Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,

As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's table round:

The warrior of the lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,

And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;

Was none excelled, in Arthur's days,

The knight of Lionelle.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,

A venomed wound he bore;

When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand ;

No medicine could be found,

Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue,
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!
For, doom'd in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,

His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard

In fairy tissue wove ;

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,

High rear'd its glittering head;

And Avalon's enchanted vale

In all its wonders spread.

Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,

Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand;
With agony his heart is wrung:

O where is Isolde's lilye hand,

And where her soothing tongue?

She comes! she comes!-like flash of flame

Can lovers' footsteps fly :

She comes! she comes !-she only came

To see her Tristrem die.

She saw him die her latest sigh

Joined in a kiss his parting breath:

The gentlest pair, that Britain bare,
United are in death.

There paused the harp: its lingering sound

Died slowly on the ear;

The silent guests still bent around,

For still they seem'd to hear.

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh;
But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek
Did many a gauntlet dry.

On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,

The mists of evening close;

In camp, in castle, or in bower,
Each warrior sought repose.

Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent,

Dream'd o'er the woeful tale e; When footsteps light, across the bent,

The warrior's ears assail.

He starts, he wakes:-"What, Richard, ho! "Arise, my page, arise!

"What venturous wight, at dead of night,

"Dare step where Douglas lies!"

Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide,
A selcouth sight they see—

A hart and hind pace side by side,

As white as snow on Fairnalie.

Selcouth-Wondrous.

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, They stately move and slow;

Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, Who marvel as they go.

To Learmont's tower a message sped,
As fast as page might run ;
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his cloaths did on.

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; Never a word he spake but three ;My sand is run; my thread is spun; "This sign regardeth me."

The elfin harp his neck around,

In minstrel guise, he hung;

And on the wind, in doleful sound,

Its dying accents rung.

Then forth he went; yet turned him oft

To view his ancient hall;

On the grey tower, in lustre soft,

The autumn moon-beams fall.