To ask of him who stood beside
What hope for these might yet betide.
Clothed in his godhead strong he stood,
He bent his bow above the wood,
And swift the wingèd arrow left
The quivering string—what heart it cleft
My soul ne’er knew, for then the light
Of falling day dazed all my sight
With splendour, as the level sun
Blazed in his gold pavilion spun