A little at the vile occasion, rode
By ups and downs through many a glassy glade
And valley, with fixt eye following the three.

_Enid_.

Through forest paths his charger strode,
His heron plume behind him flowed,
Blood-red the west with sunset glowed,
Far down the river golden flowed,
And in the woods the winds were still:
No helm had he, nor lance in rest;
His knightly beard flowed down his breast;
In silken costume gayly drest,
Out from the glory of the west
He flashed adown the purple hill.

His sword hung tasseled at his side,
His purple scarf was floating wide,
And all his raiment many-dyed,
As if he came to seek a bride,
And not the combat that he sought;
Yet rode he like a prince, and one
Native to noble deeds alone,
Who many a valiant tilt had run,
And many a prize of tourney won
In Arthur's lists at Camelot.

Cool grasses and green mosses made
Soft carpet for his charger's tread,