In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,
Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!
LII.
And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright
With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom
Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight,
A shadow that anticipates the tomb!
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume
A purple canopy, a golden throne;
But it is empty!—hath the stroke of doom