A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift—­
    A love in desolation masked—­a power
  Girt round with weakness; it can scarce uplift
    The weight of the superincumbent hour. 
    It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 5
  A breaking billow;—­even whilst we speak
    Is it not broken?  On the withering flower
  The killing sun smiles brightly:  on a cheek
The life can burn in blood even while the heart may break.

33.

  His head was bound with pansies overblown,
    And faded violets, white and pied and blue;
  And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
    Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses grew
    Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew, 5
  Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
    Shook the weak hand that grasped it.  Of that crew
  He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

34.

  All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
    Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
  Who in another’s fate now wept his own;
    As in the accents of an unknown land
    He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scanned 5
  The Stranger’s mien, and murmured ‘Who art thou?’
    He answered not, but with a sudden hand
  Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—­Oh that it should be so!

35.

  What softer voice is hushed over the dead? 
    Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? 
  What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
    In mockery of monumental stone,
    The heavy heart heaving without a moan? 5
  If it be he who, gentlest of the wise,
    Taught, soothed, loved, honoured, the departed one. 
  Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

36.

  Our Adonais has drunk poison—­oh
    What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
  Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe? 
    The nameless worm would now itself disown;
    It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone 5
  Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
    But what was howling in one breast alone,
  Silent with expectation of the song
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

37.

  Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! 
    Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
  Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! 
    But be thyself, and know thyself to be! 
    And ever at thy season be thou free 5
  To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow;
    Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,
  Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—­as now.

38.