Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.

A death-white mist slept over sand and sea,

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold

With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,

And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;

And some had visions out of golden youth,

And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights,

And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,

Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash

Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks

After the Christ, of those who falling down

Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;

And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,

Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,

Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs

In that close mist, and cryings for the light,

Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

Rose, and the pale King glanced across the held

Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,

And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King:

"Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,

And wastes the narrow realm whereon we

move,

And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as tho' they had not died for
me?

O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be
king;

Behold, I seem but king among the dead.'

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 'My King;

King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,

There also will I worship thee as king. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live

Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen stands,

back among us, yonder

Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house.'

Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom.

But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with

me.

My house are rather they who sware my

Vows,

Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me king.

And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,

That quick or dead thou holdest me for king.

King am I, whatsoever be their cry:
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou

see

Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the King

Made at the man: then Modred smote his Liege

Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword

Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,

Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and, all but slain himself, he fell.

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 Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren

sleep

Such a

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,

The 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, wonderful, Holding the sword — and how 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 helmA 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 zigzag 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 jacinth-work
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 water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

Counting the dewy pebbles, fixt 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 rumors 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 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 splendour of the

moon,

And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,

Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock

By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him

Three times, and drew him under in the

mere

And lightly went the other to the King.

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: 'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

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 mere.'

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

'My end draws nigh; 't is 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,

Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,

Muttering and murmuring at his ear,

'Quick, quick!

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,

Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 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 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 cha fed his hands,

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,

And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing

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.'

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are

wrought by prayer 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, 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 seest if indeed I go. For all my mind is clouded with a doubtTo 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

And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but — if he come no

more

O me, be yon dark queens in yon black boat,

Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed

On that high day, when, clothed with living light,

They stood before his throne in silence, friends

Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?'

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

Even 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.

SONG FROM THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT [1859]

TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.

'Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.