thou art,

For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee
hence:

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly,
plunged

Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,

And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand

Made lightnings in the splendor of the

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi

vere :

Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the

genis

Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel-
ing him ;

But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three times, and drew him under in the

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

Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right

The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were

And colorless, and like the wither'd

moon

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing

east;

And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls

That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the daïs-throne-were parch'd with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

So like a shatter'd column lay the King: Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi

With these thou scëst - 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 fullbreasted 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,

mas morn.

GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES.

THIS morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew

The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws

The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little; -Juliet,
she

Solight of foot, so light of spirit, - O, she
To me myself, for some three careless

moons,

The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you

not

Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her,

And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will you paintäke this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,)

oar,

Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers.

The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine,

And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.

In that still place she, hoarded in herself,

Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived

Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard

Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter?
Where was he,

So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common
mouth,

So gross to express delight, in praise of her

Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world.

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images,

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