What do they here so rigid and erect? What wait they for--and what do they expect? Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows; Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows. Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught, And thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught. Of empty void is spectral giant made, And each of these all-powerful knights displayed Is only rind of pride and murderous sin; Themselves are held the icy grave within. Rust eats the casques enamoured once so much Of death and daring--which knew kiss-like touch Of banner--mistress so august and dear-- But not an arm can stir its hinges here; Behold how mute are they whose threats were heard Like savage roar--whose gnashing teeth and word Deadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dread Have not a sound, and all the armor spread, The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway, Are stranded now in helplessness alway To see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem To take at night the image of a dream. These two great files reach from the door afar To where the table and the daïs are, Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane. On the left side the Marquises maintain Their place, but the right side the Dukes retain, And till the roof, embattled by Spignus, But worn by time that even that subdues, Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand The grades confronting--one on either hand. While in advance beyond, with haughty head-- As if commander of this squadron dread-- All waiting signal of the Judgment Day, In stone was seen in olden sculptors' way Charlemagne the King, who on the earth had found Only twelve knights to grace his Table Round. The crests were an assembly of strange things, Of horrors such as nightmare only brings. Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet, Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet, And antlered stags and fabled unicorn, And fearful things of monstrous fancy born. Upon the rigid form of morion's sheen Winged lions and the Cerberus are seen, And serpents winged and finned; things made to fright The timid foe, alone by sense of sight. Some leaning forward and the others back, They looked a growing forest that did lack No form of terror; but these things of dread That once on barons' helms the battle led Beneath the giant banners, now are still,