The works of Alfred Tennyson. With 25 illustr

Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,

Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.

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 fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
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.

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
In aftertime, 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: '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 down

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

And sparkled keen with frost against the

arm

hilt:

M M

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;

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, Should thus be lost for ever 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. 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 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.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

Upon the hidden bases of the hills." 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 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 walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,

Like one that feels a nightmare 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,

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.