Maybe he was angry with himself, and thought it was with others; and was proud, sorry, and defiant, and let his moods, one after another, possess him as they came.
They were his young days--beautiful and wicked--days of clear, rich tints, and sanguine throbbings, and _gloria mundi_--when we fancy the spirit perfect, and the body needs no redemption--when, fresh from the fountains of life, death is but a dream, and we walk the earth like heathen gods and goddesses, in celestial egotism and beauty.

Oh, fair youth!--gone for ever.

The parting from thee was a sadness and a violence--sadder, I think, than death itself.

We look behind us, and sigh after thee, as on the pensive glories of a sunset, and our march is toward the darkness.

It is twilight with us now, and will soon be starlight, and the hour and place of slumber, till the reveille sounds, and the day of wonder opens.