X. WILL-O’-THE-WISP.

   “Gone the sickness, fled the pain,
   Health comes bounding back again,
And all my pulses tingle for delight. 
   Together what a pleasant thing
   To ramble while the blackbirds sing,
And pasture lands are sparkling dewy bright!

   “Soon will come the clear spring weather,
   Hand in hand we’ll roam together,
And hand in hand will talk of springs to come;
   As on the morning when you played
   The necromancer with my shade,
In senseless shadow gazing darkly dumb.

   “Cast away that cloudy care,
   Or, I vow, in my parterre
You shall not enter when the lilies blow,
   And I go there to stand and sing
   Songs to the heaven-white wondrous ring;
Sir Would-be-Wizard of the crumpled brow!”

XI.  GIVEN OVER.

   The men of learning say she must
Soon pass and be as if she had not been. 
   To gratify the barren lust
Of Death, the roses in her cheeks are seen
To blush so brightly, blooming deeper damascene.

   All hope and doubt, all fears are vain: 
The dreams I nursed of honouring her are past,
   And will not comfort me again. 
I see a lurid sunlight throw its last
Wild gleam athwart the land whose shadows lengthen fast.

   It does not seem so dreadful now
The horror stands out naked, stark, and still: 
   I am quite calm, and wonder how
My terror played such mad pranks with my will. 
The North winds fiercely blow, I do not feel them chill.

   All things must die:  somewhere I read
What wise and solemn men pronounce of joy;
   No sooner born, they say, than dead: 
The strife of being, but a whirling toy
Humming a weary moan spun by capricious boy.

   Has my soul reached a starry height
Majestically calm?  No monster, drear
   And shapeless, glares me faint at night;
I am not in the sunshine checked for fear
That monstrous shapeless thing is somewhere crouching near?

   No; woe is me! far otherwise: 
The naked horror numbs me to the bone;
   In stupor calm its cold blank eyes
Set hard at mine.  I do not fall or groan,
Our island Gorgon’s face had changed me into stone.

XII.  STORM.

Now thickening round the shrunken baseless sky,
   Sullen vapours crawl
Climbing to masses, tumbled heavily
   Grim in giant sprawl,
That smother up domed heaven’s scud-fleckered height
And form like mortal armies ranged for fight.

This lighted gloom spreads ghastly on the land;
   Sheep do crowd; and herds
Collecting, bellow pitifully bland. 
   Quiet are the birds
In ghostly trees that shiver not a sound: 
And leaves decayed drop straight unto the ground.

Drearily solemn runs a monotone,
   Heard through breathless hush,
Swollen torrents hissing far in lavish moan,
   Foamed with headlong rush,
Sob on protesting, toward annihilation,
Their solitary dismal lamentation.