Direct from Heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
CCLXXXIV
SONG.
‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;
‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;
He hath left his name to be magnified
In a song of wonder and woe.’