"Beneath the castle's gloomy pride, In ample round did Arthur ride Three times; nor living thing he spied, Nor heard a living sound, Save that, awakening from her dream, The owlet now began to scream, In concert with the rushing stream, That wash'd the battled mound. He lighted from his goodly steed, And he left him to graze on bank and mead; And slowly he climb'd the narrow way That reached the entrance grim and gray, And he stood the outward arch below, And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, In summons blithe and bold, Deeming to rouse from iron sleep The guardian of this dismal Keep, Which well he guess'd the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb, The tyrant of the wold. "The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. --Think not but Arthur's heart was good! His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, Had a pagan host before him stood, He had charged them through and through; Yet the silence of that ancient place Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space Ere yet his horn he blew. But, instant as its 'larum rung, The castle gate was open flung, Portcullis rose with crashing groan Full harshly up its groove of stone; The balance-beams obey'd the blast, And down the trembling drawbridge cast; The vaulted arch before him lay, With nought to bar the gloomy way, And onward Arthur paced, with hand On Caliburn's[22] resistless brand. "A hundred torches, flashing bright, Dispelled at once the gloomy night That lour'd along the walls, And show'd the King's astonish'd sight The inmates of the halls. Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim, Nor giant huge of form and limb, Nor heathen knight, was there; But the cressets, which odours flung aloft, Show'd by their yellow light and soft, A band of damsels fair. Onward they came, like summer wave That dances to the shore; An hundred voices welcome gave, And welcome o'er and o'er! An hundred lovely hands assail The bucklers of the monarch's mail, And busy labour'd to unhasp Rivet of steel and iron clasp. One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, And one flung odours on his hair; His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down, One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown. A bride upon her wedding-day, Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.