He bends, and gazes yet Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood To his wan lips * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale. Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale. Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely been A child of curse, and misery, and sin. And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.” “Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died, And was a virgin, and is virgin still, Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill Of light from the great sun. But now, go by, And leave me to my madness, or to die! This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold, That are so writhing your eternal gyres Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness! Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die! Let me be mangled sore with agony! And be so cursed; so stricken by the spell Of my heart’s frenzy, that a living hell Be burning there!—back! back if thou art mad— Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad. Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see! In truth it is a piteous thing for thee To become childless—well a-well, go by! Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh, And I will bury her below the moon: It may be but a trance or midnight swoon. And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methought It was like _her_.—Like her! and is it not? My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!— I know thee now!—I know myself again.”