"Whither wends Arthur?" "Whence comes Lancelot?"104
"From yonder forest, sought at dawn of day."
"Why from the forest?" "Prince and brother, what,
When the bird startled flutters from the spray,
Makes the leaves quiver? What disturbs the rill
If but a zephyr floateth from the hill?
"And ask'st thou why thy brother's heart is stirr'd105
By every tremor that can vex thine own?
What in that forest hadst thou seen or heard?
What was that shadow o'er thy sunshine thrown?
Thy lips were silent,—be the secret thine;
But half the trouble it conceal'd was mine.
"Did danger meet thee in that dismal lair?106
'Twas mine to face it as thy heart had done.
'Twas mine——" "O brother," cried the King, "beware,
The fiend has snares it shames not man to shun;—
Ah, woe to eyes on whose recoiling sight
Opes the dark world beyond the veil of light!
"Listen to Fate; till once more eves in May107
Welcome Bal-huan back to yon sweet sky,[14]
The hunter's lively horn, the hound's deep bay,
May fill with joy the Vale of Melody,[15]
On spell-bound ears the Harper's tones may fall,
Love deck the bower, and Pleasure trim the hall—
"But thou, oh thou, my Lancelot shalt mourn108
The void, a life withdrawn bequeaths the soul;
No mirth shall greet thee in the buxom horn—
Nor flash in liquid sunshine from the bowl;
Sorrow shall sit where I have dwelt,—and be
A second Arthur in its truth to thee.
"Alone I go;—submit; since thus the Fates109
And the great Prophet of our race ordain;
So shall we drive invasion from our gates,
Guard life from shame, and Cymri from the chain;
No more than this my soul to thine may tell—
Forgive,—Saints shield thee!—now thy hand—farewell!"
"Farewell! Can danger be more strong than death—110
Loose the soul's link, the grave-surviving vow?
Wilt thou find fragrance ev'n in glory's wreath,
If valour weave it for thy single brow?
No!—not farewell! What claim more strong than brother
Canst thou allow?"—"My Country is my Mother!"—
At the rebuke of those mild, solemn words,111
Friendship submissive bow'd—its voice was still'd;
As when some mighty bard with sudden chords
Strikes down the passion he before had thrill'd,
Making grief awe;—so rush'd that sentence o'er
The soul it master'd;—Lancelot urged no more;
But loosing from the hand it clasp'd, his own,112
He waved farewell, and turn'd his face away;
His sorrow only by his silence shown:—
Thus, when from earth glides summer's golden day,
Music forsakes the boughs, and winds the stream;
And life, in deep'ning quiet, mourns the beam.