ASTOR, LENOX

TILDEN FOUND.

GERAINT AND ENID.

AND Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,

A little vext at losing of the hunt,

A little at the vile occasion, rode,

By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade
And valley, with fixt eye following the three.
At last they issued from the world of wood,
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge,
And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank.
And thither came Geraint, and underneath
Behold the long street of a little town

In a long valley, on one side whereof,

White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose;
And on one side a castle in decay,

Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine:
And out of town and valley came a noise
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks
At distance, ere they settle for the night.
And onward to the fortress rode the three,
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls.

"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth."
And down the long street riding wearily,
Found every hostel full, and everywhere
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd
His master's armor; and of such a one

He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the town?
Who told him, scouring still" The sparrow-hawk!"
Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,

Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here?
Who answer'd gruffly, "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk."
Then riding further past an armorer's,

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work,
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,

He put the self-same query, but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:
"Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk
Has little time for idle questioners."

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen:
"A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead!
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg

The murmur of the world! What is it to me?
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
Where can I get me harborage for the night?

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!" At this the armorer turning all amazed

And seeing one so gay in purple silks,

Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
And answer'd, " Pardon me, O stranger knight;
We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,
And there is scantly time for half the work.
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.
Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
It may be, at Earl Yniol's o'er the bridge
Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine,
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence,
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said:
Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint replied,
"O friend, I seek a harborage for the night."
Then Yniol," Enter therefore and partake
The slender entertainment of a house
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd."
"Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint;
"So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks
For supper, I will enter, I will eat

With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast."
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,
And answer'd," Graver cause than yours is mine
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk:

But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest."
Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
His charger trampling many a prickly star
Of sprouted thistles on the broken stones.
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous.
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern;
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:
And high above a piece of turret stair,

Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
Claspt the
gray walls with hairy fibred arms,
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court,
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall,
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,

Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
That sings so delicately clear, and make
Conjecture of the plumage and the form,
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;
And made him like a man abroad at morn
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave