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

240

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,

250

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 seëst-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 orchardlawns

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer

sea,

260

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

270

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. 1835. 1842. 1869.

Lord Tennyson.

GINEVRA

From Italy

IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or
chance

To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their archèd
walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.-A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'T is of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race,

Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,

20

26

Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head

to foot,

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor,

That, by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not
When thou hast heard the tale they told me
there.

46

She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire; Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour;

55

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 63

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast, When all sate down, the Bride was wanting there,

Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, ""T is but to make trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;

Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived, and long was to be seen

An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find,-he knew not

what.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless, then went to

strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When, on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,

82