THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 217 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 bescem'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 bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time "And if indeed I cast the brand away, So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honor 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?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what 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 moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen ?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 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, But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream-by these Three queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge." So to the barge they came. There those three queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, High from the dais-throne-were parch'd with dust; With these thou seest-if indeed I go So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: I have lived my life, and that which I have done Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn Amazed him, and he groan'd, "The King is gone." And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, "From the great deep to the great deep he goes." Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb He comes again; but if he come no more- Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars. Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. TO THE QUEEN. O LOYAL to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to theeBear witness, that rememberable day, When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee thro' thy people and their love, And London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed and climeThunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard A strain to shame us "keep you to yourselves; So loyal is too costly! friends-your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go." Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? peak, THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH, ETC. And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him 219 Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, ENOCH ARDEN. LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher Here on this beach a hundred years ago, A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, Then on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels, Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honorable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter-gales, Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, And peacock-yewtree of the onely Hali, Whose Friday fare was Enoca's ministering. Then came a change, as all things human change Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven: thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken when they lifted him; And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one: Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd "Save them from this, whatever comes to me." And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some ittle cloud ENOCH ARDEN. Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike, But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold rising, shrill'd and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-The space was narrow,- having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and then he said, "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-Nay for I love him all the better for itGod bless him, he shall sit upon my knees, And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry when I come home again. Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 221 At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more." "Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours, Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day); get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." But when the last of those last moments came, "Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till 1 come again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it." Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, Remember this ?" and kiss'd him in his cot, She, when the day that Enoch mention'd came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past. Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail And still foreboding "What would Enoch say ?" Now the third child was sickly born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed-howsoe'er it was, After a lingering,-ere she was aware,Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, |