Arms on armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd: dire was the noise Of conflict.

Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.

The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round

All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?

The starry cope Of heaven.