The Play—what matter?—it drew near the end,
Scarce marked by me. You know the rest, my friend:
Waiting I sat there full of sad desire,
When, suddenly, it came—that cry of "Fire!"
How suddenly! I started to my feet:
But—as when two on-rushing torrents meet
And break the one the other—mad with fear,
The panic-stricken people, deaf to hear
Counsel or warning, in that burning tomb
Hurtled each other, battling to their doom.
Kind God, blot out the scene—soon past!
I to a column near me clinging fast,
Resisted the fell tide that onward bore
Its helpless prey with hideous uproar.
Twice had I lost my footing; yet I clave,
As one who struggles more than life to save—
My every thought of her; but when at last,
Sore bruised and breathless, as one shoreward cast
After rude shipwreck, I dared raise my eyes—
Seeking in that vast Hell my Paradise,—
There, like some virgin image carved in stone,
She stood in her white radiance—alone.
