Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; "And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Were it well to obey then, if a king demand The King is sick, and knows not what he does. And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, 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 honour and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. "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 widowed of the power in his eye That bowed 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 : I will arise and slay thee with my hands." And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 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 : Not though I live three lives of mortal men, Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 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.” Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words, But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 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. 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. |