6. 
She would have clasped me to her glowing frame; 4270
Those warm and odorous lips might soon have shed
On mine the fragrance and the invisible flame
Which now the cold winds stole;—­she would have laid
Upon my languid heart her dearest head;
I might have heard her voice, tender and sweet; 4275
Her eyes, mingling with mine, might soon have fed
My soul with their own joy.—­One moment yet
I gazed—­we parted then, never again to meet!

7. 
Never but once to meet on Earth again! 
She heard me as I fled—­her eager tone 4280
Sunk on my heart, and almost wove a chain
Around my will to link it with her own,
So that my stern resolve was almost gone. 
’I cannot reach thee! whither dost thou fly? 
My steps are faint—­Come back, thou dearest one—­ 4285
Return, ah me! return!’—­The wind passed by
On which those accents died, faint, far, and lingeringly.

8. 
Woe!  Woe! that moonless midnight!—­Want and Pest
Were horrible, but one more fell doth rear,
As in a hydra’s swarming lair, its crest 4290
Eminent among those victims—­even the Fear
Of Hell:  each girt by the hot atmosphere
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion stung
By his own rage upon his burning bier
Of circling coals of fire; but still there clung 4295
One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung: 

9. 
Not death—­death was no more refuge or rest;
Not life—­it was despair to be!—­not sleep,
For fiends and chasms of fire had dispossessed
All natural dreams:  to wake was not to weep, 4300
But to gaze mad and pallid, at the leap
To which the Future, like a snaky scourge,
Or like some tyrant’s eye, which aye doth keep
Its withering beam upon his slaves, did urge
Their steps; they heard the roar of Hell’s sulphureous surge. 4305

10. 
Each of that multitude, alone, and lost
To sense of outward things, one hope yet knew;
As on a foam-girt crag some seaman tossed
Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew
Whilst now the ship is splitting through and through; 4310
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was heard,
Started from sick despair, or if there flew
One murmur on the wind, or if some word
Which none can gather yet, the distant crowd has stirred.

11. 
Why became cheeks, wan with the kiss of death, 4315
Paler from hope? they had sustained despair. 
Why watched those myriads with suspended breath
Sleepless a second night? they are not here,
The victims, and hour by hour, a vision drear,
Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold dead; 4320
And even in death their lips are wreathed with fear.—­
The crowd is mute and moveless—­overhead
Silent Arcturus shines—­’Ha! hear’st thou not the tread