Who saw him alway wished to know him inore, As if he were some fate's defiant thrall And nursed a dreaded secret at his core; Little he loved, but power the most of all, And that he seemed to scorn, as one who knew By what foul paths men choose to crawl thereto. XVIII. XXI. Deep in the forest was a little dell A slender rill that sung itself to sleep Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook He had been noble, but some great de- From its small urn a drizzly murmuı ceit shook. XXII. wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim, 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 sunflecked 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, 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. Till from its dim enchantment it had Here, leaning once against the old oak's caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his trunk, Mordred, for such was the young 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, On those poor fallen by too much faith in man, Sorrow had made her soft heart yet more soft, And a new life within her own she bore Which made her tenderer, as she felt it move She that upon thy freezing threshold lies, Starved to more sinning by thy sav- Beneath her breast, a refuge for her love. age ban, Seeking that refuge because foulest vice More godlike than thy virtue is, whose XI. This babe, she thought, would surely bring him back, And be a bond forever them between; Before its eyes the sullen tempest-rack Would fade, and leave the face of heaven serene; And love's return doth more than fill the lack, Which in his absence withered the heart's green: And yet a dim foreboding still would flit Between her and her hope to darken it. XII. She could not figure forth a happy fate, Even for this life from heaven so newly come; |