And the remembrance of his agonies
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens
Take off its interdict. Wait, then, the hour
Of that high impulse.
Seb. Is it not the sun
Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds
Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou speak’st,
Itself, with all its glory, is the work
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid