* * * * *

Through Pope’s soft song though all the Graces breathe,
And happiest art adorn his Attic page,
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow,
As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined,
In magic Spenser’s wildly-warbled song
I see deserted Una wander wide
Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths,
Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames
Launches in all the lustre of brocade,
Amid the splendours of the laughing sun: 
The gay description palls upon the sense,
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.

* * * * *

The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer,
Oft let me tread, while to th’ according voice
The many-sounding organ peals on high
The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn,
Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies
And lapped in Paradise.  Or let me sit
Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome;
There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,
Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults,
In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear. 
Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night,
And solitude returns, would I forsake
The solemn mansion, but attentive mark
The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,
Measuring Time’s flight with momentary sound.

  From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR

  [THE PASSING OF THE KING]

  O’er Cornwall’s cliffs the tempest roared,
  High the screaming sea-mew soared;
  On Tintagel’s topmost tower
  Darksome fell the sleety shower;
  Round the rough castle shrilly sung
  The whirling blast, and wildly flung
  On each tall rampart’s thundering side
  The surges of the tumbling tide: 
  When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks
  On conscious Camlan’s crimsoned banks: 
  By Mordred’s faithless guile decreed
  Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! 
  Yet in vain a paynim foe
  Armed with fate the mighty blow;
  For when he fell, an Elfin Queen
  All in secret, and unseen,
  O’er the fainting hero threw
  Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
  And bade her spirits bear him far,
  In Merlin’s agate-axled car,
  To her green isle’s enamelled steep
  Far in the navel of the deep. 
  O’er his wounds she sprinkled dew
  From flowers that in Arabia grew: 
  On a rich enchanted bed
  She pillowed his majestic head;
  O’er his brow, with whispers bland,
  Thrice she waved an opiate wand;
  And to soft music’s airy sound,
  Her magic curtains closed around,
  There, renewed the vital spring,
  Again he reigns a mighty king;
  And many a fair and fragrant clime,
  Blooming in immortal prime,
  By gales of Eden ever fanned,
  Owns the monarch’s high command: 
  Thence to Britain shall return
  (If right prophetic rolls I learn),
  Born on Victory’s spreading plume,
  His ancient sceptre to resume;
  Once more, in old heroic pride,
  His barbed courser to bestride;
  His knightly table to restore,
  And brave the tournaments of yore.