Before he mounted on the brazen horse,
And o’er the walls pursued his airy course.
So his cold hand on this last key he laid:
“Now turn,” said he; the treacherous bolt obey’d—
The door receded—bringing full in view
The dim, dull chapel, pulpit, desk, and pew.
It was not right—it would have vex’d a saint; 620
And Peter’s anger rose above restraint.
“Was this her love,” he cried, “to bring me here,
Among the dead, to die myself with fear!”—