He ceased, and look'd, with a defying eye, 38 Where the dark forest clothed the mount with awe Gazed, and then proudly turn'd;--when lo, hard by, From a lone turret in his keep, he saw Through the horn casement, a clear steadfast light, Lending meek tribute to the orbs of night. And far, and far, I ween, that little ray 39 Sent its pure streamlet through the world of air: The wanderer oft, benighted on his way, Saw it, and paused in superstitious prayer; For well he knew the beacon and the tower, And the great Master of the spells of power. There He, who yet in Fable's deathless page 40 Reigns, compass'd with the ring of pleasing dread, Which the true wizard, whether bard or sage, Draws round him living, and commands when dead-- The solemn Merlin--from the midnight won The hosts that bow'd to starry Solomon. Not fear that light on Arthur's breast bestow'd, 41 As with a father's smile it met his gaze; It cheer'd, it soothed, it warm'd him while it glow'd; Brought back the memory of young hopeful days, When the child stood by the great prophet's knee, And drank high thoughts to strengthen years to be. As with a tender chiding, the calm light 42 Seem'd to reproach him for secreted care, Seem'd to ask back the old familiar right Of lore to counsel, or of love to share; The prompt heart answers to the voiceless call, And the step quickens o'er the winding wall. Before that tower precipitously sink 43 The walls, down-shelving to the castle base; A slender drawbridge, swung from brink to brink, Alone gives fearful access to the place; Now, from that tower, the chains the drawbridge raise, And leave the gulf all pathless to the gaze. But close where Arthur stands, a warder's horn, 44 Fix'd to the stone, to those who dare to win The enchanter's cell, supplies the note to warn The mighty weaver of dread webs within. Loud sounds the horn, the chain descending clangs, And o'er the abyss the dizzy pathway hangs; Mutely the door slides sullen in the stone, 45 And closes back, the gloomy threshold cross'd; There sate the wizard on a Druid throne, Where sate DUW-IOU,[5] ere his reign was lost; His wand uplifted in his solemn hand, And the weird volume on its brazen stand. O'er the broad breast the heavy brows of thought 46 Hang, as if bow'd beneath the load sublime Of spoils from Nature's fading boundaries brought, Or the dusk treasure-house of orient Time; And the unutterable calmness shows The toil's great victory by the soul's repose.