"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle, When Pentecost was o'er: He journey'd like errant-knight the while, And sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain, moss, and moor. Above his solitary track Rose huge Blencathara's ridgy back, Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun Cast umber'd radiance red and dun, Though never sunbeam could discern The surface of that sable tarn,[21] In whose black mirror you may spy The stars, while noontide lights the sky. The gallant King he skirted still The margin of that mighty hill; Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, Recoiling now from crag and stone, Now diving deep from human ken, And raving down its darksome glen. The Monarch judged this desert wild, With such romantic ruin piled, Was theatre by nature's hand For feat of high achievement plann'd. "He rode, till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red, Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream. With toil the King his way pursued By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, Till on his course obliquely shone The narrow valley of Saint John, Down sloping to the western sky, Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. Right glad to feel those beams again, The King drew up his charger's rein; With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, As dazzled with the level light, And, from beneath his glove of mail, Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale, While 'gainst the sun his armour bright Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. "Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. But, midmost of the vale, a mound Arose with airy turrets crown'd, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower; Seem'd some primeval giant's hand, The castle's massive walls had plann'd, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, As jealous of a foe; Wicket of oak, as iron hard, With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd, And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard The gloomy pass below. But the gray walls no banners crown'd, Upon the watch-tower's airy round, No warder stood his horn to sound, No guard beside the bridge was found, And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd, Glanced neither bill nor bow.