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But it is a lofty chamber,
And passing rich withal
When on its gilded mouldings huge
The quivering moonbeams fall.
And, ever and anon, in sooth,
Even on that stormy night,
Would some pale tempest-shattered ray
Through the dim windows find its way—
A very thread of light—
To glimmer on the needlecraft
And curious tapestry
Which moulder on the walls,—brave scrolls
Of dim antiquitye,
Embodying many a qnaint device
Of love and chivalrye.
Oh! it is a lofty chamber,
But dull it is to see,
In the dead pause of the deep midnight,
When the faggots dying be,
And nought but embers red
Throw round a dubious gleam,
Like the indistinct forthshadowings
Of a sad and unquiet dream.
