before them, Long generations in motley procession, Halting and feeble, the sick and the aged: Sanguine and joyous, the young and the hopeful: Manhood triumphant, crestfallen or thoughtless: Urbane and discreet, my lady's confessor: Stealthily creeping, the villainous traitor: Quick and impatient, the fortunate lover: Children unconscious of aught but their playthings: Nobles in ermine, and simpering ladies: Then, the one end of all human emotions, Slow-pacing figures who bear on their shoulders, Silenced for ever, some lord of the staircase. 

 The steward, from the all-pervading gloom, Flung wide the shutters of the drawing-room, Showing a terrace graced with urn and faun And steps that led to a neglected lawn, Whilst rounded hill and valley far were seen Lit by the summer's radiating sheen. The room's magnificence, its noble size And faded splendour filled me with surprise. A costly pierglass in its tarnished frame, Which once reflected gallant squire and dame, Now with fidelity displayed the clear And gleaming lustres of the chandelier, Pendent, with ten score sconces silver chased, From the high ceiling which a master graced With courtly scenes wherein could be descried Ancestral figures in their pomp and pride. The sunlight played on gilded girandole, On silver candlestick and stiff console, All of that period when here befell The scene on which the steward loves to dwell, Showing the floor's dark stain of sombre red And how it came about that blood was shed. I marked the punchbowls, full of leaves and dust, A slim sword, silver-hiked, flecked with rust: A daintily escutcheoned chiffonier, Inlaid with shell and finished with veneer: Timepieces silent, set in ormolu: The damask screens of faded red and blue. And, to enhance the chamber's stately air, Great Chippendale had made each slender chair. The stream of life, arrested, seemed to wait A magic word to set it flowing straight. 

 Heated by wine and ombre-play, Two hundred years ago or more, Three gamblers, on a morning gray, Quarrelled about a questioned score. 

 Two blades were soon engaged. A tierce, Ill parried, stretched a swordsman low, Who lunged with failing point but fierce, And dying, dropped before his foe. 

 And when the growing light of morn Lit the Venetian mirror's face, He died, 'twixt pain and passion torn, And left a curse upon the place. 

 And from that day the records show A slowly creeping, sure decline That, just a hundred years ago, Ended the once illustrious line. 

 Sometimes upon the 

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