That slept in his what time my lips they burn'd.
Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder!
The perjury stalk'd like murder in the sun—
For ever—God!--sense, reason, soul, sunk under—
The deed was done!
12.
Francis, O Francis! league on league, shall chase thee
The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight—
Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee,
And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight!