The winged hours, that scatter’d roses round me,
Languid and sad, drag their slow course along,
And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings—
and in these:
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors,
And, like a blood-hound, crouch’d for murder! Now
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of—Mercy!