O'er th' unblest head? Ay, thro' its deaf'ning roar
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice,
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength,
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm
Their distant growl.
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up
To lord it in the air. The very wind,
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds,
Like bursts of damn'd howlings from beneath.
Is this a storm of nature's elements?
O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits
Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place,
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest
The unblest head. (Knocking heard without.)
Ha! knocking at my door!
(Pauses and listens much alarmed: knocking heard still louder.)
Think'st thou the clouds are sparing of their din,
That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art,
And what thou would'st at such an hour as this,
In such a place?
RAYNER (without).
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.
OLD MAN.
