Flare on the blood-red feast.
Gaunt torches tall they seem,
Red revel-torches seven;—
And then, behold! the hour is tolled;
A great bell strikes eleven.
Silence.—The light, that makes
Each plate a splash of fire,—
Gold-splintered,—dims; and softer swims
The music of each lyre.
Grave Silence, like a king,