Therein Sir Brut, expell'd from flaming Troy,[2]8
Comes to this isle, and seeks to build a city,
Which Devils, then the Freeholders, destroy;
Till the sweet Virgin on Sir Brut takes pity,
And bids that Saint who now speaks Welsh on high,[3]
Baptize the astonish'd heathen in the Wye!
This done, the fiends, at once disfranchised, fled;9
And to the Saint the Trojan built a chapel,
Where masses daily were for Priam said:—
While thrice a week, the priests, that golden apple
By which three fiends, as goddesses disguised,
Bewitch'd Sir Paris, anathematized.
But now this epic, in its course suspended,10
Slept on the shelf—(a not uncommon fate);
Ah, who shall tell, if, ere resumed and ended,
That kind of poem be not out of date?
For of all ladies there are none who chuse
Such freaks and turns of fashion, as the Muse.
And then, sad Lancelot—but there I hold;11
Some griefs there are which grief alone can guess,
And so we leave whate'er he felt untold;
Light steps profane the heart's deep loneliness.
I, too, had once a friend, in happier years!
He fled,—he owed,—forgot;—Forgive these tears!—
Much, their sole comfort, much conversed the three12
Upon their absent Arthur; what the cause
Of his self-exile, and its ends, could be;
Much did they ponder, hesitate, and pause
In high debate if loyal love might still
Pursue his wanderings, though against his will.
But first the awe which kings command, restrain'd;13
And next the ignorance of the path and goal;
So, thus for weeks they communed and remain'd;
Till o'er the woods a mellower verdure stole;
The bell-flower clothed the river-banks; the moon
Stood in the breathless firmament of June;
When—as one twilight near the forest-mount14
They sate, and heard the vesper-bell afar
Swing from the dim Cathedral, and the fount
Hymn low its own sweet music to the star
Lone in the west—they saw a shadow pass
Where the pale beam shot silvering o'er the grass.
They turn'd, beheld their Cymri's mighty seer,15
Majestic Merlin, and with reverence rose;
"Knights," said the soothsayer, smiling, "be of cheer
If yet alone (the stars themselves his foes)
Wanders the King,—now, of his faithful three
One, Fate permits; the choice with Fate must be.
"Enter the forest—each his several way;16
Return as dies in air the vesper chime;
The fiend the forest populace obey
Hath not o'er mortals empire in the time
When holy sounds the wings of Heaven invite,
And prayer hangs charm-like on the wheels of Night.
"What seen, what heard, mark mindful, and relate!17
Here will I tarry till your steps return."
Ne'er leapt the captive from the prison grate
With livelier gladness to the smiles of morn,
Than sprang those rivals to the forest-gloom,
And its dark arms closed round them like a tomb.