Reposes

This, then, is Christmas, 1862. Everything is silent in Dreamthorp. The smith's hammer reposes beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle is at rest.

On the shore dimly seen, thro’ the mists of the deep, where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, what is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, as it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?