Made at the man. Then Modred smote his liege

Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword

Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and, all but slain himself, he fell. 169

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea, Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen 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 one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

179

But when that moan had past for ever

more,

The stillness of the dead world's winter

dawn

When, pale as yet and fever-worn, the Prince

Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again

is gone.'

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

A strain to shame us, 'Keep you to yourselves;

So loyal is too costly! friends - your love Is but a burthen; loose the bond, and go.' Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice

And meaning whom the roar of Hougou