University of Virginia Library

“Say whither along, ah! whither along;
Yet whither along art thou hurrying now?
The sun-set is hanging crown-jewels of pride
On the old mountain's towering brow,
And the vapoury twilight shall quickly enfold
All Nature in draperies of gray,—
Ah! whither along, at the hour of repose,
At the calm, dreamy close of the day?
Would'st thou leave thy fair steed on the broad yellow sands,—
Would'st thou take the fleet wings of the bark?
Thou must ride on amain, for the eventide comes,
And the night followeth frowning and dark!

Thou must ride on amain—past yon high craggy point—
Past yon bleak barren point must thou go—
For treacherous quicksands, and perilous rocks,
Here lurk the blue waters below.
Here, full many a venturous mariner lies,
In his shroud of the ooze and the weed;—
For his gay, gallant sails were as gossamer vain—
And his mast as the rush and the reed.
Thou must ride on amain, e'en till midnight's stern hour,
For heavy and long is the way:
Now rest thee, I rede thee, young Warrior with us,
Till the dawn of the golden-eyed day.

“Say whither along, yet whither along; but whither along, young Stranger;—
Ah! why then, whither along in thy strength and thy speed?
Loose, loose ye the reins—and dismount from the selle,
And forbear now to urge your tired steed!
Lo! the sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the shore,
And the sounds of the chainless and rushing night
Are deepening and gathering, till awful they grow,
In the sweep of their terrible might.

“Then whither along,—speak, whither along; yet whither along, young Stranger;—
Ah! why then, whither along in thy strength and thy speed?
Full urgent thine errand of surety must be;—
Full steadfast thy purpose—and bitter thy need.
Yet list to the voice of my warning, oh list;—
Nor proceed on thy perilous way,
Till the morning speaks out like a trump to the hills—
Till to-morrow's young dawn glimmers gray.”

“I must scour o'er the land,—I must sail o'er the sea,—
I must count many furlongs and miles,
Ere to-morrow's fair portals uplifted may be—
Ere to-morrow's young loveliness smiles:
For mine errand is urgent,—and sore is my need,—
And my will is unshaken and strong.”—

—“Yet whither along—speak, whither along;—
Oh! whither and wherefore along?
I know that the tempest is mustering afar—
For the signs of its terrors are forth on the blast.
(Well,—well am I skilled the dark Future to read;—
'T is unveiled unto me as the Past:
In its dim cloudy censer, yet quivering, I mark
The young Lightning's pale terrible fire,
Like a keen sword undrawn from its covering sheath—
Like the music within a mute lyre.
In their lone keyless caves the great Winds I perceive,
As they lie in abeyance upfurled;
As they sleep in their strong-holds, the ancient and drear;
At the deep hinges four of the world:
All the fountains of all the wide floods—and the rains
Are revealed to my quick, watchful eye;
And the embryo Earthquake 't is mine to detect,
And the coming Eclipse to descry).

“Oh! rest ye, oh! rest ye, in bower and in grot,
Till the dawn of to-morrow's fair light;
For stormy and gloomy, and heavy and dark
Are the signs of the on-coming night.”

Then a chorus of voices, low, tender, and sweet;—
Then a chorus of voices was heard:
And still the same burden they thrillingly sang,
While right onwards impetuous he spurred.
Still onwards he dashed; but with full equal speed,
The nymphs followed untiring behind.
“Oh! whither away, then?—ah! hither turn ye!”—
Their footsteps seemed winged by the wind:
Still followed they close, and still pleaded they soft—
“Oh! turn ye, young Stranger, and rest;
Pray thee enter our gate—pray thee bide in our bower—
Pray thee be our companion and guest,
Until morning hath sown with rare diamond and pearl,
All the glowing and rainbow-dyed ground;—
With the Spendthrift's luxurious thoughtlessness proud,
Scattering widely her treasures around.
Oh! Flower of the Flower of Chivalry, rest,
And await till the dark threatening hour
Brightly—brightly be overpast in the hush
Of our rose-trellised odorous bower.
Rest ye there, oh! young blooming Conqueror, rest;
For doubt not thy high deeds are known;
And be Honour to him whose fair forehead is crowned
E'en with Victory's laurel-wreathed Crown!
Rest ye there! bold Sir Guy o' the Featherstonehaugh;
For be sure thy redoubtable name,
Hath been loudly and proudly spread widely abroad,
By the echoing trumpet of Fame!
Rest ye there, brave Deliverer of Palestine's land,—
So renowned in the flower of thy youth;
Thou, the Mirror of Courtesy, the Anchor of Hope,
And the Star of bright Honour and Truth!
Lo! the banquet is spread, and the couch is prepared;
For though hurried thy journey might be,—
Be thou sure that Report, on her wings of the Wind,
Swiftly, surely, hath flown before thee!”

Then listened that Stranger Knight so bold,
To those melting and murmuring strains,—
To those smooth honey-words of flatteries soft,
Till he dropped the fair silken reins,
And spoke to his horse in low whispered tones;—
While that noble and gallant steed
Relaxed with a right good will at once
His stormy and rushing speed.
Then still sweeter rose the prevailing sounds,
And more witching out-poured the song:—
“Ah! whither along;—yet whither along;—
Why, whither and wherefore along?
Rest awhile from your wearisome journeyings now,—
Rest awhile from your harassing toil;
On your jewelled reins hangs the feathery foam,—
On your burnished mail the dust's soil.
Oh! hither turn ye! Oh! follow hither!
Dismount from your panting horse!
For panting and jaded, and wearied is he,
With the speed of your rushing course.
Oh, hither turn ye! Oh, follow hither!
Dismount from your out-worn steed:
Since whither along! speak, whither along!—
Yet whither along in such haste and such speed?”

He alit from his horse,—and Equerries four,
Straight sprung forward to seize the fallen reins;—
And they loosened the girths, and unfixed the fair selle,
And unfastened the rings and the chains;
But with nostril dilated, and eye flashing flame,
That tired steed snorts, and plunges, and rears,
And scarce suffers the equerries to lead him away,
Till command of his master he hears.

Now gently those nymphs the young Warrior surround,
And with blushes and smiles fair to see,
A goblet high foaming with rare mighty wine,
One tenders on suppliant knee:
While another casts wreaths of the summer's gay flowers
O'er his winding and shadowy way;
And the rest shake the fresh evening-dews cool and bright,
From the bloomy and odorous spray.
All, all in devotion and homage vie,
To that favoured and chosen young Knight;—
All, all cluster round him, intent to display
Their unchecked and triumphant delight:
And still as he follows their beck and their lead,
The same chorus unchangingly rings:
And many a voice as the Nightingale's sweet,
To a ravishing melody sings,—
“Then whither along?—speak, whither along?—
Ah! hither, turn hither,—yet hither—Sir Knight.”
And they pointed the way through a rose-trellised porch,
With red Midsummer's floweriness bright;
And one, with a small silver bugle blew soft,
A fairy and flourishing blast.
Straight backward the moss-covered valves were flung,
And the Knight through the aperture past;
But few steps hath he ta'en in the enchanted domain,
Ere he pauses o'erwhelmed and amazed;
For no language—no fancy can image the scene,
On whose glories he wonderingly gazed:
For whate'er way he turns, the fair vistas extend,
The superb Genii structures are seen;
On all sides was the beauty of gardens and groves,
And the glittering of marble's smooth sheen;
There were proud colonnades, stretching East stretching West,
Stretching North, South, in front and in rear:
There were fairy pavilions that rose like soft clouds,
From the green earth, both far off and near;
And fantastic pagodas, and domes, spires, and towers,
And all wild architectural feats;
And runnels, and fountains, and falling cascades,
Tempering gently the Midsummer heats.

Still, still in his ears rang the exquisite sounds,
And ceased not the full-chorussed song,
“Oh, whither along, thou victorious young Knight?
Oh whither, say, whither along?
Hither, hither, turn ye. Oh! follow hither,
And gaze on our glorious abode;
This is better by far than a tempest-tossed sea,
Or a long weary night-shrouded road.”

And glorious in sooth was the marvellous scene,
As it opened upon the sight;
'T was wond'rous, as glorious—'t was splendid, as strange—
'T was boundless, as beautcous and bright;
There were proud pillared halls, and broad terraces fair,
And great galleries lofty and wide,
Still by magic, they seemed to be suddenly raised,
As they sprang up on every side;
There were gay marble courts, filled with statues and founts,
And vestibules shadowy and vast;
Fast they hurry him on, nor e'er slacken their speed,
Through those courts and those galleries—fast—fast!
Through these and round those, the young warrior moves,
While still sing the bright gay-fluttering throng,
“Now, whither along; oh, whither along!—
Say, whither and wherefore along?”
Now to mighty saloons and huge chambers of state,
Is he ushered with song and with smile;
Well I ween, since he entered the rose-trellised porch,
He hath journeyed a long weary mile!
Through these and past those, the mailed Warrior moves;
Through these and round those is he led,
Till they come to one richer by far than the rest,
Where the walls with stained canvass were spread;
From the high-vaulted ceiling, e'en down to the floor,
Reached these picture-folds, glowing and warm;
So true to the life, that a Savage had owned
Their perfection, their truth, and their charm.
As his eye wandered over those many-hued walls,
What form, oh, what form doth he see?
'T is himself, as he combated late midst the brave—
The oppressed Holy Land to set free!
'T is himself, as he charged against Soldanrie's hosts,
Beneath Lebanon's cedar-crowned mount;
'T is himself, as he wounded and fainting sank down
By a dark-gushing, gore-tainted fount;
And again 't is himself, 'mid the tournament's ranks,
As when armistice brief was proclaimed,
He rode forth to display his fair skill and stout strength,
'Mongst the flower of the feared and the famed;
'T is himself and his steed, as in armour of proof,
They appeared in the lists on that day,
When the tempest of battle awhile was exchanged
For the mimic and well-ordered fray.
In amazement he stood, while swift rushed o'er his brow,
Of doubt, pleasure, and pride the mixed glow:
Then the Sovereign Enchantress spoke, smiling and calm,
With her soft, honeyed whisperings low;
“And say, canst thou marvel, Sir Knight, to behold
Thy exploits and thy sufferings portrayed?
Know, oblivion shall ne'er shroud thy lofty deserts,
Nor obscurity dare to o'ershade!
Lo! the might of thy daring is bruited afar,
And thy deeds of emprize are renowned!
What ho! careless Minstrels!—what do ye now there?
Sound the Pæan of Victory!—sound!”
And at once from an hundred harps, outburst
The music of Victory loud,
Till his heart it grew dizzy with strong delight,
And his senses seemed wrapped in a cloud.
A dewy and dreamy cloud of balm,
For the spells were upon his brain,
And the flatteries chaunted forth, fell soft
On his soul, like a singing rain;
For still of his Knightly achievements all,
Were the Minstrels' heroic lays,
And whenever a pause broke the loud ringing strain,
Rose a murmur of plaudits and praise.

And now to the banquetting-hall of state,
Were his willing footsteps led—
While by chamberlains twelve was a canopy rich,
Carried loftily over head,
There the Sister Enchantresses sate in state,
With adorers and slaves by their side;
But the Queen of those bright enchantresses all,
Was the nymph whom he first had descried,—
Was the nymph who had witched him with silvery tones,
And with sweet-chaunted words to that spot—
Who had sprang like a startled fawn, prompt and light,
From the covert of bower and of grot!
Then mantled and veiled was her beautiful form,
Her exquisite form and her face,
Yet, nor mantle nor veil, could wholly suffice
To o'ershadow their charm and their grace—
Now their folds she unclasped, and their furls she unfixed,
And away their disguises she threw;
And she rose like the Morning-star in the pride
Of its loveliness pure—on the view,
While in ecstacy wild of astonishment stood,
That bewildered young stranger Knight;
For so bright Apparition ne'er gladdened before
His enraptured and ravished sight—
For the crescent-moon never shone so fair,
In its own blue heaven above,
As enwreathed 'midst her locks of deep hyacinth flow
And emblazed on her brow of love!
For the gossamer's folds ne'er so lightsomely waved
On the summer's soft breezy air,
As the cloth of starred silver, and cloth of flowered gold,
Floating waved round that form so fair;
'T was a broad jewelled Zodiac formed her zone,
And traced round its richly-wrought signs,
Hieroglyphic characters dimly shone,
Wizard numbers and mystical lines,—
Cabalistical names were thereon inscribed,
And squares, circles, and trines were engraved;
And with queenly grace, in her ivory hand
A fairy-like wand she waved.
Xereanthemum-blooms looped the draperies up
On her smooth shoulders white and round—
And with bracelets broad of the diamond-stone,
Were her fair arms of beauty bound;
And many a strange necromantic charm,
Affixed to her person she bore,
Sealed and shrouded from those who were all unversed
In the dark and the terrible lore.
“And how is it, Sir Knight, that thy traveller's garb,
Is with jewels and 'broidery o'erspread?
That a collar of gems round thy throat is clasped—
And a casque of bright gold shields thy head?
That thou wearest a bauldric emblazoned so fair—
And a scarf of some right cunning loom;
That thou 'rt pranked out with chain, and with ring, and with stud,
With torse, and with aigrette and plume?
How is't that thy steed with wrought housings is decked,
And with furniture glittering and fair,
Such as e'en in some Royal Procession of state
A young Monarch's might worthily wear?”

Then the cloud of a moment came over his brow,
As he answered the marvellous maid:
“For the royal tournament's trial of skill,
Thou behold'st me equipped and arrayed;
But while ranged 'mongst the princely combatants, there
Spurred a messenger breathless and fleet,
To bring me dark tidings, disastrous and dire,
Dark tidings I may not repeat—
There was death in delay, e'en in speed there was fear;
Swift I urged my precipitate course,
Nor stripped from my shoulders the harness of war,
Nor delayed to dismantle my horse;
And 't is therefore this thick-jewelled panoply rich,
And these furbished accoutrements fair—
These costly adornments, this dazzling array,
And these princely equipments I wear;
'T is for this that my stately-caparisoned steed
In such trappings of pride ye saw dight:
Oh! sore was my need, and my errand was stern,
And hasty, and hot was my flight.”

The cloud of a moment had spread o'er his brow,
But it vanished as fleet as it came;
The cloud of a moment had crept o'er his brow,
And a moment's faint chill o'er his frame;
But no shadowing cloud and no withering chill,
And no stingings of memory's keen dart,
Cast a gloom o'er his brow or a thrill through his frame,
Or disturbed his too false, faithless heart,
When that radiant Enchantress, with smile and soft word,
Led him up the vast luminous hall—
Where all splendours and witcheries, and wonders combined,
Well both spirit and sense might enthrall;
Where the magic of Picture arrested the gaze,
With its glory and with its grace—
Every scene of enchantment, all forms of delight,
There the eye at its pleasure could trace;
The poetical canvass was burthened and fraught
With a thousand and thousand themes—
That glanced o'er the soul, and that swept o'er the sense,
E'en like half-recollected dreams.
Lo! there Proserpine wandered o'er flowery-paved fields—
There sweet Hero kept watch by the wave;
And there pale, pale Andromeda writhed on her rock—
While came on her Deliverer to save;
There the Palmyrene Queen, on her snowy-white steed,
Midst her courtiers and followers sate—
Victory beaming sublime from her glorious mien,
While her eye flashed the lightnings of Fate;
Aphrodite's own glowing form too blushed there,
In her pearly, transparent shell,
And the Grecian Helen's fair faultless shape,
Was traced but too warmly well—
And swarth Egypt's own Sorceress-Sovran smiled—
With her lightning-like smiles and keen,
Looked she not as the world were but made to be lost
For its wonder, its pride, and its queen!
And there Anacyndaraxas' son,
With the rose and the myrtle crowned,
Reclined at the festal board, while thronged thick
His peers and his satraps, around—
All lavish splendours, all richest delights,
There amassed and commingling might seem,
Till that fair-imaged scene in its prodigal pride,
Vexed the sense like some wild feverish dream;

And there, like a mountain shepherd, reposed
Bright Endymion, couched on flowers;
Like a blooming young mountain-shepherd, fair
As the rosy-bosomed Hours;
With his blue-veined eyelids weighed softly down
By the golden oppression of sleep,
While around him the clustering violets brood,
And the vine's wreathing tendrils creep;
Glistening showers of moonlight come trembling down
From the crystalline skies above,
And melt round his sleeping and motionless form,
Like the tears and the smiles of Love!

There the soft Arethusa dissolved away,
Traced in lines of a faint, watery light,
And with mystical sympathy thrilled the whole soul,
And transfixed the contemplative sight.

And Narcissus pined o'er his bright shadow for aye—
For evermore languished he there;
While the entrancēd beholder might scarcely believe,
Both forms were but frail shadows fair!
With such skill had the artist's laborious hand,
His delectable work achieved;
So cunningly had his free pencil portrayed
The bright shape which his fancy conceived!
And there parted that mightiest chief of old Troy,
From Andromache lovely in tears,
While their Ilium's own sweet Morning-Star smiled beside,
In the bloom of his infantine years;
And near them, the dark fiery Sappho, alone,
Was divinely and fearfully traced,
Her unfilleted locks hung dishevelled and loose,
And her gem-studded zone was unbraced:
But the Sun-God still rose in her glorious dark eyes—
Set in fire, on her deep burning lips;
Nor might Passion, nor Suffering, nor Death, nor Despair,
His rich light in her spirit eclipse.

There, too, tower-built Carthage! poor heart-broken queen,
In a rapture of anguish and ire,
High tosses her white-gleaming arms o'er her head,
On a shadowy, funereal pyre:
And there, drawn by his wild lovely pards, harnessed light,
Comes on Bacchus, a beautiful shape;
To the axles his chariot wheels are dyed deep,
In the rich purple blood of the grape!
And Psyche—sweet Psyche—a dream of delight—
A soft vision, transcendantly fair,
By the bright Sovran Boy of warm Paphos' bowered shades,
Stands limned in her loveliness there.

And not only in paintings, choice, perfect, and vast,
Did the walls of that chamber abound;
But breadths of rich arras, all teeming with life,
From the ceiling hung down to the ground;
And the bright floor itself, with Mosaic smooth-paved,
Gave full many a fair image to view,
And sparkled with many a glittering design,
And with many a deep, glorious hue.
While where sate the gay revellers, raised on high seats,
Broad golden-fringed carpets were spread,
Whereon fresh wreaths of flowers, and thick clusters of fruit,
By Nature's own hand seemed new shed:
And a thousand proud statues, in groups or apart,
Glanced the light back from white Parian stone;
Save where strong coloured radiance from domes of stained glass,
Was clearly and vividly thrown:—
Those domes of stained glass in their turn too disclosed
Strange devices, fantastic and fine,—
Rich emblazonings—exquisite heraldries bright—
And quaint traceries—wreath-like that shine.

'T was a hall of luxurious Enchantment in truth,
That bewildered the sight and the brain;
'T was worthy indeed of that Sorceress-Queen,
And her radiant and fairy-like train:
For wherever eye turned, some fresh wonder appeared,
More startling and strange than the rest;
Some fair marvel of delicate handicraft rare,
Which the skill of a master confessed.

There are idols and images curiously carved,
And achieved with elaborate care,
And exact imitations of all living things
In the earth, or the water, or air:
And proud monuments countless, so complex and fine,
Such miraculous efforts of art,
That the eye might not seize their perfection at once,
But must study each portion and part.
There are exquisite models of cities superb—
Of towered capitals, stately and old,—
Composed of materials resplendent and rich,—
Built of chrysolite, ivory, and gold.
There are glorious fountains, whose diamond sheets fall
Into basins with sculptures o'er-wrought;—
Fair sculptures, where shine, in immortal repose,
The pale artist's high triumphs of thought!
There are huge candelabra of every device,
Constellation-like, clustered around;
There are high graceful jars, filled with newly-blown flowers,
Ranged in gay gleaming rows on the ground:
And many a richly-wrought vase, too, is there,
And full many a fair-sculptured urn;
And gilt braziers and censers, and cassolets bright,
Wherein costliest spiceries burn,—
Crystal coffers of wondrous workmanship, too,
Wherein treasure undreamed-of shines;
All the wealth of the Ocean's own central grots—
All the stores of the Earth's midmost mines;
From the burning and blinding diamond keen,
To the round pearl, so pure and so pale;
From the orient gold, to the silver whose sheen
Shows like light on the swift dolphin's scale,—
From the hard solid porphyry, polished and rich,
To the amber, etherially clear,—
The smooth glistening amber, which sages have said
Is the ocean-bird's long-treasured tear.

There were riches that eye never gazed on before—
That tongue may not try e'en to tell:
From mountain and desert—from river and rock—
From cavern, and fountain, and cell.
There were riches, I wean, from no earthly-piled hoards,
But from regions unspeakably far,—
From the depths of old Chaos, the gulphs of old Night,
And from comet, and meteor, and star.
Gems like sparks of the sun, with such brilliance endowed,
So intense in their terrible light,
That covered and shrouded, and folded they were,
Else their glory had dazzled the sight!
While still through those veils and those shroudings escaped
Their intense, unendurable rays,
Till the sense aching shrank from the glaring excess
Of that half-suppressed, half-revealed blaze!

There were exquisite shells, of all dyes and all shapes,
From some far sea's unsearchable shore;
There were wedges and ingots of metals unknown,—
Of strange, nameless, and marvellous ore.
There were fair coins stamped deep with the emblem and badge
Of high empery, secret and dark;
The uninitiated eye of the gazer must fail
To interpret each cryptical mark.
There were wonders of nature, and wonders of art,—
All things choice and costly, and rare;
Nor in art nor in nature might fair thing be found,
That had not its counterpart there:
'T was one vast chaos-labyrinth—one wild vortexgulph
Of enchantment, and mystery, and change;
Each moment brought surely new marvels to light,
More o'erwhèlming, and splendid, and strange!
'T was one jubilee-revel—one festival-show,—
One bright Saturnalian display;
And Pleasure—fair Pleasure—the queen of the hour,
O'er every glad bosom held sway.
Was nothing there wanting to enchant and enchain,
To intoxicate, charm, and surprise!
Oh! was nothing there wanting, that magical power
Could command, or construct, or devise!
There were feats of machinery, complex and strange;
And scarce treasures of skill and of art;
With such subtle refinements of cunning contrived,
That dark Witchcraft must there have borne part!

There were perfect museums, wherein were amassed
All creation's rich wonders profound,—
Those wonders that meet us wherever we move,
Without number, or measure, or bound.
There were huge magic mirrors, whose surface displayed
Swift successions of dim, shadowy things—
Now the trouble of nations—the out-breaking of wars—.
Now the glory or downfal of Kings!
—The fulfilments of prophecies, wondrous and wild,—
Or the intrigues and the issues of crime;—
The conclusions of destiny—the ends of events—
And the ruinous triumphs of Time!

There were mighty raised platforms with sceneries adorned,—
There was many a fair spacious stage,
Whereon were enacted, with splendour and skill,
The chief subjects of History's rich page;
Or from antique tradition or fanciful tale,
Divers passages aptly were ta'en,
And catastrophe true, with wild fictions entwined,
Thrilled the soul with rich pleasure and pain.
And still spectacle followed on spectacle fast,—
Ever glorious, and various, and new,—
And from platform to platform the wandering eye glanced,
While diversity feasted the view!
Here a fair mimic battle raged stoutly and long,
'T was the rout and the rally,—the stand! and the charge!
While bickered the lamp-light, uncertain and fast,
Upon oriflamme, helmet, and targe:—
There a right royal banquet, a festival sped,
Amidst lights, wreaths, and jewels, and plumes,
Or a funeral-pageant passed slowly across,
With its pomp of o'ershadowing glooms;
Or else 't was some stern, ancient sacrifice proud,
Or some dread incantation and dire,—
Or some oracle deep—or some fiery ordeal—
Or some rite round a dark frowning pyre,—
Or the festal grape-gatherings of sweet southern climes,
Were enacted with blithesome parade;
Or a high Roman triumph went sweeping along,
With the victor in purple arrayed;
Or a proud coronation of Soldan or King,
With all due ceremonial supreme,
Set the clear air ablaze with its glory and pomp,
Till it past like an over-wrought dream!

Round that wonderful hall, gilded galleries ran,
Wherein countless spectators were placed;
And that gay, splendid scene, with fair mien and rich garb,
Well I ween they beseemingly graced.
O'er the carved bulustrades of these galleries they leaned,
And the wave of their plume-crested heads
Was e'en as the motion of billows half-lulled,
O'er which many a foam-wreath still spreads:
And the hum of their mingling voices seemed
Like the sound of a musical breeze,
When it runs in continuous murmur soft,
Through a forest of thick-woven trees.
In the dazzling light of that chamber vast,
Was each feature and outline revealed;
For more dazzling its light than the midsummer's sun's
When it glares in a cloudless field:
For not only ten thousand of thousand of lamps
There in sparkling profusion are hung,
Thick as glittering dew-drops in morning's bright hour,
The leaves and the flowerets among,
But at either side of the Enchantress's throne,
At fathoms' distance four,
Reared two mighty Leviathans, spouting up flames,
Full an hundred feet and more:
Those columns of flames, e'en like rockets burst
Into sevenfold splendour on high;
Like far-gleaming rockets, that lustrously break
In the arch of a deep midnight sky!
And then fell down in showers of swift-shooting stars;—
For like swift-shooting stars glanced the sparks,
All harmlessly bright as the phosporic flame,
That by night streams at times round fleet barks.
'T was like beads and like bubbles of clear golden fire,—
Like specks and like spangles of light;
And strong was the radiance cast widely around,
And supremely, ineffably bright!
And from every side of that radiance intense,
Over-powering reflections were thrown,
From vessels of silver, and vessels of gold,
And from trinkets of pure, precious stone;
From the flagons and urns, and bossed salvers superb,
And the graceful and rare myrrhine cups;
And the goblets, like rich crown-imperial-flowers,
Where the small bird luxuriously sups.

Oh! what tongue might pronounce half the splendor and pomp,
Which that marvellous banquet displayed;
All the genii that dwell in the earth and the air
Must have lent that bright Sorceress their aid!
There were huge Cornucopias suspended in air,
That unshaken spontaneously poured
Their treasure of flowers and delectable fruit
On the groaning and well-furnished board.
All growths, of all climates—ripe, luscious, and fresh,
Were in lavish abundance spread round;
Whether such as in newly-found lands flourish fair,
Or in gorgeous old countries renowned;
And choice cates, heaped in dishes of cost, there were piled,
And all luxuries, flavorous and rare:—
Every fish of the sea, every creature of earth,—
Every fowl of the wide-regioned air!

Blythe the cup-bearers ply their glad task, blythe and fleet,
And the goblets o'erflowingly shine,
With the golden Metheglin, the Hypocrasse spiced,
And rich weepings of Shiraz' famed vine:
But the Enchantress herself, with her own snowy hand,
Ever proffered the cup to the Knight;
And in sooth, from those hands, even the wine seemed more clear,
And the gem-crusted goblet more bright!

Now the minstrels made pause,—now the timbrel was still,—
And the voice of the singers was mute;—
Now hushed were the dulcimers, trumpets, and harps,
And silenced the silvery-voiced flute:
And that dear dulcet voice, more melodious than all,
Murmured tenderly close in his ear;
That voice as the wailing of turtle-doves soft,—
As the warble of nightingales clear:—
“Sir Knight,” said that Sorceress Queen, “I would yield
All these triumphs, this pomp, and this pride,
From country to country, to wander with thee,
As thy Slave—if—alas!—not thy Bride!”
As she speaks, her sweet voice sinks to whisperings faint,—
Faint, broken, and quivering, and low;—
Those whisperings tremble to sighs,—and those sighs
Into echoes mellifluously flow.
As she looks in his face, the bright roseate bloom
Of her glorious and beautiful face,
Fades softly away, and her aspect is touched
With a tender and sad twilight grace;
And her luminous eyes, fixed on his, become dull
With the dimness of trespassing tears,
Until slowly she turns from the enraptured young Knight,
As o'er-powered by emotions and fears.
“Fair Marvel! resplendent Enchantress!” he cried,
“I am thine,—I am all wholly thine!—
I have gazed on a full dazzling sun;—I have drained
A draught of a soul-maddening wine!”
Nor farther he said—for that drunkenness deep,
Of the heart, and the soul, and the brain,
Grew deeper and deeper, and stronger the spell,
And yet closer the links of the chain.

Long, long hath that wonderful banquet endured,
Yet still fleetly the joyous time flies;—
But slumber at last came by gentle degrees,
To visit his pleasure-palled eyes,—
And scarce closed were the lids, when a vision arose,
Like a mist 'twixt the moon and the morn:
'T was his own Britomartis,—his own betrothed love,—
All by sufferings and watchings o'er-worn,
At the altar upheld by her stern lordly sire,
Like a pale corse just torn from the tomb:
With her Bridegroom beside her, arrayed in gay sort,
With rich mantle, and collar, and plume;—
And who is that Bridegroom?—Sir Launcelot Vaux,
Who disputed with him that fair hand,
When the one urged his suit for dear love of herself,
And the other for love of her land!
Now the vision hath changed—'t is the beauteous Bride still;
But in grave-clothes she is mournfully bound;
And laid, stretched on her bier, while with taper and book,
Stand the priests in their scapulaires round.
Then a deep heavy sigh, of remorse and despair,
From his bosom unconsciously came;
And he woke with a start, while he uttered aloud
His own lost Britomartis' loved name.
Swift the vision had come,—swift the vision had flown.—
For the cup-bearer still held on high
The vessel from which he was crowning his cup,
When sleep drew the deep lid o'er his eye!
Of a sudden, a sharp, biting blast crossed the hall,—
So sharp, and so biting, and chill,
That it pierced through the bones, and it shook all the nerves
With its icy and arrowy thrill.
Then the Knight would have wrapped his fair furbordered cloak,
Round his shoulders, and round his broad breast;
But 't is gone—it is lost!—Now where—where can it be—
That fair broidered and minnivered vest?
Where—where is that mantle, which o'er his rich mail,
Loose and flowing he gallantly wore?
That cloak which, embossed on its thick-broidered folds,
The red-cross so transcendantly bore?
Then he called to a silken-haired cup-bearer near,
And bade him straight seek for his cloak;
But a dark dæmon-grin crossed that cup-bearer's face,
He sped not—he stirred not—nor spoke!
Sore angered, the Knight would have grasped his good sword,—
His own cross-handled sword, keen and good;
But 't is stolen from his side—it is loosed from his belt;—
Dark—dark to his cheek springs the blood.
“Mary Mother! now pardon, and shield me,” he cries;
“For 't is shame to a true Red-cross Knight,
To be thus without symbol, or token, or badge
Of his hallowed pretensions in sight!”
Dark—dark to his cheek springs the choler-stirred blood,
And fierce to his eye mounts the flame;—
Lo! a change, deep and dreadful, came o'er that fair scene,
When his tongue named that high, holy name,
And he gazed with a rising and deepening distrust
On the troubled and panic-struck throng:
The gay feasts broken off—wide-dispersed the gay groups,
And suspended the newly-raised song:
He turned to the marvellous shape by his side,—
Oh! how fearful the expression that past
O'er that mien so resplendent, — that beautiful brow,
As she shuddered and cowered down, aghast!
And there came a low sound of deep thunder anon,
And a shadow of terrible gloom:
And the splendour and glory was strangely obscured
Of that shining and glittering room.
Out spoke that young Knight; “Now to horse! ha! to horse!
For too long I've been tarrying with ye!
Now to horse! ha! to horse! and a courteous farewell
To thy company, Sorceress, and thee!”
He hath gained the last corridore,—gained the last court;
He hath passed now the rose-bescreened gate:
And there doth his steed, all untended, unhoused,
Unsquired and unforaged, await.
But oh! wonder of wonders! 't was Midsummer's height
When he entered these magical bowers,
And 't is now almost winter—'t is autumn's dim wane,
Yet it seems but a few fleeting hours.
No prescribed alternations of night and of day
Were perceived in that wondrous abode,
Where the current of time, all unchangingly bright,
And unpausingly, swift ever flowed!
Where a light, than a Midsummer's midnoon of light,
More o'erpowering, and clear, and intense,
Ever gloriously shone, without shadow or wane,
And pierced to the soul through the sense.
Now he urges his steed—and now shipping he's ta'en—
And now fades like a dream the alien strand;—
Passes day after day,—till the hour comes at last,
When he hails his own sweet native land!
And away—and away—like a shaft from the bow—
Unpausing, unwearied, he speeds;
And not sunshine nor showers, nor darkness nor light,
And nor high-way nor by-way he heeds.
To the ancient Northumbrian hills is he bound,
Where his own Britomartis dwells;
And his heart with expectancy heaves and throbs,—
With a thousand emotions it swells.
Bright—bright breaks the morn of the last wished-for day
Of his journey so tedious and long,
And the hope in his bosom, erst fluttering and faint,
Aye grows stronger, and yet more strong!
Joy!—joy!—for the old castle-turrets he sees;—
For the proud castle-streamer's in view!
On! on! thou good steed,—yet a few more strides,
And the green wood is well threaded through!
On! on!—but feebler and fainter still—
Each successive effort grows;—
Yet courage! brave steed! and right soon shalt thou gain
Fair shelter and needful repose.

Broad the evening shadows are stretching away,
Over hill, over valley, and wood;
And the sun it hath set with a stormy pomp,—
Red—red glared its disc as blood!
Sir Knight! for a little space now relax,
As relax ye must, your speed,
And breathe for awhile now, as breathe ye must,
Your toil-worn and travel-spent steed!
And turn ye! ah turn from the pathway now;
For behold ye, where sad and slow,
A funeral-train is coming on,
With its mystery of gloom and woe!
Yea! turn ye! ah turn from the pathway now,
Make ye way for the solemn bier:
And who is the chiefest mourner there?
In his eye there is seen no tear;
In his stately step is no faultering shewn,—
In his aspect no sorrow-stamped trace;
But haughty and calm, but serene and unmoved
Is that mourner's cold, passionless face!
And well did Sir Guy of the Featherstonehaugh,
His opponent and rival know;
And he shrank, as though suddenly smitten sore
With a mortal and murtherous blow;
And he gazed with a dull and a vacant eye
On the lingering and lengthening train,
Neither anger nor pride could find place in his heart,
'T was too utterly full of pain!
And a thousand—and still a thousand thoughts
Rushed thick to his grief-swoll'n heart;
Where one settled, immovable pang remained,—
One which could not, and would not depart!
Now the funeral-pageant hath turned to the right,
Where gleams out through the greenwood's shade,
A stately Baronial Chapel fair,
Wherein many a sleeper is laid.
And Sir Guy he was left by that vanishing train,
'Midst the shadows and stillness alone;
And both rider and horse remained motionless there,
As though carved out of senseless stone.
Now a rustling low of the leaves is heard,—
Now a stealthy step creeps to his side;
'T is the Ladye Britomarte's gentle page,
The loyal, and trusty, and tried:—
“Sir Knight!—oh Sir Knight! it hath ill befallen:”
Thus he whispered:—“thou 'rt sped here so late;—
'T was a dire mischance—'t is a desperate hap—
'T is a dark and an untoward fate!
Hadst thou sooner arrived, it perchance had been thine,
Our adorable Ladye to save
From the darkest of dooms—from a sore-wounded heart,—
A loathed home, and a cold, lonely grave!

“Wouldst thou hear how her Sire, so unpitying and stern,
Crushed her hopes with a haughty disdain,
And bound her to one she abhorred and contemned,
With a galling and iron-linked chain!
Wouldst thou hear of her sufferings, her wrongs, and her woes?—
Wouldst thou hear of her tortures and pangs?
And how deeply Despair in her heart set his stings—
His empoisoned and pestilent fangs?
How her face, like a lit alabaster-wrought vase,
Still grew paler, and ever more pale—
How her form's buoyant gracefulness vanished at once,—
Bowed and bent like the reed in the gale?—
How her lips which, like roses in sunshine, erst bloomed,
Changed to lilies embedded in snow—
How her eye, once a midnight with lightnings transpierced,
As a midnight of shadows did grow?—
How her hair, in long willowy abandonment hung,
Reft of gloss, yet with still its rich hue—
How her hands so transparently slender became,
You might see the warm day-beam glance through?—
How her voice, in low tremulous faulterings came forth,
Like an echo of echoes 't was heard,
While like tears fell those accents, so sad and so sweet,
With deep sighs 'twixt each faintly-breathed word?
'T was to me that she spoke, in her lorn dying hour,
And thy name first she shudderingly named;
And then thus she addressed me, while trembling and low,
She those soft, melting syllables framed:
“Tell him, thousands of thousands have shared my dark fate,
And that thousands of thousands yet must,
While Faithlessness walks this fair beautiful earth,
And Forgetfulness blights Love's fond trust!
Tell him well, well I ween, that midst Pleasure's bowered haunts
He hath loitered the live long day,
And from Virtue's fair pathways, happier far,
Hath too recklessly wandered astray!”
He answered not—moved not—that wretched Knight;
But his courser, so jaded and worn,
Started suddenly forward, and sprang like the deer,
When up-roused by the hunter's loud horn;
Like the dolphin chased close by the hungry shark,—
Like the bird by the hawk pursued;—
Away and away—ever on—on—on!—
O'er the common, or through the green wood.—
Ha! it bounds o'er the plain—ho! it leaps o'er the stream,
Lo! it strains up the steep rugged hill,
With an ardour and vigour untamed and untired,
While a voice shrieks all tuneless and shrill.
“Yet, whither along, say whither along?—
Why, whither along art thou hurrying now,
With the foam on thy steed, and the dust on thy mail,
And the drops on thy pale ghastly brow?”
Well he knew that wild sound—well he knew that wild voice—
Though all altered and sharpened its tone,
Too—too well he knew it—and deeply he wished
That he never had heard it, nor known!

And evermore flew his fierce horse, unrestrained,
Over upland, and dale, and morass;
O'er the waste and the fallow, the field and the road—
Over heath, over stubble, and grass.
And the Enchantress, with all her delusory train,
With her Sister Enchantresses fair,
Evermore tracked his steed's footsteps swift,
And drove him to phrenzied despair!

“Yet, whither along—speak! whither along—now whither along, young Stranger?
Oh, why then, whither along in thy haste and thy fear?”
Evermore heard he those accents of dread
In his loathing and shrinking ear!
And evermore stretched his fierce steed to the race,
Nor heeded the voice nor the rein,
As he leaped o'er the torrent, and dashed through the wood,
And bounded o'er hill and o'er plain!
“Ha! whither along?—ho! whither away, in thy horror and thy despair?
Nay, turn to us! look on us! fly us not now!
What! are we not courteous and fair?
Lo! the time speedeth on, when thy flight shall be done,
When thy wild race shall come to an end,
And in vain thou wilt call on the shadows of night
To environ thee round, and befriend!
Then despiteously—fiercely—with dread whirlwind cry—
Shall we shout out in chorus together,—
Ha! whither along—ho! whither along—whither—whither?—
Now hither!—come hither!—ah, whither?