LXXVIII.

The streets grow still and lonely--and the star, The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war, As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born, Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn With fears and watchings, to their homes retire. Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds;[221] the winds in sighs expire, And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.