And the incense stealing out
Through the chinks, and through the seams,
Floats among the dusty beams,
And wreathes all the bird about.
All the children as they pass
Turn to see the bird of stone,
'Twixt the arches all alone,
Wading to it through the grass.
Is the spider's pretty net,
Hung across the arches there,
But a frail and foolish snare
For the little stone bird set?
If the place should e'er decay,
And the tower be crumbled down,
And the arches overthrown,
Would the dove then fly away?
So that, seeking it around,
All some golden summer day,
'Mid the ruins as they lay,
It should never more be found?
IV.—In the Chamber.
LLEWELLYN and MONK.
LLEWELLYN.
My little one! my joy! my hope! dead—dead—
I did not think to see this sorry sight.