Wide o’er the lands it shone to where the blue sea met the sky;
All round it lush flower-gardens a perfumed girdle made,
Wherein with radiance rainbow-arched reviving fountains played.
Sat there a proud king rich in spoil of war and rich in land,
Upon his ancient throne he sat so gaunt and grimly grand;
For all he thinks is Terror, and all he looks is Hate,
And all he speaks is Scourging, and all he writes is Fate.
Once did a noble minstrel pair up to this castle go,
The one with golden ringlets, the other with locks of snow;
The old man with the harp he sat on a goodly steed astride,