Shakespeare's England . usic of distant organ and chanting , haunted by romance, dwells here inreverie. The gxeat tower of Warwick,based in silver Avon and pictured in itsslumbering waters, seems musing upon thecenturies over which it has watched, andfull of unspeakable knowledge and dark and massive gateways of the townand the timber-crossed fronts of its antiquehouses live on in the same strange dreanv,and perfect repose ; and all along the driveto Kenilworth are equal images of rest — ofa rest in which there is nothing supine orsluggish, no element of death or decay,
Shakespeare's England . usic of distant organ and chanting , haunted by romance, dwells here inreverie. The gxeat tower of Warwick,based in silver Avon and pictured in itsslumbering waters, seems musing upon thecenturies over which it has watched, andfull of unspeakable knowledge and dark and massive gateways of the townand the timber-crossed fronts of its antiquehouses live on in the same strange dreanv,and perfect repose ; and all along the driveto Kenilworth are equal images of rest — ofa rest in which there is nothing supine orsluggish, no element of death or decay, butin which passion, imagination, beauty, andsorrow, seized at their topmost poise, seemcrystallised in eternal calm. What opu-lence of splendid life is vital for ever inKenilworths crumbling ruin there are nowords to say. What pomp of royal hau-lers ! what dignity of radiant cavaliers!what loveliness of stately and exquisiteladies ! what magnificence of banquets !what wealth of pageantry I what lustre of fiv^rir ?•. 7: J WARWICK AND KENILWORTH. 77 illumination ! The same festal music thattlie old poet Gascoigue heard there, threehundred years ai;o, is still sounding on, to-day. The proud and cruel Leicester stillwalks in his vaulted hall. The imperiousface of the Virgin Queen still from herdais looks down on plumfid courtiers andjewelled dames ; and still the moonlight,streaming through the turret-window, fallson the white bosom and the great, startled,black eyes of Amy Robsart, waiting forher lover. The gaze of the pilgrim, indeed,rests only upon old, gray, broken walls,overgrown with green moss and ivy, andpierced by irregular casements throughwhich the sun shines, and the winds blow,and the rains drive, and the birds fly,amid utter desolation. But silence andruin are here alike eloquent and awful;and, nmch as the place impresses you bywhat remains, it impresses you far moreby what has vanished. Ambition, love,pleasure, power, misery, tragedy — theseare gone ; and bein
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwinterwi, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookyear1906
