No mortal hand was near when so it seem’d
To shake the midnight streets.
Old Cit. Too well I know
The sound of coming fate!—’Tis ever thus
When Death is on his way to make it night
In the Cid’s ancient house.[279] Oh! there are things
In this strange world of which we’ve all to learn
When its dark bounds are pass’d. Yon bell, untouch’d,
(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak—
When of that line some stately head is mark’d—