XLI

4 0 00

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.