But there thou shalt not sink! Our very air
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies
O’er th’ infidel hang dark and ominous,
With battle-hues of thee! And thy deep voice,
Rising above them to the judgment-seat,
Shall call a burst of gather’d vengeance down,
To sweep th’ oppressor from us! For thy wave
Hath made his guilt run o’er!
Gon. (endeavouring to rouse himself.) ’Tis all a dream!
There is not one—no hand on earth could harm