om cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,
That labyrinthed the rock foundation strong
Of that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.
At length they came to a nail-studded door,
Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore
Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence
They issued on a terraced eminence.
Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the King
Breathed open air that had the smell and sting
Of brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;
For in the East the second dawning's gloam,
Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks
Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.
And so within that larger light of dawn
It seemed to Arthur now that he had known
This maiden at his court, and so he asked.
But she, well-tutored, her real person masked,
And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not;
Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot.
For here it likes me best to sing and spin
And work the hangings my sire's halls within:
No courts or tournaments or gallants brave
To flatter me and love! for me--the wave,
The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;
My garth wherein I walk to think; the charm
Of uplands redolent at bounteous noon
And full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;
White ships that pass some several every year;
These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear."
"An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrue
Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,
Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying of
The King, half-brother, whom she did not love.
And presently she brought him where in state
This swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate....

King Urience that dawning woke and found
Himself safe couched at Camelot and wound
In Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it was
That this thing secretly had come to pass.
But Accolon at Chariot sojourned still
Content with his own dreams; for 'twas the will
Of Morgane thus to keep him hidden here
For her desire's excess, where everywhere
In Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,
Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;
And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wont
To list a tinkling, falling water fount,--
Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramours
At sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,
Had caught a laughing language light thereof,
And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!"--
On cool white walls her hands had deftly draped
A dark rich hangi