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THE PARTING OF

The sickness was upon her, answer'd nay.
Then said King Arthur, "This repenteth me.
For never hath been seen for seven years,
No, not since Galahad, at Whitsuntide,
Departed from us out of Carlyel,

So fair a fellowship of goodly knights."

But the Queen would not, and the King in wrath Brake up the court and rode to Astolat

On this side Camelot.

Now, men said the Queen

Tarried behind because of Launcelot,

For Launcelot staid to heal him of his wound.
And there had been estrangement 'twixt these two
I' the later time, because of bitter words.
So when the King with all his fellowship
Was ridden out of Carlyel, the Queen
Arose, and call'd to her Sir Launcelot.

Then to Sir Launcelot spoke Queen Guinevere.
"Not for the memory of that love whereof
No more than memory lives, but, Sir, for that
Which even when love is ended yet endures,
Making immortal life with deathless deeds,
Honour-true knighthood's golden spurs, the crown
And priceless diadem of peerless Queens-
I make appeal to you, that hear perchance

LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE.

The last appeal which I shall ever make.
So weigh my words not lightly! for I feel
The fluttering fires of life grow faint and cold
About my heart. And oft, indeed, to me
Lying whole hours awake in the dead nights
The end seems near, as tho' the darkness knew
The angel waiting there to call my soul
Perchance before the house awakes; and oft
When faint, and all at once, from far away,
The mournful midnight bells begin to sound
Across the river, all the days that were
(Brief evil days!) return upon my heart,

And where the sweetness seemed, I see the sin.
For, waking lone, long hours before the dawn,
Beyond the borders of the dark I seem

To see the twilight of another world,

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That grows and grows and glimmers on my gaze.
And oft, when late, before the languorous moon
Thro' yonder windows to the West goes down
Among the pines, deep peace upon me falls,
Deep peace like death, so that I think I know
The blessed Mary and the righteous saints
Stand at the throne, and intercede for me.
Wherefore these things are thus I cannot tell.
But now I pray you of your feälty,

And by all knightly faith which may be left,

D

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THE PARTING OF

Arise and get you hence and join the King.
For wherefore hold you thus behind the court,
Seeing my liege the King is moved in wrath ?
For wete you well what say your foes and mine.
'See how Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Do hold them ever thus behind the King

That they may take their pleasure!' Knowing not
How that for me all these delights are come
To be as wither'd violets."

Half in tears

She ceased abrupt. Given up to a proud grief, Vex'd to be vext. With love and anger moved— Love touched with scorn, and anger pierced with love.

About her all unheeded, her long hair

Loos'd its warm, yellow, waving loveliness,
And o'er her bare and shining shoulder cold
Fell floating free. Upon one full white arm,
To which the amorous purple coverlet
Clung dimpling close, her drooping state was propt.
There, half in shadow of her soft gold curls,
She leaned, and like a rose enriched with dew,
Whose heart is heavy with the clinging bee,
Bow'd down toward him all her glowing face,
While in the light of her large angry eyes
Uprose, and rose, a slow imperious sorrow,

LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE.

And o'er the shine of still, unquivering tears
Swam on to him.

But he, with brows averse

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And orgolous looks, three times to speech address'd,
Three times in vain. The silence of the place
Fell like a hand upon his heart, and hushed
His foolish anger with authority.

He would not see the wretched Queen: he saw
Only the hunter on the arrass'd wall
Prepare to wind amort his bugle-horn,

And the long daylight dying down the floors.
For half-way through the golden gates of eve
The sun was rolled. The dropping tapestry glow'd
With awful hues. Far off among his reeds
The river, smitten with a waning light,

Shone and, behind black lengths of pine revealed,
The red West smoulder'd, and the day declined.
Then year by year as wave on wave a sea
The tided Past came softly o'er his heart,
And all the days which had been.

So he stood

Long in his mind divided: with himself

At strife: and, like a steed that hotly chafes,
His silver bit, which yet some silken rein
Swayed by a skilled accustom'd hand restrains,

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THE PARTING OF

His heart against the knowledge of its love
Made vain revolt, and fretful rose and sunk.
But at the last, quelling a wayward grief,
Thar swell'd against all utterance, and sought
To force its salt and sorrowful overflow
Upon weak language, "Now indeed," he cried,
"I see the face of the old time is changed,
And all things alter'd! Will the sun still burn?
Still burn the eternal stars? For love was deemed
Not less secure than these. Needs should there be
Something remarkable to prove the world

I am no more that Lancelot, nor thou

That Guinevere, of whom, long since, the fame,
Fruitful of noble deeds, with such a light
Did fill this nook and cantle of the earth,
That all great lands of Christendom beside
Show'd darken'd of their glory. But I see
That there is nothing left for men to swear by.
For then thy will did never urge me hence,
But drew me thro' all dangers to thy feet.
And none can say, least thou, I have not been
The staff and burgonet of thy fair fame."

Thus he, transported by the thought of days
And deeds that, like the mournful martial sounds