So on him comes the memory of the past,
In floating shadows thickly seen and fast,
Their spectral forms in grim array
Press on him as in battle-fray.
And he resists them not with hostile force,
As he would once turn back the assailants’ course
In the hot tide of war—but vainly throws
A weak retaliation on those foes
Who urge a contest with the soul—and there
Strike their keen shafts envenomed by despair.