And his the lord whose happy reign
Controls Trinacria's ample plain,
Hiero, the just, the wise,

Whose steamy offerings rise

To Jove, to Ceres, and that darling maid,

Whom, rapt in chariot bright,

And horses silver-white,

Down to his dusky bower the lord of hell convey'd!

Oft hath he heard the Muses' string resound
His honour'd name; and may his latter days,

With wealth, and worth, and minstrel garlands crown'd,
Mark with no envious ear a subject praise,
Who now from fair Arcadia's forest wide
To Syracusa, homeward, from his home.
Returns, a common care, a common pride.—
(And, whoso darkling braves the ocean's foam,
May safeliest moor'd with twofold anchor ride ;)
Arcadia, Sicily on either side

Guard him with prayer;—and thou who rulest the deep,
Fair Amphitrite's lord! in safety keep

His tossing keel,—and evermore to me

No meaner theme assign of poesy!

MORTE D'ARTHUR.

A Fragment.

CANTO I.

It was the blessed morn of Whitsuntide,

And Carduel echoed to the festive call,
As his shrill task the clear-voiced herald plied,
And shriller trumpet shook the castle wall.

I.

YE whom the world has wrong'd, whom men despise,
Who sadly wander through this vale of tears,
And lift in silent dread your wistful eyes

O'er the bleak wilderness of future years,

Where from the storm no sheltering bourn appears Whom genius, moody guide, has led astray,

And pride has mock'd, and want with chilling fears, Quench'd of each youthful hope the timid ray: Yet envy not the great, yet envy not the gay!

II.

Say, can the silken bed refreshment bring,
When from the restless spirit sleep retires?
Or, the sharp fever of the serpent's sting,

Pains it less shrewdly for his burnish'd spires?
Oh, worthless is the bliss the world admires,
And helpless whom the vulgar mightiest deem:
Tasteless fruition, impotent desires,

Pomp, pleasure, pride, how valueless ye seem
When the poor soul awakes, and finds its life a dream!

III.

And those, if such may ponder o'er my song,
Whose light heart bounds to pleasure's minstrelsy;
To whom the faery realms of love belong;
And the gay motes of young prosperity
Dance in thy sunshine and obscure thine eye;
Suspect of earthly good the gilded snare,

When sorrow wreathes her brow with revelry,
And friendship's hollow smiles thy wreck prepare!
Alas! that demon forms should boast a mask so fair!

IV.

See'st thou yon flutterer in the summer sky,

Wild as thy glance, and graceful as thy form? Yet, lady, know, yon beauteous butterfly

Is parent of the loathsome canker-worm,

Whose restless tooth, worse than December's storm, Shall mar thy woodbine bower with greedy rage.—

Fair was her face as thine, her heart as warm,
Whose antique story marks my simple page;
Yet luckless youth was hers, and sorrowful old age.

'Twas merry

V.

in the streets of Carduel,

When Pentecost renew'd her festive call,
And the loud trumpet's clang and louder bell
The moss-grown abbey shook and banner'd wall;
And still, from bower to mass, from mass to hall,
A sea of heads throughout the city flow'd;

And, robed in fur, in purple, and in pall,
Of knights and dames the gaudy pageant yode,
And conquering Arthur last, and young Ganora rode.

VI.

Still as they pass'd, from many a scaffold high,
And window-lattice scatter'd roses flew,

And maidens, leaning from the balcony,

Bent their white necks the stranger bride to view, Whom that same morn, or e'er the sparkling dew Had from his city's herb-strewn pavement fled,

A village maid, who rank nor splendour knew, To Mary's aisle the conqueror's hand had led, To deck her monarch's throne, to bless her monarch's bed.

VII.

Who then was joyful but the Logrian king?
Not that his hand a five-fold sceptre bore;
Not that the Scandian raven's robber wing
Stoop'd to his dragon banner, and the shore
Of peopled Gallia, and where ocean hoar
Girds with his silver ring the island green

Of saints and heroes; not that paynim gore
Clung to his blade, and, first in danger seen,
In many a forward fight his golden shield had been.

VIII.

Nor warrior fame it was, nor kingly state

That swell'd his heart, though in that thoughtful eye

And brow that might not, even in mirth, abate

Its regal care and wonted majesty,

Unlike to love, a something seem'd to lie;
Yet love's ascendant planet ruled the hour.
And as he gazed with lover's ecstacy,

And blended pride upon that beauteous flower,
Could fame, could empire vie with such a paramour!

IX.

For many a melting eye of deepest blue,

And many a form of goodliest mould were there, And ivory necks and lips of coral hue,

And many an auburn braid of glossy hair. But ill might all those gorgeous dames compare With her in flowers and bridal white array'd: Was none so stately form nor face so fair As hers, whose eyes, as mournful or afraid, Were big with heavy tears, the trembling village maid.

X.

Yet whoso list her dark and lucid

eye,

And the pure witness of her cheek to read,

Might written mark in nature's registry,
That this fair rustic was not such indeed,
But high-born offspring of some ancient seed.
And, sooth, she was the heir of Carmelide,

And old Ladugan's blood, whose daring deed
With rebel gore Lancastrian meadows dyed,
Or e'er that Uther's son his mightier aid supplied.