A swifter still, and a wilder strain!——
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!—thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might!
There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,