For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling
So heavily around the journeyers on,
Cast down its weight—and slept!
Elm. Alas! thine eye
Is wandering—yet how brightly! Is this death!
Or some high wondrous vision? Speak, my child!
How is it with thee now?
Xim. (wildly.) I see it still!
’Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high,
My father’s banner! Hear’st thou not a sound?