"Here all wide-scatter'd up the inward land48
For stores and water, range the blithesome crew;
Lured by the smiling shores, one gentler band
I join'd awhile, then left them, to pursue
Mine own glad fancies, where the brooklet clear
Shot singing onwards to the sunlit mere.
"And so we chanced to meet!" She ceased, and bent49
Down the fresh rose-hues of her eloquent cheek;
Ere Lancelot spoke, the startled echo sent
Loud shouts reverberate, lengthening, plain to peak;
The sounds proclaim the savage followers near,
And straight the rose-hues pale,—but not from fear.
Slowly Genevra rose, and her sweet eyes50
Raised to the Knight's, frankly and mournfully;
"Farewell," she said, "the wingèd moment flies,
Who shall say whither?—if this meeting be
Our last as first, O Christian warrior, take
The Saxon's greeting for the Christian's sake.
"And if, returning to thy perill'd land,51
In the hot fray thy sword confront my Sire,
Strike not—remember me!" On her fair hand
The Cymrian seals his lips; wild thoughts inspire
Words which the lips may speak not:—but what truth
Lies hid when youth reflects its soul in youth!
Reluctant turns Genevra, lingering turns,52
And up the hill, oft pausing, languid wends.
As infant flame through humid fuel burns,
In Lancelot's heart with honour, love contends;
Longs to pursue, regain, and cry, "Where'er
Thou wanderest, lead me; Paradise is there!"
But the lost Arthur!—at that thought, the strength53
Of duty nerved the loyal sentinel:
So by the lake watch'd Lancelot;—at length
Upon the ring his looks, in drooping, fell,
And see, the hand, no more in dull repose,
Points to the path in which Genevra goes!
Amazed, and wrathful at his own delight,54
He doubts, he hopes, he moves, and still the ring
Repeats the sweet command, and bids the Knight
Pursue the Maid as if to find the King.
Yielding at last, though half remorseful still,
The Cymrian follows up the twilight hill.
Meanwhile along the beach of the wide sea,55
The dove-led pilgrim wander'd,—needful food,
The Mænad's fruits from many a purple tree
Flush'd for the vintage, gave; with musing mood,
Lonely he strays till Æthra[9] sees again
Her starry children smiling on the main.
Around him then, curved grew the hollow creek;56
Before, a ship lay still with lagging sail;
A gilded serpent glitter'd from the beak,
Along the keel encoil'd with lengthening trail;
Black from a brazen staff, with outstretch'd wings
Soar'd the dread Raven of the Runic kings.
Here paused the Wanderer, for here flew the Dove57
To the tall mast, and, murmuring, hover'd o'er;
But on the deck no watch, no pilot move,
Life-void the vessel as the lonely shore.
Far on the sand-beach drawn, a boat he spied,
And with strong hand he launch'd it on the tide.