rapidity expressed. 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 Bedi vere: 'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and bran dish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' 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 Bevidere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; 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 fance 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 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 if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart, And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 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 But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said That only love were cause enough for praise.' Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses glanced, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 'Eustace,' I said, 'this wonder keeps the house.' He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried,Look! look!' Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her: 'Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine.' She look'd: but all Suffused with blushes- neither self-pos sess'd |