:

From waging bitter war with him and he,
That did not shun to smite me in worse way,
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,
He spared to lift his hand against the King
Who made him knight: but many a knight
was slain;

And many more, and all his kith and kin
Clave to him, and abode in his own land.
And many more when Modred raised revolt,
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.
And of this remnant will I leave a part,
True men who love me still, for whom I live,
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,
Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd.
Fear not thou shalt be guarded till my
death.

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my
doom.

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,
That I the King should greatly care to live;
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.
Bear with me for the last time while I show,
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou has
sinn'd.

For when the Roman left us, and their law
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways
Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed
Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong.
But I was first of all the kings who drew
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
The realms together under me, their Head,
In that fair order of my Table Round,
A glorious company, the flower of men,
To serve as model for the mighty world,
And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and

swear

To reverence the King, as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as

their King,

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
And worship her by years of noble deeds,
Until they won her; for indeed I knew
Of no more subtle master under heaven
Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
Not only to keep down the base in man,
But teach high thought, and amiable words
And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
And all this throve until I wedded thee!
Believing "lo mine helpmate, one to feel
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy."
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt;
Then others, following these my mightiest
knights,

And drawing foul ensample from fair names,

And I should evermore be vext with thee
In hanging robe or vacant ornament,
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy
lord,

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.
I am not made of so slight elements.
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.
I hold that man the worst of public foes
Who either for his own or children's sake,
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife
Whom he knows false, abide and rule the

Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane."

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch

Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.
Far off a solitary trumpet blew.

Then waiting by the doors the war-horse neigh'd

As at a friend's voice, and he spake again:

"Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes,

I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
To see thee, laying there thy golden head,
My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that

fierce law,

The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang -which while I weigh'd thy heart

with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn-is also past, in part.

And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I,
Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God
Forgives do thou for thine own soul the rest.
But how to take last leave of all I loved?
O golden hair, with which I used to play
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form,
And beauty such as never woman wore,
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee-
I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,
But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the
King's.

I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh, And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own flesh,

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries
'I loathe thee'; yet not less, O Guinevere,
For I was ever virgin save for thee,
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.
Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
Hereafter in that world where all are pure
We two may meet before high God, and thou
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and

know

I am thine husband - not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow:

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts

Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against my sister's son, Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights

Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the

event;

But hither shall I never come again,
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more,
Farewell!"

And while she grovell'd at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck,

And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest.

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone,

Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found

The casement: "Peradventure," so she thought,

"If I might see his face, and not be seen." And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen,

To guard and foster her forevermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd,

To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain; so she did not see the face,

Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn'd; and more and more The moony vapor rolling round the King, Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud,

"O Arthur!" there her voice brake suddenly,

Then as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid-air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the valeWent on in passionate utterance.

"Gone-my lord!

Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain! And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell? I should have answer'd his farewell.

His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King,

My own true lord! how dare I call him mine?

The shadow of another cleaves to me,
And makes me one pollution: he, the King,
Call'd me polluted shall I kill myself?
What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,
If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame;
No, nor by living can I live it down.
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to
months,

The months will add themselves and make the years,

The years will roll into the centuries,
And mine will ever be a name of scorn.
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.
Let the world be; that is but of the world.
What else? what hope? I think there was a
hope,

Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope;
His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks,
For mockery is the fume of little hearts.
And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven
My wickedness to him, and left me hope
That in mine own heart I can live down sin
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens
Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord,
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint
Among his warring senses, to thy knights-
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that

took

Full easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half-despised the height

To which I would not or I could not climbI thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light

I wanted warmth and color which I found In Lancelot - now I see thee what thou art, Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him tho' so late? Now ere he goes to the great Battle? none:

Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah God, my What might I not have made thy fair world,

Had I but loved thy highest creature here? It was my duty to have loved the highest: It surely was my profit had I known:

It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it,

Not Lancelot, nor another."

Here her hand Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes: she look'd and saw

The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her,

"Yea, little maid, for am I not forgiven?" Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed

Within her, and she wept with these and said: "Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke

The vast design and purpose of the King. O shut me round with narrowing nunnerywalls,

Meek maidens, from the voices crying 'Shame.'

I must not scorn myself: he loves me still.
Let no one dream but that he loves me still.
So let me, if you do not shudder at me
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you:

Wear black and white, and be a nun like you; Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts;

Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,

But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines;

Do each low office of your holy house;
Walk

your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in his eyes Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day, Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King."

She said: they took her to themselves; and

ENOCH

LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ;

And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf

In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazel-wood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away.

But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home
For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year
On board a merchantman, and made himself
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life
From the dread sweep of the down-stream-
ing seas:

And all men look'd upon him favorably :
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth
May,

He purchased his own boat, and made a home

For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.

Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
The younger people making holiday,
With bag and sack and basket, great and
small,

Went nutting to the hazels, Philip stay'd
(His father lying sick and needing him)
An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,
That burned as on an altar. Philip look'd,
And in their eyes and faces read his doom;
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life
Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
There, while the rest were loud with merry-
making,

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,

And merrily ran the years, seven happy

With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish
To save all earnings to the uttermost,
And give his child a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,
When two years after came a boy to be
The rosy idol of her solitudes,

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Or often journeying landward; for in truth
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-
spoil

In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand wintergales,

Not only to the market-cross were known,

In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:
A limb was broken when they lifted him;
And while he lay recovering there, his wife
Bore him another son, a sickly one:
Another hand crept too across his trade
Taking her bread and theirs and on him
feli,

Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,
To see his childern leading evermore
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd
"Save them from this, whatever comes to
me."

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,
Came, for he knew the man and valued
him,

Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd,
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have

the place?

And Enoch all at once assented to it,
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd
No graver than as when some little cloud
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife-
When he was gone -
the children what to

do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;

To

sell the boat-and yet he loved her

well

How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her!

He knew her, as a horseman knows his horseAnd yet to sell her- then with what she brought

Buy goods and stores-set Annie forth in trade

With all that seamen needed or their wivesSo might she keep the house while he was

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.
Forward she started with a happy cry,
And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his
limbs,

Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike,
But had no heart to break his purposes
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt

Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
Yet not with brawling opposition she,
But manifold entreaties, many a tear,
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd
(Sure that all evil would come out of it)
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
For her or his dear children, not to go.
He not for his own self caring but her,
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ;
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'.

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand

To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and

rang,

Till this was ended, and his careful hand, The space was narrow, having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and then he said, "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it."

Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,

Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise;

And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more."

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours

Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day); get you a seaman's glass,

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears."

But when the last of those last moments

came,

"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
Look to the babes, and till I come again,
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.
And fear no more for me; or if you fear
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
Is He not yonder in those uttermost
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,
The sea is His: He made it."

Enoch rose,

Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,

And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept
After a night of feverous wakefulness,
When Annie would have raised him Enoch
said,

"Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child

Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot,
But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his
way.

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd,

came,

Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;

Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave,

Set her sad will no less to chime with his,
But throve not in her trade, not being bred
To barter, nor compensating the want
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
And still foreboding "What would Enoch
say?"

For more than once, in days of difficulty
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less