XXII.

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass Of cloud o’ersweeping, without wind, the sky, Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, And mark’d its victims with a tearless eye. They moved before me but as pictures, wrought Each to reveal some secret of man’s thought, On the sharp edge of sad mortality; Till in his place came one--oh! could it be? My friend, my heart’s first friend!--and did I gaze on thee!