Awe-stricken stood both Knights and Dames

Ere on firm ground the car alighted; Eftsoons astonishment was past, For in that face they saw the last, Last lingering look of clay, that tames All pride; by which all happiness is blighted.

Said Merlin, "Mighty King, fair Lords, Away with feast and tilt and tourney! 200 Ye saw, throughout this royal House, Ye heard, a rocking marvellous Of turrets, and a clash of swords Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey.

Lo! by a destiny well known

To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow; This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed Where she by shipwreck had been thrown, Ill sight! but grief may vanish ere the

For late, as near a murmuring stream
He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady,
Nina, the good Enchantress, shed
A light around his mossy bed;

And, at her call, a waking dream Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady.

Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed,

And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine,

As o'er the insensate Body hung
The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 31c
Belief sank deep into the crowd

That he the solemn issue would determine.

Written at Rydal Mount. This dove was one of a pair that had been given to my daughter by our excellent friend, Miss Jewsbury, who went to India with her husband, Mr. Fletcher, where she died of cholera. The dove survived its mate many years, and was killed, to our great sorrow, by a neighbour's cat that got in at the window and dragged it partly out of the cage. These verses were composed extempore, to the letter, in the Terrace Summerhouse before spoken of. It was the habit of the bird to begin cooing and murmuring whenever it heard me making my verses.

As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near,
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have carolled, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale,
Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere
The spirit of my song:

'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, Love animates my lyre

That coo again!-'t is not to chide. I feel, but to inspire.

The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;
And now, unforced by time to part
With fancy, I obey my heart,

And venture on your praise.

What though some busy foes to good,
Too potent over nerve and blood,

Lurk near you — and combine
To taint the health which ye infuse;
This hides not from the moral Muse
Your origin divine.

How oft from you, derided Powers!
Comes Faith that in auspicious hours
Builds castles, not of air:
Bodings unsanctioned by the will
Flow from your visionary skill,

And teach us to beware.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift,

Shall vanish, if ye please,

Like morning mist: and, where it lay,
The spirits at your bidding play
In gaiety and ease.

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Engraven, during my absence in Italy, upon

a brass plate inserted in the Stone.

In these fair vales hath many a Tree
At Wordsworth's suit been spared;
And from the builder's hand this Stone,
For some rude beauty of its own,

Was rescued by the Bard:
So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,
As one of the departed.