And the clash of Caliburn more dear,
When on hostile casque it rung,
Than all the lays to their monarch's praise
The harpers of Reged sung.
He loved better to bide by wood and river
Than in bower of his dame Queen Guenever;
For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer,
To follow adventures of danger and fear.
And little the frank-hearted monarch did wot
That she smiled in his absence on brave Launcelot."
Oh! those lilting stanzas of Sir Walter's, how merrily they ring on one's ear, like the clash of steel, the jingling of bridles, or the measured cadence of a good steed's stride! We can fancy ourselves spurring through the mêlée after the "selfless stainless" king, or galloping with him down the grassy glades of Lyonesse on one of his adventurous quests for danger, honour, renown—and—the four-leaved shamrock.
Obviously it did not grow in the tilt-yards at Caerleon or the palace gardens of Camelot; nay, he had failed to find it in the posy lovely Guenevere wore on her bosom. Alas!
