"Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire." And so she led the path: her torch's fire Scaring wild spidery shadows at each stride From cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide, That labyrinthed the rock foundation strong Of that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong. At length they came to a nail-studded door, Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence They issued on a terraced eminence. Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the King Breathed open air that had the smell and sting Of brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam; For in the East the second dawning's gloam, Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks. And so within that larger light of dawn It seemed to Arthur now that he had known This maiden at his court, and so he asked. But she, well-tutored, her real person masked, And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not; Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot. For here it likes me best to sing and spin And work the hangings my sire's halls within: No courts or tournaments or gallants brave To flatter me and love! for me--the wave, The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm; My garth wherein I walk to think; the charm Of uplands redolent at bounteous noon And full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon; White ships that pass some several every year; These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear." "An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrue Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew, Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying of The King, half-brother, whom she did not love. And presently she brought him where in state This swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate....
King Urience that dawning woke and found Himself safe couched at Camelot and wound In Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it was That this thing secretly had come to pass. But Accolon at Chariot sojourned still Content with his own dreams; for 'twas the will Of Morgane thus to keep him hidden here For her desire's excess, where everywhere In Gore by wood and river pleasure houses, Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses; And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wont To list a tinkling, falling water fount,-- Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramours At sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers, Had caught a laughing language light thereof, And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!"-- On cool white walls her hands had deftly draped A dark rich hanging, where were worked and shaped Her fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind, Imperishable passions, which could wind The past and present quickly; and could mate Dead loves to kisses, and intoxicate With moon-soft words of past delight and song The heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong. And there beside it pooled the urnéd well, And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fell From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon, With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawn Came solely; with not ev'n her brindled hound To leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground; No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair, Or paging dwarf in purple with him there; But this her lute, about which her perfume Clung odorous of memories, that made bloom Her flowing features rosy to his eyes, That saw the words, his sense could but surmise, Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunk Her deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunk And slowly waned away to smouldering dreams, Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams. And so for those most serious eyes and lips, Faint, filmy features, all the music slips Of buoyant being bubbling to his voice To chant her praises; and with nervous poise His fleet, trained fingers call from her long lute Such riotous notes as must make madly mute The nightingale that listens quivering. And well he knows that winging hence it'll sing These aching notes, whose beauties burn and pain Its anguished heart now sobless, not in vain Wild 'neath her casement in that garden old Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon; And if it dies, the heartache of the tune Shall clamor stormy passion at her ear, Of death more dear than life if love be there; Melt her quick eyes to tears, her throat to sobs Tumultuous heaved, while separation throbs Hard at her heart, and longing rears to Death Two prayerful eyes of pleading "for one breath-- An ardor of fierce life--crushed in his arms Close, close! and, oh, for such, all these smooth charms, Full, sentient charms voluptuous evermore!" And sweet to know these sensitive vows shall soar Ev'n to the dull ear of her drowsy lord Beside her; heart-defying with each word Harped in the bird's voice rhythmically clear. And thus he sang to her who was not there: