If, knowing God, they lift not hands of

prayer

Both for themselves and those who call

them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of
God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst-if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-
lawns

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer

sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

Moved from the brink, like some full

breasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of

dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

HERE ended Hall, and our last light,

that long

Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness,

flared and fell:

At which the Parson, sent to sleep with

sound,

And waked with silence, grunted 'Good!'

but we

Sat rapt it was the tone with which he

read

Perhaps some modern touches here and there

Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing

ness

Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;

I know not but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time of

year

The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: Then Francis, muttering, like a man illused,

'There now-that's nothing!' drew a little back,

And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,

That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I

seem'd

To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore

King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 'Arthur is come again: he cannot die.' Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated-'Come again, and thrice as fair ;'

And, further inland, voices echoed

'Come

With all good things, and war shall be no

more.'

At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard

indeed

The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.

Such a lord is Love,

Grew oratory.
And Beauty such a mistress of the world.
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,
Yet this is also true, that, long before
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name
My heart was like a prophet to my heart,
And told me I should love. A crowd of
hopes,

That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds,

Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream

Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark
East,

Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
And sure this orbit of the memory folds
For ever in itself the day we went
To see her. All the land in flowery

squares,

Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud

Drew downward: but all else of heaven

was pure

Up to the Sun, and May from verge to

verge,

And May with me from head to heel.

And now,

As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound,

(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,)

Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze,

And, where the hedge-row cuts the path

way, stood,

Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods

Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes

for joy,

But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right,

The cuckoo told his name to all the hills;
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ;
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said

to me,

Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing

Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for

what they have?'

And I made answer, Were there nothing else

For which to praise the heavens but only love,

That only love were cause enough for praise.'

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my

thought,

And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;

Down which a well-worn pathway courted

us

To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned;

And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume,

blew

Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool.