Chapter III: Morality (2)

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said, "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say!"
"Why, say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous by day,
My men grow ghastly pale and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day,
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now, not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas has gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"--
He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.
He curls his lips, he lies in wait
With lifted teeth as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt like a leaping sword,
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck--
A light! A light! A light! A light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn,
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

JOAQUIN MILLER.

* * * * *

MY LAST DUCHESS.

FERRARA.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said. "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this "Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, "Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat The Count your Master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, Sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

"THE TALE."

What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where such like used to go, Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing, but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing; I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!"

When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir! I hope you understand!) --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!"

So he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!)

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

MONT BLANC BEFORE SUNRISE.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee, and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge. But when I look again It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity.

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,-- So sweet we know not we are listening to it,-- Thou, the mean while wast blending with my thought. Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven.

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,-- Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald--wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jaggëd rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded,--and the silence came,-- "Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?"

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?

"God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plain echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!"

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,-- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud To rise before me,--rise, oh, ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

S.T. COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

MY STAR.

All that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too

My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled; They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

A CONSERVATIVE.

The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store--"
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view--
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
"You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!"

"I do not want to fly," said he,
"I only want to squirm!"
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm;
"I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!"

O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,--
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.

* * * * *

FIVE LIVES.

Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, When I am very old, yon shimmering dome Come drawing down and down, till all things end?" Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-Souls! Made in the image"--a hoarse frog croaks from the pool-- "Hark! 'twas some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wiggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively: "There is no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, hungrily He seized upon an atom of bug and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, the little female monad's lips! Oh, the little female monad's eyes! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!"

The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives Æonian moments had gone wheeling by. The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed; A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

* * * * *

THE COMING OF ARTHUR.

[_Abridged_.]

LEODOGRAN, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight.

For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle and, ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarm'd over seas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less. . . .

* * * * *

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallow'd in the gardens of the King.

* * * * *

. . . . . And King Leodogran Groan'd for the Roman legions here again And Caesar's eagle. . . . .

* * * * *

He knew not whither he should turn for aid.

But--for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd,
. . . . . . . . . --the King
Sent to him, saying, 'Arise and help us thou!
For here between the man and beast we die.'

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call and came; and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode, a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, One among many, tho' his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'd His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell'd The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned.

For while he linger'd there, A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts Of those great lords and barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war; for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him crying: "Who is he That should rule us? Who hath proven him King Uther's son?"

And, Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere, And thinking as he rode: "Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne and side by side with me? What happiness to reign a lonely king?

* * * * *

. . . . But were I join'd with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live."

* * * * *

When Arthur reached a field of battle bright With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star.

* * * * *

. . . . But the Powers who walk the world, Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood, threw the kings.

* * * * *

So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord.

* * * * *

Then quickly from the foughten field he sent
. . . . . . . . . Sir Bedivere
. . . . . . . . . to King Leodogran,
Saying, "If I in aught have served thee well,
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife."

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating--"How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son"?--lifted his voice, and call'd A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: "Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?"

* * * * *

Then while the King debated with himself,

* * * * *

. . . . . there came to Cameliard,

* * * * *

Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom . . . . . . . . the King Made feast for, as they sat at meat:

* * * * *

'Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king-- So many those that hate him, and so strong, So few his knights, however brave they be-- Hath body enow to hold his foeman down?'

'O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat Crowned on the dais, and all his warriors cried, "Be thou the King, and we will work thy will Who love thee," Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so straight vows to his own self That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half blinded at the coming of a light.

'But when he spake, and cheer'd his Table Round With large, divine, and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheld From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King;

* * * * *

'And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege.

'And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, Who knew a subtler magic than his own-- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist Of incense curl'd about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep--calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world--and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.'

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 'The swallow and the swift are near akin, But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being his own dear sister;'

* * * * *

. . . . . . . . 'What know I? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I; . . . . . . yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness; but this king is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men.

'But let me tell thee now another tale:

* * * * *

. . . . . . . . on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, Merlin Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe,

* * * * *

Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon wing'd and all from stem to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. . . . . . He . . . . . .watch'd the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, "The King!"

* * * * *

And presently thereafter follow'd calm, Free sky and stars: "And this same child," he said, "Is he who reigns." . . . .

* * * * *

. . . . . . And ever since the Lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack; but now, This year, when Merlin--for his hour had come-- Brought Arthur forth, and sat him in the hall, Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your King," A hundred voices cried: "Away with him! No king of ours!" . . . . .

* * * * *

. . . . Yet Merlin thro' his craft, And while the people clamor'd for a king, Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.

* * * * *

. . . . and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, . . . . . Tho' men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come, and then or now Utterly smite the heathen under foot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.'

. . . . . King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing 'Shall I answer yea or nay?' Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, Dreaming a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick, In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, 'No king of ours, No son of Uther, and no king of ours;' Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the king stood out in heaven, Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent

* * * * *

Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen, and watched him from the gates: And Lancelot past away among the flowers-- For then was latter April--and return'd-- Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a noble time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy. Far shone the fields of May thro' open door, The sacred altar blossom'd white with May, The sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love. And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!' To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, 'King and my Lord, I love thee to the death!' And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake: 'Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may the Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!'

* * * * *

And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:--

'_Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May!! Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away! Blow thro' the living world--"Let the King reign_!"

'_Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe on helm, Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign_!

'_Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battle-axe and flash brand! Let the King reign_!

* * * * *

'_Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The king is king, and ever wills the highest. Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign_!

* * * * *

'_The King will follow Christ, and we the King, In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! "Let the King reign_!"

And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him, Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

ELAINE.

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awaken her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazon'd on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day Leaving her household and good father, climb'd That eastern tower, and entering barr'd the door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Cearleon; this at Camelot; And ah, God's mercy what a stroke was there! And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God Broke the Strong lance and roll'd his enemy down, And saved him; so she lived in fantasy.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

* * * * *

THE LADY OF SHALOTT.