XXIX

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon

      Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

      A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon

      A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—

      O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

      The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

      The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,

      Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.