Silent awhile the King abode Beholding all, then on he rode And to the castle-gate drew nigh, Till fell the drawbridge silently, And when across it he did ride He found the great gates open wide, And entered there, but as he passed The gates were shut behind him fast, But not before that he could see The drawbridge rise up silently. Then round he gazed oppressed with awe, And there no living thing he saw Except the sparrows in the eaves, As restless as light autumn leaves Blown by the fitful rainy wind. Thereon his final goal to find, He lighted off his war-horse good And let him wander as he would, When he had eased him of his gear; Then gathering heart against his fear. Just at the silent end of day Through the fair porch he took his way And found at last a goodly hall With glorious hangings on the wall, Inwrought with trees of every clime, And stories of the ancient time, But all of sorcery they were. For o'er the daïs Venus fair, Fluttered about by many a dove, Made hopeless men for hopeless love, Both sick and sorry; there they stood Wrought wonderfully in various mood, But wasted all by that hid fire Of measureless o'er-sweet desire, And let the hurrying world go by Forgetting all felicity. But down the hall the tale was wrought How Argo in old time was brought To Colchis for the fleece of gold. And on the other side was told How mariners for long years came To Circe, winning grief and shame. Until at last by hardihead And craft, Ulysses won her bed. Long upon these the King did look And of them all good heed he took; To see if they would tell him aught About the matter that he sought, But all were of the times long past; So going all about, at last When grown nigh weary of his search A falcon on a silver perch, Anigh the daïs did he see, And wondered, because certainly At his first coming 'twas not there; But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair, With golden letters on the white He saw, and in the dim twilight By diligence could he read this:-- _"Ye who have not enow of bliss,_ _And in this hard world labour sore,_ _By manhood here may get you more,_ _And be fulfilled of everything,_ _Till ye be masters of the King._ _And yet, since I who promise this_ _Am nowise God to give man bliss_ _Past ending, now in time beware,_ _And if you live in little care_ _Then turn aback and home again,_ _Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain_ _In wishing for a thing untried."_