POEMS OLD AND NEW
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud.
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd 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 dais-throne—were parch5 d with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 10
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter5 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 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, 20
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,
fold the days darken round me, and the years,
fonong new men, strange faces, other minds."
And slowly answer9 d Arthur from the barge : 30
:c The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
\nd God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Uomfort thyself: what comfort is in me ?
[ have lived my life, and that which I have done
Vf ay He within Himself make pure ! but thou,
if thou shouldst never see my face again,