He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,
For feats of chivalry renown'd,
Left Mayburgh's mound and stones of

power,

By Druids raised in magic hour,
And traced the Eamont's winding way,
Till Ulfo's lake beneath him lay.

VIII.

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 aspen-tree,

A restless, rustling canopy.

X.

LYULPH'S TALE.

'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 Glaramara'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,

In whose black mirror you may spy
The stars, while noontide lights thesky.
The gallant King he skirted still
The margin of that mighty hill;
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,

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 Saint 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.

Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of gold,

In princely bower to bide: The bursting crash of a foeman's spear As it shiver'd against his mail, Was merrier music to his ear

Than courtier's whisper'd tale: And the clash of Caliburn more dear, When on the hostile casque it rung, Than all the lays

To their monarch's praise
That the harpers of Reged sung.

He loved better to rest by wood or

river,

Seem'd some primeval giant's hand The castle's massive walls had plann'd,

Guenever,

For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer, To follow adventures of danger and fear;

And the frank-hearted Monarch full little did wot

That she smiled, in his absence, on brave Lancelot.

XII.

'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.

XIII.

'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;

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 grey 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.

XIV.

'Beneath the castle's gloomy pride
In ample round did Arthur ride
Three times; nor living thing hespied,
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 reach'd the entrancegrim and grey, 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 Or pagan of gigantic limb, Of wizard stern, or goblin grim,

The tyrant of the wold.

xv.

'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 short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down,

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 resistless brand.

XVI.

'An hundred torches, flashing bright, Dispell'd 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,

'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;
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 helmit'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.

XVIII.

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;

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.

XIX.

'The attributes of those high days
Now only live in minstrel lays ;
For 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!"

XX.

'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.

XXI.

'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. Slight symptoms these, but shepherds know

How hot the mid-day sun shall glow

From the mist of morning sky; And so the wily Monarch guess'd That this assumed restraint express'd More ardent passions in the breast

Than ventured to the eye. Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, While maidens laugh'd and minstrels sang,

Still closer to her earBut why pursue the common tale? Or wherefore show how knights prevail

When ladies dare to hear? Or wherefore trace, from what slight

cause

Its source one tyrant passion draws,
Till, mastering all within,
Where lives the man that has not tried
How mirth can into folly glide,

And folly into sin?'

Canto Second.

I.

LYULPH'S TALE, CONTINUED. '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.

II.

'Another day, another day,
And yet another, glides away!
Heroic plans in pleasure drown'd,
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 foc.
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!

III.

'Much force have mortal charms to stay
Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way;
But Guendolen's might far outshine
Each maid of merely mortal line.
Her mother was of human birth,
Her sire a Genie of the earth,
In days of old deem'd to preside
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride,

By youths and virgins worshipp'd

long

With festive dance and choral song,
Till, when the cross to Britain came,
On heathen altars died the flame.
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude,
The downfall of his rights he rued,
And, born of his resentment heir,
He train❜d to guile that lady fair,
To sink in slothful sin and shame
The champions of the Christian name.
Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive,
And all to promise, nought to give;
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 com-

plying,

With feign'd reluctance now denying; Each charm she varied, to retain | A varying heart, and all in vain!