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No voice is heard, for man has fled the place;
But Terror crouches in the corners’ space,
And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall
Of Titans is so high, that he who shall
With wandering eye look up from beam to beam
Of the confused wild roof will haply seem
To wonder that the stars he sees not there.
Giants the spiders are, that weave with care
Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid,
Joists whose dark ends in griffins’ jaws are hid.
The light is lurid, and the air like death,
And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breath
Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear
To move its double leaves–their noise to hear.

VIII.

WHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN.

But the great hall of generations dead
Has something more sepulchral and more dread
Than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier
Or table lone with stately dais near–
Two rows of arches o’er a colonnade
With knights on horseback all in mail arrayed,
Each one disposed with pillar at his back
And to another vis-a-vis. Nor lack
The fittings all complete; in each right hand
A lance is seen; the armored horses stand
With chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure;
The cuissarts’ studs are by their clamps secure;
The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow;
Even unto the horses’ feet do flow
Caparisons,–the leather all well clasped,
The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped,
The shining long sword from the saddle hung,
The battle-axe across the back was flung.
Under the arm a trusty dagger rests,
Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests.
Feet press the stirrups–hands on bridle shown
Proclaim all ready, with the visors down,
And yet they stir not, nor is audible
A sound to make the sight less terrible.

Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear,
If e’er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were,
These cattle black were his by surest right,
Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night.
The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold,
The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold,
Terrific too; the clench’d fists seem to hold
Some frightful missive, which the phantom hands
Would show, if opened out at hell’s commands.
The dusk exaggerates their giant size,
The shade is awed–the pillars coldly rise.
Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here?

Horses and horsemen that make gazers fear
Are only empty armor. But erect
And haughty mien they all affect
And threatening air–though shades of iron still.
Are they strange larvae–these their statues ill?
No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass,
Which from profoundest depths of evil pass
With futile aim to dare the Infinite!
Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight,
As if in this mysterious cavalcade
They saw the weird and mystic halt was made
Of them who at the coming dawn of day
Would fade, and from their vision pass away.
A stranger looking in, these masks to see,
Might deem from Death some mandate there might be
At times to burst the tombs–the dead to wear
A human shape, and mustering ranks appear
Of phantoms, each confronting other shade.

Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made
Than are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up graves
Are not more icy than these arms; the staves
Of hideous biers have not their joints more strong
Than are the joinings of these legs; the long
Scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine,
And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline.
The heads are skull-like, and the stony feet
Seem for the charnel house but only meet.
The pikes have death’s-heads carved, and seem to be
Too heavy; but the shapes defiantly
Sit proudly in the saddle–and perforce
The rider looks united to the horse!
The network of their mail doth clearly cross.
The Marquis’ mortar beams near Ducal wreath,
And on the helm and gleaming shield beneath
Alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed
Of parsley, and the royal robes are made
So large that with the knightly harness they
Seem to o’ermaster palfreys every way.
To Rome the oldest armor might be traced,
And men and horses’ armor interlaced
Blent horribly; the man and steed we feel
Made but one hydra with its scales of steel.
Yet is there history here. Each coat of mail
Is representant of some stirring tale.
Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show
A vision of the chief by it we know.
Here are the blood-stained Dukes’ and Marquis’ line,
Barbaric lords, who amid war’s rapine
Bore gilded saints upon their banners still
Painted on fishes’ skin with cunning skill.
Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried “Onward go,”
And Mundiaque and Ottocar–Plato
And Ladislaeus Kunne; and Welf who bore
These words upon his shield his foes before;
“Nothing there is I fear.” Otho blear-eyed,
Zultan and Nazamustus, and beside
The later Spignus, e’en to Spartibor
Of triple vision, and yet more and more
As if a pause at every age were made,
And Antaeus’ fearful dynasty portrayed.