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Meek maidens, from the voices crying

'shame.'

I must not scorn myself: he loves me still.

Let no one dream but that he loves me still.

So let me, if you do not shudder at me Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;

Wear black and white, and be a nun like you;

Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts;

Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,

But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines;

Do each low office of your holy house;

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Walk your dim cloister, and distribute | Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim

dole

To poor sick people, richer in his eyes Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day, Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.'

She said they took her to themselves; and she

Still hoping, fearing "is it yet too late?" Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died.

Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life,

And for the power of ministration in her,And likewise for the high rank she had borne,

Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived

For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past

To where beyond these voices there is peace.

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 voice

In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

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Right well in heart they know thee for | For friend and foe were shadows in the

mist,

the king. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." | And friend slew friend not knowing whom

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi

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Then rose the king and moved his host by night,

And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,

Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse -
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
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 deathwhite 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 ev'n on Arthur

fell

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought,

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 Looked 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 deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike 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.

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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 fall'n 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 Bedi

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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, fix'd 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."

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,

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 | "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out what is it thou hast heard, or seen ?"

heavily : "What is it thou hast seen? or what

hast heard?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi

vere :

"I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath :

66 '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:

:

And answer made the bold Sir Bedi

vere:

"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

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