Count, baron-whom he smote, he over

threw.

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin,

Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,

Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight

Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, 'Lo!

What is he? I do not mean the force alone

The grace and versatility of the man !
Is it not Lancelot?' 'When has Lance

lot worn

Favour of any lady in the lists?

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.'

'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all,

A fiery family passion for the name
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their
steeds, and thus,

Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made

In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit,

bears, with all

Its stormy crests that smoke against the

skies,

Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a

spear

Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head

Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd.

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;

He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,

And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.

He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure,

And being lustily holpen by the rest,
His party,- tho' it seem'd half-miracle
To those he fought with,-drave his kith
and kin,

And all the Table Round that held the lists,

Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew

Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve

Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,

His party, cried Advance and take thy prize

The diamond;' but he answer'd, 'Diamond

me

No diamonds! for God's love, a little air! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.'

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from

the field

With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and

sat,

Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lancehead :'

Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said

Lavaine,

'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' But he, I die already with it : drawDraw,' and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave