Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/195

Rh Who carried the great war from Macedon

Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on

To die at thirty-five in Babylon.

What tale did Iseult to the children say,

Under the hollies, that bright winter's day?

She told them of the fairy-haunted land

Away the other side of Brittany,

Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;

Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,

Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps,

Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.

For here he came with the fay Vivian,

One April, when the warm days first began.

He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,

On her white palfrey; here he met his end,

In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.

This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay

Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear

Before the children's fancy him and her.

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air

Had loosened the brown locks of Vivian's hair,

Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyes

Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.

Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,

For they had travelled far and not stopped yet.

A brier in that tangled wilderness

Had scored her white right hand, which she allows

To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;

The other warded off the drooping boughs.

But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes

Fixed full on Merlin's face, her stately prize.