There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,
Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.
“Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won
The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,
And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!