A surly Porter turn’d the key,
A man of sullen soul was he—
His brow was fair; but in his eye
Sat pamper’d scorn, and tyranny;
And, near him, a fierce mastiff stood,
Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.
XII.
The weary Lascar turn’d away,
For trembling fear his heart subdued,
And down his cheek the tear would stray,