To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory’s fulness o’er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish’d race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Rear’d in this lordly dwelling, and was now