That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again he cannot die." Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated" Come again, and thrice as fair:" And, further inland, voices echoed "Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal. That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn When I and Eustace from the city went My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ;-Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) "'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, un perceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March." Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name |