STRICKEN of man, and sore beset of Fate, He lies amid the groves of Avalon; What comfort mete ye unto Uther's son, O mournful Queens? What styptic to abate Life's eager stream? Alas, not theirs to sate His soul with earthly vision! he hath done With mortal life, and chivalry's bright sun Is darkened by the powers of hell and hate.
Lo! now, the garden of his agony Is very sweet, though dread the hour, and drear With utterless spell of horrid potency; The barrèd east beyond the brightening sea, Thick with portentous wraiths of phantom fear, Is flushed with triumph, stirred with melody.
II.
"Glory of knighthood; that through Lyonesse Was as a lamp, O selfless soul and pure, What though thy visionary rule endure So ill the assault of envy? Not the less Thy victory, though failure thee oppress; Not sterile thy example, and most sure The seeded fruit; with might thou shalt allure For evermore through life's embattled press
Thy spiritual sons to follow thee;" The mystic Four their solemn vigil keep Until day break, and eastward silently, Over the kingless land and wailing deep, The sacrificial symbol fire the sky; Then they arise, no more to watch and weep.
