Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward; With humble service to her will prepared; ARCHIMAGO'S HERMITAGE, AND THE HOUSE OF MOR PHEUS. THE magician, Archimago, lures Una and the RedCross Knight into his abode; and while they are asleep, sends to Morpheus, the god of sleep, for a false dream, to produce discord between them. A little lowly hermitage it was Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side, Nor look for entertainment where none was; He told of saints and popes, and evermore He strew'd an Ave Mary, after and before. The drooping night thus creepeth on them fast; As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast Sweet slumbering dew; the which to sleep them bids. His magic books and arts of sundry kinds, He seeks out mighty charms to trouble sleepy minds. Then choosing out few words most horrible And forth he call'd out of deep darkness dread He maketh speedy way through spersed air, And low, where dawning day doth never peep, In silver dew his ever-drooping head, While sad night over him her mantle black doth spread. Whose double gates he findeth locked fast; The one fair fram'd of burnish'd ivory, And wakeful dogs before them far do lie, And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deep And more to lull him in his slumber soft, A trickling stream, from high rock tumbling down, And ever drizzling rain upon the loft, Mix'd with a murmuring wind, much like the soun' Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoun: No other noise, nor people's troublous cries, As still are wont t' annoy the walled town, Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies, Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies. The messenger approaching to him spake, Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weak, He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence break. The sprite then 'gan more boldly him to wake, A fit false dream, that can delude the sleeper's sent." The god obeyed; and calling forth straightway A divers dream out of his prison dark, Deliver'd it to him, and down did lay His heavy head, devoid of careful cark; Remounted up as light as cheerful lark; And on his little wings the dream he bore In haste unto his lord, where he him left afore. THE CAVE OF MAMMON. Sir Guyon, another Knight, bound upon adventure, while crossing a desert, finds Mammon sitting amidst his gold in a gloomy valley, but successfully resists the temptation. That house's form within was rude and strong, Like a nuge cave hewn out of rocky clift, From whose rough vault the ragged branches hung And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrapped in foul smoke, and clouds more black than jet. Both roof and floor, and walls were all of gold, And hid in darkness, that none could behold In all that room was nothing to be seen, But huge great iron chests and coffers strong, All barr'd with double bands, that none could ween Them to enforce by violence or wrong; On every side they placed were along; But all the ground with skulls was scattered, And dead men's bones, which round about were flung, Whose lives (it seemèd) whilome there were shed, And their vile carcases now left unburied. They forward pass, nor Guyon yet spake word, Till that they came unto an iron door, |