LIII.

And Alvar, Alvar!--I beheld thee too, Pale, steadfast, kingly: till thy clear glance fell On that young sister; then perturb’d it grew, And all thy labouring bosom seem’d to swell With painful tenderness. Why came I there, That troubled image of my friend to bear Thence, for my after-years?--a thing to dwell In my heart’s core, and on the darkness rise, Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?