Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days. That is the language of the Holy Ghost. The commonwealth fell, the loan bank closed its coffers and its books on a sensible loss, the rules of life which he had drawn about himself fell into desuetude. His unrest issued from him like a wave of sound: and on the tide of flowing music the ark was journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns in her wake.