Holds out a star. 
He stands amid the storm, a mighty rock, 
His long hair blows about, the demons mock 
His entry to their kingdom, and despair. 
Groans in the blackness, infamous and bare, 
And hateful shapes and eyes surround his head— 
O for the magic of those mightier dead 
To scatter them, and utterly destroy 
Their likeness, and to penetrate the joy 
Of yonder places past the realm of fear ! 
O that some mighty seer 
Came to avenge, that might deliver him 
From this grim fight, whose horrid ranks are dim 
With mist of spuméd blood, whose long chill hour 
Beats out each second with the ghastly power, 
Reluctant till the morning.  Shall they cease, 
These black battalions, and the dawn bring peace 
To a head holier ?  Or shall he succumb, 
Fight through long agonies and perish dumb, 
Sword gripped hard to the last ?  or shall he fall 
Recreant, coward, and no more at all 
Reach the dim martyr-hall of heroes ?  Yet 
The surging shapes gape hideous, to beget 
 
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