XXXIV

And she had died in drowsy ignorance,

      But for a thing more deadly dark than all;

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,

      Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall

For some few gasping moments; like a lance,

      Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.