And glooms with horror all the joys of day.
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
I know thou didst not die—this much I know
From him who wert thou dead were still thy foe;
I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess
Of the greenwood’s remotest wilderness,
And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me,
How my heart bounded at the thought of thee.
Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand,