When the crimson sun descended, as the yellow moon arose, Far and faint behind Sir Roland sank the slogan of his foes-- Far and faint, and waxing fainter, as he reached the forest sward, Spreading round for many an acre, over the lands that owned him lord. Like a whirlwind on he hurried, though the storm was raging sore: In his heart he carried torture: there was music in its roar-- Like a hurricane on he hurried, spurring on with loosened rein, Till he checked his jaded courser on his old paternal plain. Clouds were scudding o'er the heavens; wild the tempest roared around; And the very earth was shaking with the thunder's heavy sound; But between the lightning flashes, frowning grimly, here and there, Loomed his old ancestral castle, with its old ancestral air. There, the barbican--the draw-bridge--there, the ancient donjon-keep, With its iron-banded portals--there, the moat in sullen sleep!-- Galloping onward, lo! he halted, for they kept strict watch and ward, And his courser's clanking hoofs had roused the ever-wary guard. Loud above the increasing tempest rose the warder's threatening hail; Louder rose the ringing answer from a lip that scorned to quail: "Grey of Grey!" the warrior thundered, "he who fears nor bolt nor dart-- He who is your master, vassal--Roland of the Lion Heart!" Clanking, clattering, grating, slowly up the huge portcullis went, And the draw-bridge over the moat creaking, shrieking, downward bent; On his armor flashed the torch-light, over helmet, cuirass, shield, With its _lion d' or couchant_ upon a stainless _argent_ field. Over rode he, frowning fiercely, throwing from him ruddy light, Flashing, like a burning beacon, on his startled vassal's sight. Rose the draw-bridge, fell the barrier, closed the oaken gates behind. --All was silence save the roaring of the wild November wind. PART II. In a lofty vaulted chamber, pillared, Gothic, full of gloom, But that flashes of the fire-light fitfully fell athwart the room-- Ruddy gleams of fading fire-light, lighting many a bearded face, On the fluted hangings woven--founders of her husband's race-- On a carven couch in slumber lay the Lady Gwineth Grey, Traces of a smile yet lingering on a cheek of rosy May-- On the softest velvet slumbering, in a mist of golden hair, Trembling on her heaving bosom, and along her neck as fair. Seemed she like the Goddess Dian sleeping in some lonely wood, Or a nun on convent pallet dreaming only what was good: By her stood an outened flambeaux, from which, blue, and thin, and rare, Stole a wave of trembling vapor, slowly melting into air. But the tapestry was lifted, and a form in steel array Suddenly entered, and his coming drove the waning mist away. Treading softly o'er the rushes Roland stept beside his bride, In the passing of a moment standing at her couch's side.