Selections from Wordsworth and Tennyson Part 6

MORTE D'ARTHUR

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, 5 The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10 On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellows.h.i.+p of famous knights 15 Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 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 20 Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made,-- Tho' 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 25 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, 30 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I 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: 35 But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly being me word.'

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 40 Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.

A 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 45 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 zig-zag paths and juts of pointed rock, 50 Came on the s.h.i.+ning 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: 55 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, 60 In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded King 65

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Hast thou performed my mission which I gave?

What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 'I heard the ripple was.h.i.+ng in the reeds, 70 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 beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a n.o.ble knight: 75 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 80 I bad 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, 85 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, 90 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 95 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 rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, 100 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 105 Upon the hidden bases of the hills."

So might some old man speak in the after-time To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honour and much fame were lost.'

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 110 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: 115 'I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple was.h.i.+ng in the reeds.'

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 120 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, 125 Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from l.u.s.t 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: 130 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, 135 And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flas.h.i.+ng 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 140 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 145 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 has heard, or seen?' 150

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, 155 So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling 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 160 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 165 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 170 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. 175

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.' 180

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. 185 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-- 190 And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon.

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 195 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 s.h.i.+ver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice an agony 200 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 barge.'

And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 205 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, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 210 And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white 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 215 Of onset; and the light and l.u.s.trous curls-- That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the das-throne--were parch'd with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 220 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. 225

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 n.o.ble chance, 230 And every chance brought out a n.o.ble 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; 235 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 new, 240 And G.o.d 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, 245 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 250 That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 255 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 doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260 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 265 Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 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 270 Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away.

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threatened darkness, flared and fell: At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted 'Good!' but we 55 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-- Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not: but we sitting, as I said, 60 The c.o.c.k crew loud; as at that time of year The l.u.s.ty 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, 65 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 sh.o.r.es, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 70 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.' 75 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, 80 That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas-morn.

THE BROOK