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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

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"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, wheel-
ing 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

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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 | And colorless, and like the wither'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

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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 daïs-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 Bedi

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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought | If, knowing God, they lift not hands.

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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Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore

King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again: he cannot die.' Then those that stood upon the hills behind

Repeated "Come again, and thrice as fair";

And, further inland, voices echoed "Come

With all good things, and war shall be no more.'

At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed

The clear church-bells ring in the Christ

And on the mere the wailing died away. THE

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mas morn.

GARDENER'S DAUGHTER ; OR, THE PICTURES.

THIS morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; Iand he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew

The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws

The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little; -Juliet,
she

Solight of foot, so light of spirit, -O, she
To me myself, for some three careless

moons,

The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you

not

Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted

her,

And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will you paint like this?" and I replied,

(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,)

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