As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast Roused from its sleep,--the solitude had cast For ages on it,--had, a silvery band Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand Arisen,--each a visible delight,-- Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white, From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,-- For so they deemed the King, who came alone,-- Graced with obeisance. And, "Our lord," said one, "Tenders you courtesy until the dawn, The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone, And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep, Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep." And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall, An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall Towered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high, Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a sky Wherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full: An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gull Hung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dull Vast monotone of ocean, that uprolled Its windy waters; and where all was old, And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt, And haunted grim of ruin: where the vault Of heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the rout Of the defiant headlands, stretching out Into the night, with their voluminous shout Of wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then, Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men, Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led, With flaring torch, the tired King to bed, Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep. And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.