trode

On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, Crack'd basilisks, and splinter'd cocka

trices,

gale

Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, And blew my merry maidens all about With all discomfort; yea, and but for this,

stones

Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall.

'And there sat Arthur on the daïsthrone,

And those that had gone out upon the Quest,

Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them,

And those that had not, stood before the King,

Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail,

"A welfare in thine eye reproves Saying, Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. So fierce a gale made havoc here of late Among the strange devices of our kings; Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of

to me."

'He ceased; and Arthur turn'd to whom at first

He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, push'd

Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand,

Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood,

Until the King espied him, saying to him, "Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;"

and Bors,

"Ask me not, for I may not speak of it: I saw it ;" and the tears were in his eyes.

'Then there remain'd but Lancelot, for

the rest

thee?"

"And spake I not too truly, O my knights ?

the King

Had seen the sight he would have sworn

the vow:

Not easily, seeing that the King must guard

That which he rules, and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to

plow.

Who may not wander from the allotted field

Before his work be done; but, being done, Let visions of the night or of the day Come, as they will; and many a time they come,

Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,

This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,

This air that smites his forehead is not air But vision-yea, his very hand and foot— In moments when he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high God a vision, nor that One Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen.

'So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.'

PELLEAS AND ETTARRE.

KING ARTHUR made new knights to fill the gap

Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these a youth,

Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

'Make me thy knight, because I know,

Sir King,

All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.' Such was his cry: for having heard the King

And there were those who knew him near the King,

And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the
isles-

But lately come to his inheritance,
And lord of many a barren isle was he—
Riding at noon, a day or twain before,
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find
Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun
Beat like a strong knight on his helm,
and reel'd

Almost to falling from his horse; but

saw

Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them;

But for a mile all round was open space, And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew

To that dim day, then binding his good horse

To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay

At random looking over the brown earth Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove,

It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird
Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes
closed.

And since he loved all maidens, but no maid

In special, half-awake he whisper'd, 'Where?

O where? I love thee, tho' I know thee not.

For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword

A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won

meet.'

him,

Stammer'd, and could not make her a

reply.

For out of the waste islands had he come, Where saving his own sisters he had known Scarce any but the women of his isles, Rough wives, that laugh'd and scream'd against the gulls,

Makers of nets, and living from the sea.

Then with a slow smile turn'd the lady

round

And look'd upon her people; and as when A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, The circle widens till it lip the marge, Spread the slow smile thro' all her company.

Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled,

Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre,

And she was a great lady in her land.

Again she said, 'Q wild and of the

woods,

Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech?

Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face,

Lacking a tongue ?'

'O damsel,' answer'd he, 'I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom

Was dazzled by the sudden light, and

crave

Pardon but will ye to Caerleon? I
Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?'

'Lead then,' she said; and thro' the

woods they went.

And while they rode, the meaning in his

eyes,

His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, His broken utterances and bashfulness, Were all a burthen to her, and in her

heart

She mutter'd, 'I have lighted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale !' But since her mind

was bent

On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name