At Camelot.

Her maiden eyes were redolent of love,
Warm-bosomed as she breathed the passioned air
Of old romance, and did in fancy move
'Mong the gay knights who died for ladies fair;
Until she heard the thunder of the press,
And so became a lover: her heart rang
The note of Love's alarm, his tenderness,
When in the onset all the tourney sang;
And she was one of the dead ladies, who,
In beauty's blazon, to his rushy bower
With Launcelot, when the Queen was gone, withdrew
Under the shadow of the tourney tower;
And lilting to him through the gloaming, made
His heart a lyre whereon her passion played.