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MERLIN AND VIVIEN.

STORM was coming, but the winds

were still,

And in the wild woods of Broceliande,

Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork,

At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay.

Whence came she? One that bare in bitter grudge

The scorn of Arthur and his Table, Mark

The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,

A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm

Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say

That out of naked knightlike purity

Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl

But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,

Sware by her-vows like theirs, that high in

heaven

Love most, but neither marry, nor are given

In marriage, angels of our Lord's report.

He ceased, and then-for Vivien sweetly said

(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),

'And is the fair example follow'd, Sir,

In Arthur's household?'-answer'd innocently:

'Ay, by some few-ay, truly-youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight

To worship woman as true wife beyond

All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.

They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.

So passionate for an utter purity

Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,

For Arthur bound them not to singleness.

Brave hearts and clean! and yet-God guide

them-young.'

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turn'd to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.'

And Vivien answer'd, smiling scornfully, 'Why fear? because that foster'd at thy court I savour of thy-virtues? fear them? no. As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field;

She bore me there, for born from death was I

Among the dead and sown upon the wind—

And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes,
That old true filth, and bottom of the well,
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine
And maxims of the mud! "This Arthur pure!
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself hath made
Gives him the lie! There is no being pure,
My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?"-
If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood.

Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back,
When I have ferreted out their burrowings,
The hearts of all this Order in mine hand-
Ay-so that fate and craft and folly close,
Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard.
To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine
Is cleaner-fashion'd-Well, I loved thee first,
That warps the wit.'

Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark.

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