He melts into thin moonshine and is gone—

A spirit now, who on the other shore

Of death hunts happily for evermore.—

A Son of Life, but dogged, while he draws breath,

By her inseparable shadow—death,

Man, feeble Man, whom unknown Fates appal,

With prayer and praise seeks to propitiate all

The spirits, who, for good or evil plight,

Bless him in victory or in sickness smite.

[23]

Those are his Dead who, wrapped in grisly shrouds,

Now ride phantasmal on the rushing clouds,

Souls of departed chiefs whose livid forms

He sees careering on the reinless storms,

Wild, spectral huntsmen who tumultuously,

With loud halloo and shrilly echoing cry,

Follow the furious chase, with the whole pack

Of shadowy hounds fierce yelping in the track

Of wolves and bears as shadowy as the hosts

Who lead once more as unsubstantial ghosts

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