Eyes on whose tenderest azure aching hearts140
Might look as to a heaven, and cease to grieve;
The very blush,—as day, when it departs,
Haloes in flushing, the mild cheek of eve,—
Taking soft warmth in light from earth afar,
Heralds no thought less holy than a star.
And Arthur spoke! O ye, all noble souls,141
Divine how knighthood speaks to maiden fear!
Yet, is it fear which that young heart controuls
And leaves its music voiceless on the ear?—
Ye, who have felt what words can ne'er express,
Say then, is fear as still as happiness?
By the mute pathos of an eloquent sign,142
Her rosy finger on her lip, the maid
Seem'd to denote that on that coral shrine
Speech was to silence vow'd. Then from the shade
Gliding—she stood beneath the golden skies,
Fair as the dawn that brighten'd Paradise.
And Arthur look'd, and saw the Dove no more;143
Yet, by some wild and wondrous glamoury,
Changed to the shape the new companion wore,
His soul the missing Angel seem'd to see;
And, soft and silent as the earlier guide,
The soft eyes thrill, the silent footsteps glide.
Through paths his yester steps had fail'd to find,144
Adown the woodland slope she leads the king,—
And pausing oft, she turns to look behind,
As oft had turn'd the Dove upon the wing;
And oft he question'd, still to find reply
Mute on the lip, yet struggling to the eye.
Far briefer now the way, and open more145
To heaven, than those his whilom steps had won;
And sudden, lo! his galley's brazen prore
Beams from the greenwood burnish'd in the sun;
Up from the sward his watchful cruisers spring,
And loud-lipp'd welcome girds with joy the King.
Now plies the rapid oar, now swells the sail;146
All day, and deep into the heart of night,
Flies the glad bark before the favouring gale;
Now Sabra's virgin waters dance in light
Under the large full moon, on margents green,
Lone with charr'd wrecks where Saxon fires have been.
Here furls the sail, here rests awhile the oar,147
And from the crews the Cymrians and the maid
Pass with mute breath upon the mournful shore;
For, where yon groves the gradual hillock shade,
A convent stood when Arthur left the land.
God grant the shrine hath 'scaped the heathen's hand!
Landing, on lifeless hearths, through roofless walls148
And casement gaps, the ghost-like starbeams peer;
Welcomed by night and ruin, hollow falls
The footstep of a King!—Upon the ear
The inexpressible hush of murder lay,—
Wide yawn'd the doors, and not a watch dog's bay!
They pass the groves, they gain the holt, and lo!149
Rests of the sacred pile but one grey tower,
A fort for luxury in the long-ago
Of gentile gods, and Rome's voluptuous power.
But far on walls yet spared, the moonbeams fell,—
Far on the golden domes of Carduel!