A WINDY waste, a realm of blowing sands;
Fields briar-tangled; woods without a leaf,
Where great boughs crash'd when autumn's unseen hands
Touch'd them; low hillocks rounding to the sky;
A sea forever tempest; a low shore
Forever drown'd in surf and margin'd with
Black sedge; where shone not sun or moon at full, -
The old, half-mythic land of Lyonnesse:
Whose king, Meliodas, had wed with Beth,
Mark's sister, of Cornwall; she at love's first bloom
Had fallen in death, bearing him one fair son,
Call'd Tristram, for full sorrowful was his birth.
He being unmother'd thus, came wedding-feast
For the King and Isador of Brittany;
And she was second mother to the boy,
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