Midst others of less note, came one frail
Form,

A phantom among men, companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actæon-like, and now he fled astray 276
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged
way,

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift

A Love in desolation masked; a Power Girt round with weakness; - it can scarce uplift

The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;

Is it not broken?

flower

282

even whilst we speak On the withering

286