Then first the seeker's stricken spirit fell; 67 Too well that helmet, with its dragon crest, Speaks of the mighty owner; and too well That steed, so oft by snowy hands carest, When bright-eyed Beauty from the balcon bent To crown the victor-lord of tournament. Near and afar he searched--he called in vain, 68 By crag and combe, nought answering, and nought seen; Return'd, the charger long refused the rein, Clinging, poor slave, where last its lord had been. At length the slow, reluctant hoofs obey'd The soothing words; so went they through the shade: Following the gorge that wound the Alpine wall, 69 Like the huge fosse of some Cyclopean town, (While roaring round, invisible cataracts fall); On the black rocks twilight comes ghostly down, And deep and deeper still the windings go, And dark and darker as to worlds below. Night halts the course, resumed at earliest day, 70 Through day pursued, till the last sunbeams fell On a broad mere whose margin closed the way. Hark! o'er the waters swung the holy bell From a grey convent on the rising ground, Amidst the subject hamlet stretch'd around. Here, while both man and steeds the welcome rest 71 Under the sacred roof of Christ receive, We turn once more to AEgle and her guest. Lo! the sweet valley in the flush of eve! Lo! side by side, where through the rose-arcade, Steals the love star, the hero and the maid! Silent they gaze into each other's eyes, 72 Stirring the inmost soul's unquiet sleep; So pierce soft star-beams, blending wave and skies, Some holy fountain trembling to its deep! Bright to each eye each human heart is bare, And scarce a thought to start an angel there! Love to the soul, whate'er the harsh may say, 73 Is as the hallowing Naiad to the well-- The linking life between the forms of clay And those ambrosia nurtures; from its spell Fly earth's rank fogs, and Thought's ennobled flow Shines with the shape that glides in light below. Seize, O beloved, the blooms the Hour allows! 74 Alas, but once can flower the Beautiful! Hark, the wind rustles through the trembling boughs, And the stem withers while the buds ye cull! Brief though the prize, how few in after hours Can say, "at least the Beautiful _was_ ours!" Two loves (and both divine and pure) there are; 75 One by the roof-tree takes its root for ever, Nor tempests rend, nor changeful seasons mar-- It clings the stronger for the storm's endeavour; Beneath its shade the wayworn find their rest, And in its boughs the calm bird builds its nest.