And, to this day, the peasant still,
With cautious fear, avoids the ground;
In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound.
Ten annual suns had held their course,
In summer’s smile, or winter’s storm;
The lady shed the widowed tear,
As oft she traced his manly form.
Yet still to hope her heart would cling
As o’er the mind illusions play,—
Of travel fond, perhaps her lord
To distant lands had steered his way.
’Twas now November’s cheerless hour,
Which drenching rain and clouds deface;
Dreary bleak Robell’s tract appeared,
And dull and dank each valley’s space.
Loud o’er the wier the hoarse flood fell,
And dashed the foamy spray on high;
The west wind bent the forest tops,
And angry frowned the evening sky.
A stranger passed Llanelltid’s bourne,
His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,
Which, wearied with the lengthened way,
Could scarcely gain the hill’s ascent.
The portal reached,—the iron bell
Loud sounded round the outward wall
Quick sprang the warder to the gate,
To know what meant the clamorous call.
“O! lead me to your lady soon;
Say,—it is my sad lot to tell,
To clear the fate of that brave knight,
She long has proved she loved so well.”
Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,
The menials look surprise and fear:
Still o’er his harp old Modred hung,
And touched the notes for griefs worn ear.
The lady sat amidst her train;
A mellowed sorrow marked her look:
Then, asking what his mission meant,
The graceful stranger sighed and spoke:—