![]() | Young Arthur | ![]() |
“A knight, by wedlock to a noble race
Allied, I trembled at my name's disgrace;
My name's disgrace the knowledge had insur'd,
And, dreading shame, I shame's reward endur'd,
Unceasing anguish—from good Beauclerc's pow'r
A wretch disguis'd, in an ill-omen'd hour,
Convey'd the infant, on a night so drear
Pursuit was fruitless; I the spot was near,
And, with my agent, journied to a place
Whose distant scite might shelter my disgrace;
There, well provided, and with gold a store,
We left the infant at a peasant's door;
Saw it receiv'd, a speed trac'd billet told
The child's name Arthur, and that annual gold,
Convey'd in secret, should the guerdon prove
Of fostering kindness and parental love;
That the strange secret should with time transpire,
And Arthur share the honours of his sire.
O, where, O, where is now that hapless son?”—
Here Hubert started, but the knight went on—
“Years past, those years on foreign soil I spent,
In all the restlessness of discontent;
Returning here, new stabs my anguish mov'd,
The man I trusted had a traitor prov'd;
Guilt clings to guilt in mystery's devious ways,
Fiend flatters fiend, first bosoms then betrays;
The fiend I trusted in my absence turn'd
His trust to profit; I, distracted, learn'd
The hind, no more with promis'd gold supplied,
Had wandered, whither every search defied.
Allied, I trembled at my name's disgrace;
My name's disgrace the knowledge had insur'd,
And, dreading shame, I shame's reward endur'd,
Unceasing anguish—from good Beauclerc's pow'r
A wretch disguis'd, in an ill-omen'd hour,
312
Pursuit was fruitless; I the spot was near,
And, with my agent, journied to a place
Whose distant scite might shelter my disgrace;
There, well provided, and with gold a store,
We left the infant at a peasant's door;
Saw it receiv'd, a speed trac'd billet told
The child's name Arthur, and that annual gold,
Convey'd in secret, should the guerdon prove
Of fostering kindness and parental love;
That the strange secret should with time transpire,
And Arthur share the honours of his sire.
O, where, O, where is now that hapless son?”—
Here Hubert started, but the knight went on—
“Years past, those years on foreign soil I spent,
In all the restlessness of discontent;
Returning here, new stabs my anguish mov'd,
The man I trusted had a traitor prov'd;
Guilt clings to guilt in mystery's devious ways,
Fiend flatters fiend, first bosoms then betrays;
The fiend I trusted in my absence turn'd
His trust to profit; I, distracted, learn'd
The hind, no more with promis'd gold supplied,
Had wandered, whither every search defied.
![]() | Young Arthur | ![]() |