Mildewed and gray a marble stair

Leads to a balustrade of urns,

Beyond which two stone satyrs glare

From vines and close-clipped yews and ferns.

A path, that winds and labyrinths,

'Twixt parallels of verdant box,

Around a lodge whose mossy plinths

Are based on emerald-colored rocks.

A lodge, or ancient pleasure-house,

Built in a grove beside a lake,

Around whose edge the dun deer browse,

And swans their snowy pastime take.

And underneath and overhead,—

The breathings of a water-nymph

It seems,—the violets' scent is shed

Mixed with the music of the lymph.

And where,—upon its pedestal,—

The old sun-dial marks the hours,

The air is languid with perfume,

As if dead beauties—who of old

Intrigued it here in patch and plume—

Again the ancient terrace strolled

With gallants, on whose rapiers gems

Once sneered in haughtiness of hues,

While Touchstone wit and apothegms

Laughed down the long cool avenues:

And there, where bowers of woodbine pave,

All heavily with sultry musk,

Two fountains of pellucid wave,

In sunlight-tessellated dusk,

I seem to see the fountains twain

Of Hate and Love in Arden, where,

In times of regal Charlemagne,

Great Roland drank and Oliver.

Where, wandered from Montalban's towers,

The paladin, Rinaldo, slept,

While, leaning o'er him through the flowers,

Angelica above him wept.