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It is a hundred years agone
Since living limb did rest
Within that chamber's chilling gloom,
And rose a living guest!
But many a brave and stately corpse
Of lord and lady tall,
Have here lain cold and motionless
Ere their proud funeral:
For no sound or sight, however strange,
Can lifeless flesh appal.
But ancient crones have noted well
Of each corpse that lay there,
That writhen was each ghastly limb,
The eyelid opened wide, and grim
Each cold dead eye did glare.
It is a hundred years agone,
Even on this very night,
Since, in this unsunned room, and lone,
Reposed that lady bright—
A miracle of loveliness—
A very beam of light.
Blythe dawns the morn—her bridal morn,
And merry minstrels play;
