The dusky forms that pushed and peered,
The swaying couch, the aching limb,
The lights and shadows, sharp and weird,
Were but a troubled dream to him.

He knew his love--all else unknown,
Or seen through reason's sad eclipse--
And with her, hand within his own,
Or fondly pressed upon his lips,
He clung to it, as if alone

It had the power to stay, his feet
Still longer on the verge of life;
And thus they vanished from the street--
The shepherd-warrior and his wife--
Within the manse's closed retreat.



XXVIII.

Embraced by home, his soul grew light;
And though he moaned: "My head! my head!"
His life turned back its outward flight,
Like his, who, from the prophet's bed,
Startled the wondering Shunammite.

He greeted all with tender speech;
He told his children he should die;
He gave his fond farewell to each,