Tintagel
Low is laid Arthur’s head,
Unknown earth above him mounded;
By him sleep his splendid knights,
With whose names the world resounded.
Ruined glories! flown delights,
Sunk 'mid rumours of old wars!
Where they revelled, deep they sleep
By the wild Atlantic shores.
On Tintagel’s fortressed walls,
Proudly built, the loud sea scorning,
Pale the moving moonlight falls;
Through their rents the wind goes mourning.
See ye, Knights, your ancient home,
Chafed and spoiled and fallen asunder?
Hear ye now, as then of old,
Waters rolled, and wrath of foam,
Where the waves beneath your graves
Snow themselves abroad in thunder?
