The Winged Beetle

154 THE CAMP FIRE IN MEMORIAM A. C. S. The meer is haunted, berylline that lies Upon the enchaunted moor, bare to the skies. Far as the eye leaps, there is nothing seen But Mystery, the horizon hungry and lean Like a slim snake encompassing the air. Subtly the lake woos, like a virgin’s prayer. No moon there was ; no stars could pierce the blind O’ertoppling mass of heaven ; there was no wind. There was no man, no beast ; no sound or sight Broke thy swart span, O brooding vulture, Night ! Where the tarn dwindled, was lost altogether, I piled, I kindled the sparse twigs of heather On one squat square stark rock ; I struck my steel. The sparks splash : flares the pyre, a wildering wheel Of light that rolled, and lit the meer, and showed A glint of gold in that inane abode. Thus then I sate, and warmed me at the blaze, Brooding like Fate upon my desert days. Before the dawn, the pyre burnt through to ash, The god withdrawn ; effaced the golden gash !