And deeply there enshrined and glorified,

Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied,

Being called, and ever closer on he came

As if no wrong nor misery nor shame

Could harder be than not to see her—Nay,

Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay

[21]

Besmothered in his kisses—rather so

Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go

His round of lonely exile!

Now he stands

Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands

Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin,

And motionless abides till day come in;

Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe,

Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow

Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town

Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown

In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls,

Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls

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