And there he watch’d it, till, so sore,
That he could bear to kneel no more,
He staggered to his feet again,
And sighing from excessive pain,
His lance he grasped, and with a moan
Limped lamely on his vigil lone.
The gas-jets round but flickered dim,
And in their light it seemed to him
That with a look of scorn intent
The Statue’s eyes were on him bent.