But I forgot—my pilgrim’s shrine is won
And he himself—the lone unloving Childe
His Limehouse birth, his name, his sandal-shoon,
And scallop shell are dreams by fancy piled:
His dull despairing thoughts alone—once mild
As love—now dark as fable’s darkest hell,
Are stern realities; but o’er the wild
Drear desert of their blight the soothing spell
Of Warren’s verse flits rare as sun-beams o’er Pall Mall.
22.