Xxxvi

Then in the night a trumpet; and the dull Close thud of horse and clash of spurs and arms; And glimmering helms swept by me.--Sorrowful I stood and waited till against the storm's Black breast, the Manse,--a burning carbuncle,-- Blazed like a battle-beacon, and alarms Of onslaught clanged around it.--Then, like one, Who bears with him God's curse, I galloped on.