Hard by a stream, amidst a pleasant vale4
King Arthur held his careless holiday:—
The stream was blithe with many a silken sail,
The vale with many a proud pavilion gay;
While Cymri's dragon, from the Roman's hold,[1]
Spread with calm wing o'er Carduel's domes of gold.
Dark, to the right, thick forests mantled o'er5
A gradual mountain sloping to the plain;
Whose gloom but lent to light a charm the more,
As pleasure pleases most when neighbouring pain;
And all our human joys most sweet and holy,
Sport in the shadows cast from Melancholy.
Below that mount, along the glossy sward6
Were gentle groups, discoursing gentle things;
Or listening idly where the skilful bard
Woke the sweet tempest of melodious strings;
Or whispering love—I ween, less idle they,
For love's the honey in the flowers of May.
Some plied in lusty race the glist'ning oar;7
Some, noiseless, snared the silver-scalèd prey;
Some wreathed the dance along the level shore;
And each was happy in his chosen way.
Not by one shaft is Care, the hydra kill'd,
So Mirth, determined, had his quiver fill'd.
Bright 'mid his blooming Court, like royal Morn8
Girt with the Hours that lead the jocund Spring,
When to its smile delight and flowers are born,
And clouds are rose-hued,—shone the Cymrian King.
Above that group, o'er-arch'd from tree to tree,
Thick garlands hung their odorous canopy;
And in the midst of that delicious shade9
Up sprang a sparkling fountain, silver-voiced,
And the bee murmur'd and the breezes play'd:
In their gay youth, the youth of May rejoiced—
And they in hers—as though that leafy hall
Chimed the heart's laughter with the fountain's fall.
Propped on his easy arm, the King reclined,10
And glancing gaily round the ring, quoth he—
"'Man,' say our sages, 'hath a fickle mind,
And pleasures pall, if long enjoyed they be.'
But I, methinks, like this soft summer-day,
'Mid blooms and sweets could wear the hours away;—
"Feel, in the eyes of Love, a cloudless sun,11
Taste, in the breath of Love, eternal spring;
Could age but keep the joys that youth has won,
The human heart would fold its idle wing!
If change there be in Fate and Nature's plan,
Wherefore blame us?—it is in Time, not Man."
He spoke, and from the happy conclave there12
Echo'd the murmur, "Time is but to blame:"
Each knight glanced amorous on his chosen fair,
And to the glance blush'd each assenting dame:
But thought had dimm'd the smile in Arthur's eye,
And the light speech was rounded by a sigh.
And while they murmur'd "Time is but to blame,"13
Right in the centre of the silken ring,
Sudden stood forth (none marking whence it came),
The gloomy shade of some Phantasmal Thing;
It stood, dim-outlined in a sable shroud,
And shapeless, as in noon-day hangs a cloud.