Tintangel

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Tintangel


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 reveled, deep they sleep
     By the wild Atlantic shores.
 
On Tintagel’s fortressed walls,
     Proudly build, 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?