Not exultation, for I hate no more,
  As then ere misery made me wise. The curse
  Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,
  Whose many-voicèd Echoes, through the mist
  Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!
  Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,
  Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept
  Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air
  Through which the Sun walks burning without beams!
  And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisèd wings
  Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
  As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
  The orbèd world! If then my words had power,
  Though I am changed so that aught evil wish
  Is dead within; although no memory be
  Of what is hate, let them not lose it now!
  What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak.

FIRST VOICE: from the Mountains
  Thrice three hundred thousand years
  O'er the earthquake's couch we stood;
  Oft, as men convulsed with fears,
  We trembled in our multitude.