Fair shines the sun on stately Carduel;74
The falcon, hoodwink'd, basks upon the wall;
The tilt-yard echoes with the clarion's swell,
And lusty youth comes thronging to the call;
And martial sports (the daily wont) begin,
The page must practise if the knight would win.
Some spur the palfrey at the distant ring;75
Some, with blunt lance, in mimic tourney charge;
Here skirs the pebble from the poisèd sling,
Or flies the arrow rounding to the targe;
While Age and Fame sigh smiling to behold
The young leaves budding to replace the old.
Nor yet forgot, amid the special sports76
Of polish'd Chivalry, the primal ten[8]
Athletic contests, known in elder courts
Ere knighthood rose from the great Father-men.
Beyond the tilt-yard spread the larger space,
For the strong wrestle, and the breathless race;
Here some, the huge dull weights up-heaving throw;77
Some ply the staff, and some the sword and shield;
And some that falchion with its thunder-blow
Which Heus[9] the Guardian, taught the Celt, to wield;
Heus, who first guided o'er "the Hazy Main"
Our Titan[10] sires from Defrobanni's plain.
Life thus astir, and sport upon the wing,78
Why yet doth Arthur dream day's prime away?
Still in charm'd slumber lies the quiet King;
On his own couch the merry sunbeams play,
Gleam o'er the arms hung trophied from the wall;
And Cymri's antique crown surmounting all.
Slowly he woke; life came back with a sigh79
(That herald, or that follower, to the gate
Of all our knowledge)—and his startled eye
Fell where beside his couch the prophet sate;
And with that sight rush'd back the mystic cell,
The awful summons, the arrested spell.
"Prince," said the prophet, "with this morn awake80
From pomp, from pleasure, to high toils and brave;
From yonder wall the arms of knighthood take,
But leave the crown the knightly arms may save;
O'er mount and vale, go, pilgrim, forth alone,
And win the gifts which shall defend a throne.
"Thus speak the Fates—till in the heavens the sun81
Rounds his revolving course, O King, return
To man's first, noblest birthright, TOIL:—so won
In Grecian fable, to the ambrosial urn
Of joyous Hebè, and the Olympian grove,
The labouring son Alemena bore to Jove.
"By the stout heart to peril's sight inured,82
By the wise brain which toil hath stored and skill'd,
Valour is school'd and glory is secured,
And the large ends of fame and fate fulfill'd:
But hear the gifts thy year of proof must gain,
To fail in one leaves those achieved in vain.
"The falchion, welded from a diamond gem,83
Hid in the Lake of Argent Music-Falls,
Where springs a forest from a single stem,
And moon-lit waters close o'er Cuthite halls—
First taste the herb that grows upon a grave,
Then see the bark that wafts thee down the wave.