Shows Acteons horned, though armed and booted fine, Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds. Roses and gladioles make up bright mounds Of flowers, with juniper and aniseed; While sage, all newly cut for this great need, Covers the Persian carpet that is spread Beneath the table, and so helps to shed Around a perfume of the balmy spring. Beyond is desolation withering. One hears within the hollow dreary space Across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace, The wind that ever is with mystic might A spirit ripple of the Infinite. The glass restored to frames to creak is made By blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade. Strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone, The guest expected should be living one! The seven lights from seven arms make glow Almost with life the staring eyes that show On the dim frescoes--and along the walls Is here and there a stool, or the light falls O'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb. Yet was displayed amid the mournful gloom Some copper vessels, and some crockery ware. The door--as if it must, yet scarcely dare-- Had opened widely to the night's fresh air. No voice is heard, for man has fled the place; But Terror crouches in the corners' space, And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall Of Titans is so high, that he who shall With wandering eye look up from beam to beam Of the confused wild roof will haply seem To wonder that the stars he sees not there. Giants the spiders are, that weave with care Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid, Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid. The light is lurid, and the air like death, And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breath Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear To move its double leaves--their noise to hear. VIII. WHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN.