XLI.

The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!"--dissolv'd, and left The atom darkness in a slow turmoil; As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil: It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, And in the dawn she started up awake;