VII.

  But there is none—­no knight in panoply,
  Nor Love, intrench’d in his strong steely coat: 
  No little speck—­no sail—­no helper nigh,
  No sign—­no whispering—­no plash of boat:—­
  The distant shores show dimly and remote,
  Made of a deeper mist,—­serene and gray,—­
  And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float
  Over the gloomy wave, and pass away,
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play.

VIII.

  And bright and silvery the willows sleep
  Over the shady verge—­no mad winds tease
  Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep
  Their sprinkling leaves—­half fountains and half trees: 
  Their lilies be—­and fairer than all these,
  A solitary Swan her breast of snow
  Launches against the wave that seems to freeze
  Into a chaste reflection, still below
Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go.

IX.

  And forth she paddles in the very noon
  Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing,
  Charm’d into being by the argent moon—­
  Whose silver light for love of her fair wing
  Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping
  Her dainty plumage:—­all around her grew
  A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring;
  And all behind, a tiny little clue
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue.

X.

  And sure she is no meaner than a fay,
  Redeem’d from sleepy death, for beauty’s sake,
  By old ordainment:—­silent as she lay,
  Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake,
  And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake
  The verdant prison of her lily peers,
  That slept amidst the stars upon the lake—­
  A breathing shape—­restored to human fears,
And new-born love and grief—­self-conscious of her tears.

XI.

  And now she clasps her wings around her heart,
  And near that lonely isle begins to glide,
  Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start
  Turns her impatient head from side to side
  In universal terrors—­all too wide
  To watch; and often to that marble keep
  Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied
  Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.

XII.

  And well she may, to spy that fearful thing
  All down the dusky walls in circlets wound;
  Alas! for what rare prize, with many a ring
  Girding the marble casket round and round? 
  His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound,
  Terribly darkeneth the rocky base;
  But on the top his monstrous head is crown’d
  With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place.