In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit’s dream!—Sleep, weary Constantine!
LXXX.
Doth the blast rise?—the clouded east is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and smother’d step of those that fear
Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere—