Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang They sleep-the men I loved. I think Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls To rule once more; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword-and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 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, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excali bur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work This way and that dividing the swift mind, So strode he back slow to the wounded Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, smote His 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, So spake he, clouded with his own And hid Excalibur the second time, Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedi vere : '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! Which might have pleased the eyes of Authority forgets a dying king, many men. What good should follow this, if this were disobey, Deep harm to Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. An act unprofitable, against himself? What record, or what relic of my lord Stored in some treasure-house of mighty Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the Upon the hidden bases of the hills." To all the people, winning reverence. Laid widow'd of the power in his eye For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, Either from lust of gold, or like a girl But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour 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 shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won derful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Remorsefully 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, Three times, and drew him under in the 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 bed When 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 cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels And 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 ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream -by these Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led Then murmur'd Arthur, 'Place me in The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved the barge.' So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Which was an image of the mighty world, Put forth their hands, and took the King, And I, the last, go forth companionless, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And call'd him by his name, complaining And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls That made his forehead like a rising sun High 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; From spur to plume a star of tournament, charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir 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, Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 'He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound Where I will heal me of my grievous He comes again; but-if he come no wound.' But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn more As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Amazed him, and he groan'd, 'The King Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and is gone.' And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, From the great deep to the great deep Or thought he saw, the speck that bare he goes.' Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. TO THE QUEEN. O LOYAL to the royal in thyself, Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee thro' thy people and their love, And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard |