Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King of
  sadness,
  Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness.

SIXTH SPIRIT
  Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing:
  It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air,
  But treads with killing footstep, and fans with silent wing
  The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear;
  Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above
  And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet,
  Dream visions of aërial joy, and call the monster, Love,
  And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he whom now we greet.

CHORUS
  Though Ruin now Love's shadow be,
  Following him, destroyingly,
  On Death's white and wingèd steed,
  Which the fleetest cannot flee,
  Trampling down both flower and weed,