And envy them their rest.
No minstrels strike th' enliv'ning string—
None blow the twanging horn;
The nightingale has ceas'd to sing,
And slowly breaks the morn.
The portals of the dappled East
Assume their bright array;
The Sun, in new-born splendour drest,
Drives sable clouds away.
Thick vapours from the earth arise,