Now nearer to the prow she seem'd

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea,

And now, the bloodless point reversed,

She bore the blade of Liberty.

X.

And only one among us—him

We pleased not-he was seldom pleased:

He saw not far: his eyes were dim:

But ours he swore were all diseased.

"A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite,
"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept.

And overboard one stormy night

He cast his body, and on we swept.

XI.

And never sail of ours was furl'd,

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; We lov'd the glories of the world,

But laws of nature were our scorn

For blasts would rise and rave and cease,

But whence were those that drove the sail Across the whirlwind's heart of peace,

And to and thro' the counter-gale?

XII.

Again to colder climes we came,

For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame,

And half the crew are sick or dead, But blind or lame or sick or sound

We follow that which flies before: We know the merry world is round,

And we may sail for evermore.

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN

GUINEVERE.

A FRAGMENT.

IKE souls that balance joy and pain,

With tears and smiles from heaven

again

The maiden Spring upon the plain

Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.

In crystal vapour everywhere
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,

And far, in forest-deeps unseen,

The topmost elmtree gather'd green

From draughts of balmy air.

Sometimes the linnet piped his song:
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong:
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong:
By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut-buds began

To spread into the perfect fan,
Above the teeming ground.

Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:

A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.

Now on some twisted ivy-net,

Now by some tinkling rivulet,

In mosses mixt with violet

Her cream-white mule his pastern set:

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs

By night to eery warblings,

When all the glimmering moorland rings
With jingling bridle-reins.

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid:
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips,

A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.