The Winged Beetle

205 LE VAMPIRE O THOU, who like a dagger-stroke Art planted in my plaintive heart, Who art come hither like a flock Of fiends, by mad and gilded art Come, of this dark soul and discrowned To make thy bed and thy domain— Vile wretch to whom my life is bound Even as a convict to his chain, Even as a gambler to his game, Even as a drunkard to his thirst, Even as a harlot to her shame— Be thou accurst, accurst, accurst ! I prayed the falchion’s fiery craft To win my freedom in a trice ; And called the treacherous poison-draught To master me my cowardice. Alas ! Alas ! disdaining me, Both sword and poison mock my mood : “ Unworthy ! how deliver thee From thine accursed servitude