And though these legends, like the eddying leaves Of autumn, scattered by the whirlwind's breath, Are borne away where dim Oblivion weaves Her shroud, within the rayless halls of death; Still with a prophet gaze I'll thread my way, And wake the giant spectres of the tomb; With fancy's wand I'll chase the phantoms gray, And burst the shadowy seal that shrouds their doom.

The white rayless houses were heavy and silent as sepulchers.