Far and near the pilgrims throng, By the holy thorn and the holy well, And then they part, with blessed thoughts, The winds are high in Saint Michael's Tor, And a sorry sight is there, A dark-browed band, with spear in hand, Mount up the turret-stair; With heavy cheer and lifted palms There kneels a holy priest; The fiends of death they grudge his breath To hold their rapine-feast. The cloud comes on them, the vision is changed, And a crash of lofty walls, And the short dead sound of music quenched, On the sickened hearing falls; Quick and sharp is the ruin-cry, Unblest the ages glide; And once again the mist from the plain Rolls up the Mendip side. Low sloping over sea and field On roofs and curls of quiet smoke Her ancient homes and fretted towers And lower, in the valley-field, The vision changeth not, no cloud On mountain and on bending stream, I may not write, -I cannot say What change shall next betide ; Whether that group of columns gray Untroubled shall abide, Or whether that pile in Avalon's isle And the vaulted arches ring once more * * Henry Alford. ON GLASTONBURY. thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon, Not for that thou art crowned with ancient towers And shafts and clustered pillars many an one, Love I to dream away the sunny hours; Meek messenger of purchased peace with God; Arose, the low preluding melodies To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies. Henry Alford. AT THE TOMB OF KING ARTHUR. THR HROUGH Glastonbury's cloister dim For those in silence lying, Death's gentle flock mid shadows grim Hard by the monks their mass were saying; The organ evermore Its wave in alternation swaying On that smooth swell upbore Toward heaven's eternal shore. Erelong a princely multitude Moved on through arches gray Which yet, though shattered, stand where stood (God grant they stand for aye!) Saint Joseph's church of woven wood On England's baptism day. The grave they found; their swift strokes fell, Piercing dull earth and stone. They reached erelong an oaken cell, And cross of oak, whereon Was graved, "Here sleeps King Arthur well, In the isle of Avalon." The mail on every knightly breast, "Great King! in youth I made a vow Therefore, though dead, till noontide thou Shalt fill my royal seat!" Away the massive lid they rolled, And one bright wreath of hair. Genevra's hair! like gold it lay; For Time, though stern, is just, And Death reveres his trust. They touched that wreath; From sunshine into dust! it sank away Then Henry lifted from his head And raised both hands to heaven, and said, |