With immemorial dust, it lies;
Where each gaunt casement's stony rim
Stares eyelike at the skies.
Drear in the old pile's oldest wing,
Hung round with mouldering arras, where
Tall, shadowy Tristrams fight and sing
For shadowy Isolts fair.
Beside a crumbling cabinet
A tarnished lute lies on the floor;
A talon-footed chair is set,