Few were the orders, as wise orders are, 92 For the upholding of the chiefless throne; To strengthen peace and yet prepare for war; Lest the fierce Saxon (Arthur's absence known) Loose death's pale charger from the broken rein, To its grim pastures on the bloody plain. Leave we the startled Princes in the hall; 93 Leave we the wondering babblers in the mart; The grief, the guess, the hope, the doubt, and all That stir a nation to its inmost heart, When some portentous Chance, unseen till then, Strides in the circles of unthinking men.[11] Where the screen'd portal from the embattled town 94 Opes midway on the hill, the lonely King, Forth issuing, guides his barded charger down The steep descent. Amidst the pomp of spring Lapses the lucid river; jocund May Waits in the vale to strew with flowers his way. Of brightest steel (but not emboss'd with gold 95 As when in tourneys rode the royal knight), His arms flash sunshine back; the azure fold Of the broad mantle, like a wave of light, Floats tremulous, and leaves the sword-arm free.-- Fair was that darling of all Poetry! Through the raised vizor beam'd the fearless eye, 96 The limpid mirror of a stately soul; Bright with young hope, but grave with purpose high; Sweet to encourage, steadfast to control; An eye from which subjected hosts might draw, As from a double fountain, love and awe. The careless curl, that from the helm escaped, 97 Gleam'd in the sunlight, lending gold to gold. Nor fairer face, in Parian marble shaped, Beam'd gracious down from Delian shrines of old; Albeit in bolder majesty look'd forth The hardy soul of the chivalric North O'er the light limb, and o'er the shoulders broad, 98 The steel flow'd pliant as a silken vest; Strength was so supple that like grace it show'd, And force was only by its ease confest; Ev'n as the storms in gentlest waters sleep, And in the ripple flows the mighty deep. Now wound his path beside the woods that hang 99 O'er the green pleasaunce of the sunlit plain, When a young footstep from the forest sprang, And a light hand was on the charger's rein; Surprised, the adventurer halts,--but pleased surveys The friendly face that smiles upon his gaze. Of all the flowers of knighthood in his train 100 Three he loved best; young Caradoc the mild, Whose soul was fill'd with song; and frank Gawaine,[12] Whom mirth for ever, like a fairy child, Lock'd from the cares of life; but neither grew Close to his heart, like Lancelot the true.