165

170

"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 177
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the
king,

Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick

I fear it is too late, and I shall die."

180

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the
barge,"

And to the barge they came. There those three
Queens

205

Put forth their hands, and took the king, and wept.

But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his
hands,

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 211
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

215

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.

225

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, 229 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; 235
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to
new,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

240

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

246

May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by
prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats 250
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them
friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 255
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst-if indeed I go-
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island valley of Avilion;2
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-
lawns

260

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 265 Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

5

10

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead 15 Will never come back to me.

1 Tennyson says that this poem was "made in a Lincolnshire lane at 5 o'clock in the morning between blossoming hedges."

1 This poem was written in memory of the poet's dearest friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly at Vienna, in 1833, in his twenty-third year. Hallam, the son of Henry Hallam, the historian, became intimate with Tennyson at Cambridge. He was a brilliant debater, and (as Tennyson thought) a promising poet. In Memoriam records the effect of this crushing sorrow on the poet during a number of critical years. The first "jottings" for the poem were written as early as 1833.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

145

150

155

160

And saw the tumult of the halls;

And heard once more in college fanes

The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake

115

The prophet blazon'd on the panes;

And caught once more the distant shout, The meaured pulse of racing oars Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about

Of demons? fiery-hot to burst

All barriers in her onward race
For power. Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first.

A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain, and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With Wisdom, like the younger child;

For she is earthly of the mind,

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul,
O friend, who camest to thy goal

So early, leaving me behind.

I would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour
In reverence and in charity.

CXV

Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now burgeons every maze of quick3
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood, that live their lives
A growing hedge, usually of hawthorn.

185

190

195

200

205

210

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die.

255

215

By thee the world's great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light.

220