But while o'er many a wood-fringed hill
And heath of purple tint their journey lay,
That seeming hind, fair architect of ill,
In Arthur's palace sojourn'd many a day,
Expert in fraud, and watchful to betray.
Expert with pliant limb, and bounding high
Before the queen, her gambols to display;
Or fond and flattering at her feet to lie,
And mirror every thought in her large lucid eye.
So past the day; but when the seven-fold team,
That fear to tinge their feet in ocean deep,
Shot from the topmost north their twinkling beam,
And over mortal lids the dews of sleep
(To weary man blest visitation) creep,
Forth in the silence of the world she sped,
A nymph of air her unblest watch to keep;
Or, wrapt in mist, beside the bridal bed
Ganora's heart the wandering wishes read.
The early trace of youthful love was there,
And airy hope that flatter'd to betray;
But disappointment, with salt-smarting tear,
Had blotted half the simple lines away;
The other half too deeply graven lay,
And, though contending with that earthly flame,
Celestial ardours sent their purer ray,
Though late-Ah, female heart, of feeble frame,
Of pomp, and rank, and power, the novel rapture came.
Yet in the midst, and sov'reign o'er her breast,
Cadwal, young Cadwal, held his fatal throne,
And, e'en to wakeful conscience unconfest,
Her fear, her grief, her joy were his alone:
Yes, every sigh that heaved her silken zone,
From hapless love a dearer sorrow drew,
And, to Ganora's secret self unknown, Arose before the faëry's eager view;
Ah me! what airy spies our silent thoughts pursue !
And think'st thou, man, thy secret wish to shroud
In the close bosom's sealed sepulchre ?
Or, wrapt in saintly mantle from the crowd,
To hug thy darling sin that none may see?
A thousand, thousand eyes are bent on thee;
And where thy bolts the babbling world exclude,
And in the darkness where thou lov❜st to be,
A thousand, thousand busy sprites intrude;
Earth, air, and heaven are full, there is no solitude.
WHEN I rehearse each gorgeous festival,
And knightly pomp of Arthur's elder day,
And muse upon these Celtic glories all,
Which, save some remnant of the minstrel's lay,
Are melted in oblivious stream away,
(So deadly bit the Saxon blade and sore)
Perforce I rue such perilous decay,
And, reckless of my race, almost deplore
That ever northern keel deflower'd the Logrian shore.
Oh thou the ancient genius of the land,
Who wont on old Belusium's sunny steep,
And nigh the holy mount, with armed hand,
In vision dimly seen, thy watch to keep,
Our angel guard, whose eagle pinions sweep
In circling flight around his rock-built nest,"
Now soaring high, now dark'ning half the deep,
The broad wave bursting with his shadowy breast,
Oh did not his lament foreshow the nearer pest!
Say, did not he when Hengist plough'd the main, With gathering mist the conqueror's track dismay, And smite his radiant brows in parent pain
And sadly rend his samphire wreath away? No, brighter beam'd his prescient eye that day, And as the proud bark swept the waters free, He bade the rustling waves around it play. While softly stole across the sunny sea,
From many a twisted shell the mermaid's harmony.
Now forty times the golden-haired dawn
Had sprung from old Tithonus' dewy bed,
And forty times across the fading lawn,
Had summer eve her filmy mantle spread,
Since young Ganore to Mary's aisle was led
A pensive bride; and yet, I wot not why,
But those who best could read her blushes said,
Not now so much she droop'd the timid eye,
Nor paid her Arthur's warmth with so cold courtesy.
She was his wife! for this she strove to bear
Of that portentous eye the tawny glow; And those deep indents of ambitious care
That mapp'd his dark and melancholy brow; She was beloved; for well the fair might know How that stern heart was fix'd on her alone, When, melted all in love's delirious flow, The vanquish'd victor at her feet was thrown; And she was inly vain to feel such power her own.
So was she pleased herself who sought to please;
Till on a day when all the court would ride
To drink in Cattraeth's woods the cooler breeze,
And rouse the dun deer from Terwathlin's side,
It chanced the queen within her bower to bide,
As one in boisterous pastime rarely seen;
Who little loved the hunter's cruel pride,
Or maddening shout that rends the forest green,
Or their poor quarry's groan the bugle notes between.
Loth was her lord to miss, that livelong day,
Her soft sweet glances and her converse sweet;
Yet cared he not to cross her purposed stay;
And forth he fared, but still with ling'ring feet
And backward look, and Oh when lovers meet
How bless'd," he thought, "the evening's tranquil hour,
From care and cumbrous pomp a glad retreat."
Not since his youth first quaff'd the cup of power,
Had Arthur praised before the calm sequester'd bower.
And forth he fared; while from her turret high
That smiling form beheld his hunter crew;
Pleased she beheld, whose unacquainted eye
Found in each varying scene a pleasure new.
Nor yet had pomp fatigued her sated view,
Nor custom pall'd the gloss of royalty.
Like some gay child, a simple bliss she drew
From every gaud of feudal pageantry,
And every broider'd garb that swept in order by.
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