The sun hung molten in mid space,
Like some great star fix'd in its place.
From out the gleaming spaces rose
A sheen of gossamer and danced,
As Morgan slow and still advanced
Before his far-receding foes.
Right on and on the still black line
Drove straight through gleaming sand and shine,
By spar and beam and mast and stray,
And waif of sea and cast-away.
The far peaks faded from their sight,
The mountain walls fell down like night,
And nothing now was to be seen
Save but the dim sun hung in sheen
Of fairy garments all blood-red,—
The hell beneath, the hell o'erhead.
A black man tumbled from his steed.
He clutch'd in death the moving sands.
He caught the round earth in his hands,
He gripp'd it, held it hard and grim....
The great sad mother did not heed
His hold, but pass'd right on from him,
And ere he died grew far and dim.