It was the time of Pentecost the bless’d,
    When royal Arthur held the accustom’d feast,
    When Carduel’s walls contained the vast resort
    That press’d from every land to grace his plenar court. 
    There did the sovereign’s copious hand dispense
    Large boons to all with free magnificence,
    To all but one; from Bretany he came,
    A goodly knight, Sir Lanval was his name. 
    Long had the king, by partial temper sway’d,
    His loyal zeal with cold neglect repaid;
    Yet from a throne Sir Lanval drew his birth,
    Nor could all England boast more comeliness and worth. 
    Whate’er the cause, no gift the monarch gave,
    The knight with honest pride forbore to crave,
    Till at the last, his substance all forespent,
    From his lord’s court the hopeless liegeman went. 
      No leave he took, he told no mortal wight,
    Scarce had he thought to guide his steps aright,
    But all at random, reckless of his way,
    He wander’d on the better half of day. 
    Ere evening fell he reached a pleasant mead,
    And there he loos’d his beast, at will to rest or feed;
    Then by a brook-side down his limbs he cast
    And, pondering on the waters as they pass’d,
    The while his cloak his bended arm sustain’d,
    Sadly he sat, and much in thought complain’d. 
      So mus’d he long, till by the frequent tread
    Of quickening feet constrain’d, he turn’d his head;
    Close by his side there stood a female pair,
    Both richly clad, and both enchanting fair;
    With courteous guise the wondering knight they greet
    With winning speech, with invitation sweet
    From their kind mistress, where at ease she lay,
    And in her tent beguil’d the lingering day. 
    Awhile Sir Lanval reft of sense appear’d;
    Then up at once his mailed limbs he rear’d,
    And with his guides impatient to proceed,
    Though a true knight, for once forgot his steed. 
      And now with costliest silk superbly dight,
    A gay pavilion greets the warrior’s sight;
    Its taper spire a towering eagle crown’d,
    In substance gold, of workmanship renown’d. 
    Within, recumbent on a couch, was laid
    A form more perfect than e’er man survey’d: 
    The new-blown rose, the lily’s virgin prime,
    In the fresh hour of fragrant summer-time,
    Though of all flowers the fairest of the fair,
    With this sweet paragon might ill compare;
    And o’er her shoulders flow’d with graceful pride,
    Though for the heat some little cast aside,
    A crimson pall of Alexandria’s dye,
    With snowy ermine lin’d, befitting royalty;
    Yet was her skin, where chance bewray’d the sight,
    Far purer than the snowy ermine’s white. 
    ‘Lanval!’ she cried, as in amazed mood,
    Of speech and motion void, the warrior stood,
    ‘Lanval!’ she