TO ONE READING THE MORTE D'ARTHURE.

O daughter of our Southern sun,

Sweet sister of each flower,

Dost dream in terraced Avalon

A shadow-haunted hour?

Or stand with Guinevere upon

Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or in the wind dost breathe the musk

That blows Tintagel's sea on?

Or‘ mid the lists by castled Usk

Hear some wild tourney's paeon?

Or‘ neath the Merlin moons of dusk

Dost muse in old Caerleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then

Of Arthur,‘ mid the roses,

Dost speak with wily Vivien?

Or where the shade reposes,

Dost walk with stately armored men

In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze.

The dreams thy spirit cages,

Would that Romance — which on thee lays

The spell of bygone ages —

Held me! a memory of those days,

A portion of its pages!