XII.
Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep,
Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone,
While all the murmurs of existence sleep,
Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone!
Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street,
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart;
And all is still, where countless thousands meet,
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart!
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.