Roll their rich thunder on the pausing soul!
And though his mailed hand did shun my grasp
And though his closed morion hid his feature,
Yea all resemblance to the face of man,
I felt the hollow whisper of his welcome,
I felt those unseen eyes were fix’d on mine,
If eyes indeed were there—
Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs,
Foul fertile seeds of passion and of crime,
That wither’d in my heart’s abortive core,