  Probably every one knows the story of the great King Arthur who, the legends say, ruled in Britain so many, many years ago and gathered about him in his famous Round Table, knights of splendid courage, tried and proven. So well loved was the story of Arthur in other countries as well as in England that it was among the very first works ever printed in Europe, and it was still welcomed centuries later when the great English poet, Alfred Tennyson, told it in his Idylls of the King. The boy Arthur was really the son of King Uther Pendragon, but few persons knew of his birth. Uther had given him into the care of the enchanter Merlin, who had carried him to the castle of Sir Hector, Now Merlin was a very wise man, and when King Uther died several years later the noblemen asked his advice in choosing a new king. “Gather together in St. Stephen's Church in London, on Christmas Day,” was all the enchanter answered. So the knights assembled, and when the mass was over and they passed out into the churchyard, there they beheld a large block of stone, upon which rested a heavy anvil. The blade of a jeweled sword was sunk deeply into the anvil. Wondering, the noblemen drew near. One of them discovered an inscription upon the hilt which said that none but the man who could draw out the sword should ever rule in Uther's place. One by one they tried, but the sword was firmly imbedded. No one could draw it forth. “I will fetch it for you,” cried the young Arthur, anxious to be of service. He found the apartment of Sir Kay closed and locked; but he was determined to get a sword for his brother, and remembering the huge anvil he had seen in the churchyard, he hurried toward it. Grasping the hilt of the projecting sword, he drew it out easily. Happy over his good fortune, Arthur returned to the tourney ground and gave the new sword to his foster brother. Sir Hector, who stood near, recognized it. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked. “From the great anvil in the churchyard of St. Stephen's I drew it,” was the answer. But Sir Hector still doubted, and when the tournament was over, he and all the principal nobles of the realm rode back to the churchyard. Arthur replaced the sword in the anvil and stood aside while all present tried to draw it forth. None succeeded. Then Arthur again stepped up, grasped the hilt and pulled out the blade. “The king, the king!” the people cried; for they knew that at last they had found a worthy successor to the good King Uther. So Arthur was crowned king and entered upon that wise and kingly rule of which the praises have so often been sung. Following are the stories of the coming and passing of Arthur as they are related by Tennyson: For while he linger'd there, A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flash'd forth and into war: for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, “Who is he That he should rule us? who hath proven him King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. This is the son of GorloÏs, not the King; This is the son of Anton, not the King.” And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere; And thinking as he rode, “Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne, and side by side with me? What happiness to reign a lonely king, Vext—O ye stars that shudder over me, O earth that soundest hollow under me, Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be join'd To her that is the fairest under heaven, I seem as nothing in the mighty world, And cannot will my will, nor work my work Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm Victor and lord. But were I join'd with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live.” Thereafter—as he speaks who tells the tale— When Arthur reached a field-of-battle bright With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him, that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. So when the King had set his banner broad, At once from either side, with trumpet-blast, And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, The long-lanced battle let their horses run. And now the barons and the kings prevail'd, And now the King, as here and there that war Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood threw the kings CarÁdos, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, The King Brandagoras of Latangor, With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice As dreadful as the shout of one who sees To one who sins, and deems himself alone And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the brands That hack'd among the flyers, “Ho! they yield!” So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved And honor'd most. “Thou dost not doubt me King, So well thine arm hath wrought for me today.” Descends upon thee in the battle-field: I know thee for my King!” Whereat the two, For each had warded either in the fight, Sware on the field of death a deathless love. And Arthur said, “Man's word is God in man: Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.” Then quickly from the foughten field he sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, Saying, “If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.” Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating-.”How should I that am a king, However much he help me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son.”—lifted his voice, and call'd A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: “Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?” Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, “Sir King, there be but two old men that know: And each is twice as old as I; and one Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served King Uther thro' his magic art; and one Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, Who taught him magic; but the scholar ran Before the master, and so far, that Bleys Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote All things and whatsoever Merlin did Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.” To whom the King Leodogran replied, “O friend, had I been holpen half as well By this King Arthur as by thee today, Then beast and man had had their share of me: But summon here before us yet once more Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.” Then, when they came before him, the King said, “I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, And reason in the chase: but wherefore now Do these your lords stir up the heat of war, Some calling Arthur born of GorloÏs, Others of Anton? Tell me, ye yourselves, Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son?” And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, “Ay.” Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights, Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake— For bold in heart and act and word was he, Whenever slander breathed against the King— “Sir, there be many rumors on this head: For there be those who hate him in their hearts, Call him base-born, and since his ways are sweet, And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man: And there be those who deem him more than man, And dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief In all this matter—so ye care to learn— Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time The prince and warrior GorloÏs, he that held Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: And daughters had she borne him—one whereof, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent, Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved To Arthur—but a son she had not borne. And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: But she, a stainless wife to GorloÏs, So loathed the bright dishonor of his love, That GorloÏs and King Uther went to war: And overthrown was GorloÏs and slain. Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd in, And there was none to call to but himself. So, compass'd by the power of the King, Enforced she was to wed him in her tears, And with a shameful swiftness: afterward, Not many moons, King Uther died himself, Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. And that same night, the night of the new year; By reason of the bitterness and grief That vext his mother, all before his time Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate To Merlin, to be holden far apart Until his hour should come; because the lords Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child Piecemeal among them, had they known; for each But sought to rule for his own self and hand, Of GorloÏs. Wherefore Merlin took the child, And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife Nursed the young prince, and rear'd him with her own; And no man knew. And ever since the lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now, This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall, Proclaiming, 'Here is Uther's heir, your king,' A hundred voices cried, 'Away with him! No king of ours! A son of GorloÏs he, Or else the child of Anton and no king, Or else base-born.' Yet Merlin thro' his craft, And while the people clamor'd for a king, Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.” Then while the King debated with himself If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, Or born the son of GorloÏs, after death, Or Uther's son, and born before his time, Or whether there were truth in anything Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom as he could, not as he would, the King Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat: “A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him! Yea, but ye—think ye this king— So few his knights, however brave they be— Hath body enow to hold his foemen down?” “O King,” she cried, “and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died and Arthur sat Crown'd on the daÏs, and his warriors cried, 'Be thou the king, and we will work thy will, Who love thee.' Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so strait vows to his own self, That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost. Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half-blinded at the coming of a light. “But when he spake and cheer'd his Table Round With large, divine and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee—I beheld From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King: And ere it left their faces, thro' the cross And those around it and the Crucified, Down from the casement over Arthur, smote Flame-color, vert, and azure, in three rays, One falling upon each of three fair queens, Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. “And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of 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 mist Of incense curl'd about her, and her face Well-nigh was hidden in the minster gloom; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world, and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. “There likewise I beheld Excalibur Before him at his crowning borne, the sword That rose from out the bosom of the lake, And Arthur row'd across and took it—rich With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, Bewildering heart and eye—the blade so bright That 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 face Taking it, but old Merlin counseled him, 'Take thou and strike! the time to cast away Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the king Took, and by this will beat his foemen down.” Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To 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'd To those two sons to pass and let them be. And Gawain went, and breaking into song Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, And there half heard; the same that afterward Struck 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 dark Was GorloÏs, yea and dark was Uther too, Well-nigh to blackness; but this King is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. Moreover, always in my mind I hear A 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 fault Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran And 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 walk Unseen 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 evermore As I grew greater grew with me; and sad At 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 himself And Merlin ever served about the King, Uther, before he died; and on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, Descending thro' the dismal night—a night In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost— Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. And then the two Dropt 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 deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A 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 fringe Of 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 peace Till this were told.' And saying this the seer Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death, Not ever to be question'd any more Save on the further side; but when I met Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth— The shining dragon and the naked child Descending in the glory of the seas— He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd me In 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 thou Fear not to give this King thine only child, Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of men, And echo'd by old folk beside their fires For comfort after their wage-work is done, Speak of the King; and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn Tho' men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come; and then or now Utterly 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 peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, Now looming, and now lost: and on the slope 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 haze And made it thicker; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew 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 haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the king stood out in heaven Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen;—and watch'd him from the gates; And Lancelot past away among the flowers, (For then was latter April) and return'd Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a nobler time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood 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, A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware 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 world Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!” So Dubric said; but when they left the shrine Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood. In scornful stillness gazing as they past; Then while they paced a city all on fire With 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 heard That 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 sworn To 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 old To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, No tribute will we pa.”: so those great lords Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him, Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The 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 voice In the white winter of his age, to those With 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 here As 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 friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels 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'd In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went 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 change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries Far 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 wail Pass 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 cries Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, 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 cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is 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 knights Than 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 west Whereto 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 mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw One 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 abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The 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 heaven Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like 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, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell Confusion, 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 ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battle-axes on shattered helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Look'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 lungs In 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 wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: “Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world And 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'n Confusion, 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 live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.” So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 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, 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 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. Then murmur'd Arthur, “Place me in the barge.” So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And 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 brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colorless, 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; 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? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 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 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 done May He within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats 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, 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 full-breasted 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. But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed 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 clomb The 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 wound He 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 gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?” Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint, 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 Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare 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. |
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