Morte Three Queens with crowns of gold and from
Α cry that shiver❜d to the tingling stars, si
And, as it were one voice an agony ddod
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, Place me in the
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and
But she, that rose the tallest of them all abo
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, wa
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed
lidad qoob
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was
whites tal of Ha basenneily
And colourless, 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 dais-throne-were parch'd with
dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, ta
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 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 answered Arthur from the barge:
The old order changeth, yielding place to
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have
done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou-
If thou shouldest never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
Morte If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer D'Arthur Both for themselves and those who call them
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 seest-if indeed I
(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
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 meer 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 nothingness Morte
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 ill-used,
"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 echo'd '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-
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER;
OR, THE PICTURES
THIS morning is the morning of the day,
When I and Eustace from the city went
The WTo see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Gardener's Brothers in Art; a friendship so completes 10 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 bab-ba
A certain miracle of symmetry, ad & inse spil f
A miniature of loveliness, all graced on ne bu
Summ'd up and closed in. little ;-Juliet, she
So light of foot, so light of spirit-oh, she mis
To me myself, for some three careless moons,
The summer pilot of an empty heart or
Unto the shores of nothing Know you not
Such touches are but embassies of love,
Το tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, MA
And said to me, she sitting with us then,
When will you paint like this?' and I replied,
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,)
'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, un-
perceived,
A more ideal Artist he than all, ona daw tarl
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ashbuds in the front of March.' "Go and see
And Juliet answer'd laughing, Go an
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece.'
And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. ad
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