And tear himself away from them that wept.
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,
Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul’s saint
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint,
O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed
The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair—
The servant’s look—the table that revealed
His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed—