hilt:

For all the haft twinkled with diamond

sparks,

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That 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'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi

vere:

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 demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours 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,

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'd
Thy 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 thing
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me
word.'

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across 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

smote

His palms together, and he cried aloud,

'And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime

To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour 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

In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing 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, plunged

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three 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 fear

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, wonderful,

And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 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,

And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,

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 gems

Should 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, wheel-
ing him ;

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

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

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 charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

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 led

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved

Which was an image of the mighty world; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years,

Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

'The old order changeth, yielding place

loud,

And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face

was white

world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of

prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of
God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way
With 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 lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-
lawns

And 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 sail

Moved from the brink, like some fullbreasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

HERE ended Hall, and our last light, that long

Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell:

At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,

And waked with silence, grunted 'Good!' but we

Sat rapt it was the tone with which he

read

Perhaps some modern touches here and

there

Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing

ness

Or else we loved the man, and prized his

work;

I know not but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time of year

The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,

'There now-that's nothing!' drew a little back,

And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,

That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore

King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,

'Arthur is come again: he cannot die.' Then those that stood upon the hills behind

Repeated 'Come again, and thrice as

fair;'

And, further inland, voices echo'd 'Come

With all good things, and war shall be no more.'

At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard

indeed

The clear church bells ring in the Christmas-morn.

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER;

OR, THE PICTURES.

THIS morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we

grew

The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws

The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little ;-Juliet,
she

So light of foot, so light of spirit-oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons,

The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, 'When will you paint like this?' and I replied,

The fields between

Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd

kine,

And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen; not less among us lived

Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not

heard

Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he,

So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common
mouth,

So gross to express delight, in praise of

her

jest,)

"Tis not your work, but Love's. Love,

unperceived,

A more ideal Artist he than all,

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name

those eyes

Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair

And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes,

March.'

And Juliet answer'd laughing, 'Go and see The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,

You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.'

And up we rose, and on the spur we went.

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear

The windy clanging of the minster clock; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad

stream,

That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers.

winged seeds,

Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm

To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream

Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East,

Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares,

Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large

cloud

Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure