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waters of the deep sea, or the glass mountains,
in the fairy tale.
"My kingdom is thine! sing what thou
see’st; sing as if no bard before thee had sung
thereof."
And it was as if the scene continually
changed. Splendid Gothic churches, with
painted images in the panes, glided past, and
the midnight bell struck, and the dead arose
from the graves. There, under the bending
elder tree, sat the mother, and swathed her
newly-born child; old, sunken knights’ castles
rose again from the marshy ground; the
draw-bridge fell, and they saw into the empty halls,
adorned with images, where, under the gloomy
stairs of the gallery, the death-proclaiming
white woman came with a rattling bunch of
keys. The basilisk brooded in the deep cellar;
the monster bred from a cock’s egg, invulnerable
by every weapon, but not from the
sight of its own horrible form: at the sight of
its own image, it bursts like the steel that one
breaks with the blow of a stout staff. And to
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