So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,

Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,

And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

CXIII.

Again—what is 't? The wind? No, no,—this time

It is the sable Friar as before,

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.

Again through shadows of the night sublime,