They passed into an ancient hall With oaken arches spanned. Full many a shield hung on the wall, Full many a broken brand. And barbèd spear and scimetar From Holy Land. And scarfs of dames of high degree With gold and jewels rich, And many a mouldered effigy In many a mouldering niche, Like grey sea shells whose crumbling cells Bestrew the beach. {40} The sacred dead possessed the place, The silent cobweb wreathed The tombs where slept that warrior race, With swords for ever sheathed: You seemed to share the very air Which they had breathed. Oh, darksome was that funeral room, Those oaken arches dim, The torchlight, struggling through the gloom, Fell faint on effige grim, On dragon dread and carvèd head Of Cherubim. Of Cherubim fast by a shrine Whereon the last sad rite Was wont for all that ancient line, For dame and belted knight-- A shrine of Moan which death alone Did ever light. But light not now that altar stone While hope of life remain, Though darksome be that altar lone, Unlit that funeral fane, Save by the rays cast by the blaze Of torches twain. Of torches twain at head and heel Of him who seemeth dead, Who sleepeth so well in his coat of steel. His cloak around him spread-- The young Knight fair, who lieth there On oaken bed. One hand still fastened to his heart. The other on his lance, While through his eyelids, half apart. Life seemeth half to glance. "Sweet youth awake, for Jesu's sake, From this strange trance!" But heed or answer there is none. Then knelt that Hermit old; To Mother Mary and her Son Full many a prayer he told, Whose wondrous words the Church records In lettered gold: {41} And many a precious litany And many a pious vow, Then rising said, "If fiend it be, That fiend shall leave thee now!" And traced the sign of the Cross divine On lips and brow. As well expect yon cherub's wings To wave at matin bell! Not all the relics of the kings Could break that iron spell. "Pray for the dead, let mass be said, Toll forth the knell!" "Not yet!" the Baron gasped and sank As if beneath a blow, With lips all writhing as they drank The dregs of deepest woe; With eyes aglare, and scattered hair Tossed to and fro. So swings the leaf that lingers last When wintry tempests sweep, So reels when storms have stripped the mast The galley on the deep, So nods the snow on Eigher's brow Before the leap. Uncertain 'mid his tangled hair His palsied fingers stray, He smileth in his dumb despair Like a sick child at play. Though wet, I trow, with tears eno' That beard so grey.