CANTO THE FIRST XI |
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CANTO THE FIRSTXI
He turn`d within his solitary hall,
And his high shadow shot along the wall;
There were the painted forms of other times,
`Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,
Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;
And half a column of the pompous page,
That speeds the specious tale from age to age:
When history`s pen its praise or blame supplies,
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone
Through the dim lattice o`er the floor of stone,
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O`er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,
Reflected in fantastic figures grew,
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,
And the wide waving of his shaken plume,
Glanced like a spectre`s attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave.
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