Rous’d their dark battle at his tempest-peal:
So sweeps the tempest o’er the slumbering desert,
Waking its myriad hosts of burning death:
So calls the last dread peal the wandering atoms
Of blood and bone and flesh and dust-worn fragments,
In dire array of ghastly unity,
To bid the eternal summons—
I am not what I was since I beheld him—
I was the slave of passion’s ebbing sway—
All is condensed, collected, callous now—