VIII.

VIII. Something too much of this: but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long-absent Harold reappears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.