THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
49 
It hath no shape ;  and I have no escape ! 
 It wraps around me, as a mist, despair. 
Fear without sense and horror without shape 
 Most surely there ! 
 
O melancholy !  charming child of folly, 
 Where is thy comfort told without a word ? 
Where are thy plumes, beloved melancholy, 
 Familiar bird ? 
 
O emerald star, deep beauty’s avatar, 
 Are thy skies dim ?  What throne is thine above ? 
Where is the crown of thee—thy sevenfold star, 
 My heart of love ? 
 
Then from the clinging mist there came a singing, 
 A dirge re-echoes to the poet prayer : 
“ I am their child to whom thy soul is clinging, 
 I am Despair ! ”