74

He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter'd words of scorning; 'So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.'

The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled,

Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled.

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve

books'

And then to me demanding why? 'Oh,

sir,

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,

'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,

Mere chaff andjdraff, much better burnt.' 'But I,'

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, though sleepy, like a horse

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 it; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparage

ment,

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 Lyonness about their Lord,
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,
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 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,

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,

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

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder

ful,

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 seest, 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 zig-zag 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

hilt:

For all the haft twinkled with diamond

sparks,

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinthwork

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,

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.

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:

'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.'

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale :

"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy

name,

Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
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
As thou art lief and dear, and do the

thing

I bad 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;

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 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?'