Chapter I

What doth the Lady Alice so late on the turret-stair, Without a lamp to light her but the diamond in her hair; When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom, And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room?

She trembles at her footsteps, although their fall is light; For through the turret-loopholes she sees the murky night,— Black, broken vapours streaming across the stormy skies,— Along the empty corridors the moaning tempest cries.

She steals along a gallery, she pauses by a door; And fast her tears are dropping down upon the oaken floor; And thrice she seems returning,—but thrice she turns again;— Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old father’s brain!

Oh, well it were that _never_ thou should’st waken from thy sleep! For wherefore should they waken who waken but to weep? No more, no more beside thy bed may Peace her vigil keep; Thy sorrow, like a lion, waits[1] upon its prey to leap.