“And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast witAnd hundred winters are but as the handsOf loyal vassals toiling for their liege.“And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,Who knows a subtler magic than his own—Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mistOf incense curl'd about her, and her faceWell-nigh was hidden in the minster gloom;But there was heard among the holy hymnsA voice as of the waters, for she dwellsDown in a deep, calm, whatsoever stormsMay shake the world, and when the surface rolls,Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.“There likewise I beheld ExcaliburBefore him at his crowning borne, the swordThat rose from out the bosom of the lake,And Arthur row'd across and took it—richWith jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,Bewildering heart and eye—the blade so brightThat men are blinded by it—on one side,Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world,'Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall see,And written in the speech ye speak yourself,'Cast me away!' And sad was Arthur's faceTaking it, but old Merlin counseled him,'Take thou and strike! the time to cast awayIs yet far-off.' So this great brand the kingTook, and by this will beat his foemen down.”Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thoughtTo sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd,Fixing full eyes of question on her face,“The swallow and the swift are near akin,But thou art closer to this noble prince,Being his own dear siste.”; and she said,“Daughter of Gorloïs and Ygerne am .”;“And therefore Arthur's sister?” asked the King.She answered, “These be secret things,” and sign'dTo those two sons to pass and let them be.And Gawain went, and breaking into songSprang out, and follow'd by his flying hairRan like a colt, and leapt at all he saw:But Modred laid his ear beside the doors,And there half heard; the same that afterwardStruck for the throne, and striking found his doom.And then the Queen made answer, “What know I?For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,And dark in hair and eyes am I; and darkWas Gorloïs, yea and dark was Uther too,Well-nigh to blackness; but this King is fairBeyond the race of Britons and of men.Moreover, always in my mind I hearA cry from out the dawning of my life,A mother weeping, and I hear her say,'O that ye had some brother, pretty one,To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.'”“Ay,” said the King, “and hear ye such a cry?But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?”“O King!” she cried, “and I will tell thee true:He found me first when yet a little maid:Beaten I had been for a little faultWhereof I was not guilty; and out I ranAnd flung myself down on a bank of heath,And hated this fair world and all therein,And wept and wish'd that I were dead; and he—I know not whether of himself he came,Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walkUnseen at pleasure—he was at my side,And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart,And dried my tears, being a child with me.And many a time he came, and evermoreAs I grew greater grew with me; and sadAt times he seem'd, and sad with him was I,Stern too at times, and then I loved him not,But sweet again, and then I loved him well.And now of late I see him less and less,But those first days had golden hours for me,For then I surely thought he would be king.“But let me tell thee now another tale:For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say,Died but of late, and sent his cry to me,To hear him speak before he left his life.Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage;And when I enter'd told me that himselfAnd Merlin ever served about the King,Uther, before he died; and on the nightWhen Uther in Tintagil past awayMoaning and wailing for an heir, the twoLeft the still King, and passing forth to breathe,Then from the castle gateway by the chasmDescending thro' the dismal night—a nightIn which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost—Beheld, so high upon the dreary deepsIt seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereofA dragon wing'd, and all from stem to sternBright with a shining people on the decks,And gone as soon as seen. And then the twoDropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea fall,Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deepAnd full of voices, slowly rose and plungedRoaring, and all the wave was in a flame:And down the wave and in the flame was borneA naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried 'The King!Here is an heir for Uther!' And the fringeOf that great breaker, sweeping up the strand,Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word.And all at once all round him rose in fire,So that the child and he were clothed in fire.And presently thereafter follow'd calm,Free sky and stars: 'And this same child,' he said,'Is he who reigns: nor could I part in peaceTill this were told.' And saying this the seerWent thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death,Not ever to be question'd any moreSave on the further side; but when I metMerlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth—The shining dragon and the naked childDescending in the glory of the seas—He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd meIn riddling triplets of old time, and said:“'Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky!A young man will be wiser by and by;An old man's wit may wander ere he die.“'Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea!And truth is this to me, and that to thee;And truth or clothed or naked let it be.“'Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows;Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'“So Merlin riddling anger'd me; but thouFear not to give this King thine only child,Guinevere: so great bards of him will singHereafter; and dark sayings from of oldRanging and ringing thro' the minds of men,And echo'd by old folk beside their firesFor comfort after their wage-work is done,Speak of the King; and Merlin in our timeHath spoken also, not in jest, and swornTho' men may wound him that he will not die,But pass, again to come; and then or nowUtterly smite the heathen under foot,Till these and all men hail him for their king.”She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced,But musing “Shall I answer yea or nay?”Doubted and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew,Field after field, up to a height, the peakHaze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,Now looming, and now lost: and on the slopeThe sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the hazeAnd made it thicker; while the phantom kingSent out at times a voice; and here or thereStood one who pointed toward the voice, the restSlew on and burnt, crying, “No king of ours,No son of Uther, and no king of our.”;Till with a wink his dream was changed, the hazeDescended, and the solid earth becameAs nothing, but the king stood out in heavenCrown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sentUlfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere,Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he lovedAnd honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forthAnd bring the Queen;—and watch'd him from the gates;And Lancelot past away among the flowers,(For then was latter April) and return'dAmong the flowers, in May, with Guinevere.To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint,Chief of the church in Britain, and beforeThe stateliest of her altar-shrines, the KingThat morn was married, while in stainless white,The fair beginners of a nobler time,And glorying in their vows and him, his knightsStood round him, and rejoicing in his joy.Far shone the fields of May thro' open door,The sacred altar blossom'd white with May,The Sun of May descended on their King,They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen,Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymnsA voice as of the waters, while the twoSware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love:And Arthur said, “Behold, thy doom is mine.Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!”To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes,“King and my lord, I love thee to the death!”And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake,“Reign ye, and live and love, and make the worldOther, and may thy Queen be one with thee,And all this Order of thy Table RoundFulfil the boundless purpose of their King!”So Dubric said; but when they left the shrineGreat Lords from Rome before the portal stood.In scornful stillness gazing as they past;Then while they paced a city all on fireWith sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew,And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:—“Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May;Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away!Blow thro' the living world—'Let the King reign.'“Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur's realm?Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe upon helm,Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.“Strike for the King and live! his knights have heardThat God hath told the King a secret word.Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
“And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast witAnd hundred winters are but as the handsOf loyal vassals toiling for their liege.
“And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,Who knows a subtler magic than his own—Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mistOf incense curl'd about her, and her faceWell-nigh was hidden in the minster gloom;But there was heard among the holy hymnsA voice as of the waters, for she dwellsDown in a deep, calm, whatsoever stormsMay shake the world, and when the surface rolls,Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.
“There likewise I beheld ExcaliburBefore him at his crowning borne, the swordThat rose from out the bosom of the lake,And Arthur row'd across and took it—richWith jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,Bewildering heart and eye—the blade so brightThat men are blinded by it—on one side,Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world,'Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall see,And written in the speech ye speak yourself,'Cast me away!' And sad was Arthur's faceTaking it, but old Merlin counseled him,'Take thou and strike! the time to cast awayIs yet far-off.' So this great brand the kingTook, and by this will beat his foemen down.”
Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thoughtTo sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd,Fixing full eyes of question on her face,“The swallow and the swift are near akin,But thou art closer to this noble prince,Being his own dear siste.”; and she said,“Daughter of Gorloïs and Ygerne am .”;“And therefore Arthur's sister?” asked the King.She answered, “These be secret things,” and sign'dTo those two sons to pass and let them be.And Gawain went, and breaking into songSprang out, and follow'd by his flying hairRan like a colt, and leapt at all he saw:But Modred laid his ear beside the doors,And there half heard; the same that afterwardStruck for the throne, and striking found his doom.
And then the Queen made answer, “What know I?For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,And dark in hair and eyes am I; and darkWas Gorloïs, yea and dark was Uther too,Well-nigh to blackness; but this King is fairBeyond the race of Britons and of men.Moreover, always in my mind I hearA cry from out the dawning of my life,A mother weeping, and I hear her say,'O that ye had some brother, pretty one,To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.'”
“Ay,” said the King, “and hear ye such a cry?But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?”
“O King!” she cried, “and I will tell thee true:He found me first when yet a little maid:Beaten I had been for a little faultWhereof I was not guilty; and out I ranAnd flung myself down on a bank of heath,And hated this fair world and all therein,And wept and wish'd that I were dead; and he—I know not whether of himself he came,Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walkUnseen at pleasure—he was at my side,And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart,And dried my tears, being a child with me.And many a time he came, and evermoreAs I grew greater grew with me; and sadAt times he seem'd, and sad with him was I,Stern too at times, and then I loved him not,But sweet again, and then I loved him well.And now of late I see him less and less,But those first days had golden hours for me,For then I surely thought he would be king.
“But let me tell thee now another tale:For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say,Died but of late, and sent his cry to me,To hear him speak before he left his life.Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage;And when I enter'd told me that himselfAnd Merlin ever served about the King,Uther, before he died; and on the nightWhen Uther in Tintagil past awayMoaning and wailing for an heir, the twoLeft the still King, and passing forth to breathe,Then from the castle gateway by the chasmDescending thro' the dismal night—a nightIn which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost—Beheld, so high upon the dreary deepsIt seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereofA dragon wing'd, and all from stem to sternBright with a shining people on the decks,And gone as soon as seen. And then the twoDropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea fall,Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deepAnd full of voices, slowly rose and plungedRoaring, and all the wave was in a flame:And down the wave and in the flame was borneA naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried 'The King!Here is an heir for Uther!' And the fringeOf that great breaker, sweeping up the strand,Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word.And all at once all round him rose in fire,So that the child and he were clothed in fire.And presently thereafter follow'd calm,Free sky and stars: 'And this same child,' he said,'Is he who reigns: nor could I part in peaceTill this were told.' And saying this the seerWent thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death,Not ever to be question'd any moreSave on the further side; but when I metMerlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth—The shining dragon and the naked childDescending in the glory of the seas—He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd meIn riddling triplets of old time, and said:
“'Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky!A young man will be wiser by and by;An old man's wit may wander ere he die.
“'Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea!And truth is this to me, and that to thee;And truth or clothed or naked let it be.
“'Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows;Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'
“So Merlin riddling anger'd me; but thouFear not to give this King thine only child,Guinevere: so great bards of him will singHereafter; and dark sayings from of oldRanging and ringing thro' the minds of men,And echo'd by old folk beside their firesFor comfort after their wage-work is done,Speak of the King; and Merlin in our timeHath spoken also, not in jest, and swornTho' men may wound him that he will not die,But pass, again to come; and then or nowUtterly smite the heathen under foot,Till these and all men hail him for their king.”
She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced,But musing “Shall I answer yea or nay?”Doubted and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew,Field after field, up to a height, the peakHaze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,Now looming, and now lost: and on the slopeThe sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the hazeAnd made it thicker; while the phantom kingSent out at times a voice; and here or thereStood one who pointed toward the voice, the restSlew on and burnt, crying, “No king of ours,No son of Uther, and no king of our.”;Till with a wink his dream was changed, the hazeDescended, and the solid earth becameAs nothing, but the king stood out in heavenCrown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sentUlfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere,Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.
Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he lovedAnd honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forthAnd bring the Queen;—and watch'd him from the gates;And Lancelot past away among the flowers,(For then was latter April) and return'dAmong the flowers, in May, with Guinevere.To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint,Chief of the church in Britain, and beforeThe stateliest of her altar-shrines, the KingThat morn was married, while in stainless white,The fair beginners of a nobler time,And glorying in their vows and him, his knightsStood round him, and rejoicing in his joy.Far shone the fields of May thro' open door,The sacred altar blossom'd white with May,The Sun of May descended on their King,They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen,Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymnsA voice as of the waters, while the twoSware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love:And Arthur said, “Behold, thy doom is mine.Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!”To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes,“King and my lord, I love thee to the death!”And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake,“Reign ye, and live and love, and make the worldOther, and may thy Queen be one with thee,And all this Order of thy Table RoundFulfil the boundless purpose of their King!”
So Dubric said; but when they left the shrineGreat Lords from Rome before the portal stood.In scornful stillness gazing as they past;Then while they paced a city all on fireWith sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew,And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:—
“Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May;Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away!Blow thro' the living world—'Let the King reign.'
“Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur's realm?Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe upon helm,Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
“Strike for the King and live! his knights have heardThat God hath told the King a secret word.Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
“Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust.Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust!Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.“Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,The King is King, and ever wills the highest.Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.“Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day!Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.“The King will follow Christ, and we the King,In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.”So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall.There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome,The slowly-fading mistress of the world,Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of yore.But Arthur spake, “Behold, for these have swornTo wage my wars, and worship me their King;The old order changeth, yielding place to new;And we that fight for our fair father Christ,Seeing that ye be grown too weak and oldTo drive the heathen from your Roman wall,No tribute will we pa.”: so those great lordsDrew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome.And Arthur and his knighthood for a spaceWere all one will, and thro' that strength the KingDrew in the petty princedoms under him,Fought, and in twelve great battles overcameThe heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd.
“Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust.Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust!Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
“Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,The King is King, and ever wills the highest.Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
“Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day!Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
“The King will follow Christ, and we the King,In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.”
So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall.There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome,The slowly-fading mistress of the world,Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of yore.But Arthur spake, “Behold, for these have swornTo wage my wars, and worship me their King;The old order changeth, yielding place to new;And we that fight for our fair father Christ,Seeing that ye be grown too weak and oldTo drive the heathen from your Roman wall,No tribute will we pa.”: so those great lordsDrew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome.
And Arthur and his knighthood for a spaceWere all one will, and thro' that strength the KingDrew in the petty princedoms under him,Fought, and in twelve great battles overcameThe heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd.
The Passing of ArthurThat story which the bold Sir Bedivere,First made and latest left of all the knights,Told, when the man was no more than a voiceIn the white winter of his age, to thoseWith whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.For on their march to westward, Bedivere,Who slowly paced among the slumbering host;Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:“I found Him in the shining of the stars,I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,But in His ways with men I find Him not.I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.O me! for why is all around us hereAs if some lesser god had made the world,But had not force to shape it as he would,Till the High God behold it from beyond,And enter it, and make it beautiful?Or else as if the world were wholly fair,But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,And have not power to see it as it is:Perchance, because we see not to the close;—For I, being simple, thought to work His will,And have but stricken with the sword in vain;And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friendIs traitor to my peace, and all my realmReels back into the beast, and is no more.My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die.”
The Passing of Arthur
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,First made and latest left of all the knights,Told, when the man was no more than a voiceIn the white winter of his age, to thoseWith whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
For on their march to westward, Bedivere,Who slowly paced among the slumbering host;Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:
“I found Him in the shining of the stars,I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,But in His ways with men I find Him not.I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.O me! for why is all around us hereAs if some lesser god had made the world,But had not force to shape it as he would,Till the High God behold it from beyond,And enter it, and make it beautiful?Or else as if the world were wholly fair,But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,And have not power to see it as it is:Perchance, because we see not to the close;—For I, being simple, thought to work His will,And have but stricken with the sword in vain;And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friendIs traitor to my peace, and all my realmReels back into the beast, and is no more.My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die.”
Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'dIn Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blownAlong a wandering wind, and past his earWent shrilling, “Hollow, hollow all delight!Hail King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away.Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.And I am blown along a wandering wind,And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.”And fainter onward, like wild birds that changeTheir season in the night and wail their wayFrom cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dreamShrill'd; but in going mingled with dim criesFar in the moonlit haze among the hills,As of some lonely city sack'd by night,When all is lost, and wife and child with wailPass to new lords! and Arthur woke and call'd,“Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim criesThine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wildMourn, knowing it will go along with me?”This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:“O me, my King, let pass whatever will,Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;But in their stead thy name and glory clingTo all high places like a golden cloudFor ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.Light was Gawain in life, and light in deathIs Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—I hear the steps of Modred in the west,And with him many of thy people, and knightsOnce thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grownThan heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.Right well in heart they know thee for the King.Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.”Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“Far other is this battle in the westWhereto we move, than when we strove in youth,And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mineTo war against my people and my knights.The king who fights his people fights himself.And they my knights, who loved me once, the strokeThat strikes them dead is as my death to me.Yet let us hence, and find or feel a wayThro' this blind haze, which ever since I sawOne lying in the dust at Almesbury,Hath folded in the passes of the world.”Then rose the King and moved his host by night,And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—A land of old upheaven from the abyssBy fire, to sink into the abyss again;Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,And the long mountains ended in a coastOf ever-shifting sand, and far awayThe phantom circle of a moaning sea.There the pursuer could pursue no more,And he that fled no further fly the King;And there, that day when the great light of heavenBurn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fightLike this last dim, weird battle of the west.A death-white mist slept over sand and sea:Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drewDown with his blood, till all his heart was coldWith formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fellConfusion, since he saw not whom he fought,For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;And some had visions out of golden youth,And some beheld the faces of old ghostsLook in upon the battle; and in the mistWas many a noble deed, many a base,And chance and craft and strength in single fights,And ever and anon with host to hostShocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crashOf battle-axes on shattered helms, and shrieksAfter the Christ, of those who falling downLook'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist:And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,Sweat, writhing, anguish, laboring of the lungsIn that close mist, and cryings for the light,Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.Last, as by some one death-bed after wailOf suffering, silence follows, or thro' deathOr deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,Save for some whisper of the seething seas,A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous dayGrew drearier toward twilight falling, cameA bitter wind, clear from the North, and blewThe mist aside, and with that wind the tideRose, and the pale King glanced across the fieldOf battle: but no man was moving there;Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,Nor yet of heathen; only the wan waveBrake in among dead faces, to and froSwaying the helpless hands, and up and downTumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,And rolling far along the gloomy shoresThe voice of days of old and days to be.Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,And whiter than the mist that all day longHad held the field of battle was the King:“Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the worldAnd wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,And beats upon the faces of the dead,My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?—O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'nConfusion, till I know not what I am,Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: “My King,King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,There also will I worship thee as King.Yet still thy life is whole, and still I liveWho love thee; but who hates thee, he that broughtThe heathen back among us, yonder stands,Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.”
Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'dIn Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blownAlong a wandering wind, and past his earWent shrilling, “Hollow, hollow all delight!Hail King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away.Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.And I am blown along a wandering wind,And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.”And fainter onward, like wild birds that changeTheir season in the night and wail their wayFrom cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dreamShrill'd; but in going mingled with dim criesFar in the moonlit haze among the hills,As of some lonely city sack'd by night,When all is lost, and wife and child with wailPass to new lords! and Arthur woke and call'd,“Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim criesThine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wildMourn, knowing it will go along with me?”
This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:“O me, my King, let pass whatever will,Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;But in their stead thy name and glory clingTo all high places like a golden cloudFor ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.Light was Gawain in life, and light in deathIs Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—I hear the steps of Modred in the west,And with him many of thy people, and knightsOnce thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grownThan heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.Right well in heart they know thee for the King.Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.”
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“Far other is this battle in the westWhereto we move, than when we strove in youth,And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mineTo war against my people and my knights.The king who fights his people fights himself.And they my knights, who loved me once, the strokeThat strikes them dead is as my death to me.Yet let us hence, and find or feel a wayThro' this blind haze, which ever since I sawOne lying in the dust at Almesbury,Hath folded in the passes of the world.”
Then rose the King and moved his host by night,And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—A land of old upheaven from the abyssBy fire, to sink into the abyss again;Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,And the long mountains ended in a coastOf ever-shifting sand, and far awayThe phantom circle of a moaning sea.There the pursuer could pursue no more,And he that fled no further fly the King;And there, that day when the great light of heavenBurn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fightLike this last dim, weird battle of the west.A death-white mist slept over sand and sea:Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drewDown with his blood, till all his heart was coldWith formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fellConfusion, since he saw not whom he fought,For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;And some had visions out of golden youth,And some beheld the faces of old ghostsLook in upon the battle; and in the mistWas many a noble deed, many a base,And chance and craft and strength in single fights,And ever and anon with host to hostShocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crashOf battle-axes on shattered helms, and shrieksAfter the Christ, of those who falling downLook'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist:And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,Sweat, writhing, anguish, laboring of the lungsIn that close mist, and cryings for the light,Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.
Last, as by some one death-bed after wailOf suffering, silence follows, or thro' deathOr deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,Save for some whisper of the seething seas,A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous dayGrew drearier toward twilight falling, cameA bitter wind, clear from the North, and blewThe mist aside, and with that wind the tideRose, and the pale King glanced across the fieldOf battle: but no man was moving there;Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,Nor yet of heathen; only the wan waveBrake in among dead faces, to and froSwaying the helpless hands, and up and downTumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,And rolling far along the gloomy shoresThe voice of days of old and days to be.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,And whiter than the mist that all day longHad held the field of battle was the King:“Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the worldAnd wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,And beats upon the faces of the dead,My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?—O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'nConfusion, till I know not what I am,Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”
Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: “My King,King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,There also will I worship thee as King.Yet still thy life is whole, and still I liveWho love thee; but who hates thee, he that broughtThe heathen back among us, yonder stands,Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.”
Then spake the King: “My house had been my doom,But call not thou this traitor of my houseWho hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.My house are rather they who sware my vows,Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.King am I, whatsoever be their cry;And one last act of kinghood shalt thou seeYet, ere I pass.” And uttering this the KingMade at the man: then Modred smote his liegeHard on that helm which many a heathen swordHad beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,Slew him, and but slain himself, he fell.So all day long the noise of battle roll'dAmong the mountains by the winter sea;Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,A broken chancel with a broken cross,That stood on a dark strait of barren land:On one side lay the Ocean, and on oneLay a great water, and the moon was full.Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“The sequel of today unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep—the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made,—Tho' Merlin sware that I should come againTo rule once more; but, let what will be, be,I am so deeply smitten thro' the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword—and how I row'd acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king;And, wheresoever I am sung or toldIn after-time, this also shall be known:But now delay not: take Excalibur,And fling him far into the middle mere:Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.”To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—A little thing may harm a wounded man:Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sangShrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping downBy zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,Came on the shining levels of the lake.There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forthAnd sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-workOf subtlest jewellery. He gazed so longThat both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,This way and that dividing the swift mind,In act to throw: but at the last it seem'dBetter to leave Excalibur conceal'dThere in the many-knotted water-flags,That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.So strode he back slow to the wounded King.Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?”What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,And the wild water lapping on the crag.”To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:“Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,Not rendering true answer, as beseem'dThy fealty, nor like a noble knight:For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.This is a shameful thing for men to lie.Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,As thou art lief and dear, and do the thingI bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”Then went Sir Bedivere the second timeAcross the ridge, and paced beside the mere,Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,How curiously and strangely chased, he smoteHis palms together, and he cried aloud:“And if indeed I cast the brand away,Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.What good should follow this, if this were done?What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.Were it well to obey then, if a king demandAn act unprofitable, against himself?The King is sick, and knows not what he does.What record, or what relic of my lordShould be to after-time, but empty breathAnd rumors of a doubt? But were this kept,Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,Some one might show it at a joust of arms,Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deepsUpon the hidden bases of the hills.'So might some old man speak in the after-timeTo all the people, winning reverence.But now much honor and much fame were lost.”So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,And hid Excalibur the second time,And so strode back slow to the wounded King.Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:“What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“I heard the water lapping on the crag,And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!Authority forgets a dying king,Laid widow'd of the power in his eyeThat bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,In whom should meet the offices of all,Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;Either from lust of gold, or like a girlValuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plungedAmong the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendor of the moon,And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,Seen where the moving isles of winter shookBy night, with noises of the Northern Sea.So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.And lightly went the other to the King.Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:“Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gemsShould blind my purpose, for I never saw,Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,So great a miracle as yonder hilt.Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;But when I look'd again, behold an arm,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,That caught him by the hilt and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.”And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:“My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,And bear me to the margin; yet I fearMy wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”
Then spake the King: “My house had been my doom,But call not thou this traitor of my houseWho hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.My house are rather they who sware my vows,Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.King am I, whatsoever be their cry;And one last act of kinghood shalt thou seeYet, ere I pass.” And uttering this the KingMade at the man: then Modred smote his liegeHard on that helm which many a heathen swordHad beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,Slew him, and but slain himself, he fell.
So all day long the noise of battle roll'dAmong the mountains by the winter sea;Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,A broken chancel with a broken cross,That stood on a dark strait of barren land:On one side lay the Ocean, and on oneLay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“The sequel of today unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep—the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made,—Tho' Merlin sware that I should come againTo rule once more; but, let what will be, be,I am so deeply smitten thro' the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword—and how I row'd acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king;And, wheresoever I am sung or toldIn after-time, this also shall be known:But now delay not: take Excalibur,And fling him far into the middle mere:Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.”
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—A little thing may harm a wounded man:Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sangShrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping downBy zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forthAnd sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-workOf subtlest jewellery. He gazed so longThat both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,This way and that dividing the swift mind,In act to throw: but at the last it seem'dBetter to leave Excalibur conceal'dThere in the many-knotted water-flags,That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?”What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,And the wild water lapping on the crag.”
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:“Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,Not rendering true answer, as beseem'dThy fealty, nor like a noble knight:For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.This is a shameful thing for men to lie.Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,As thou art lief and dear, and do the thingI bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”
Then went Sir Bedivere the second timeAcross the ridge, and paced beside the mere,Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,How curiously and strangely chased, he smoteHis palms together, and he cried aloud:
“And if indeed I cast the brand away,Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.What good should follow this, if this were done?What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.Were it well to obey then, if a king demandAn act unprofitable, against himself?The King is sick, and knows not what he does.What record, or what relic of my lordShould be to after-time, but empty breathAnd rumors of a doubt? But were this kept,Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,Some one might show it at a joust of arms,Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deepsUpon the hidden bases of the hills.'So might some old man speak in the after-timeTo all the people, winning reverence.But now much honor and much fame were lost.”
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,And hid Excalibur the second time,And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:“What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“I heard the water lapping on the crag,And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!Authority forgets a dying king,Laid widow'd of the power in his eyeThat bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,In whom should meet the offices of all,Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;Either from lust of gold, or like a girlValuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plungedAmong the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendor of the moon,And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,Seen where the moving isles of winter shookBy night, with noises of the Northern Sea.So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:“Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gemsShould blind my purpose, for I never saw,Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,So great a miracle as yonder hilt.Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;But when I look'd again, behold an arm,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,That caught him by the hilt and brandish'd himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.”
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:“My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,And bear me to the margin; yet I fearMy wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,And looking wistfully with wide blue eyesAs in a picture. Him Sir BedivereRemorsefully regarded thro' his tears,And would have spoken, but he found not words;Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,Like one that feels a nightmare on his bedWhen all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,Larger than human on the frozen hills.He heard the deep behind him, and a cryBefore. His own thought drove him like a goad.Dry clash'd his harness in the icy cavesAnd barren chasms, and all to left and rightThe bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he basedHis feet on juts of slippery crag that rangSharp-smitten with the dint of armed heelsAnd on a sudden, lo! the level lake,And the long glories of the winter moon.Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,Beneath them; and descending they were wareThat all the decks were dense with stately forms,Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold: and from them roseA cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, an agonyOf lamentation, like a wind that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come, since the making of the world.Then murmur'd Arthur, “Place me in the barge.”So to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.But she, that rose the tallest of them allAnd fairest, laid his head upon her lap,And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,And dropping bitter tears against a browStriped with dark blood: for all his face was whiteAnd colorless, and like the wither'd moonSmote by the fresh beam of the springing east;And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with dropsOf onset; and the light and lustrous curls—That made his forehead like a rising sunHigh from the daïs-throne—were parch'd with dust;Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.So like a shatter'd column lay the King;Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,From spur to plume a star of tournament,Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and chargedBefore the eyes of ladies and of kings.Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?For now I see the true old times are dead,When every morning brought a noble chance,And every chance brought out a noble knight.Such times have been not since the light that ledThe holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole Round Table is dissolvedWhich was an image of the mighty worldAnd I, the last, go forth companionless,And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—if indeed I go(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLook'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,And on the mere the wailing died away.But when that moan had past for evermore,The stillness of the dead world's winter dawnAmazed him, and he groan'd, “The King is gone.”And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,“From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clombThe last hard footstep of that iron crag;Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,“He passes to be King among the dead,And after healing of his grievous woundHe comes again; but—if he come no more—O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazedOn that high day, when, clothed with living light,They stood before his throne in silence, friendsOf Arthur, who should help him at his need?”
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,And looking wistfully with wide blue eyesAs in a picture. Him Sir BedivereRemorsefully regarded thro' his tears,And would have spoken, but he found not words;Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,Like one that feels a nightmare on his bedWhen all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,Larger than human on the frozen hills.He heard the deep behind him, and a cryBefore. His own thought drove him like a goad.Dry clash'd his harness in the icy cavesAnd barren chasms, and all to left and rightThe bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he basedHis feet on juts of slippery crag that rangSharp-smitten with the dint of armed heelsAnd on a sudden, lo! the level lake,And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,Beneath them; and descending they were wareThat all the decks were dense with stately forms,Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold: and from them roseA cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, an agonyOf lamentation, like a wind that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, “Place me in the barge.”So to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.But she, that rose the tallest of them allAnd fairest, laid his head upon her lap,And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,And dropping bitter tears against a browStriped with dark blood: for all his face was whiteAnd colorless, and like the wither'd moonSmote by the fresh beam of the springing east;And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with dropsOf onset; and the light and lustrous curls—That made his forehead like a rising sunHigh from the daïs-throne—were parch'd with dust;Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.So like a shatter'd column lay the King;Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,From spur to plume a star of tournament,Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and chargedBefore the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?For now I see the true old times are dead,When every morning brought a noble chance,And every chance brought out a noble knight.Such times have been not since the light that ledThe holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole Round Table is dissolvedWhich was an image of the mighty worldAnd I, the last, go forth companionless,And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—if indeed I go(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLook'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,And on the mere the wailing died away.
But when that moan had past for evermore,The stillness of the dead world's winter dawnAmazed him, and he groan'd, “The King is gone.”And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,“From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”
Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clombThe last hard footstep of that iron crag;Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,“He passes to be King among the dead,And after healing of his grievous woundHe comes again; but—if he come no more—O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazedOn that high day, when, clothed with living light,They stood before his throne in silence, friendsOf Arthur, who should help him at his need?”