The phantoms of some distemper'd dream.
But the heart—the heart is unconquer'd still—
A host in its solitude!
Quenchless the spirit, though fetter'd the will,
Of that warrior unsubdued;
His soul, like an arrow from rocky ground,
Shall fiercely and proudly in air rebound.
But the hour of darkness girds him now
With a pall of deepest night,
Anguish sits throned on his moody brow,