Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had caught A musical tenderness that brimmed his ear With sweetness more ethereal than aught Save silver-dropping snatches that whilere Rained down from some sad angel's faithful harp To cool her fallen lover's anguish sharp. 160 XXI Deep in the forest was a little dell High overarchèd with the leafy sweep Of a broad oak, through whose gnarled roots there fell A slender rill that sung itself to sleep, Where its continuous toil had scooped a well To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook From its small urn a drizzly murmur shook. XXII The wooded hills sloped upward all around With gradual rise, and made an even rim, 170 So that it seemed a mighty casque unbound From some huge Titan's brow to lighten him, Ages ago, and left upon the ground. Where the slow soil had mossed it to the brim, Till after countless centuries it grew Into this dell, the haunt of noontide dew. XXIII Dim vistas, sprinkled o'er with sun-flecked green, Wound through the thickset trunks on every side, And, toward the west, in fancy might be seen A Gothic window in its blazing pride, 180 When the low sun, two arching elms between, Lit up the leaves beyond, which, autumn-dyed With lavish hues, would into splendor start, Shaming the labored panes of richest art. XXIV Here, leaning once against the old oak's trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, And all the outworks of his pride o'ercame: 190 Flooded he seemed with bright delicious pain, As if a star had burst within his brain. XXV Such power hath beauty and frank innocence: A flower bloomed forth, that sunshine glad to bless, Even from his love's long leafless stem; the sense Of exile from Hope's happy realm grew less, And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, Thronged round his heart with many an old caress, Melting the frost there into pearly dew That mirrored back his nature's morning-blue. 200 XXVI She turned and saw him, but she felt no dread, Her purity, like adamantine mail. Did so encircle her; and yet her head She drooped, and made her golden hair her veil, Through which a glow of rosiest lustre spread, Then faded, and anon she stood all pale, As snow o'er which a blush of northern light Suddenly reddens, and as soon grows white. XXVII