And its eagles are pallid and holy.
And they circle above it so slowly—
Like the wraiths of its guardian braves !
And they circle above it so slowly—
Like the wraiths of its guardian braves !
An Avalon fair as that other
Where the lances of Camelot rest—
The King and each chivalrous brother
With the plumage of fame on his crest—
Is the isle of our bountiful river,
In its calm, where commotion is rife,
Like a finger of warning forever
On the querulous lips of life;
While the waters around it intoning
Go sadly and mingle their moaning
With a resonant paean of strife.
Where the lances of Camelot rest—
The King and each chivalrous brother
With the plumage of fame on his crest—
Is the isle of our bountiful river,
In its calm, where commotion is rife,
Like a finger of warning forever
On the querulous lips of life;
While the waters around it intoning
Go sadly and mingle their moaning
With a resonant paean of strife.
And a magical scene for its story
Around you enchants and appalls
With the barbarous gloom and the glory
Of the bold and embattled walls,
Where the host of the waters, advancing
Through the shadowy æons of time,
Has resoundingly marched by the glancing
Of innumerous arms sublime;—
While a whimsical legend has faltered
On its grandeur undimmed and unaltered—
And passed like a hurrying mime!
Around you enchants and appalls
With the barbarous gloom and the glory
Of the bold and embattled walls,
Where the host of the waters, advancing
Through the shadowy æons of time,
Has resoundingly marched by the glancing
Of innumerous arms sublime;—
While a whimsical legend has faltered
On its grandeur undimmed and unaltered—
And passed like a hurrying mime!
As the firs, with their banners uplifted,
Are delayed like an army in prayer,
Are delayed like an army in prayer,
