And from the fir tree's inner shade,
A drear owl, sobbing forth his rune,
Kept watch, and mournful homage paid
At intervals unto the moon.
The travelers dreamed on serene,
Save one alone, whose brow, curl-swept,
Was damp from agony within;
Who tossed and murmured as he slept.
The fitful firelight on his face
Wavered and danced in elfin play,
Where ail the youth's enchanting grace
As light as dreams upon him lay.
The glamour of the rosy light
The heavy lines of care concealed.
And trembling shadows of the night
Beyond him, like sad spirits, kneeled;
For his had been the lustrous gift
Of genius, lent by God to few.
The splendid jewel wrought by swift
Angelic art of fire and dew.
But like the pearl of Egypt's queen,
'Twas drowned in Pleasure's crimson cup,
And lo, its amethystine sheen.
In baleful vapors curling up.
Soon wreathed his brain in that dark spell
That has no kindred seal of woe,
As phantoms, that in Orcus dwell.
In mystic dance swept to and fro.
Swept to and fro and maddened him
With gestures wild and taunts and jeers.
And waved the withered chaplets dim
That he had worn in flowery years;
His spirit furled its shining wings,
Never again to sing and soar.
And wove all wild imaginings
In shapes of horror evermore.
The sleeper started, raised his head,
Upon his elbow leaned awhile,
And gazed where deepest night o'erspread.
With wistful eyes and brightening smile.
