He flings him on the ladye, and anon, With loathly shudder, from that wither’d one Hath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more! Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er, That I have dreamt, but I must dream again For moons together, till this weary brain Become distemper’d as the winter sea! Good father! give me blessing; let it be Upon me as the dew upon the moss. Oh me! but I have made the holy cross A curse; and not a blessing! let me kiss The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this! I sware, and sware again, as now I will— Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still, If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring The light of comfort, on some angel wing To one that lieth lone; do—do it now; By all the stars that open on thy brow Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon That listeth to be forth at nightly noon, Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true, As I have perjured me, that I renew Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o’er To this same penance, I have done before! That night and day I watch, as I have been Long watching, o’er the partner of my sin! That I taste never the delight of food, But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood Of madness stronger, till it grapple death— Despair—eternity!” He saith, he saith, And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse, Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse, And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there, And lunacy, that lightens up despair, And makes a gladness out of agony. Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee, That hast the soul at will, and givest it play, Amid the wildest fancies far away; That thronest reason, on some wizard throne Of fairy land, within the milky zone,— Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond The glorious galaxies of diamond. Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flight For love to blessed bowers of delight, And buildest holy monarchies within The fancy, till the very heart is queen Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy! Thou empress of the passions! though they be, A sister group of wild, unearthly forms, Like lightnings playing in their home of storms! I see thee, striking at the silver strings Of the pure heart, and holy music springs Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain, Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main! But say, is melancholy by thy side, With tresses in a raven shower, that hide Her pale and weeping features? Is she never Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river, The sister of thyself? But cold and chill, And winter-born, and sorrowfully still, And not like thee, that art in merry mood, And frolicsome amid thy solitude?