Above that carved mantle hung,
Clad in the garb of gloom,
A painting of rich feudal state,--
An old baronial room.

The Norman windows scarcely cast
A light upon the wall,
Where shone the shields of warrior knights
Within the lonely hall.

And, pendent from each rusty nail,
Helmet and steely dress,
With bright and gilded morion,
To grace that dim recess.

Then Mary thought upon each tale
Of terrible romance:--
The lady in the lonely tower--
The murd'rer's deadly glance--

And moon-lit groves in pathless woods,
Where shadows nightly sped;
Her fancy could not leave the realms
Of darkness and the dead.

There stood a messenger without,
Beside her master's gate,
Who, till his thirsty horse had drunk,
Would hardly deign to wait.