The Mirror

An ancient mirror hangs Within an ancient Hall; In a lonely room where th' arrased gloom Scowls from the pictured wall.

A mystic mirror, framed In ebon, wildly carved, That seems to stare on the shadows there, Like something lean and starved.

A mirror, where one sees In the broad, good light of day, Like crimson torches, at the window arches, Red roses swing and sway.

And a part o' the garth is seen, With its quaint stone-dial plate, That, gray and old, green-stained with mold, Stands near the lioned gate.

These it reflects all day, And at night one star of blue, That the nightingale, where the rose is pale, Lifts its passionate love-song to.

The nightbird sings below; The stars hang bright above; And the roses soon in the sultry moon Shall palpitate with love.

The nightbird sobs below; The roses blow and bloom; Through mullioned panes the moonlight rains In the dim, unholy room.

Grim ancestors that stare,-- Stiff, starched and haughty,--down From the oaken wall of the noble hall, Put on a sterner frown.

The old, hoarse castle-clock Coughs midnight overhead-- And the rose is wan and the bird is gone When walk the shrouded dead.

Then from their frames, it seems, The portraits' shadows flit; By the mirror there they stand and stare And weep or sigh to it.

In rare rich ermine, earls And knights in gold and vair, With a rapiered throng of courtiers long Pass with a stately stare.

With jewels and perfumes, In powder, ruff, and lace, Tall ladies pass by the looking-glass Each sighing at her face.

What secret does it hide, This mirror, gaunt and tall, In this lonely room, where th' arrased gloom Scowls from the pictured wall?