For dreary and dun the death-hue came
O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame;
The words of flame that with mystic fuss
Are hatched from a still-born incubus,
And doom each wight who reads, to dwell
Till the birth of day in the caves of hell.
Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand,
The spell that subjects thee to elfin command;
Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour,
And Warren hath read the words of power;