives tears in groaning pain; blood, tears, the sweet
Ambrosia and Nectar of these grisly Gods.
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