THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. A LEGEND OF THE VALE OF ST. JOHN.

Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Trierman? She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood— Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widow'd dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; Pure as the fountain in rocky cave, Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Holy as hermit's vesper strain; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet; Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight. All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill. It was the dawn of an autumn day, The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, That like a silvery crape was spread Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, And faintly gleamed each painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke. "Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now!" Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy— "Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings, Murmur'd from our melting strings, And hush'd you to repose, Had a harp-note sounded here, It had caught my watchful ear, Although it fell as faint and shy As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh, When she thinks her lover near." Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, He kept guard in the outer-hall— "Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal cross'd; Else had I heard the steps, though low, And light they fell, as when earth receives, In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves That drop when no winds blow."— "Then come thou thither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, When that dark castle, tower, and spire, Rose to the skies a pile of fire, And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Trierman Greet well that Sage of power. He is sprung from Druid sires, And British bards that tuned their lyres To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.[17] Gifted like his gifted race, He the characters can trace, Graven deep in elder time Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime: Sign and sigil well doth he know, And can bode of weal and woe, Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars, From mystic dreams and course of stars. He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 'twas but an airy thing, Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes, Or fading tints of western skies. For, by the blessed rood I swear, If that fair form breathe vital air, No other maiden by my side Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!" The faithful Page he mounts his steed, And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barr'd his course in vain. He pass'd red Penrith's Table round,[18] For feats of chivalry renown'd, Left Mayburgh's mound[19] and stones of power, By Druids raised in magic hour, And traced the Eamont's winding way, Till Ulfo's lake[20] beneath him lay. Onward he rode, the pathway still Winding betwixt the lake and hill; Till, on the fragment of a rock, Struck from its base by lightning shock, He saw the hoary sage: The silver moss and lichen twined, With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, A cushion fit for age; And o'er him shook the aspin-tree, A restless rustling canopy. Then sprung young Henry from his selle, And greeted Lyulph grave, And then his master's tale did tell, And then for counsel crave. The Man of Years mused long and deep, Of time's lost treasures taking keep, And then, as rousing from a sleep, His solemn answer gave. "That maid is born of middle earth, And may of man be won, Though there have glided since her birth Five hundred years and one. But where's the knight in all the north, That dare the adventure follow forth, So perilous to knightly worth, In the valley of St. John? Listen, youth, to what I tell, And bind it on thy memory well; Nor muse that I commence the rhyme Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. The mystic tale, by bard and sage, Is handed down from Merlin's age."

"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle, When Pentecost was o'er: He journey'd like errant-knight the while, And sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain, moss, and moor. Above his solitary track Rose huge Blencathara's ridgy back, Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun Cast umber'd radiance red and dun, Though never sunbeam could discern The surface of that sable tarn,[21] In whose black mirror you may spy The stars, while noontide lights the sky. The gallant King he skirted still The margin of that mighty hill; Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, Recoiling now from crag and stone, Now diving deep from human ken, And raving down its darksome glen. The Monarch judged this desert wild, With such romantic ruin piled, Was theatre by nature's hand For feat of high achievement plann'd. "He rode, till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red, Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream. With toil the King his way pursued By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, Till on his course obliquely shone The narrow valley of Saint John, Down sloping to the western sky, Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. Right glad to feel those beams again, The King drew up his charger's rein; With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, As dazzled with the level light, And, from beneath his glove of mail, Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale, While 'gainst the sun his armour bright Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. "Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. But, midmost of the vale, a mound Arose with airy turrets crown'd, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower; Seem'd some primeval giant's hand, The castle's massive walls had plann'd, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, As jealous of a foe; Wicket of oak, as iron hard, With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd, And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard The gloomy pass below. But the gray walls no banners crown'd, Upon the watch-tower's airy round, No warder stood his horn to sound, No guard beside the bridge was found, And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd, Glanced neither bill nor bow. "Beneath the castle's gloomy pride, In ample round did Arthur ride Three times; nor living thing he spied, Nor heard a living sound, Save that, awakening from her dream, The owlet now began to scream, In concert with the rushing stream, That wash'd the battled mound. He lighted from his goodly steed, And he left him to graze on bank and mead; And slowly he climb'd the narrow way That reached the entrance grim and gray, And he stood the outward arch below, And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, In summons blithe and bold, Deeming to rouse from iron sleep The guardian of this dismal Keep, Which well he guess'd the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb, The tyrant of the wold. "The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. —Think not but Arthur's heart was good! His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, Had a pagan host before him stood, He had charged them through and through; Yet the silence of that ancient place Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space Ere yet his horn he blew. But, instant as its 'larum rung, The castle gate was open flung, Portcullis rose with crashing groan Full harshly up its groove of stone; The balance-beams obey'd the blast, And down the trembling drawbridge cast; The vaulted arch before him lay, With nought to bar the gloomy way, And onward Arthur paced, with hand On Caliburn's[22] resistless brand. "A hundred torches, flashing bright, Dispelled at once the gloomy night That lour'd along the walls, And show'd the King's astonish'd sight The inmates of the halls. Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim, Nor giant huge of form and limb, Nor heathen knight, was there; But the cressets, which odours flung aloft, Show'd by their yellow light and soft, A band of damsels fair. Onward they came, like summer wave That dances to the shore; An hundred voices welcome gave, And welcome o'er and o'er! An hundred lovely hands assail The bucklers of the monarch's mail, And busy labour'd to unhasp Rivet of steel and iron clasp. One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, And one flung odours on his hair; His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down, One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown. A bride upon her wedding-day, Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. "Loud laugh'd they all,—the King, in vain, With questions task'd the giddy train; Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 'Twas one reply—loud laugh'd they all. Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, Framed of the fairest flowers of spring. While some their gentle force unite, Onward to drag the wondering knight, Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, Dealt with the lily or the rose. Behind him were in triumph borne The warlike arms he late had worn. Four of the train combined to rear The terrors of Tintadgel's spear;[23] Two, laughing at their lack of strength, Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length; One, while she aped a martial stride, Placed on her brows the helmet's pride; Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise, To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. With revel-shout, and triumph-song, Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng. "Through many a gallery and hall They led, I ween, their royal thrall; At length, beneath a fair arcade Their march and song at once they staid. The eldest maiden of the band, (The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) Raised, with imposing air, her hand, And reverent silence did command, On entrance of their Queen, And they were mute—But as a glance They steal on Arthur's countenance Bewilder'd with surprise, Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak, In archly dimpled chin and cheek, And laughter-lighted eyes. "The attributes of those high days Now only live in minstrel-lays; Nor Nature, now exhausted, still Was then profuse of good and ill. Strength was gigantic, valour high, And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky, And beauty had such matchless beam As lights not now a lover's dream. Yet e'en in that romantic age, Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, When forth on that enchanted stage, With glittering train of maid and page, Advanced the castle's Queen! While up the hall she slowly pass'd, Her dark eye on the King she cast, That flash'd expression strong; The longer dwelt that lingering look, Her cheek the livelier colour took, And scarce the shame-faced King could brook The gaze that lasted long. A sage, who had that look espied, Where kindling passion strove with pride, Had whisper'd, 'Prince, beware! From the chafed tiger rend the prey, Rush on the lion when at bay, Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, But shun that lovely snare!'— "At once, that inward strife suppress'd, The dame approach'd her warlike guest, With greeting in that fair degree, Where female pride and courtesy Are blended with such passing art As awes at once and charms the heart. A courtly welcome first she gave, Then of his goodness 'gan to crave Construction fair and true Of her light maidens' idle mirth, Who drew from lonely glens their birth, Nor knew to pay to stranger worth And dignity their due; And then she pray'd that he would rest That night her castle's honour'd guest. The Monarch meetly thanks express'd; The banquet rose at her behest, With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, Apace the evening flew. "The lady sate the Monarch by, Now in her turn abash'd and shy, And with indifference seem'd to hear The toys he whisper'd in her ear. Her bearing modest was and fair, Yet shadows of constraint were there, That show'd an over-cautious care Some inward thought to hide; Oft did she pause in full reply, And oft cast down her large dark eye, Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, That heav'd her bosom's pride. "Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, Maraud on Britain's shores again. Arthur, of Christendom the flower, Lies loitering in a lady's bower; The horn, that foemen wont to fear, Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, And Caliburn, the British pride, Hangs useless by a lover's side. "Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! Heroic plans in pleasure drowned, He thinks not of the Table Round; In lawless love dissolved his life, He thinks not of his beauteous wife: Better he loves to snatch a flower From bosom of his paramour, Than from a Saxon knight to wrest The honours of his heathen crest; Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, The heron's plume her hawk struck down, Than o'er the altar give to flow The banners of a Paynim foe. Thus, week by week, and day by day, His life inglorious glides away; But she, that soothes his dream, with fear Beholds his hour of waking near. "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 listened silently the while, Her mood expressed in bitter smile; Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, And oft resume the unfinished 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 veiled, to hide The tear that sprung in spite of pride; The other for an instant pressed The foldings of her silken vest! "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 choose that maid a fitting spouse, A summer-day in lists shall strive My knights—the bravest knights alive,— And he, the best and bravest tried, Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'— He spoke, with voice resolved and high— The lady deigned him not reply. "At dawn of morn, ere on the brake His matins did a warbler make, Or stirred his wing to brush away A single dewdrop from the spray, Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist, The castle-battlements had kissed, The gates revolve, the drawbridge 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 neighed beneath his load. The Monarch gave a passing sigh To penitence and pleasures by, When, lo! to his astonished ken, Appeared the form of Guendolen. "Beyond the utmost wall she stood, Attired like huntress of the wood: Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare, And eagle-plumage decked 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, Thought 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 quaffed; And strange unwonted lustres fly From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye. "The courteous monarch bent him low, And, stooping down from saddlebow, 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 peasant still can show the dint Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.— From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, Scattering a shower of fiery dew, That burned and blighted where it fell![24] The frantic steed rushed up the dell, As whistles from the bow the reed; Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, Until he gained the hill; Then breath and sinew failed 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; But, on the spot where once they frowned, The lonely streamlet brawled 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. "Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought, The Saxons to subjection brought: Rython, the mighty giant, slain By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: The Pictish Gillamore, in fight, And Roman Lucius, owned his might; And wide were through the world renowned The glories of his Table Round. Each knight, who sought adventurous fame, To the bold court of Britain came, And all who suffered causeless wrong, From tyrant proud or faitour strong, Sought Arthur's presence to complain, Nor there for aid implored in vain. "For this the King, with pomp and pride, Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, And summoned 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. "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. "When wine and mirth did most abound, And harpers played their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, And marshals cleared 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 checked by awe, Her dress like huntress of the wold, Her bow and baldric trapped with gold, Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare, And the eagle-plume that decked her hair. Graceful her veil she backward flung— The King, as from his seat he sprung, Almost cried,'Guendolen!' But 'twas 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. "Faltering, yet gracefully she said— 'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid, In her departed mother's name, A father's vowed protection claim! The vow was sworn in desert lone, In the deep valley of St. John.' At once the King the suppliant raised, And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; His vow, he said, should well be kept, Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,— Then conscious glanced upon his queen: But she, unruffled at the scene, Of human frailty construed mild, Looked upon Lancelot and smiled. "'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. "Within trumpet sound of the Table Round Were fifty champions free, And they all arise to fight that prize,— They all arise but three. 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, A queen becomes my bride! She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide, And Carlisle tower and town; She is the loveliest maid, beside, That ever heired a crown.' So in haste their coursers they bestride, And strike their visors down. "The champions, arm'd in martial sort, Have throng'd into the list, And but three knights of Arthur's court Are from the tourney miss'd. "Now caracol'd the steeds in air, Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, As all around the lists so wide In panoply the champions ride. King Arthur saw, with startled eye, The flower of chivalry march by, 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. "'Thou see'st 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, And 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 raised helm or fallen 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 choose thee fitting mate; Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' "A proud and discontented glow O'ershadowed 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 His knights, the bravest knights 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.' "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. 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. "But Gyneth heard the clangour high, As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 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 breastplate bloodless shone, It seem'd their feather'd crests alone Should this encounter rue. "But soon too 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 clamour seem Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream, Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, The sinking seaman's knell! "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 died 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 gulf,—tremendous birth!— The form of Merlin rose. "Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, And sternly raised his hand;— 'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear! 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 Saint John, And this doom shall overtake thee; Sleep, until a knight 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 Gyneth's pride, When the Red Cross champions died.' "As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth'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 eyelids 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. "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. 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, Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; Sound she sleeps as in the tomb, Till waken'd by the trump of doom."

We must now Resume the legendary strain Of the bold Knight of Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound, Hath wandered forth alone, And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of Saint John. When first began his vigil bold, The moon twelve summer nights was old, And shone both fair and full; High in the vault of cloudless blue, O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw Her light composed and cool. Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast, Sir Roland eyed the vale; Chief where, distinguished from the rest, Those clustering rocks upreared their crest, The dwelling of the fair distressed, As told grey Lyulph's tale. Thus as he lay, the lamp of night Was quivering on his armour bright, In beams that rose and fell, And danced upon his buckler's boss, That lay beside him on the moss, As on a crystal well. Ever he watch'd, and oft he deemed, While on the mound the moonlight streamed, It altered to his eyes; Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, Fain think, by transmutation strange, He saw grey turrets rise. But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly, Which fancy had conceived. For, seen by moon of middle night, Or by the blaze of noontide bright, Or by the dawn of morning light, Or evening's western flame, In every tide, at every hour, In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, The rocks remain'd the same. Oft has he traced the charmed mound, Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, Yet nothing might explore, Save that the crags so rudely piled, At distance seen, resemblance wild To a rough fortress bore. Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps, Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, And drinks but of the well; Ever by day he walks the hill, And when the evening gale is chill, He seeks a rocky cell, Like hermit poor to bid his bead, And tell his Ave and his Creed, Invoking every saint at need, For aid to burst his spell. And now the moon her orb has hid, And dwindled to a silver thread, Dim seen in middle heaven, While o'er its curve careering fast, Before the fury of the blast The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills, And down the torrents came; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux, within his mountain cave (No human step the storm durst brave), To moody meditation gave Each faculty of soul, Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, And the sad winds that whistled round, Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, A broken slumber stole. Twas then was heard a heavy sound (Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer): As, starting from his couch of fern, Again he heard, in clangor stern, That deep and solemn swell,— Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke, Like some proud minster's pealing clock, Or city's larum bell. What thought was Roland's first when fell, In that deep wilderness, the knell Upon his startled ear? To slander, warrior, were I loth, Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,— It was a thought of fear. But lively was the mingled thrill That chased that momentary chill, For Love's keen wish was there, And eager Hope, and Valour high, And the proud glow of Chivalry, That burn'd to do and dare. Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd, That answer'd to the knell; For long and far the unwonted sound, Eddying in echoes round and round, Was toss'd from fell to fell; And Glaramara answer flung, And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, And Legbert heights their echoes swung, As far as Derwent's dell. Forth upon trackless darkness gazed The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, Till all was hush'd and still, Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, And the night-blast that wildly bore Its course along the hill. Then on the northern sky there came A light, as of reflected flame, And over Legbert-head, As if by magic art controll'd, A mighty meteor slowly roll'd Its orb of fiery red; Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire Came mounted on that car of fire, To do his errand dread. Far on the sloping valley's course, On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, Shingle and Scree, and Fell and Force, A dusky light arose: Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene; Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, Even the gay thicket's summer green, In bloody tincture glows. De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set, At eve, upon the coronet Of that enchanted mound, And seen but crags at random flung, That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, In desolation frown'd. What sees he by that meteor's lour?— A banner'd castle, keep, and tower, Return the lurid gleam, With battled walls and buttress fast, And barbican and ballium vast, And airy flanking towers, that cast Their shadows on the stream. 'Tis no deceit! distinctly clear Crenell and parapet appear, While o'er the pile that meteor drear Makes momentary pause; Then forth its solemn path it drew, And fainter yet and fainter grew Those gloomy towers upon the view, As its wild light withdraws. Forth from the cave did Roland rush, O'er crag and stream, through brier and bush; Yet far he had not sped, Ere sunk was that portentous light Behind the hills, and utter night Was on the valley spread. He paused perforce, and blew his horn, And, on the mountain echoes borne, Was heard an answering sound, A wild and lonely trumpet-note,— In middle air it seemed to float High o'er the battled mound; And sounds were heard, as when a guard Of some proud castle, holding ward, Pace forth their nightly round. The valiant Knight of Triermain Rung forth his challenge-blast again, But answer came there none; And 'mid the mingled wind and rain, Darkling he sought the vale in vain, Until the dawning shone; And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, Distinctly seen by meteor-light, It all had passed away! And that enchanted mount once more A pile of granite fragments bore, As at the close of day. Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart Scorn'd from his venturous quest to part, He walks the vale once more; But only sees, by night or day, That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray, Hears but the torrent's roar. Till when, through hills of azure borne, The moon renew'd her silver horn, Just at the time her waning ray, Had faded in the dawning day, A summer mist arose; Adown the vale the vapours float, And cloudy undulations moat That tufted mound of mystic note, As round its base they close. And higher now the fleecy tide Ascends its stern and shaggy side, Until the airy billows hide The rock's majestic isle; It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, By some fantastic fairy drawn Around enchanted pile. The breeze came softly down the brook, And sighing as it blew, The veil of silver mist it shook, And to De Vaux's eager look Renew'd that wondrous view, For, though the loitering vapour braved The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved It's mantle's dewy fold: And still, when shook that filmy screen, Were towers and bastions dimly seen, And Gothic battlements between Their gloomy length unroll'd, Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye Once more the fleeting vision die! —The gallant knight can speed As prompt and light as when the hound Is opening, and the horn is wound, Careers the hunter's steed. Down the steep dell his course amain Hath rivall'd archer's shaft; But ere the mound he could attain, The rocks their shapeless form regain, And, mocking loud his labour vain, The mountain spirits laugh'd. Far up the echoing dell was borne Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. Wroth wax'd the Warrior.—"Am I then Fool'd by the enemies of men, Like a poor hind, whose homeward way Is haunted by malicious fay? Is Triermain become your taunt, De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt!" A weighty curtal-axe he bare; The baleful blade so bright and square, And the tough shaft of heben wood, Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. Backward his stately form he drew, And at the rocks the weapon threw, Just where one crag's projected crest Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest, Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock Rent a huge fragment of the rock, If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell, Or if the blow dissolved some spell, But down the headlong ruin came, With cloud of dust and flash of flame. Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne, Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn, Till staid at length, the ruin dread Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed, And bade the waters' high-swoln tide Seek other passage for its pride. When ceased that thunder, Triermain Survey'd the mound's rude front again; And lo! the ruin had laid bare, Hewn in the stone, a winding stair, Whose moss'd and fractured steps might lend The means the summit to ascend; And by whose aid the brave De Vaux Began to scale these magic rocks, And soon a platform won, Where, the wild witchery to close, Within three lances' length arose The Castle of Saint John! No misty phantom of the air, No meteor-blazon'd show was there: In morning splendour, full and fair, The massive fortress shone. Embattled high and proudly tower'd, Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd The portal's gloomy way. Though for six hundred years and more, Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar, The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore Had suffer'd no decay: But from the eastern battlement A turret had made sheer descent, And, down in recent ruin rent, In the mid torrent lay. Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime, Insults of violence or of time Unfelt had pass'd away. In shapeless characters of yore. The gate this stern inscription bore:—

"Patience waits the destined day, Strength can clear the cumber'd way. Warrior, who hast waited long, Firm of soul, of sinew strong, It is given to thee to gaze On the pile of ancient days. Never mortal builder's hand This enduring fabric plann'd; Sign and sigil, word of power, From the earth raised keep and tower. View it o'er, and pace it round, Rampart, turret, battled mound. Dare no more! To cross the gate Were to tamper with thy fate; Strength and fortitude were vain, View it o'er—and turn again."— "That would I," said the warrior bold, "If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold As icicle in thaw; But while my heart can feel it dance, Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, And this good arm wields sword or lance, I mock these words of awe!" He said; the wicket felt the sway Of his strong hand, and straight gave way, And, with rude crash and jarring bray, The rusty bolts withdraw; But o'er the threshold as he strode, And forward took the vaulted road, An unseen arm, with force amain, The ponderous gate flung close again, And rusted bolt and bar Spontaneous took their place once more, While the deep arch with sullen roar Return'd their surly jar. "Now closed is the gin and the prey within By the Rood of Lanercost! But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, May rue him of his boast." Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, By dubious light down steep descent. Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port Led to the Castle's outer court: There the main fortress, broad and tall, Spread its long range of bower and hall, And towers of varied size, Wrought with each ornament extreme, That Gothic art, in wildest dream Of fancy, could devise; But full between the Warrior's way And the main portal arch, there lay An inner moat; Nor bridge nor boat Affords De Vaux the means to cross The clear, profound, and silent fosse. His arms aside in haste he flings, Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings And down falls helm, and down the shield, Rough with the dints of many a field. Fair was his manly form, and fair His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair, When, all unarm'd, save that the brand Of well-proved metal graced his hand, With nought to fence his dauntless breast But the close gipon's under-vest, Whose sullied buff the sable stains Of hauberk and of mail retains,— Roland De Vaux upon the brim Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. Accoutred thus he dared the tide, And soon he reached the farther side, And enter'd soon the Hold, And paced a hall, whose walls so wide Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, By warriors done of old. In middle lists they counter'd here, While trumpets seem'd to blow; And there, in den or desert drear, They quell'd gigantic foe, Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. Strange in their arms, and strange in face, Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name, Forgotten long by later fame, Were here depicted, to appal Those of an age degenerate, Whose bold intrusion braved their fate In this enchanted hall. For some short space, the venturous Knight With these high marvels fed his sight, Then sought the chamber's upper end, Where three broad easy steps ascend To an arch'd portal door, In whose broad folding leaves of state Was framed a wicket window-grate, And ere he ventured more, The gallant Knight took earnest view The grated wicket-window through. O, for his arms! Of martial weed Had never mortal Knight such need!— He spied a stately gallery; all Of snow-white marble was the wall, The vaulting, and the floor; And, contrast strange! on either hand There stood array'd in sable band Four maids whom Afric bore; And each a Lybian tiger led, Held by as bright and frail a thread As Lucy's golden hair, For the leash that bound these monsters dread Was but of gossamer, Each Maiden's short barbaric vest, Left all unclosed the knee and breast, And limbs of shapely jet; White was their vest and turban's fold, On arms and ankles rings of gold In savage pomp were set; A quiver on their shoulders lay, And in their hand an assagay. Such and so silent stood they there, That Roland wellnigh hoped He saw a band of statues rare, Station'd the gazer's soul to scare; But, when the wicket oped, Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw; While these weird Maids, in Moorish tongue, A wild and dismal warning sung. "Rash adventurer, bear thee back! Dread the spell of Dahomay! Fear the race of Zaharak,[25] Daughters of the burning day! "When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, Ours it is the dance to braid; Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, Join the measure that we tread, When the Moon has donn'd her cloak, And the stars are red to see, Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, Music meet for such as we. "Where the shatter'd columns lie, Showing Carthage once had been, If the wandering Santon's eye Our mysterious rites hath seen,— Oft he cons the prayer of death, To the nations preaches doom, 'Asrael's brand hath left the sheath! Moslems, think upon the tomb!' "Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, Ours the hydra of the fen, Ours the tiger of the brake, All that plagues the sons of men. Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, Pestilence that wastes by day— Dread the race of Zaharak! Fear the spell of Dahomay!" Uncouth and strange the accents shrill Rung those vaulted roofs among, Long it was ere, faint and still, Died the far-resounding song. While yet the distant echoes roll, The Warrior communed with his soul. "When first I took this venturous quest, I swore upon the rood, Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, For evil or for good. My forward path too well I ween, Lies yonder fearful ranks between; For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope With tigers and with fiends to cope— Yet, if I turn, what waits me there, Save famine dire and fell despair?— Other conclusion let me try, Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. Forward, lies faith and knightly fame; Behind, are perjury and shame. In life or death I hold my word!" With that he drew his trusty sword, Caught down a banner from the wall, And enter'd thus the fearful hall. On high each wayward Maiden threw Her swarthy arm, with wild haloo! On either side a tiger sprung— Against the leftward foe he flung The ready banner, to engage With tangling folds the brutal rage; The right-hand monster in mid air He struck so fiercely and so fair, Through gullet and through spinal bone The trenchant blade hath sheerly gone. His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd, But the slight leash their rage withheld, Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous road Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, Safe pass'd an open portal through; And when against pursuit he flung The gate, judge if the echoes rung! Onward his daring course he bore, While, mix'd with dying growl and roar, Wild jubilee and loud hurra Pursued him on his venturous way. "Hurra, hurra! Our watch is done! We hail once more the tropic sun. Pallid beams of northern day, Farewell, farewell! Hurra, hurra! "Five hundred years o'er this cold glen Hath the pale sun come round again; Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. "Warrior! thou, whose dauntless heart Gives us from our ward to part. Be as strong in future trial, Where resistance is denial. "Now for Afric's glowing sky, Zwenga wide and Atlas high, Zaharak and Dahomay!—— Mount the winds! Hurra, hurra!" The wizard song at distance died, As if in ether borne astray, While through waste halls and chambers wide The Knight pursued his steady way. Till to a lofty dome he came, That flash'd with such a brilliant flame, As if the wealth of all the world Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. For here the gold, in sandy heaps, With duller earth incorporate, sleeps; Was there in ingots piled, and there Coin'd badge of empery it bare; Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, Dimm'd by the diamond's neighbouring ray, Like the pale moon in morning day; And in the midst four maidens stand, The daughters of some distant land. Their hue was of the dark-red dye, That fringes oft a thunder sky; Their hands palmetto baskets bare, And cotton fillets bound their hair; Slim was their form, their mien was shy, To earth they bent the humbled eye, Folded their arms, and suppliant kneel'd, And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd.

"See the treasures Merlin piled, Portion meet for Arthur's child. Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, Wealth that avarice ne'er could dream!"

"See these clots of virgin gold! Sever'd from the sparry mould, Nature's mystic alchemy In the mine thus bade them lie; And their orient smile can win Kings to stoop, and saints to sin."—

"See these pearls that long have slept; These were tears by Naiads wept For the loss of Marinel. Tritons in the silver shell Treasured them, till hard and white As the teeth of Amphitrite."—

"Does a livelier hue delight? Here are rubies blazing bright, Here the emerald's fairy green, And the topaz glows between; Here their varied hues unite, In the changeful chrysolite."—

"Leave these gems of poorer shine, Leave them all, and look on mine! While their glories I expand, Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze Blind the rash beholder's gaze."—

"Warrior, seize the splendid store; Would 'twere all our mountains bore! We should ne'er in future story, Read, Peru, thy perish'd glory!" Calmly and unconcerned, the Knight Waved aside the treasures bright: "Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray! Bar not thus my destined way. Let these boasted brilliant toys Braid the hair of girls and boys! Bid your streams of gold expand O'er proud London's thirsty land. De Vaux of wealth saw never need, Save to purvey him arms and steed, And all the ore he deign'd to hoard Inlays his helm and hilts his sword." Thus gently parting from their hold, He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. And now the morning sun was high, De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry; When lo! a plashing sound he hears, A gladsome signal that he nears Some frolic water-run; And soon he reach'd a court-yard square, Where, dancing in the sultry air, Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair Was sparkling in the sun. On right and left, a fair arcade, In long perspective view displayed Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade: But, full in front, a door, Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led To the lone dwelling of the dead, Whose memory was no more. Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space, To bathe his parched lips and face, And mark'd with well-pleased eye, Refracted on the fountain stream, In rainbow hues, the dazzling beam Of that gay summer sky. His senses felt a mild control, Like that which lulls the weary soul, From contemplation high Relaxing, when the ear receives The music that the greenwood leaves Make to the breezes' sigh. And oft in such a dreamy mood, The half-shut eye can frame Fair apparitions in the wood, As if the nymphs of field and flood In gay procession came. Are these of such fantastic mould, Seen distant down the fair arcade, These maids enlink'd in sister-fold, Who, late at bashful distance staid, Now tripping from the greenwood shade, Nearer the musing champion draw, And, in a pause of seeming awe, Again stand doubtful now?— Ah, that sly pause of witching powers! That seems to say, "To please be ours, Be yours to tell us how." Their hue was of the golden glow That suns of Candahar bestow, O'er which in slight suffusion, flows A frequent tinge of paly rose; Their limbs were fashion'd fair and free, In nature's justest symmetry; And, wreathed with flowers, with odours graced, Their raven ringlets reached the waist: In eastern pomp, its gilding pale The hennah lent each shapely nail, And the dark sumah gave the eye More liquid and more lustrous dye. The spotless veil of misty lawn, In studied disarrangement, drawn The form and bosom o'er, To win the eye, or tempt the touch, For modesty show'd all too much— Too much, yet promised more. "Gentle Knight, a while delay," Thus they sung, "thy toilsome way, While we pay the duty due To our Master and to you. Over Avarice, over Fear, Love triumphant led thee here; Warrior, list to us, for we Are slaves to Love, are friends to thee. Though no treasured gems have we, To proffer on the bended knee, Though we boast nor arm nor heart For the assagay or dart, Swains allow each simple girl Ruby lip and teeth of pearl! Or, if dangers more you prize, Flatterers find them in our eyes. "Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, Rest till evening steal on day; Stay, O, stay!—in yonder bowers We will braid thy locks with flowers, Spread the feast and fill the wine, Charm thy ear with sounds divine, Weave our dances till delight Yield to languor, day to night. "Then shall she you most approve, Sing the lays that best you love, Soft thy mossy couch shall spread, Watch thy pillow, prop thy head, Till the weary night be o'er— Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more? Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior,—she Is slave to Love and slave to thee." O, do not hold it for a crime In the bold hero of my rhyme. For Stoic look, And meet rebuke, He lack'd the heart or time; And round the band of sirens trip, He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, And press'd another's proffer'd hand, Spoke to them all in accents bland, But broke their magic circle through; "Kind Maids," he said, "adieu, adieu! My fate, my fortune, forward lies." He said, and vanish'd from their eyes; But, as he dared that darksome way, Still heard behind their lovely lay: "Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart! Go, where the feelings of the heart With the warm pulse in concord move; Go, where Virtue sanctions Love!" Downward De Vaux through darksome ways And ruin'd vaults has gone, Till issue from their wilder'd maze, Or safe retreat, seem'd none, And e'en the dismal path he strays Grew worse as he went on. For cheerful sun, for living air, Foul vapours rise and mine-fires glare, Whose fearful light the dangers show'd That dogg'd him on that dreadful road. Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun, They show'd, but show'd not how to shun, These scenes of desolate despair, These smothering clouds of poison'd air, How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, Though 'twere to face yon tigers ranged! Nay, soothful bards have said, So perilous his state seem'd now, He wish'd him under arbour bough With Asia's willing maid. When, joyful sound! at distance near A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear, And as it ceased, a lofty lay Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way:— "Son of Honour, theme of story, Think on the reward before ye! Danger, darkness, toil despise; 'Tis ambition bids thee rise. "He that would her heights ascend, Many a weary step must wend; Hand and foot and knee he tries, Thus ambition's minions rise. "Lag not now, though rough the way, Fortune's mood brooks no delay; Grasp the boon that's spread before ye, Monarch's power, and Conqueror's glory!" It ceased. Advancing on the sound, A steep ascent the Wanderer found, And then a turret stair: Nor climb'd he far its steepy round Till fresher blew the air, And next a welcome glimpse was given, That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. At length his toil had won A lofty hall with trophies dress'd, Where, as to greet imperial guest, Four maidens stood, whose crimson vest Was bound with golden zone. Of Europe seem'd the damsels all; The first a nymph of lively Gaul, Whose easy step and laughing eye Her borrow'd air of awe belie; The next a maid of Spain, Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet bold; White ivory skin and tress of gold, Her shy and bashful comrade told For daughter of Almaine, These maidens bore a royal robe, With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, Emblems of empery; The fourth a space behind them stood, And leant upon a harp, in mood Of minstrel ecstacy. Of merry England she, in dress Like ancient British Druidess: Her hair an azure fillet bound, Her graceful vesture swept the ground, And, in her hand displayed, A crown did that fourth Maiden hold, But unadorned with gems and gold, Of glossy laurel made. At once to brave De Vaux knelt down These foremost maidens three, And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, Liegedom and seignorie, O'er many a region wide and fair, Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir; But homage would he none:— "Rather," he said, "De Vaux would ride, A Warden of the Border-side, In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, A monarch's empire own; Rather, far rather, would he be, A free-born knight of England free, Than sit on Despot's throne." So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, As starting from a trance, Upon the harp her finger laid; Her magic touch the chords obey'd, Their soul awaked at once!

"Quake to your foundations deep, Stately towers and banner'd keep, Bid your vaulted echoes moan, As the dreaded step they own. "Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, Hear the footfall! mark it well! Spread your dusky wings abroad, Bound ye for your homeward road! "It is His, the first who e'er Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; His, who hath the snares defied Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. "Quake to your foundations deep, Bastion huge, and turret steep! Tremble, keep! and totter, tower! This is Gyneth's waking hour." Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight Has reach'd a bower, where milder light Through crimson curtains fell; Such softened shade the hill receives, Her purple veil when twilight leaves Upon its western swell. That bower, the gazer to bewitch, Had wondrous store of rare and rich As e'er was seen with eye; For there, by magic skill, I wis, Form of each thing that living is Was limn'd in proper dye. All seemed to sleep—the timid hare On form, the stag upon his lair, The eagle in her eyrie fair Between the earth and sky. But what of pictured rich and rare Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where, Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, He saw King Arthur's child! Doubt, and anger, and dismay From her brow had passed away, Forgot was that fell tourney-day, For, as she slept, she smiled: It seem'd that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled. That form of maiden loveliness, 'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevelled low From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems, That De Vaux impeached his dreams, Vapid all and void of might, Hiding half her charms from sight. Motionless a while he stands, Folds his arm and clasps his hands, Trembling in his fitful joy, Doubtful how he should destroy The long-enduring spell; Doubtful, too, when slowly rise Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, What these eyes shall tell,— "St. George! St. Mary! can it be, That they will kindly look on me!" Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels, Soft that lovely hand he steals, Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp— But the warder leaves her grasp; Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder! Gyneth startles from her sleep, Totters tower, and trembles keep, Burst the castle-walls asunder! Fierce and frequent were the shocks,— Melt the magic halls away; ——But beneath their mystic rocks, In the arms of bold De Vaux Safe the princess lay; Safe and free from magic power, Blushing like the rose's flower Opening to the day; And round the Champion's brows were bound The crown that Druidess had wound, Of the green laurel-bay. And this was what remain'd of all The wealth of each enchanted hall, Garland and the Dame: But where should Warrior seek the meed, Due to high worth for daring deed, Except from Love and Fame. Our lovers, briefly be it said, Wedded as lovers wont to wed, When tale or play is o'er; Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, And saw a numerous race renew The honours that they bore. Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, In morning mist or evening maze, Along the mountain lone, That fairy fortress often mocks His gaze upon the castled rocks Of the Valley of St. John: But never man since brave De Vaux The charmed portal won. 'Tis now a vain illusive show, That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow, Or the fresh breeze hath blown.