I.
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itan! to whose immortal eyesThe sufferings of mortality,Seen in their sad reality,Were not as things that gods despise;What was thy pity's recompense?[65]A silent suffering, and intense;The rock, the vulture, and the chain,All that the proud can feel of pain,The agony they do not show,The suffocating sense of woe, 10Which speaks but in its loneliness,And then is jealous lest the skyShould have a listener, nor will sighUntil its voice is echoless.
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