Sphered far above the dread phantasmal gloom
That made his poet-heart a living tomb,
Tortured by fires that death alone could quell
Fierce as the flames of Farinati’s hell.
“Was it not Fate, whose earthly name is Sorrow,”
That bade him with prophetic soul to borrow
From all the stars that fleck night’s purple dome,
Thee, bright Arcturus! for our spirit home —
Our trysting star, where, while on earth’s cold clime,
Our mingling souls might meet in dreams sublime?