Yet ne'er by Prince more loved a crown was worn, 4 And hadst thou ventured but to hint the doubt That loyal subjects ever ceased to mourn, And that without him, earth was joy without,-- Thou soon hadst join'd in certain warm dominions The horned friends of pestilent opinions. Thrice bless'd, O King, that on thy royal head 5 Fall the night-dews; that the broad-spreading beech Curtains thy sleep; that in the paths of dread, Lonely thou wanderest,--so thy steps may reach RENOWN,--that bridge which spans the midnight sea, And joins two worlds,--Time and Eternity! All is forgot save Poetry; or whether 6 Haunting Time's river from the vocal reeds, Or link'd not less in human souls together With ends, which make the poetry of deeds; For either poetry alike can shine-- From Hector's valour as from Homer's line. Yet let me wrong ye not, ye faithful three, 7 Gawaine, and Caradoc, and Lancelot! Gawaine's light lip had lost its laughing glee And gentle Caradoc had half forgot That famous epic which his muse had hit on, Of Trojan Brut--from whom the name of Briton. Therein Sir Brut, expell'd from flaming Troy,[2] 8 Comes to this isle, and seeks to build a city, Which Devils, then the Freeholders, destroy; Till the sweet Virgin on Sir Brut takes pity, And bids that Saint who now speaks Welsh on high,[3] Baptize the astonish'd heathen in the Wye! This done, the fiends, at once disfranchised, fled; 9 And to the Saint the Trojan built a chapel, Where masses daily were for Priam said:-- While thrice a week, the priests, that golden apple By which three fiends, as goddesses disguised, Bewitch'd Sir Paris, anathematized. But now this epic, in its course suspended, 10 Slept on the shelf--(a not uncommon fate); Ah, who shall tell, if, ere resumed and ended, That kind of poem be not out of date? For of all ladies there are none who chuse Such freaks and turns of fashion, as the Muse. And then, sad Lancelot--but there I hold; 11 Some griefs there are which grief alone can guess, And so we leave whate'er he felt untold; Light steps profane the heart's deep loneliness. I, too, had once a friend, in happier years! He fled,--he owed,--forgot;--Forgive these tears!-- Much, their sole comfort, much conversed the three 12 Upon their absent Arthur; what the cause Of his self-exile, and its ends, could be; Much did they ponder, hesitate, and pause In high debate if loyal love might still Pursue his wanderings, though against his will.