THEN sighed the Wandering Angel sore,
And turned one lingering look, and last,
Upon the dead; and, rising o'er
The lake, the groves, the dell, he passed
On sailing pinions, broad and bright,
Along the footsteps of the night,
And down the pathway of the wind,
Until he faded westward far,—
A glory in the deep enshrined,
The brother of the morning star—