The Passing of Arthur
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,First made and latest left of all the knights,Told, when the man was no more than a voiceIn the white winter of his age, to thoseWith whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
For on their march to westward, Bedivere,Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:
“I found Him in the shining of the stars,I marked Him in the flowering of His fields,But in His ways with men I find Him not.I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.O me! for why is all around us hereAs if some lesser god had made the world,But had not force to shape it as he would,Till the High God behold it from beyond,And enter it, and make it beautiful?Or else as if the world were wholly fair,But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,And have not power to see it as it is:Perchance, because we see not to the close;—For I, being simple, thought to work His will,And have but stricken with the sword in vain;And all whereon I leaned in wife and friendIs traitor to my peace, and all my realmReels back into the beast, and is no more.My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death;Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die.”
Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain killedIn Lancelot’s war, the ghost of Gawain blownAlong a wandering wind, and past his earWent shrilling, “Hollow, hollow all delight!Hail, King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away.Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.And I am blown along a wandering wind,And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.”And fainter onward, like wild birds that changeTheir season in the night and wail their wayFrom cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dreamShrilled; but in going mingled with dim criesFar in the moonlit haze among the hills,As of some lonely city sacked by night,When all is lost, and wife and child with wailPass to new lords; and Arthur woke and called,“Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim criesThine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wildMourn, knowing it will go along with me?”
This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:“O me, my King, let pass whatever will,Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;But in their stead thy name and glory clingTo all high places like a golden cloudFor ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.Light was Gawain in life, and light in deathIs Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—I hear the steps of Modred in the west,And with him many of thy people, and knightsOnce thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grownThan heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.Right well in heart they know thee for the King.Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.”
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“Far other is this battle in the westWhereto we move, than when we strove in youth,And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,And shook him through the north. Ill doom is mineTo war against my people and my knights.The king who fights his people fights himself.And they my knights, who loved me once, the strokeThat strikes them dead is as my death to me.Yet let us hence, and find or feel a wayThrough this blind haze, which ever since I sawOne lying in the dust at Almesbury,Hath folded in the passes of the world.”
Then rose the King and moved his host by night,And ever pushed Sir Modred, league by league,Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—A land of old upheaven from the abyssBy fire, to sink into the abyss again;Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,And the long mountains ended in a coastOf ever-shifting sand, and far awayThe 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 heavenBurned at his lowest in the rolling year,On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fightLike this last, dim, weird battle of the west.A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drewDown with his blood, till all his heart was coldWith formless fear; and even on Arthur fellConfusion, 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 ghostsLook in upon the battle; and in the mistWas many a noble deed, many a base,And chance and craft and strength in single fights,And ever and anon with host to hostShocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crashOf battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieksAfter the Christ, of those who falling downLooked up for heaven, and only saw the mist;And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungsIn that close mist, and cryings for the light,Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.
Last, as by some one deathbed after wailOf suffering, silence follows, or through deathOr deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,Save for some whisper of the seething seas,A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous dayGrew drearier toward twilight falling, cameA bitter wind, clear from the North, and blewThe mist aside, and with that wind the tideRose, and the pale King glanced across the fieldOf battle: but no man was moving there;Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,Nor yet of heathen; only the wan waveBrake in among dead faces, to and froSwaying the helpless hands, and up and downTumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,And shivered brands that once had fought with Rome,And rolling far along the gloomy shoresThe voice of days of old and days to be.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,And whiter than the mist that all day longHad 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 though they had not died for me?—O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallenConfusion, 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 liveWho love thee; but who hates thee, he that broughtThe heathen back among us, yonder stands,Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.”
Then spake the King: “My house hath been my doom.But call not thou this traitor of my houseWho hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.My house are rather they who sware my vows,Yea, even while they brake them, owned me King.And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,When all the purport of my throne hath failed,That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.King am I, whatsoever be their cry;And one last act of kinghood shalt thou seeYet, ere I pass.” And uttering this the KingMade at the man: then Modred smote his liegeHard on that helm which many a heathen swordHad 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 rolledAmong 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 oneLay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“The sequel of today unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep—the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made,—Though Merlin sware that I should come againTo rule once more; but, let what will be, be,I am so deeply smitten through the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword—and how I rowed acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king;And, wheresoever I am sung or toldIn 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 through 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 ruined 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 sangShrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping downBy 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 forthAnd sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-workOf subtlest jewellery. He gazed so longThat both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,This way and that dividing the swift mind,In act to throw: but at the last it seemedBetter to leave Excalibur concealedThere in the many-knotted waterflags,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 performed 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 betrayed thy nature and thy name,Not rendering true answer, as beseemedThy fealty, nor like a noble knight:For surer sign had followed, 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 thingI bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”
Then went Sir Bedivere the second timeAcross the ridge, and paced beside the mere,Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,How curiously and strangely chased, he smoteHis 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 demandAn act unprofitable, against himself?The King is sick, and knows not what he does.What record, or what relic of my lordShould be to aftertime, but empty breathAnd rumours 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 deepsUpon the hidden bases of the hills.’So might some old man speak in the aftertimeTo all the people, winning reverence.But now much honour 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 widowed of the power in his eyeThat 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 girlValuing 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, plungedAmong the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword,And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendour of the moon,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 shockBy night, with noises of the Northern Sea.So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandished himThree 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 gemsShould blind my purpose, for I never saw,Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,Not though 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 looked again, behold an arm,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,That caught him by the hilt, and brandished himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.”
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 fearMy 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 eyesAs in a picture. Him Sir BedivereRemorsefully regarded through 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 through the place of tombs.
But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard,Like one that feels a nightmare on his bedWhen all the house is mute. So sighed 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 walked,Larger than human on the frozen hills.He heard the deep behind him, and a cryBefore. His own thought drove him like a goad.Dry clashed his harness in the icy cavesAnd barren chasms, and all to left and rightThe bare black cliff clanged round him, as he basedHis feet on juts of slippery crag that rangSharp-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 wareThat all the decks were dense with stately forms,Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold: and from them roseA cry that shivered to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, an agonyOf lamentation, like a wind that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmured Arthur, “Place me in the barge.”So to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.But she, that rose the tallest of them allAnd fairest, laid his head upon her lap,And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,And called him by his name, complaining loud,And dropping bitter tears against a browStriped with dark blood: for all his face was whiteAnd colourless, and like the withered moonSmote by the fresh beam of the springing east;And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with dropsOf onset; and the light and lustrous curls—That made his forehead like a rising sunHigh from the dais-throne—were parched with dust;Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.So like a shattered column lay the King;Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,From spur to plume a star of tournament,Shot through the lists at Camelot, and chargedBefore 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 ledThe holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole Round Table is dissolvedWhich 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 answered 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 doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest—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,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawnsAnd bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLooked one black dot against the verge of dawn,And on the mere the wailing died away.
But when that moan had past for evermore,The stillness of the dead world’s winter dawnAmazed him, and he groaned, “The King is gone.”And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,“From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”
Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clombThe last hard footstep of that iron crag;Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried,“He passes to be King among the dead,And after healing of his grievous woundHe comes again; but—if he come no more—O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazedOn that high day, when, clothed with living light,They stood before his throne in silence, friendsOf Arthur, who should help him at his need?”
Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faintAs from beyond the limit of the world,Like the last echo born of a great cry,Sounds, as if some fair city were one voiceAround a king returning from his wars.
Thereat once more he moved about, and clombEven to the highest he could climb, and saw,Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,Down that long water opening on the deepSomewhere far off, pass on and on, and goFrom less to less and vanish into light.And the new sun rose bringing the new year.