The Authoress of the Mysteries of Udolpho

Her genius had its dwelling in the light Of setting suns, and the deserted halls Of ivy-clad chateaux, where, undisturbed, Arachne plies her gossamer loom, filming The sumptuous tapestries, embroidered o’er With flowers and gay Ovidian phantasies, And the refulgent mirrors, long ago Wafted in argosies from the lagunes Of wealthy Venice. Through the silent night, The rippling shadows of the ancient trees Dapple the floors, and ’neath the fireless hearths, The crickets chirrup shrill—while from the walls The painted semblance of some Lady Blanche, Or rose-lipped Maude, or Eleanore looks down, Long since enveloped in the robes of death. In summer, when the luscious peach is ripe, Through the great windows opening westward lie Delicious prospects; lawns and wooded slopes, Orchards of grapes—and o’er the tree-tops high The glittering ocean backed by sunset skies, With gold and amethystine vapors hung.