From 36d22d82aa202bb199967e9512281e9a53db42c9 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Daniel Baumann Date: Sun, 7 Apr 2024 21:33:14 +0200 Subject: Adding upstream version 115.7.0esr. Signed-off-by: Daniel Baumann --- .../modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html | 824 +++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 824 insertions(+) create mode 100644 toolkit/modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html (limited to 'toolkit/modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html') diff --git a/toolkit/modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html b/toolkit/modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000000..e952d1fe97 --- /dev/null +++ b/toolkit/modules/tests/browser/file_FinderSample.html @@ -0,0 +1,824 @@ + + + + Childe Roland + + +

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"

Robert Browning
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I.
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My first thought was, he lied in every word, +
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That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
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Askance to watch the working of his lie
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On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
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Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored +
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Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
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II.
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What else should he be set for, with his staff? +
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What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
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All travellers who might find him posted there,
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And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
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Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph +
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For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
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III.
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If at his counsel I should turn aside +
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Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
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Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
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I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
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Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, +
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So much as gladness that some end might be.
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IV.
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For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, +
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What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
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Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
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With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
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I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring +
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My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
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V.
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As when a sick man very near to death +
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Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
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The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
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And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
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Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, +
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"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")
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VI.
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While some discuss if near the other graves +
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Be room enough for this, and when a day
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Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
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With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
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And still the man hears all, and only craves +
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He may not shame such tender love and stay.
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VII.
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Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, +
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Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
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So many times among "The Band" - to wit,
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The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
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Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best, +
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And all the doubt was now—should I be fit?
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VIII.
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So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, +
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That hateful cripple, out of his highway
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Into the path he pointed. All the day
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Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
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Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim +
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Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
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IX.
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For mark! no sooner was I fairly found +
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Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
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Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
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O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
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Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. +
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I might go on; nought else remained to do.
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X.
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So, on I went. I think I never saw +
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Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
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For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!
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But cockle, spurge, according to their law
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Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, +
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You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.
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XI.
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No! penury, inertness and grimace, +
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In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
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Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
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"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
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'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, +
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Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."
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XII.
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If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk +
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Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
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Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
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In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
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All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk +
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Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
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XIII.
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As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair +
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In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
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Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
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One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
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Stood stupefied, however he came there: +
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Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
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XIV.
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Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, +
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With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
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And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
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Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
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I never saw a brute I hated so; +
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He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
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XV.
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I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. +
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As a man calls for wine before he fights,
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I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
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Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
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Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art: +
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One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
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XVI.
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Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face +
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Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
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Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
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An arm in mine to fix me to the place
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That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! +
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Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
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XVII.
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Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands +
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Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
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What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
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Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands
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Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands +
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Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
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XVIII.
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Better this present than a past like that; +
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Back therefore to my darkening path again!
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No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
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Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
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I asked: when something on the dismal flat +
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Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
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XIX.
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A sudden little river crossed my path +
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As unexpected as a serpent comes.
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No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
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This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
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For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath +
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Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
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XX.
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So petty yet so spiteful! All along +
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Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
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Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
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Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
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The river which had done them all the wrong, +
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Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
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XXI.
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Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared +
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To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
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Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
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For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
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—It may have been a water-rat I speared, +
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But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
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XXII.
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Glad was I when I reached the other bank. +
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Now for a better country. Vain presage!
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Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
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Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
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Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, +
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Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—
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XXIII.
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The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. +
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What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
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No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
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None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
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Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk +
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Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
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XXIV.
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And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! +
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What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
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Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel
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Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
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Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, +
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Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
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XXV.
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Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, +
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Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
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Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
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Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
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Changes and off he goes!) within a rood— +
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Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
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XXVI.
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Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, +
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Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
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Broke into moss or substances like boils;
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Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
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Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim +
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Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
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XXVII.
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And just as far as ever from the end! +
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Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
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To point my footstep further! At the thought,
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A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
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Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned +
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That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.
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XXVIII.
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For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, +
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'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
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All round to mountains - with such name to grace
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Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
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How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you! +
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How to get from them was no clearer case.
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XXIX.
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Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick +
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Of mischief happened to me, God knows when—
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In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
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Progress this way. When, in the very nick
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Of giving up, one time more, came a click +
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As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!
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XXX.
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Burningly it came on me all at once, +
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This was the place! those two hills on the right,
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Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
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While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
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Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, +
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After a life spent training for the sight!
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XXXI.
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What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? +
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The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
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Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
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In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
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Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf +
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He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
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XXXII.
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Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day +
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Came back again for that! before it left,
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The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
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The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
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Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,— +
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"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"
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XXXIII.
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Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled +
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Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
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Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—
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How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
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And such was fortunate, yet each of old +
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Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
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XXXIV.
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There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met +
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To view the last of me, a living frame
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For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
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I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
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Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, +
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And blew "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."
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+ + -- cgit v1.2.3