| |
| HIGH on a leaf-carv’d ancient oaken chair | |
| The Norman Baron sat within his hall, | |
| Wearied with a long chase by wold and mere; | |
| His hunting spear was rear’d against the wall; | |
| Upon the hearth-stone a large wood-fire blaz’d, | 5 |
| Crackled, or smok’d, or hiss’d, as the green boughs were rais’d. | |
| |
| Above an arch’d and iron-studded door, | |
| The grim escutcheon’s rude devices stood; | |
| On each side rear’d a black and gristly boar, | |
| With hearts and daggers grav’d on grounds of blood, | 10 |
| And deep-dyed gules o’er which plum’d helmets frown; | |
| Beneath this motto ran,—“Beware! I trample down.” | |
| |
| And high around were suits of armor placed, | |
| And shields triangular, with the wild-boar’s head; | |
| Arrows, and bows, and swords the rafters graced, | 15 |
| And red-deer’s antlers their wide branches spread; | |
| A rough wolf’s hide was nail’d upon the wall, | |
| Its white teeth clench’d as when it in the dell did fall. | |
| |
| An angel-lamp from the carv’d ceiling hung; | |
| Its outstretch’d wings the blazing oil contain’d, | 20 |
| While its long figure in the wide hall swung, | |
| Blackening the roof to which its arms were chain’d; | |
| The iron hair fell backward like a veil, | |
| And through the gusty door it sent a weary wail. | |
| |
| The heavy arras flutter’d in the wind | 25 |
| That through the grated windows sweeping came, | |
| And in its foldings glitter’d hart and hind, | |
| While hawk, and horse, and hound, and kirtled dame, | |
| Moved on the curtain’d waves, then sank in shade, | |
| Just as the fitful wind along the arras played. | 30 |
| |
| On the oak table, filled with blood-red wine, | |
| A silver cup of quaint engraving stood, | |
| On which a thin-limb’d stag of old design, | |
| Chas’d by six long-ear’d dogs, made for a wood; | |
| Sounding a horn a huntsman stood in view, | 35 |
| Whose swollen cheeks uprais’d the silver as he blew. | |
| |
| At the old Baron’s feet a wolf-dog lay, | |
| Watching his features with unflinching eye; | |
| An aged minstrel, whose long locks were gray, | |
| On an old harp his wither’d hands did try; | 40 |
| A crimson banner’s rustling folds hung low, | |
| And threw a rosy light upon his wrinkled brow. | |
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