XI. GIVEN OVER.

The men of learning say she must Soon pass and be as if she had not been. To gratify the barren lust Of Death, the roses in her cheeks are seen To blush so brightly, blooming deeper damascene.

All hope and doubt, all fears are vain: The dreams I nursed of honouring her are past, And will not comfort me again. I see a lurid sunlight throw its last Wild gleam athwart the land whose shadows lengthen fast.

It does not seem so dreadful now The horror stands out naked, stark, and still: I am quite calm, and wonder how My terror played such mad pranks with my will. The North winds fiercely blow, I do not feel them chill.

All things must die: somewhere I read What wise and solemn men pronounce of joy; No sooner born, they say, than dead: The strife of being, but a whirling toy Humming a weary moan spun by capricious boy.

Has my soul reached a starry height Majestically calm? No monster, drear And shapeless, glares me faint at night; I am not in the sunshine checked for fear That monstrous shapeless thing is somewhere crouching near?

No; woe is me! far otherwise: The naked horror numbs me to the bone; In stupor calm its cold blank eyes Set hard at mine. I do not fall or groan, Our island Gorgon's face had changed me into stone.