Erinnys. Through stark he lieth and cold in clay, Though he utters neither good nor ill, There is that which my dagger could not kill— A haunting horror night and day, That makes my blood stand still— That makes my spirit shrink and shiver, That dwells within me for ever and ever, A dark and terrible dream, wherewith I cannot away ! Nightly and daily I die with fear, Lest the breeze, as it wanders far and near, Should speak my story in mortal ear ; Or the Hand that writes in letters of fire, When the raving clouds contend in heaven, Should flash my name in the wild far-gleaming levin, And the pattering rain should conspire, With ever-heedful tones, as it fell, This bloody rumour that cries from hell, Slowly to shape and syllable. Suddenly in a frenzied fright, With cold damp brow, and stiffened hair, And lips that trembled in vain for a prayer, I started from my bed, In the deep heart of the silent night— For there grew in the dark a lurid light, And my eyes were chained to a ghastly sight, The white weird face of the dead ; And I saw the blood of the red wound drip, And the wasted finger laid on the lip— O for darkness of eyes, darkness of mind ! Great God, let the heat of thine anger strike me blind ! The very breath I breathe is a secret strife, And might well make a coward of the brave. I shudder to see the light of life ; But death with a hundred hells is rife, And I dare not lift the poison or knife, And suddenly seek the grave. There is rest for all, but not for me ; I discern not any term or scope, But a ghastly hope, which is not a hope, For an end which is never to be. And still the Angel claims the price of guilt ; Still the Voice haunts me through the weary years, Full of anguish, full of fears, Seeming to search the distant spheres, And to whisper the tale in a thousand ears, How the crimson river of life was spilt ; And in the desert gloom of my breast So long this fiery curse I bear, That to me now, in my mad despair, Change of pain would be almost as sweet as rest ! P. S. Worsley .