Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A brier in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs. But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face. She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight; And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire as she may. They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook; And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear, but then The underwood and trees began again. This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemonies Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. "Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, And made a little plot of magic ground. And in that daised circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; But she herself whither she will can rove-- For she was passing weary of his love. SAINT BRANDAN Saint Brandan sails the northern main; The brotherhoods of saints are glad. He greets them once, he sails again; So late!--such storms!--The Saint is mad!