Classic Poem

Wide cathedral aisles1 are lone, The
The vast crowds vanished, every one;
There can be nought beneath that dome
But the cold tenants of the tomb.

O look again, for still on high
The lamps are burning gloriously;
And look again, for still beneath
A thousand thousand live and breathe.

All mute as death regard the shrine*
That gleams in lustre so divine,
Where Gondal's monarchs, bending low
After the hush of silent prayer,*
Take, in heaven's sight, their awful vow,
And never dying union swear.
King Julius lifts his impious eye
From the dark marble to the sky;
Blasts with that Oath his perjured soul,
And changeless is his cheek the while,
Though burning thoughts, that spurn control,
Kindle a short and bitter smile,
As face to face the kinsmen stand,*
His false hand clasped in Gerald's hand.1 " Isles " in the manuscript (Obs.).