XXXI

       Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
       A phantom among men; companionless
       As the last cloud of an expiring storm
       Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
       Had gaz’d on Nature’s naked loveliness,
       Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
       With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
       And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursu’d, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.