A LEGEND OF TINTAGEL CASTLE.
LONE in the forest, Sir Lancelot rode,
O’er the neck of his courser the reins lightly flowed,
And beside hung his helmet, for bare was his brow
To meet the soft breeze that was fanning him now.
And "the flowers of the forest" were many and sweet,
Which, crushed at each step by his proud courser's feet,
Gave forth all their fragrance, while thick over-head
The boughs of the oak and the elm-tree were spread.
The wind stirred the branches, as if its low suit
Were urged, like a lover who wakens the lute,
And through the dark foliage came sparkling and bright,
Like rain from the green leaves, in small gems of light.
There was stillness, not silence, for dancing along,
A brook went its way like a child with a song:
Now hidden, where rushes and water-flags grow;
Now clear, while white pebbles were glistening below.
Lo, bright as a vision, and fair as a dream,
The face of a maiden is seen in the stream;
With her hair like a mantle of gold to her knee,
Stands a lady as lovely as lady can be.
Short speech tells a love-tale;—the bard's sweetest words
Are poor, beside those which each memory hoards:
Sound of some gentle whisper, the haunting and low,
Such as love may have murmured—ah, long, long ago.
She led him away to an odorous cave,
Where the emerald spars shone like stars in the wave,
And the green moss and violets crowded beneath,
And the ash at the entrance hung down like a wreath.
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