THE EPIC.

AT Francis Allen's on the Christmas

eve,

I mean of verse (for so we held it then),

What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books "

And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir,

He thought that nothing new was said, or else

Something so said 'twas nothingthat a truth

Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:

God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.

It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall,

"Why take the style of those heroic times ?

For nature brings not back the Mastodon,

Nor we those times; and why should any man

Remodel models? these twelve books of mine

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothingworth,

Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I,"

Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth

And have it keep a thing, its use will come.

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a horse

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;

For I remember'd Everard's college fame

When we were Freshmen: then at my request

He brought it; and the poet little urged,

But with some prelude of disparagement,

Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result.

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,

Not rendering true answer, as beseem'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

Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd 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 them, 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,