 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
VII.
A stifled hum of voices roseAs massy doors unbarr'd, unclose.
And now his arms are freed—his eyes
From their black shroud of darkness rise—
A narrow vault of rugged stone
In rude disorder round him thrown,
Let by a taper's dubious beam
That show'd like melancholy gleam,
The last pale ray of ebbing hope,
Confin'd th' unfetter'd vision's scope.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |