At which thought, again, alas, will fall That bitter cry; at rude division pierce the ear, As Sight thickens, to eclipse of Fear, My ghostly Speakers cast their pall, Break bounds twixt this and some yet Hence, Perturb, once more, the sequences of Sense; While eerie lifts, at fresh loom there-- When unnatural trespass stalks the mind, Invokes the equity it fails to find-- Those juried Three; as the empaneled air Repeats, that wanton power hallows Wrong, Those aweful measures of the Gallows' Song. THE SCAR. Heart heavy, her mantle torn, and with bleeding feet; As from out some Dream b'yond wide-visioned Night, Unverged, unfollowed where her infinites meet, On brow, withal, an unextinguishable Light, Came crownless Glory, seeking of the haunts of man, To find him from her faith same swerver still, Who, tho' suffered factor in this fabled Plan, Its wonder jars with shock of passion and the worldly will. From out those self-same Deeps, against whose Sight Yon white suns veil them, that o' Times they are, Came also he, the Greed--his lust of Have and love of Might, To fame his flush, tho' shrouded, nay, how brazen, Star. Full-orbed, if ever, thro' yet feud of Days, Whose strides would bridge it, but contrive no span, Where, beneath, tides on forever, yea, in shrewder maze Time's scruteless burden, since his own began; Whose Strange withal to lighten, 'less all hope were dumb, And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew, What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum, Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew, In this crude fashion sought to draw the Seraph out: "Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne'er know thee as thou really art? Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout, His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart! "How I have led him from 'way down the Scale, While something better,--yes, I've dreamt 'twas you,-- Devised those touches, made his red hand quail, Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew." "Yet, look you, even when his best is told, Some bias granted where awards divide; Under the glass now--is he other than the beast of old, Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?" Is your varnish more than the rogue's, whose saint For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new? Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint? Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you. Come, be wise! Subscribe me proper! Sleek my Spoiler's hand, So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,-- Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand, Since first my gray dawn dimmed it 'mong white lights of yore.