His brain is whirling now.
But ever that pure Watcher bright
Pleads softly in his ear,
“Think, mortal, of the coming night!
Think of the mildew and the blight;
Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,
Dimmed by thy dallying here!”
He hears, and lo! his pulses wild
Are hushed, and in his veins
The riot ebbs; things which beguiled,