To make his wonne, low underneath the ground,
In a deep delve, far from the view of day;
That of no living wight he mote be found,
Whenso he counsell'd, with his sprites encompass'd
round.
And if thou ever happen that same way
To travel, go to see that dreadful place:
It is an hideous hollow cave (they say)
Under a rock that lies a little space
From the swift Barry, tumbling down apace
Amongst the woody hills of Dynevowre :
But dare thou not, I charge, in any case,
To enter into that same baleful bower,
For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares de
But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear,
And there such ghastly noise of iron chains,
And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear,
Which thousand sprites, with long enduring pains,
Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains;
And oftentimes great groans and grievous stounds,
When too huge toil and labour them constrains,
And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds,
From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds.
The cause, some say, is this: a little while
Before that Merlin died, he did intend
A brazen wall in compass to compile
About Cairmardin, and did it commend
Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end;
During which work the Lady of the Lake,
Whom long he lov'd, for him in haste did send,
Who thereby forc'd his workmen to forsake,
Them bound till his return their labour not to slake.
In the mean time, through that false lady's train,
He was surpriz'd and buried under bier,
Ne ever to his work return'd again;
Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear,
So greatly his commandement they fear,
But there do toil and travail day and night,
Until that brazen wall they up do rear;
For Merlin had in magic more insight
Than ever him before or after living wight,
For he by words could call out of the sky
Both sun and moon, and make them him obey;
The land to sea, and sea to mainland dry,
And darksome night he eke could turn to day:
Huge hosts of men he could alone dismay,
And hosts of men of meanest things could frame,
Whenso him list his enemies to fray;
That to this day, for terror of his fame,
The fiends do quake when any him to them does
And sooth men say, that he was not the son
Of mortal sire, or other living wight,
But wond'rously begotten and begone
By false illusion of a guileful sprite
On a fair lady nun, that whilom hight
Matilda, daughter to Pubidius,
Who was the lord of Mathtraval by right,
And cousin unto king Ambrosius,
Whence he endued was with skill so marvellous.
They here arriving, stay'd awhile without,
Ne durst adventure rashly in to wend,
But of their first intent 'gan make new doubt
For dread of danger, which it might portend,
Until the hardy maid (with love to friend)
First entering, the dreadful mage there found
Deep busied 'bout work of wond'rous end,
And writing strange charàcters in the ground,
With which the stubborn fiends he to his service
bound.
BELPHOEBE FINDS TIMIAS WOUNDED, AND CONVEYS HIM TO HER DWELLING.
SHE on a day, as she pursu'd the chace
Of some wild beast, which, with her arrows keen,
She wounded had, the same along did trace
By tract of blood, which she had freshly seen
To have besprinkled all the grassy green;
By the great pursue which she there perceiv'd,
Well hoped she the beast engor'd had been,
And made more haste the life to have bereav'd
But ah! her expectation greatly was deceiv'd.
Shortly she came whereas that woeful squire,
With blood deformed, lay in deadly swound;
In whose fair eyes, like lamps of quenched fire,
The crystal humour stood congealed round;
His locks, like faded leaves, fallen to ground,
Knotted with blood, in bunches rudely ran,
And his sweet lips, on which, before that stound,
The bud of youth to blossom fair began,
Spoil'd of their rosy red, were waxen pale and wan.
Saw never living eye more heavy sight,
That could have made a rock of stone to rue
Or rive in twain; which when that lady bright
Besides all hope, with melting eyes did view,
All suddenly abash'd, she changed hue,
And with stern horror backward gan to start;
But when she better him beheld, she grew
Full of soft passion and unwonted smart;
The point of pity pierced through her tender heart.
Meekly she bowed down, to weet if life
Yet in his frozen members did retain,
And feeling by his pulse's beating rife
That the weak soul her seat did yet remain,
She cast to comfort him with busy pain:
His double-folded neck she rear'd upright, And rubb'd his temples and each trembling vein; • His mailed haberjon she did undight,
And from his head his heavy burganet did light.
Into the woods thenceforth in haste she went,
To seek for herbs that mote him remedy,
For she of herbs had great intendiment,
Taught of the nymph which from her infancy
Her nursed had in true nobility;
There, whether it divine tobacco were,
Or panacæa, or polygony,
She found, and brought it to her patient dear,
Who all this while lay bleeding out his heart-blood
The sovereign weed, betwixt two marbles plain,
She pounded small, and did in pieces bruise,
And then atween her lily handes twain
Into his wound the juice thereof did scruze,
And round about (as she could well it use)
The flesh therewith she suppled and did steep,
T'abate all spasm, and soak the swelling bruise;
And after having search'd the intuse deep,
She with her scarf did bind the wound, from cold to keep.
By this he had sweet life recur'd again,
And groaning inly deep, at last his eyes,
His watery eyes, drizzling like dewy rain,
He up 'gan lift toward the azure skies,
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