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

vere :

"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

sight to me;

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd,

A little clock-work steamer paddling plied And shook the lilies: perch'd about the knolls

A dozen angry models jetted steam :
A petty railway ran a fire-balloon
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves
And dropt a fairy parachute and past:
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro
Between the mimic stations; so that sport
Went hand in hand with Science; other-
where

Pure sport: a herd of boys with clamor bowl'd

And stump'd the wicket; babies roll'd about

Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids

Arranged a country dance, and flew thro'

light

And shadow, while the twangling violin Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead

The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end.

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time;

And long we gazed, but satiated at length

claspt,

Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave

The park, the crowd, the house; but all within

The sward was trim as any garden lawn:
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth,
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends
From neighbor seats: and there was
Ralph himself,

A broken statue propt against the wall,
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport,
Half child half woman as she was, had

wound

A scarf of orange round the stony helm, And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nook

Glow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feast

Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, And there we join'd them: then the maiden Aunt

Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd

An universal culture for the crowd, And all things great; but we, unworthier, told

Of college he had climb'd across the spikes,

And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars,

And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs; and one

Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common

sands now

gowns,

But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph

Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear, If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest,

Some boy would spy it."

At this upon the sward She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : "That's your light way; but I would make it death

For any male thing but to peep at us."

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd;

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make · her, she :

But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her,

And "petty Ogress," and "ungrateful Puss,"

And swore he long'd at college, only long'd,

All else was well, for she-society.

harm,

So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd And wrung it. "Doubt my word again !” he said.

Come, listen! here is proof that you were miss'd:

We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read;
And there we took one tutor as to read:
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and
square

Were out of season: never man, I think,
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he :
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet,
And our long walks were stript as bare
as brooms,

We did but talk you over, pledge you all

In wassail; often, like as many girls Sick for the hollies and the yews of homeAs many little trifling Lilias-play'd Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, And what's my thought and when and where and how,

And often told a tale from mouth to mouth As here at Christmas."

She remember'd that: A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more

Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest.
But these what kind of tales did men
tell men,
She wonder'd, by themselves?
A half-disdain