 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
IX.
Yes:—all the Christian, all the manAround his heart quick summon'd, ran.
Onward his unlit path he grop'd
That wandering strange, still downward slop'd;
Seem'd it an iron channel led
To earth's remotest, secret bed—
Narrow that chamber, where he bent
Full low his form as on he went;
Its walls were hard and firm and cold,
Nature's impenetrable hold.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |