Had crept and stung. One twitch he still could give
And straight thereon yielded the final breath.
I felt its horror. For his wounds, I scarce
Set eyes upon them, but the insect-sting
I see even now. And thus ’twill go with me.
That sense-repelling, spirit-sickening thing
Is my last torture. Take my prepaid thanks!
[10.] Insert:—
If it have weight for me, ’twill lie for me
Self-manifest.