Don Juan By Lord Byron Canto XIII

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned,
  The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,
With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round,
  Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
  This may be superstition, weak or wild,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
  Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
  Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
  The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when
  The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
  Is musical — a dying accent driven
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
  Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night wind by the waterfall,
And harmonised by the old choral wall:

Others, that some original shape, or form
  Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power
(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm
  In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)
To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.
  Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such
The fact: — I 've heard it — once perhaps too much.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,
  Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint —
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,
  And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made,
  And sparkled into basins, where it spent
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,
Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
  With more of the monastic than has been
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
  The cells, too, and refectory, I ween:
An exquisite small chapel had been able,
  Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
  By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined,
  Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind,
  At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts:
We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

Steel barons, molten the next generation
  To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
  And Lady Marys blooming into girls,
With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
  And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,
Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.

Judges in very formidable ermine
  Were there, with brows that did not much invite
The accused to think their lordships would determine
  His cause by leaning much from might to right:
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon:
  Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'

Generals, some all in armour, of the old
  And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
  Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
  Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed;
And here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
  Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,
  Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's;
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
  In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

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