LIII.
And Alvar, Alvar!—I beheld thee too,
Pale, steadfast, kingly: till thy clear glance fell
On that young sister; then perturb’d it grew,
And all thy labouring bosom seem’d to swell
With painful tenderness. Why came I there,
That troubled image of my friend to bear
Thence, for my after-years?—a thing to dwell
In my heart’s core, and on the darkness rise,
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?