Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,

  And the long mountains ended in a coast

  Of ever-shifting sand, and far away

  The phantom circle of a moaning sea.

  There the pursuer could pursue no more,

  And he that fled no further fly the King;

  And there, that day when the great light of heaven

  Burn’d at his lowest in the rolling year,

  On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.

  Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight

  Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.

  A death-white mist slept over sand and sea,

  Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew

  Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold

  With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell

  Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

  For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,

  And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;

  And some had visions out of golden youth,

  And some beheld the faces of old ghosts

  Look in upon the battle; and in the mist

  Was many a noble deed, many a base,

  And chance and craft and strength in single fights,

  And ever and anon with host to host

  Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail

  hewn,

  Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash

  Of battle-axes on shatter’d helms, and shrieks

  After the Christ, of those who falling down

  Look’d up for heaven, and only saw the mist;

  And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,

  Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,

  Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs

  In that close mist, and cryings for the light,

  Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

  Last, as by some one death-bed after wail

  Of suffering, silence follows, or thro’ death

  Or death-like swoon, thus over all that shore,

  Save for some whisper of the seething seas,

  A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day

  Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came

  A bitter wind, clear from the north, and blew

  The mist aside, and with that wind the tide

  Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field

  Of battle. But no man was moving there;

  Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,

  Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave

  Brake in among dead faces, to and fro

  Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down

  Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,

  And shiver’d brands that once had fought with Rome,

  And rolling far along the gloomy shores

  The voice of days of old and days to be.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,

  And whiter than the mist that all day long

  Had held the field of battle was the King:

  “Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,

  And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,

  And beats upon the faces of the dead,

  My dead, as tho’ they had not died for me?—

  O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen

  Confusion, till I know not what I am,

  Nor whence I am, nor whether I be king;

  Behold, I seem but king among the dead.”

  Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: “My King!

  King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,

  There also will I worship thee as king.

  Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live

  Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought

  The heathen back among us, yonder stands,

  Modred, unharm’d, the traitor of thine house.”

  Then spake the King: “My house hath been my

  doom.

  But call not thou this traitor of my house

  Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.

  My house are rather they who sware my vows,

  Yea, even while they brake them, own’d me king.

  And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,

  When all the purport of my throne hath fail’d,

  That quick or dead thou holdest me for king.

  King am I, whatsoever be their cry;

  And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see

  Yet, ere I pass.” And uttering this the King

  Made at the man. Then Modred smote his liege

  Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword

  Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,

  Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,

  Slew him, and, all but slain himself, he fell.

  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,

  The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

  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.

  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 fellowship of famous knights

  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

  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

  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,

  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.

  But now delay not; take Excalibur,

  And fling him far into the middle mere;

  Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.”

  To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,

  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,

  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 zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock,

  Came on the shining 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;

  For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

  Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

  Of su
btlest jewellery. He gazed so long

  That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,

  This way and that dividing the swift mind,

  In act to throw; but at last it seem’d

  Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d

  There in the many-knotted water-flags,

  That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

  So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: “Hast thou perform’d 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 washing in the reeds,

  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 noble knight;

  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

  I bade 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, fixt in thought;

  But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,

  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,

  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

  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 rumors of a doubt? But were this kept,

  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

  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 honor and much fame were lost.”

  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

  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:

  “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 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,

  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;

  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,

  And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand

  Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,

  And flashing 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

  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 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,

  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

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

  “My end draws nigh; ’t is 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 Bedivere

  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.

  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.”

  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.

  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—

  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

  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 shiver’d to the tingling stars,

  And, as it were one voice, an agony

  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.”

  So to the barge they came. There those three queens

  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,

  And dropping bitter tears against a brow

  Striped with dark blood; for all his face was white

  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,

  Mixt 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 minds.”

  And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge;