 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XIV.
My onward tale may not give placeTo dwell on that fell thrall,—
In soothless, utter loneliness
The heart's blood curdling into gall,—
The fever'd, madden'd, raving, longing,
Driv'n back upon the soul—
Where black recording fiends are thronging,
And fire to break the adamantine goal;—
Cracks not the heart?—bursts not the head?—
Or hath the monarch reason fled?
Or sleeps she on her noontide throne?
Oh! that such opiate were his own!
| The bridal of Vaumond | |