In numbers high, the witching tale
The prophet pour'd along;
No after bard might e'er avail[52]
Those numbers to prolong.
Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.
He sung King Arthur's table round:
The warrior of the lake;
How courteous Gawaine met the wound,
And bled for ladies' sake.
But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;
Was none excelled, in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.
For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venomed wound he bore;
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.
No art the poison might withstand;
No medicine could be found,
Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand
Had probed the rankling wound.
With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;
And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.
O fatal was the gift, I ween!
For, doom'd in evil tide,
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,
His cowardly uncle's bride.
Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard
In fairy tissue wove;
Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,
In gay confusion strove.
The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High rear'd its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.