XLI

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

      Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,

      Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,

      With a huge empty flagon by his side:

      The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

      But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

      By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—

      The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.