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

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,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare 1 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,

1 Nightmare, a bad dream accompanied by a feeling of pressure on the chest. Mare is an old word meaning incubus. The nightmare was supposed to be a fiend.

165

170

175

180

185

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. 190 Dry clash'd his harness 1 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 195 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 200 That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three queens with crowns of gold: and from them

rose

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
205 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 210 Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

1 1 Harness, armor.

But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest laid his head upon her lap

And loosed the shatter'd casque,1 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 2 and cuisses 3 dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls
That made his forehead like the rising sun
High from the dais throne

were parch'd with dust, Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

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

215

220

225

230

235 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.

1

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was the image of the mighty world,
240 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, 245 And God fulfills 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,

250 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 255 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 world is every way

1 Holy Elders, the "Three Wise Men" who visited the Infant Jesus.

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; 1

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 full breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol2 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 the moan had past forevermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The King is gone.'

1

1 Avilion, the name of an English peninsula, but here used for a mythical "Isle of the Blest."

2 Fluting a wild carol. "The musical notes of swans hath been commended, and they sing most sweetly before their death." - Sir Thomas Browne. It is an old belief that a dying swan sings a song of marvelous sweetness just before death; hence the phrase "swan-song."

260

265

270

275