But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong, The King, remembering the marauder wrong Which Damas had inflicted on that land, Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band, To stamp this weed out if still rooted there. He, riding thither to that robber lair, Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn, Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn: And found--a ruin of fire-blackened rock, Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements, Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands: Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands, Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats; Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats. IV Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime, In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time, Artificer of God, had coined our world Within the formless void, and round it furled Its lordly raiment of the day and night, And germed its womb with beauty and delight: And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might use And serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse.... For her half-brother Morgane had conceived Unnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved, Envious and jealous, for the high renown And might the King had gathered round his crown Through truth and honor. And who was it said, "Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?-- Warm in your breast a serpent, it will sting The breast that warms it: and albeit the King Knew of his sister's hate, he passed it by, Thinking that love and kindness gradually Would win her heart to him. He little knew The witch he dealt with, beautiful to view, And all the poison she could stoop to brew. She, who, well knowing how much mightier The King than Accolon, rejoiced that her Wits had secured from him Excalibur, Without which, she was certain, in the joust The King were as a foe unarmed. Her trust Smiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent, Within her, whispered of success, that lent Her heart a lofty hope; and at large eyes Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize. And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark, Traceried and arrased,--when the barren park Dripped, drenched with autumn,--for November lay Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,-- She at her tri-arched casement sate one night, Ere yet came courier from that test of might. Her lord in slumber and the castle full Of drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull: "The King removed?--my soul!--he _is_ removed! Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath proved Too much for him. Yet! let him lie in state, The great king, Arthur!--But, regenerate, Now crown our other monarch, Accolon! And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy son Of gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule. Love, Love almighty; beautiful to school