You see them clear--the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground;--her hood Has fallen back; her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hand; her head 105 Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies in disorder'd streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110 Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesternight Flash'd in the silver sconces'° light, °113 When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel's palace proud. 115 But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120 The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door.° °122 That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly: "Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! 125 But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks And has a colour in her cheeks; Christ keep us from such fantasy!"-- 130 Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame, °132 Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 135 And though the bed-clothes hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased the ravages of time, 140 Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime-- So healing is her quiet now. So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, 145 Her younger rival's purest grace.
The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be; Swinging with it, in the light 150 Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, 155 With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. 160 He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say: _"What place is this, and who are they? Who is that kneeling Lady fair? 165 And on his pillows that pale Knight Who seems of marble on a tomb? How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mullion'd windows clear The castle-court all wet with rain, 170 The drawbridge and the moat appear, And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray, The sunken reefs, and far away The unquiet bright Atlantic plain? --What, has some glamour made me sleep, 175 And sent me with my dogs to sweep, By night, with boisterous bugle-peal, Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, Not in the free green wood at all? That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer 180 That Lady by the bed doth kneel-- Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal!"_ --The wild boar rustles in his lair; The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 185