His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel's waywardness. Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me: And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks, There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me.' Nigh upon that hour When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, Lets down his other leg, and stretching dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at him, And told himn of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly waning hues. "Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have suck'd their allegory From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these?" and Gareth lookt and read In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt 66 PHOSPHORUS," then "MERIDIES" "HESPERUS" "Nox"—"MORS," beneath five figures, armed men, Slab after slab, their faces forward all, And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. "Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, Who comes behind?" Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, And victor of the bridges and the ford, And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness — celot answer'd, “Prince, O Gareth thro' the mere unhappiness Of one who came to help thee not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, As on the day when Arthur knighted him." the King's best wish. O damsel, be ye wise To call him shamed, who is but over thrown? |