CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my Song, The Being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more--these breathings are his last-- His wanderings done--his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing:--if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed With forms which live and suffer--let that pass-- His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,[py]