MORTE
D‘ARTHUR -
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
(VICTORIAN POETRY)
And
slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The
old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And
God fulfils himself in many ways,
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
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
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.
But
now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go
(To
the island-valley of Avilion;)
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
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
Moved
from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That,
fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles
her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With
swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving
many memories, till the hull
Look'd
one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And
on the mere the wailing died away.
