Where men are struck down in their hour of strength,
That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies
Before the excitement that his life affords—
The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.
In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:
Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,
(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,
Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,
And left him there alone;—there was no pain;
But a sense that all was lost for evermore,