III
Forth from the castle's ancient gate,
A dread procession slow
Advanced, who mourned the happless fate
That laid such beauty low. Above them many a waxen torch,
In darkness of the night,
Shed to the chapel's gothic porch
A dim and mournful light. And hooded closely many a friar
Sung prayers the bier around,
The massy bells within the spire
Rung forth an awful sound. Two nights had passed, no torche's ray
Illumed the testless tide,
But fleetly o'er the castle bay
Again the skiff did glide.