One slender relic from the wreck of death,
One golden hair from that far age,
A gleaming memory, a momentary breath
Of mystic times and Merlin sage!
This only trace of that far-famous queen
And of her beauty causing sin
Recalled what Lancelot had whilom seen,
What fame his compeers sought to win.
Swift as a monk stoops down to grasp that hair
The golden glint dissolves to dust,
And naught of that old glory lieth there
But bones, and armour gone to rust.
Seek ye not thus to clutch the golden past
Of legend and romance, for so
Its splendour will dissolve and nothing last
But Now, and dust of long ago.
[A] A tradition says that the grave was opened in the time of Henry
II., and that all that remained of the royal pair was a hair, which too
turned to dust as a monk stooped down to pick it up.
_DOROTHY L. SAYERS_
(_SOMERVILLE_)