 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XIX.
Another step the cavern treads,Another form reveal the shades—
How?—in this infernal world
Comes there aught of mortal mould?
Limbs of man it hath indeed,
Of a goodly man they seem—
Armour it weareth—Mary speed!
That monarch port—that sable crest—
It cannot—ay, HE stands confest—
Or is it all a dream?
| The bridal of Vaumond | |