Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/344

 But it is a lofty chamber, And passing rich withal When on its gilded mouldings huge The quivering moonbeams fall. And, ever and anon, in sooth, Even on that stormy night, Would some pale tempest-shattered ray Through the dim windows find its way— A very thread of light— To glimmer on the needlecraft And curious tapestry Which moulder on the walls,—brave scrolls Of dim antiquitye, Embodying many a qnaintquaint [sic] device Of love and chivalrye.

Oh! it is a lofty chamber, But dull it is to see, In the dead pause of the deep midnight, When the faggots dying be, And nought but embers red Throw round a dubious gleam, Like the indistinct forthshadowings Of a sad and unquiet dream.