Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast; As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs, From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed. She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink Through blazoned panes--an immaterial snow-- In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow. Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers, Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care, Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair. HACKELNBERG I When down the Hartz the echoes swarm, He rides beneath the mountain storm With mad "halloo!" and wild alarm Of hound and horn and thunder: With his hunter, black as night, Ban-dogs, eyed with lambent light; And a stag, a spectral white, Rushes on before, in flight Glimmering through the boughs and under. II Long-howling, crouched in bracken black, The werewolf shuns his ruinous track, On every side the forests crack, And mountain torrents tumble: And the spirits of the air Whistling whirl with scattered hair, Teeth that flash and eyes that glare, Round him as he gallops there, In the rain and tempest's rumble. III Above the storm, the thunder's growl, The torrent's roar, the forest's howl, Is heard his hunting-horn--an owl, That hoots and sweeps before him: And beneath the blinding leven, On wild crags, the Castle riven Of the Dumburg towers to heaven, Beckoning on the demon-driven, Beckoning on and looming o'er him. AN ANTIQUE Mildewed and gray a marble stair Leads to a balustrade of urns, Beyond which two stone satyrs glare From vines and close-clipped yews and ferns. A path, that winds and labyrinths, 'Twixt parallels of verdant box, Around a lodge whose mossy plinths Are based on emerald-colored rocks. A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house, Built in a grove beside a lake, Around whose edge the dun deer browse, And swans their snowy pastime take. And underneath and overhead,-- The breathings of a water-nymph It seems,--the violets' scent is shed Mixed with the music of the lymph. And where,--upon its pedestal,-- The old sun-dial marks the hours, Laburnum blossoms lightly fall, And duchess roses rain their flowers. The air is languid with perfume, As if dead beauties--who of old Intrigued it here in patch and plume-- Again the ancient terrace strolled With gallants, on whose rapiers gems Once sneered in haughtiness of hues, While Touchstone wit and apothegms Laughed down the long cool avenues: And there, where bowers of woodbine pave, All heavily with sultry musk, Two fountains of pellucid wave, In sunlight-tessellated dusk,