VII.
Now round the altar high they stand,
In sooth, a gallant, goodly band;
On high the torches flash and wave,
Showing pillar and architrave,
And arch and gothic window fair,
And, hanging high in the cold night air,
Pennon and ’scutcheon that glisten’d there.
But who are these, at dead of night,
That would perform this holy rite?
Who, I pray, but the baron bold,
And the fair Mena, deck’d in gold?
For missals foully forg’d have said,
(Rest him!) her gallant knight is dead!
And then, her father’s stern command,
And many a ghostly spirit band,
Have sent her mad;—she cannot know
The full extent of all her woe.