Not all alone thou weep'st in stone, poor Lady, o'er thy Chief,[42]
That huge-limb'd Porter, spell-struck there, stands sharer in thy grief.
Pert Cynic, scorn not his amaze; all savage as he seems,
What graceful shapes henceforward may whiten his heart in dreams!
XIII.
A long adieu, dark Years! to you, of war on field and flood,
Battle afar, and mimic war at hone to train our blood--
The ruffian Ring--the goaded Bull--the Lottery's gates of sin--
The _all_ to nurse the outward brute, and starve the soul within!