Page:Once a Week Dec 1861 to June 1862.pdf/359

 March 22, 1862.] By ghostly shores without a name, Whereon grim phantoms went and came: He sailed 'mid alien voices. Through twilight majesties of shade,
 * He sailed upon his sacred quest,

And where the falling waters made
 * A hollow murmur, seeking rest;

Through swollen shadows of the rain, Whose music tingled in his brain Like blood, and where white fountains Spilt light down sombre mountains. Then saw Sir Tristem, in his dream,
 * A stately ﬁgure hush'd in woe,

Who, leaning o’er a silver stream,
 * Was darkly calentured below;

Her face, as passed that golden bark, Flash'd like a jewel from the dark, And in the distance shaded, It, star-like, came and faded. She said, "I am that Guinevere,
 * Upon whose mouth sin’s self seemed sweet,

And, looking on my foulness here,
 * I penance do, till made complete,

To cut my heart from earthly things, And join the lily white flower of kings, Whose heart, once mine completely, Now pleads my pardon sweetly. "Here, hid from eyes of living men,
 * I, seeing my woman's shame revealed,

Mind me of kingly Arthur when
 * His pity was a fountain sealed!"

Whereon Sir Tristem cries in tones Hollow as waves 'mong pebble-stones, "Where is the King, my master?" The boat sped onward faster. "Sail onward yet—be strong and sure,
 * Till thy dark fantasies are gone."

Murmured the voice. "and seek the pure
 * King in remote Avilion."

Whereat Sir Tristem's snowy swound Deepened to loss of sight and sound, And the white light that crowned him Brightened the waves around him. Past hills where yellow moonlight steamed,
 * Low shores where vapours dim did move,

He sailed, in pathless track, where gleamed
 * Stars with no fellows up above;

Netted in cloud the winds reposed, The golden valves of heaven were closed, Like living things the enchanted Waters fell calm and panted. Then, in his slumber, he was ware
 * Of a dark isle where calm was not,

And on whose banks a dome of air
 * Mimick'd the palace at Camelot;

The dingy walls were sad and stern, The courts; were rusted o’er with fern, Rank weeds and grasses many Choked up each nook and cranny. And through the dark transparent wall
 * He saw a crew of knights carouse,

With the centre of the ball,
 * With haggard beards and wine-flushed brows;

And marked a sombre knight and tall, Who stood upon the meated wall, And watched the dim and foamless With eyes most homeless. Who, standing helmless, trembled not,
 * But leant upon a sheathless sword:

"I am that same Sir Lancelot
 * Who turned against his blameless lord;

I, Tristem, am thy sometime friend, Who here a weary way must wend, Amid rude blows and broiling, In heartache, shame and toiling. "Thou journeyest on with quiet heart;
 * While, bound in tears that find no pause,

I haunt the shadowy counterpart
 * Of the decay myself did cause;

A devil gnaws me day and night, While, guided by that stainless light, Thou sailest to thy master." The boat sped on faster. Whereat Sir Tristem stirred in dream;
 * And the light, brightening in his trail,

In fading, shed a ghastly gleam
 * Upon Sir Lancelot, grim and pale;

And then Sir Tristem sank again To mute oblivion of the brain, And the white light that crowned him Illumed the waters round him. Past forests, netted in moonlit air,
 * Sir Tristem sailed for many an hour,

And under shade of mountains, where
 * The thyme fulfilled its purple flower;

Until he reached a flowery land, With night and day on either hand, A land of endless bowers, Languid with scent of flowers. No wind was here, the air was thick
 * With its own lead, and under eaves

Of giant poppy it grew sick
 * With a deep breath of lotus leaves;

The waters, impotent to cool Parch'd lips, lay in a seething pool, And made a burning summer Around the bright new-comer. And here abode, with mad acclaims
 * And frivolous songs and idle jests,

A troop of chattering knights and dames,
 * In flashing robes and gaudy crests;

Some lay among the lotus bowers, Some quaffed red wine on beds of flowers, And some with gleaming faces Lay clasped in soft embraces. Then in Sir Tristem came a voice:
 * "Go on in peace, thou stainless knight,

Here, for a time, we must rejoice,
 * Sick, satiate with our own delight;