And colorless, 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 Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-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 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. 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 noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble 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; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, 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 DORA 2 WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son. And she his niece. He often look'd at them And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." 1 In 1869 the Morte d'Arthur was incorporated in the Passing of Arthur, the last of the idylls of the King. 2 See the Life of Tennyson, I, 195 6, and 265. And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here? So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child! go. And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch; they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapped him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O father!-if you let me call you 80 I never came a-begging for myself, come For Dora take her back, she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and thought with me, That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads,-you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be Not unbecoming men that strove with The lights begin to twinkle from the The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends "T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Isles, It may be we shall touch the Happy are, we are, One equal temper of heroic hearts, To strive, to seek, to find, and not to LOCKSLEY HALL1 COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. "T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland fly- Locksley Hall, that in the distance 1 See the Life of Tennyson, I, 176 and 195. Many a night from yonder ivied case- Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nour ishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the When the centuries behind me like a When I dipped into the future far as hu man eye could see. Saw the vision of the world and all the In the spring a fuller crimson comes In the spring a livelier iris changes of In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, On her pallid cheek and forehead came a And she turn'd-her bosom shaken wit dark of hazel eyes Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fear ing they should do me wrong Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin weeping, I have loved the long." |