Three days, three nights, within that dismal shrine, 112 Had couch'd that man, and hunger'd for his prey. Chieftain and priest of hordes that from the Rhine Had track'd in carnage thitherwards their way; Fell souls that still maintain'd their rites of yore, And hideous altars rank with human gore. By monstrous Oracles a coming foe, 113 Whose steps appal his gods, hath been foretold; The fane must fall unless the blood shall flow; Therefore three days, three nights he watch'd;--behold At last the death-torch of the blazing pine Darts on the foe the lightning of the shrine! Stealthily on, amidst the brushwood, crept 114 With practised foot and unrelaxing eye, The steadfast Murder;--where the still leaf slept The still leaf stirr'd not: as it glided by The mosses gave no echo; not a breath! Nature was hush'd as if in league with Death! As moved the man, so, on the opposing side 115 Of the deep gorge, with purpose like his own, Did steps as noiseless to the blood-feast glide; And as the man before his idol's throne Had watch'd,--so watch'd, since daylight left the air, A giant wolf within its leafy lair. Whether the blaze allured, or hunger stung, 116 There still had cower'd and crouch'd the beast of prey; With lurid eyes unwinking, spell-bound, clung To the near ridge that faced the torchlit way; As the steed pass'd, it rose! On either side, Here glides the wild beast, there the man doth glide. But all unconscious of the double foe, 117 Paused Arthur, where his resting-place the dove Seem'd to select,--his couch a mound below; A bowering beech his canopy above: From his worn steed the barded mail released, And left it, reinless, to its herbage-feast. Then from his brow the mighty helm unbraced, 118 And from his breast the hauberk's heavy load; On the tree's trunk the trophied arms he placed, And, ere to rest the weary limbs bestow'd, Thrice sign'd the cross the fiends of night to scare, And guarded helpless sleep with potent prayer. Then on the moss-grown couch he laid him down, 119 Fearless of night and hopeful for the morn: On Slumber's lap the head without a crown Forgot the gilded trouble it had worn; The Warrior slept--the browsing charger stray'd-- The dove, unsleeping, watch'd amidst the shade. And now, on either hand the dreaming King 120 Death halts to strike: the crouching wild beast, here, From the close crag prepares the rushing spring; There, from the thicket creeping, near and near, Steals the wild man, and listens for a sound-- Lifts the pale steel, and gathers for the bound.