obber lair,
Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when thorn on thorn
Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn;
Built up, a bulk of bastioned rock on rock,
Vast battlements, that loomed above the shock
Of freshening foam that climbed with haling hands,
Lone cloudy-clustered turrets in loud lands
Set desolate,--mournful o'er wide, frozen flats,--
Found hollow towers the haunt of owls and bats.

IV.

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,
Artificer of God, had coined one world
From formless forms of void and 'round it furled
Its lordly raiment of the day and night,
And germed its womb for seasons throed with might:
And Hell sent Hate to man to hate or use,
To serve itself by serving and amuse....

For her half brother Morgane had conceived
A morbid hatred; in that much she grieved,
Envious and jealous, for that high renown
And majesty the King for his fast crown
Thro' worship had acquired. And once he said,
"The closest kin to state are those to dread:
No honor such to crush: envenoming
All those kind tongues of blood that try to sing
Petition to the soul, while conscience quakes
Huddled, but stern to hearts whose cold pride takes."
And well she knew that Arthur: mightier
Than Accolon, without Excalibur
Were as a stingless hornet in the joust
With all his foreign weapons. So her trust
Smiled certain of conclusion; eloquent
Gave lofty heart bold hope that at large eyes
Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.
And in her carven chamber, oaken dark,
Traceried and arrased, o'er the barren park
That dripped with Autumn,--for November lay
Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,--
Thought at her tri-arched casement lone, one night,
Ere yet came knowledge of that test of might.
Her lord in slumber and the castle dull
With silence or with sad wind-music full.
"And he removed?--fond fool! _he is removed!_
Death-dull from feet to hair and graveward shoved
From royalty to that degraded state
But purpler pomp! But, see! regenerate
Another monarch rises--Accolon!--
Love! Love! with state more ermined; balmy son
Of gods not men, and nobler hence to rule.
Sweet Love almighty, terrible to school
Harsh hearts to gentleness!--Then all this realm's
Iron-husked flower of war, which overwhelms
With rust and havoc, shall explode and bloom
An asphodel of peace with joy