But hark, ’tis the voice of the crowing cock!
And hark, ’tis the toll of Saint Dunstan’s clock!
The morn rides high in the Eastern sky,
And the little birds carol it merrily:
Already have waned at the gladsome sight,
Each scene of darkness, each goblin sprite;
Abaddon to whit, and the whole of his crew,
Pink, yellow, or rosy, green, purple, or blue,
For cheered by the rays thro’ his lattice that peep,
The bard hath awoke from the “Pains of Sleep.”