This side the Styx

and shivering, how the oozy tide Affrights me, waiting! Yonder boatman there Is dull and moveless as the very stones That fringe the infernal river. Woe is me! All that I had, departed, and this state Of aimless wandering on the farther shore Is scarcely better than the life of forms I see around me. Huge, deformèd toads, Yellow and dripping monsters, loathsome plants Dropping their blotched leaves in the reeking slime. This is the land of Death in very truth. The imprisoned air bears not my trembling voice To shapes, my comrades in the upper life, To those that sate and laughed with me of old, Alas, how altered! Tullius Quæstor there Stands solitary, he that lovèd mirth, And drank the unmixed wine till morning came With me, how often! Is that Poetus, Mine ancient enemy? O Gods! he comes Beating the dead air with his outstretched palms In silent supplication. Now his mouth Is shaping words, and yet there comes no sound: And now he passes in the drifting mist, A shadow amid shadows. I alone Retain a lasting form, or seem to do. Claudius Herminius, once a trusty friend, Is fleeting like the others. Is there none To stay and give me peace? Ixion now Had eased me, for he beareth greater pain; But all alone upon these crumbling banks, False as the world I left, how shall I be, Or rather case from being? Could I lose My soul, sensation, all that makes me, I, Oblivion were thrice blessèd. Lo! the boat Is moving toward me&mdash;now at least is change. Slowly, oh! slowly parts the stagnant flood, And slow as is repentance, Charon rows!