58 
THE TALE OF ARCHAIS 
Its most unwieldy hulk was eaten through 
Of sharp-tongued serpents, and the poisonous 
dew 
That the foul damp let fall at evening 
Rotted it even to its core.  A ring 
Of silver girt it to the landing-stage, 
Yet brimstone joined in wedlock with foul age 
To burn into its vitals ;  thus the breath 
Of Satyrs wantoning at noon with Death 
Strained it, and all but cast it loose ;  the night 
Drew on the outer world ;  no change of light 
Was known within those depths, but vermin 
knew 
By some strange instinct ;  forth the unholy crew 
Of vampires and swamp-adders drew them out. 
Alone amid the pestilential rout 
Charicles’ crest did glimmer red with wrath, 
And, stealing from the barge, he drew him forth 
And writhed into the hut, for latterly 
So dark his soul had grown that never he 
For shame and sorrow wore the form of man. 
So to the hut on writing coils he ran 
With angry head erect, and passed within 
Its rotten doorway.  Then the thing of Sin 
That mocked the name of woman fondled him,