"Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire."

      And so she led the path: her torch's fire

      Scaring wild spidery shadows at each stride

      From cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,

      That labyrinthed the rock foundation strong

      Of that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.

      At length they came to a nail-studded door,

      Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore

      Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence

      They issued on a terraced eminence.

      Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the King

      Breathed open air that had the smell and sting

      Of brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;

      For in the East the second dawning's gloam,

      Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks

      Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.

      And so within that larger light of dawn

      It seemed to Arthur now that he had known

      This maiden at his court, and so he asked.

      But she, well-tutored, her real person masked,

      And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not;

      Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot.

      For here it likes me best to sing and spin

      And work the hangings my sire's halls within:

      No courts or tournaments or gallants brave

      To flatter me and love! for me – the wave,

      The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;

      My garth wherein I walk to think; the charm

      Of uplands redolent at bounteous noon

      And full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;

      White ships that pass some several every year;

      These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear."

      "An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrue

      Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,

      Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying of

      The King, half-brother, whom she did not love.

      And presently she brought him where in state

      This swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate…

      King Urience that dawning woke and found

      Himself safe couched at Camelot and wound

      In Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it was

      That this thing secretly had come to pass.

      But Accolon at Chariot sojourned still

      Content with his own dreams; for 'twas the will

      Of Morgane thus to keep him hidden here

      For her desire's excess, where everywhere

      In Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,

      Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;

      And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wont

      To list a tinkling, falling water fount, —

      Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramours

      At sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,

      Had caught a laughing language light thereof,

      And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!" —

      On cool white walls her hands had deftly draped

      A dark rich hanging, where were worked and shaped

      Her fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind,

      Imperishable passions, which could wind

      The past and present quickly; and could mate

      Dead loves to kisses, and intoxicate

      With moon-soft words of past delight and song

      The heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong.

      And there beside it pooled the urnéd well,

      And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fell

      From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,

      With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawn

      Came solely; with not ev'n her brindled hound

      To leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground;

      No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,

      Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;

      But this her lute, about which her perfume

      Clung odorous of memories, that made bloom

      Her flowing features rosy to his eyes,

      That saw the words, his sense could but surmise,

      Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunk

      Her deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunk

      And slowly waned away to smouldering dreams,

      Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams.

      And so for those most serious eyes and lips,

      Faint, filmy features, all the music slips

      Of buoyant being bubbling to his voice

      To chant her praises; and with nervous poise

      His fleet, trained fingers call from her long lute

      Such riotous notes as must make madly mute

      The nightingale that listens quivering.

      And well he knows that winging hence it'll sing

      These aching notes, whose beauties burn and pain

      Its anguished heart now sobless, not in vain

      Wild 'neath her casement in that garden old

      Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold

      Of