But Lancelot never--that he could not dream; Nothing reminds us in the magic page Of old romance, of our declining age. If once our fancy mighty dragons slew, This is no more than fancy now can do; But when the heroes of a novel come, Conquer’d and conquering, to a drawing-room, 510 We no more feel the vanity that sees Within ourselves what we admire in these; And so we leave the modern tale, to fly From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy. “Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose That queens would call me to subdue their foes; But, by a voluntary weakness sway’d, When fancy call’d, I willingly obey’d. “Such I became, and I believed my heart Might yet be pierced by some peculiar dart 520 Of right heroic kind, and I could prove Fond of some peerless nymph who deign’d to love, Some high-soul’d virgin, who had spent her time In studies grave, heroic and sublime; Who would not like me less that I had spent Years eight and forty, just the age of Kent-- But not with Kent’s discretion, for I grew Fond of a creature whom my fancy drew: A kind of beings who are never found On middle-earth, but grow on fairy-ground. 530 “These found I not; but I had luck to find A mortal woman of this fairy kind; A thin, tall, upright, serious, slender maid, Who in my own romantic regions stray’d; From the world’s glare to this sweet vale retired, To dwell unseen, unsullied, unadmired; In all her virgin excellence, above The gaze of crowds, and hopes of vulgar love. “We spoke of noble deeds in happier times, Of glorious virtues, of debasing crimes. 540 Warm was the season, and the subject too, And therefore warm in our discourse we grew. Love made such haste, that ere a month was flown Since first we met, he had us for his own: Riches are trifles in an hero’s sight, And lead to questions low and unpolite; I nothing said of money or of land, But bent my knee, and fondly ask’d her hand; And the dear lady, with a grace divine, Gave it, and frankly answer’d, ‘it is thine.’ 550 “Our reading was not to romance confined, But still it gave its colour to the mind; Gave to our studies something of its force, And made profound and tender our discourse; Our subjects all, and our religion, took The grave and solemn spirit of our book; And who had seen us walk, or heard us read, Would say, ‘these lovers are sublime indeed.’ “I knew not why, but when the day was named My ardent wishes felt a little tamed; 560 My mother’s sickness then awaked my grief, And yet, to own the truth, was some relief; It left uncertain that decisive time That made my feelings nervous and sublime. “Still all was kindness, and at morn and eve