I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb， and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away； the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent； the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers； and I saw at a distance the choristers， in their white surplices， crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh’ s chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it， through a deep and gloomy， but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass， richly and delicately wrought， turn heavily upon their hinges， as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.
On entering， the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture， and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament， incrusted with tracery， and scooped into niches， crowded with the statutes of saints and martyrs. Stone seems， by the cunning labor of the chisel， to have been robbed of its weight and density， suspended aloft， as if by magic， and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.
Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath， richly carved of oak， though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights， with their scarfs and swords； and above them are suspended their banners， emblazoned with armorial bearings， and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder， — his effigy， with that of his queen， extended on a sumptuous tomb， and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.
There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence： this strange mixture of tombs and trophies； these emblems of living and aspiring ambition， close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires， and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them， my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land； glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array； alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away； the silence of death had settled again upon the which had found their way into the chapel， and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure sign of solitariness and desertion.