VI

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VI

With staff in hand across the cleft

The Challenger began his march;

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained

The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan⁠—

Again!⁠—his heart within him dies⁠—

His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,

He totters, pale as any ghost,

And, looking down, he spies

A Lamb, that in the pool is pent

Within that black and frightful Rent.