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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,

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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 dreamby these

Three Queens with crowns of gold-and from them rose

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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,"

And 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,

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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

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curlsThat made his forehead like a rising sun High from the daïs-throne-were parch'd with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

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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,

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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. /

:

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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:

'The old order changeth, yielding place to

new,

And God 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

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May He within himself make pure! but thou, 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

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

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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 God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seëst-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 Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted

swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

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Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the

flood

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With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of

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If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance

To Modena, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched
walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.—A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'T is of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,

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Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head
to foot,

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

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