"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! 120 Authority forgets a dying king,

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
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,

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I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 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.

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So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three times, and drew him under in the 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?

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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.

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Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

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."

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And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

'My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were

gone.

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my

weight,

And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."
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,

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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.

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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,

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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 dreamby these

Three Queens with crowns of gold-and from them rose

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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,"

And 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,

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And dropping bitter tears against his 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.

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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?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble

chance,

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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.