Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the dead
There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in the tomb,
And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom,
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth,
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth:
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance,
Or at mid-sea appal the chilled mariner’s glance.
Such I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo’s isle.
The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire,