THE AUTHORESS OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.
Her genius had its dwelling in the light
Of setting suns, and the deserted halls
Of ivy-clad chateaux, where, undisturbed,
Arachne plies her gossamer loom, filming
The sumptuous tapestries, embroidered o’er
With flowers and gay Ovidian phantasies,
And the refulgent mirrors, long ago
Wafted in argosies from the lagunes
Of wealthy Venice. Through the silent night,
The rippling shadows of the ancient trees
Dapple the floors, and ’neath the fireless hearths,
The crickets chirrup shrill—while from the walls
The painted semblance of some Lady Blanche,
Or rose-lipped Maude, or Eleanore looks down,
Long since enveloped in the robes of death.
In summer, when the luscious peach is ripe,
Through the great windows opening westward lie
Delicious prospects; lawns and wooded slopes,
Orchards of grapes—and o’er the tree-tops high
The glittering ocean backed by sunset skies,
With gold and amethystine vapors hung.