Of wonder quits her arm and looks despair;
Nor will proceed. Oh no! he must return, 200
Though his drown’d sight cannot the path discern.
“Come, Master William! come, Sir, let us on.
What can you fear? You’re not afraid of John?”
“What ails our youngster?” quoth the burly swain,
Six feet in height—but he inquires in vain.
William, in deep resentment, scans the frame
Of the fond giant, and abhors his name;
Thinks him a demon of th’ infernal brood,