The timid youth had hope in store,
The bold and pressing gain'd no more.
As wilder'd children leave their home,
After the rainbow's arch to roam,
Her lovers barter'd fair esteem,
Faith, fame, and honour, for a dream.

IV.

Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame
She practised thus-till Arthur came,
Then frail humanity had part,

And all the mother claim'd her heart.
Forgot each rule her father
gave,
Sunk from a princess to a slave,
Too late must Guendolen deplore,
He, that has all, can hope no more!
Now, must she see her lover strain,
At every turn, her feeble chain;

Watch, to new-bind each knot, and shrink
To view each fast-decaying link.

Art she invokes to Nature's aid,
Her vest to zone, her locks to braid;
Each varied pleasure heard her call,
The feast, the tourney, and the ball:
Her storied lore she next applies,
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes;
Now more than mortal wise, and then
In female softness sunk again;

Now, raptured, with each wish complying,
With feign'd reluctance now denying;
Each charm she varied, to retain
A varying heart-and all in vain!

Three summer months had scantly flown,
When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone,
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne;
Said, all too long had been his stay,
And duties, which a monarch sway,
Duties unknown to humbler men,
Must tear her knight from Guendolen.-
She listen'd silently the while,
Her mood express'd in bitter smile;
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail,
And oft resume the unfinish'd tale,
Confessing, by his downcast eye,
The wrong he sought to justify.

He ceased. A moment mute she gazed,

And then her looks to heaven she raised;

One palm her temples veil'd, to hide
The tear that sprung in spite of pride;
The other for an instant press'd
The foldings of her silken vest!.

VII.

At her reproachful sign and look,
The hint the monarch's conscience took.
Eager he spoke-« No, lady, no!
Deem not of British Arthur so,
Nor think he can deserter prove
To the dear pledge of mutual love.
I swear by sceptre and by sword,
As belted knight and Britain's lord,
That if a boy shall claim my care,
That boy is born a kingdom's heir:
But, if a maiden Fate allows,

To chuse that maid a fitting spouse,

A summer day in lists shall strive

At dawn of morn, ere on the brake
His matins did a warbler make,
Or stirr'd his wing to brush away
A single dew-drop from the spray,
Ere yet a sun-beam, through the mist,
The castle battlements had kiss'd,
The gates revolve, the draw-bridge falls,
And Arthur sallies from the walls.
Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom,
And steel from spur to helmet-plume,
His Lybian steed full proudly trode,
And joyful neigh'd beneath his load.
The monarch gave a passing sigh
To penitence and pleasures by,
When, lo! to his astonish'd ken
Appear'd the form of Guendolen.

IX.

Beyond the outmost wall she stood, Attired like huntress of the wood: Sandall'd her feet, her ancles bare, And eagle plumage deck'd her hair; Firm was her look, her bearing bold, And in her hand a cup of gold.

« Thou goest!» she said, «and ne'er again
Must we two meet, in joy or pain.
Full fain would I this hour delay,
Though weak the wish-yet, wilt thou stay?
No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,-
Part we like lover and like friend.»
She raised the cup-« Not this the juice
The sluggish vines of earth produce;
Pledge we, at parting, in the draught
Which Genii love!»-she said, and quaff'd;
And strange unwonted lustres fly

From her flush'd cheek and sparkling eye.

X.

The courteous monarch bent him low, And, stooping down from saddle-bow,

Lifted the cup, in act to drink.
A drop escaped the goblet's brink-
Intense as liquid fire from hell,
Upon the charger's neck it fell.
Screaming with agony and fright,
He bolted twenty feet upright-
-The peasants still can show the dint,
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, (1)
Scattering a shower of fiery dew,
That burn'd and blighted where it fell!
The frantic steed rush'd up the dell,
As whistles from the bow the reed;
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed

Until he gain'd the hill;

Then breath and sinew fail'd apace,
And, reeling from the desperate race,
He stood, exhausted, still.
The monarch, breathless and amazed,
Back on the fatal castle gazed--
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy,
Darkening against the morning sky; (2)
But, on the spot where once they frown'd,
The lonely streamlet brawl'd around
A tufted knoll, where dimly shone
Fragments of rock and rifted stone.
Musing on this strange hap the while,
The king wends back to fair Carlisle ;
And cares, that cumber royal sway,
Wore memory of the past away.

XI.

Full fifteen years, and more, were sped,
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head.
Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought,
The Saxous to subjection brought; (3)
Rython, the mighty giant, slain

By his good brand, relieved Bretagne;
The Pictish Gillamore in fight,
And Roman Lucius, own'd his might;
And wide were through the world renown'd
The glories of his Table Round.

Each knight, who sought adventurous fame,
To the bold court of Britain came,
And all who suffer'd causeless wrong,
From tyrant proud or faitour strong,
Sought Arthur's presence to complain,
Nor there for aid implored in vain.

XII.

For this the king, with pomp and pride,
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide,

And summon'd prince and peer,
All who owed homage for their land,
Or who craved knighthood from his hand,
Or who had succour to demand,

To come from far and near.
At such high tide, were glee and game
Mingled with feats of martial fame,
For many a stranger champion came
In lists to break a spear;
And not a knight of Arthur's host,
Save that he trod some foreign coast,
But at this feast of Pentecost

Before him must appear.

Ah, minstrels! when the Table Round Arose, with all its warriors crown'd, There was a theme for bards to sound

In triumph to their string!

Five hundred years are past and gone, But Time shall draw his dying groan, Ere he behold the British throne Begirt with such a ring!

XIII

The heralds named the appointed spot, As Caerleon or Camelot,

Or Carlisle Fair and free.

At Penrith, now, the feast was set,
And in fair Eamont's vale were met
The flower of chivalry.

There Galaad sate with manly grace,
Yet maiden meekness in his face;
There Morolt of the iron mace, (4)

And love-lorn Tristrem there; And Dinadam with lively glance, And Lanval with the fairy lance, And Mordred with his look askaunce, Brunor and Revidere.

Why should I tell of numbers more? Sir Cay, Sir Banier, and Sir Bore,

Sir Carodac the keen,

The gentle Gawain's courteous lore,
Hector de Mares and Pellinore,
And Lancelot, that evermore

Look'd stol'n-wise on the queen. (5)

XIV.

When wine and mirth did most abound, And harpers play'd their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground,

And marshals clear'd the ring; A maiden, on a palfrey white, Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle, to alight

And kneel before the king.
Arthur, with strong emotion, saw
Her graceful boldness check'd by awe,
Her dress like huntress of the wold,
Her bow and baldrick trapp'd with gold,
Her sandall'd feet, her ancles bare,
And the eagle plume that deck'd her hair.
Graceful her veil she backwards flung--
The king, as from his seat he sprung,

Almost cried, «< Guendolen !»
But it was a face more frank and wild,
Betwixt the woman and the child,
Where less of magic beauty smiled
Than of the race of men;
And in the forehead's haughty grace,
The lines of Britain's royal race,
Pendragon's, you might ken.

XV.

Faltering, yet gracefully, she said—

<< Great prince! behold an orphan maid,
In her departed mother's name,
A father's vow'd protection claim;
The vow was sworn in desert lone,
In the deep valley of St John.»>-

Up! up! each knight of gallant crest!
Take buckler, spear, and brand!
He that to-day shall bear him best,
Shall win my Gyneth's hand.
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride,
Shall bring a noble dower;

Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide,
And Carlisle town and tower. »-
Then might you hear each valiant knight,
To page and squire that cried,

Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight!
Tis not each day that a warrior's might
May win a royal bride.»-

Then cloaks and caps of maintenance
In haste aside they fling;

The helmets glance, and gleams the lance,
And the steel-weaved hauberks ring,
Small care had they of their peaceful array,
They might gather it that wolde;
For brake and bramble glitter'd gay,
With pearls and cloth of gold.

XVII.

Within trumpet sound of the Table Round
Were fifty champions free,

And they all arise to fight that prize,-
They all arise, but three.

Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's oath,

One gallant could withhold,

For priests will allow of a broken vow,
For penance or for gold.

But sigh and glance from ladies bright
Among the troop were thrown,

To plead their right, and true-love plight,

And plain of honour flown.

The knights they busied them so fast,

With buckling spur and belt,

That sigh and look by ladies cast,

Were neither seen nor felt.

From pleading or upbraiding glance,
Each gallant turns aside,

And only thought, « If speeds my lance,

There were two who loved their neighbours' wives,

And one who loved his own. (6)
The first was Lancelot de Lac,
The second Tristrem bold,

The third was valiant Carodac,
Who won the cup of gold, (7)
What time, of all King Arthur's crew
(Thereof came jeer and laugh),

He as the mate of lady true,
Alone the cup could quaff.
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise,
That, but for very shame,

Sir Carodac, to fight that prize,

Had given both cup and dame.

Yet, since but one of that fair court
Was true to wedlock's shrine,
Brand him who will with base report,-
He shall be free from mine.

XIX.

Now caracol'd the steeds in air,

Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair,
As all around the lists so wide
Ju panoply the champions ride.
King Arthur saw, with startled eye,
The flower of chivalry march by,
The bulwark of the christian creed,
The kingdom's shield in hour of need.
Too late he thought him of the woe
Might from their civil conflict flow:
For well he knew they would not part
Till cold was many a gallant heart.
His hasty vow he 'gan to rue,
And Gyneth then apart he drew;
To her his leading-staff resign'd,
But added caution grave and kind.

XX.

<<Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound,
I bid the trump for tourney sound,
Take thou my warder, as the queen
And umpire of the martial scene;
But mark thou this:-as Beauty bright,

Is polar star to valiant knight,

As at her word his sword he draws,

His fairest guerdon her applause,

So gentle maid should never ask

Of knighthood vain and dangerous task;

And Beauty's eyes should ever be

Like the twin stars that soothe the sea,

Aud Beauty's breath should whisper peace,

And bid the storm of battle cease.

I tell thee this, lest all too far

These knights urge tourney into war.
Blithe at the trumpet let them go,
And fairly counter blow for blow;—
No striplings these, who'succour need
For a razed helm or falling steed.

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm,
And threatens death or deadly harm,
Thy sire entreats, thy king commands,
Thou drop the warder from thy hands.
Trust thou thy father with thy fate,
Doubt not he chuse thee fitting mate;
Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride
A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.»-

XXI.

A proud and discontented glow
O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow;

She put the warder by:

« Reserve thy boon, my liege,» she said, «Thus chaffer'd down and limited, Debased and narrow'd, for a maid

Of less degree than I.

No petty chief, but holds his heir
At a more honour'd price and rare

Than Britain's king holds me!
Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower,
Has but her father's rugged tower,

His barren hill and lee.

King Arthur swore, 'by crown and sword,
'As belted knight, and Britain's lord,
'That a whole summer's day should strive
'Ilis knights, the bravest kuights alive!'
Recal thine oath! and to her glen
Poor Gyneth can return agen;
Not on thy daughter will the stain,
That soils thy sword and crown, remain.
But think not she will e'er be bride
Save to the bravest, proved and tried;
Pendragon's daughter will not fear
For clashing sword or splinter'd spear,

Nor shrink though blood should flow;
And all too well sad Guendolen
Hath taught the faithlessness of men,
That child of hers should pity when
Their meed they undergo.»>

XXII.

He frown'd and sigh'd, the monarch bold:-
« I give—what I may not withhold;
For, not for danger, dread, or death,
Must British Arthur break his faith.
Too late I mark, thy mother's art
Hath taught thee this relentless part.
I blame her not, for she had wrong,
But not to these my faults belong.
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt;
But trust me that, if life be spilt,
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.»>
With that he turn'd his head aside,
Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride,
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate
The arbitress of mortal fate;

Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed,
How the bold champions stood opposed;
For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell
Upon his ear like passing-bell!
Then first from sight of martial fray
Did Britain's hero turn away.
XXIII.

But Gyneth heard the clangour high,
As hears the hawk the partridge-cry.
Oh! blame her not! the blood was hers,
That at the trumpet's summons stirs !—
And e'en the gentlest female eye
Might the brave strife of chivalry
Awhile untroubled view;

So well accomplish'd was each knight,
To strike and to defend in fight,

Their meeting was a goodly sight,

While plate and mail held true. The lists with painted plumes were strown, Upon the wind at random thrown, But helm and breast-plate bloodless shone; It seem'd their feather'd crests alone Should this encounter rue. And ever, as the combat grows, The trumpet's cheery voice arose, Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows, Heard while the gale of April blows The merry green-wood through.

XXIV.

But soon to earnest grew their game,
The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame,
And, horse and man, to ground there came

Knights who shall rise no more!
Gone was the pride the war that graced,
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced,
And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced,
And pennons stream'd with gore.
Gone, too, were fence and fair array,
And desperate strength made deadly way
At random through the bloody fray,
And blows were dealt with headlong sway,
Unheeding where they fell;

And now the trumpet's clamours seem
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream,
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulphing stream,
The sinking seaman's knell!

XXV.

Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate
Would Camlan's ruin antedate,

And spare dark Mordred's crime;
Already gasping on the ground
Lie twenty of the Table Round,

Of chivalry the prime.
Arthur, in anguish, tore away

From head and beard his.tresses gray, And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay,

And quaked with ruth and fear;
But still she deem'd her mother's shade
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade
The sign that had the slaughter staid,

And chid the rising tear.
Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,
Helias the White, and Lionel,

And many a champion more;
Rochemont and Dinadam are down,
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown

Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's blood dyed her sandals red. But then the sky was overcast, Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulph-tremendous birth! The form of Merlin rose.

And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear

The doom thy fates demand!

Long shall close in-stony sleep
Eyes for ruth that would not weep;
Iron lethargy shall seal

Heart that pity scorn'd to feel.
Yet, because thy mother's art
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart,
And for love of Arthur's race,
Punishment is blent with grace,
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone,
In the Valley of St John,

And this weird shall overtake thee;-
Sleep, until a kuight shall wake thee,
For feats of arms as far renown'd
As warrior of the Table Round.
Long endurance of thy slumber
Well may teach the world to number
All their woes from Gyueth's pride,
When the Red Cross champions died.»-

XXVII.

As Merlin speaks, on Gynethi's eye
Slumber's load begins to lie;
Fear and anger vainly strive
Still to keep its light alive.
Twice, with effort and with pause,
O'er her brow her hand she draws;
Twice her strength in vain she tries,
From the fatal chair to rise;
Merlin's magic doom is spoken,
Vanoc's death must now be wroken.
Slow the dark-fringed eye-lids fall,
Curtaining each azure ball,
Slowly as on summer eves
Violets fold their dusky leaves.
The weighty baton of command
Now bears down her sinking hand,
On her shoulder droops her head;
Net of pearl and golden thread,
Bursting, gave her locks to flow
O'er her arm and breast of snow.
And so lovely seem'd she there,
Spell-bound in her ivory chair,
That her angry sire, repenting,
Craved stern Merlin for relenting,
And the champions, for her sake,
Would again the contest wake;
Till, in necromantic night,
Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.

XXVIII

Still she bears her weird alone,
In the Valley of Saint John;
And her semblance oft will seem
Mingling in a champion's dream,
Of her weary lot to plain,

And crave his aid to burst her chain.

I Doom.

While her wondrous tale was new,
Warriors to her rescue drew,

East and west, and south and north,
From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.
Most have sought in vain the glen,
Tower nor castle could they ken;
Not at every time or tide,
Nor by every eye, descried.
Fast and vigil must be borne,
Many a night in watching worn,
Ere an eye
of mortal powers

Can discern those magic towers.
Of the persevering few,
Some from hopeless task withdrew,
When they read the dismal threat
Graved upon the gloomy gate.
Few have braved the yawning door,
And those few return'd no more.
In the lapse of time forgot,
Well nigh lost is Gyneth's lot;
Sound her sleep as in the tomb,
Till waken'd by the trump of doom.

END OF LYULPH'S TALE.

J.

Here pause, my tale; for all too soon,
My Lucy, comes the hour of noon.
Already from thy lofty dome
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam,
And, each, to kill the goodly day
That God has granted them, his way
Of lazy sauntering has sought;

Lordlings and witlings not a few,
Incapable of doing aught,

Yet ill at ease with nought to do.
Here is no longer place for me;
For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see

Some phantom, fashionably thin,
With limb of lath and kerchief d chin,
And lounging gape, or sneering grin,
Steal sudden on our privacy.
And how should I, so humbly born,
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn!
Faith! I fear, while conjuring wand
Of English oak is hard at hand.

Or grant the hour be all too soon
For Hessian boot and pantaloon,
And grant the lounger seldom strays
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze,
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train
Holds hearts of more adventurous strain.
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace
Their rules from Nature's boundless grace,
But their right paramount assert
To limit her by pedant art,
Damning whate'er of vast and fair
Exceeds a canvas three feet square.
This thicket, for their gumption fit,
May furnish such a happy bit.
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite
Their own sweet lays by waxen light,