Then he entered the halls, where many a scene
Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—
He softly sighed o’er the festal board,
Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,
He swept the harp with his quivering wing,
And woke the tones of each mournful string,
While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,
Seemed singing a song of the olden time,
Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled
To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.