5 The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,

Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone,
Or gone or dwindled down to some old games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
10 With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
15 Now harping on the church-commissioners,
Now hawking at Geology and schism;

Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith

Right thro' the world, at home was little left, 20 And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by. Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with 'I hold by him.' 'And I,' quoth Everard, by the wassail-bowl.' 'Why yes,' I said, 'we knew your gift that way 25 At college: but another which you had,

I mean of verse (for so we held it then),
What came of that?' 'You know,' said Frank,
'he burnt

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books
And then to me demanding why? 'Oh, sir,
30 He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said 'twas nothing—that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:

God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.

It pleased me well enough.' 'Nay, nay,' said

Hall,

35 'Why take the style of those heroic times?
For nature brings not back the Mastodon,
Nor we those times; and why should any man
Remodel models? these twelve books of mine
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth,

40 Mere chaff

'But I,'

and draff, much better burnt.'

Said Francis, 'pick'd the eleventh from this
hearth

And have it; keep a thing, its use will come.
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.'

He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a horse
45 That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;
For I remember'd Everard's college fame
When we were Freshmen: then at my request
He brought; and the poet little urged,
But with some prelude of disparagement,
50 Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes,
Deep-chested music, and to this result.

MORTE D'ARTHUR

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 Lyonesse about their Lord,
5 King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,

10 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.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
'The sequel of to-day unsolders all

15 The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep-the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
20 Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,-
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more-but let what will be, be,
25 I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm

That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
30 Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword-and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
35 In after time, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me

word.'

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

40 It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.'
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping

45

down

50 By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 55 And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 60 This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags,

That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 65 So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 70 'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crags.'

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 'Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 75 Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 80 As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 85 But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, 'And if indeed I cast the brand away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note

90 Should thus be lost forever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

95 Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
100 And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
105 Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills."

110

So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honour and much fame were lost.'
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,

And so strode back slow to the wounded king. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' 115 And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

'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,

120 Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 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, 125 In whom should meet the offices of all,

Thou would'st betray me for the precious hilt;