A power, a chill mysterious dread,
Which made him of those beings seem,
That shake us in the midnight dream.
Yet were his features, too, o’ercast
With mournfulness, as if the past
Had been one vigil, painful, deep and long
Of hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong.
No word was said: but long they stood,
And side by side, in thoughtful mood,
Watched the great curtains of the mist