MERLIN

“But Nemuë imprisoned him in a tower built of air, and like to glass.” —Merlin.

When Nemuë built for Merlin A tower of the air, She wove the blue of Heaven In azure fabrics fair, Aërial, ethereal, Clear, crystalline, and rare. She lapped him in it deeper, With rod, and bell, and book, Than ever fly in spider’s web Beside the inglenook, Or cocoon in his cradle hung Above a running brook.

Aërial, ethereal And crystal clear as glass, Or mirrored surface of the pool Before the storm clouds pass, The elfin charm drave up the air And scarcely stirred the grass. The elfin charm drave up, and up, As swallows wheel and poise, And ever as the charm went up It made a small sweet noise, As if the winds were whispering Like children to their toys.

When, looking in the wizard globe You see the magic scene So small, so bright, thus Merlin lay The elfin walls between, His hair and beard o’erflowed his book, His mantle was bright green.

Sir Cawdore came at sunset, Belated, belted knight, The last rays took his hauberk and Danced back in points of light From off his blue-tipped, white ash spear His eyes were wild and bright.

He saw the rolling, wooded hills, The pine tree’s ruddy stem, The fallen needles burned to brown About the far pool’s hem, The pointed glossy osier twigs; A faint wind harried them. The silver-tinted clouds uprose About the pallid moon, The rosy west lay to his back Before him lay the gloom, His mortal eyes saw not the wall Which stopped him, of that room.

But like the voice of Dryads all Complaining round a pool, Or Pan pipes scarce articulate Where forest ways are cool, He heard a voice without a form Said, “Stand awhile, thou fool! “What news of royal Arthur? Speak!” “He sleeps in Avalon.” “How went the battle in the west?” “The steel clad hosts are gone, Are scattered as the dry red leaves The first blast blows upon.

“The Holy Grail has left the land, By minster, weir, and lock No book, no bell, no angels’ wing; The coming shadows flock; All, all are broken in their pride, A wave upon a rock.” “And Guinevere?”—“At Almsbury Her glory and her gold Are shaken as a cup upheld In palsied hands, and old, Before the altar of God’s wrath In some dark chancel cold.

“But who art thou that speakest thus? Between the setting sun And yonder pallid, rising moon The wold lies cold and dun; I hear a voice speaks in mine ear, But presence there is none.” Aërial, ethereal, Athwart the gleam and glow, The airy charm wheeled slowly up, And slowly, and more slow, “Lo, I am Merlin,” spake the voice, “And thus our glories go!”