Chapter XVIII

The night-cheer o’er, the page led on
The stranger to his resting-place.
He led the way, that form had gone:
On the high stair he stood a space,
Waiting the knight’s reluctant pace,
Then, with mute reverence, marshalled him
Through many a gallery, long and dim,
Where helmets watched, in order grim;
Through many a chamber, wide and lorn,
Where wint’ry damps had half withdrawn
The storied paintings on the wall.
Electra, o’er her brother’s urn,
There bent the head, and seemed to mourn;
There, too, as meet in room and hall,
Troy’s tale[2] and Hector’s piteous fall:
Here Priam’s Court, in purple and pall,
Its golden splendour now had lost;
But Helen, on the rampart stood,
And pointed to the Grecian host,
Out-stretching to the briny flood.
Here Hector’s wife sat in her bower,
Waiting her lord’s returning hour;
And ‘broidering ’midst her maiden train,
While her infant played with silken skein.
There—but it boots not that I say,
What stories once, in long array,
Lived on those walls, now ghastly clay.

Footnote 2:

The “Tale of Troy” appears to have been a very favourite subject in
ancient tapestry. It occurs often in old castles, and is mentioned
twice in this “Trew Chronique,” as adorning the walls of stately
chambers.