IV.—To———
Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shade1
Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest,2
While yet his form and presence sat a guest3
With the old immortals when the feast was made.4
Thine like, thus differs ; form and presence laid5
In this dim chamber of enforcèd rest,6
It is the unseen “ shade” which risen, hath pressed7
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed.8
My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought9
Falls from a high place like an August star,10
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings ;11
When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar—12
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought,13
He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings.14