The Advice Of Treachery

This well-feigned trance, this still and
  stupored sleep
is aptly timed, and nobly fits the scheme.
The cloud-encircled Sword with Night may creep
Beside the gates, and catch the world adream,
Snatching as life before the sluggish breath
Awakes to morning and to vultured death,
Till Craft appeared, the blunted Grecian spears
  That scratched at Troy, and all the blistered
  Hands
That tore at stones and prayed upon the sands
Were weak and vain, and vain the bloody years.
Oh, let the winds take up the heavy tones
Of  sleeping.  Move within a mist! Shun light!
Then swing the hidden weapon once, and smite,
And gaze with laughter on the slaughtered throne.