He touched with hesitating hand, And lo! those Birds, far-famed through Love's dominions, The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; And their necks play, involved in rings, Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land; "Mine is she," cried the Knight; - again they clapped their pinions. "Mine was she-mine she is, though dead, And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow;" Whereat, a tender twilight streak Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek; And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow. Deep was the awe, the rapture high, Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining, To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. In silence did King Arthur gaze Upon the signs that pass away or tarry ; Then eased his Soul at length by praise Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen—the blissful Mary. Then said he, "Take her to thy heart Sir Galahad! a treasure that God giveth, Bound by indissoluble ties to thee Through mortal change and immortality; Be happy and unenvied, thou who art A goodly Knight that hath no Peer that liveth!" Not long the Nuptials were delayed; And sage tradition still rehearses The pomp the glory of that hour When toward the Altar from her bower King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses; Who shrinks not from alliance Of evil with good Powers, To God proclaims defiance, And mocks whom he adores. A Ship to Christ devoted By magic domination, The Heaven-permitted vent Of purblind mortal passion, Was wrought her punishment. The Flower, the Form within it, What served they in her need? Her port she could not win it, Nor from mishap be freed. The tempest overcame her, The Maid to Jesu hearkened, Till sense in death was darkened, But Angels round her pillow And, billow favouring billow, She reached the destined strand. Blest Pair! whate'er befall you, Your faith in Him approve Who from frail earth can call you, To bowers of endless love! ODE, COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. WHILE from the purpling east departs Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Foreran the expected Power, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and trec, Shakes off that pearly shower. All Nature welcomes Her whose sway, Tempers the year's extremes; Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, Like morning's dewy gleams; While mellow warble, sprightly trill, The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still The balance of delight. |