Ev'n as the Tyrian views his argosies, 47 Moor'd in the port (the gold of Ophir won), And heeds no more the billow and the breeze, And the clouds wandering o'er the wintry sun, So calmly Wisdom eyes (its voyage o'er) The traversed ocean from the beetling shore. A hundred years press'd o'er that awful head, 48 As o'er an Alp, their diadem of snow; And, as an Alp, a hundred years had fled, And left as firm the giant form below; So in the hush of some Chaonian grove, Sat the grey father of Pelasgic Jove. Before that power, sublimer than his own, 49 With downcast looks, the King inclined the knee; The enchanter smiled, and, bending from his throne, Drew to his breast his pupil tenderly; And press'd his lips on that young forehead fair, And with large hand smooth'd back the golden hair! And, looking in those frank and azure eyes, 50 "What," said the prophet, "doth my Arthur seek From the grey wisdom which the young despise? The young, perchance, are right!--Fair infant, speak!" Thrice sigh'd the monarch, and at length began: "Can wisdom ward the storms of fate from man? "What spell can thrust Affliction from the gate? 51 What tree is sacred from the lightning flame?" "Son," said the seer, "the laurel!--even Fate, Which blasts Ambition, but illumines Fame. Say on."--The King smiled sternly, and obey'd-- Track we the steps which track'd the warning shade. "On to the wood, and to its inmost dell 52 Will-less I went," the monarch thus pursued, "Before me still, but darkly visible, The Phantom glided through the solitude; At length it paused,--a sunless pool was near, As ebon black, and yet as chrystal clear. "'Look, King, below,' whisper'd the shadowy One: 53 What seem'd a hand sign'd beckoning to the wave; I look'd below, and never realms undone Show'd war more awful than the mirror gave; There rush'd the steed, there glanced on spear the spear, And spectre-squadrons closed in fell career. "I saw--I saw my dragon standard there,-- 54 Throng'd there the Briton; there the Saxon wheel'd; I saw it vanish from that nether air-- I saw it trampled on that noiseless field; On pour'd the Saxon hosts--we fled--we fled! And the Pale Horse[6] rose ghastly o'er the dead. "Lo, the wan shadow of a giant hand 55 Pass'd o'er the pool--the demon war was gone; City on city stretch'd, and land on land; The wondrous landscape broadening, lengthening on, Till that small compass in its clasp contain'd All this wide isle o'er which my fathers reign'd.