XXII

The wooded hills sloped upward all around
  With gradual rise, and made an even rim, 170
So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound
  From some huge Titan’s brow to lighten him,
Ages ago, and left upon the ground. 
  Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim,
Till after countless centuries it grew
Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew.

XXIII

Dim vistas, sprinkled o’er with sun-flecked green,
  Wound through the thickset trunks on every side,
And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen
  A Gothic window in its blazing pride, 180
When the low sun, two arching elms between,
  Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed
With lavish hues, would into splendor start,
Shaming the labored panes of richest art.

XXIV

Here, leaning once against the old oak’s trunk,
  Mordred, for such was the young Templar’s name,
Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk
  From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame
Made him forget that he was vowed a monk,
  And all the outworks of his pride o’ercame:  190
Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain,
As if a star had burst within his brain.

XXV

Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: 
  A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless,
Even from his love’s long leafless stem; the sense
  Of exile from Hope’s happy realm grew less,
And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence,
  Thronged round his heart with many an old caress,
Melting the frost there into pearly dew
That mirrored back his nature’s morning-blue. 200

XXVI

She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread,
  Her purity, like adamantine mail. 
Did so encircle her; and yet her head
  She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil,
Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread,
  Then faded, and anon she stood all pale,
As snow o’er which a blush of northern light
Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white.

XXVII

She thought of Tristrem and of Lancilot,
  Of all her dreams, and of kind fairies’ might, 210
And how that dell was deemed a haunted spot,
  Until there grew a mist before her sight. 
And where the present was she half forgot,
  Borne backward through the realms of old delight,—­
Then, starting up awake, she would have gone,
Yet almost wished it might not be alone.

XXVIII