"But see, the sun descendeth down the west, 29 And graver cares to Carduel now recall: Gawaine, my steed;--Sweet ladies, gentle rest, And dreams of happy morrows to ye all." Now stirs the movement on the busy plain; To horse--to boat; and homeward winds the train. O'er hill, down stream, the pageant fades away, 30 More and more faint the plash of dipping oar; Voices, and music, and the steed's shrill neigh, From the grey twilight dying more and more; Till over stream and valley, wide and far, Reign the sad silence and the solemn star. Save where, like some true poet's lonely soul, 31 Careless who hears, sings on the unheeded fountain; Save where the thin clouds wanly, slowly roll O'er the mute darkness of the forest mountain-- Where, haply, busied with unholy rite, Still glides that Phantom, and dismays the night. Sleep, the sole angel left of all below, 32 O'er the lull'd city sheds the ambrosial wreaths, Wet with the dews of Eden; Bliss and Woe Are equals, and the lowest slave that breathes Under the shelter of those healing wings, Reigns, half his life, in realms too fair for Kings. Too fair those realms for Arthur; long he lay 33 An exiled suppliant at the gate of dreams, And vex'd, and wild, and fitful as a ray Quivering upon the surge of stormy streams; Thought broke in glimmering trouble o'er his breast, And found no billow where its beam could rest.[4] He rose, and round him drew his ermined gown, 34 Pass'd from his chamber, wound the turret stair, And from his castle's steep embattled crown Bared his hot forehead to the fresh'ning air. How Silence, like a god's tranquillity, Fill'd with delighted peace the conscious sky! Broad, luminous, serene, the sovereign moon 35 Shone o'er the roofs below, the lands afar-- The vale so joyous with the mirth at noon; The pastures virgin of the lust of war; And the still river shining as it flows, Calm as a soul on which the heavens repose. "And must these pass from me and mine away?" 36 Murmur'd the monarch; "Must the mountain home Of those whose fathers, in a ruder day, With naked bosoms rush'd on shrinking Rome, Yield this last refuge from the ruthless wave, And what was Britain be the Saxon's slave? "Why hymn our harps high music in our hall? 37 Doom'd is the tree whose fruit was noble deeds-- Where the axe spared the thunder-bolt must fall, And the wind scatter as it list the seeds! Fate breathes, and kingdoms wither at the breath; But kings are deathless, kingly if their death!"