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,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light hath
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,
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,
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 seest-if indeed I go-
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crowned 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
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had winked and threatened darkness, flared and fell:

At which the parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but

we

Sat rapt it was the tone with which he read-
Perhaps some modern touches here and there
Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness-
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
I know not: but we sitting, as I said,
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
"There now-that's nothing!" drew a little
back,

And drove his heel into the smouldered log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue:
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seemed
To sail with Arthur under looming shores,
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die."
Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated, "Come again, and thrice as fair;"
And, farther inland, voices echoed, “Come
With all good things, and war shall be no more."
At this a hundred bells began to peal,
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas-

morn.

ST. SIMEON STYLITES.

ALTHOUGH I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of
prayer,

Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and
cramps,

A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet,

and snow:

And I had hoped that ere this period closed
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

Oh, take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.
Pain heaped ten-hundred-fold to this, were still
Less burden, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that
crushed

My spirit flat before thee.

O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then; And though my teeth, which now are dropped

away,

Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard
Was tagged with icy fringes in the moon,

I drowned the whoopings of the owl with sound
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.
Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;
I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,
So that I scarce can hear the people hum
About the column's base, and almost blind,
And scarce can recognize the fields I know;
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;

Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry,
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone.
Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
Show me the man hath suffered more than I.
For did not all thy martyrs die one death?
For either they were stoned, or crucified,
Or burned in fire, or boiled in oil, or sawn
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.
Bear witness, if I could have found a way
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
More slowly-painful to subdue this home
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I had not stinted practice, O my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment,
Not this alone I bore; but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;
And spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating through my skin,
Betrayed my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvelled greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,
I lived up there on yonder mountain-side.
My right leg chained into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and
twice

Blacked with thy branding thunder, and sometimes

Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be healed, and live:
And they say then that I worked miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee,
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouched on one that

rose

Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew,
Twice ten long weary, weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this-
Or else I dream-and for so long a time,
If I may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns-
So much-even so.

And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones come here, and say, "Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffered long For ages and for ages!" then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone through, Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, That heaven, and earth, and time are choked.

But yet

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs,

313

Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,

I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, Bow down one thousand and two hundred times To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the saints; Or in the night; after a little sleep,

I wake: the chill stars sparkle: I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling
frost.

I wear an undressed goat-skin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
Oh, mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin: 'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!

They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here),
Have all in all endured as much, and more,
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are registered and calendared for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
I am a sinner viler than you all.
It may be I have wrought some miracles,
And cured some halt and maimed; but what of
that?

It may be, no one, even among the saints,
May match his pains with mine; but what of
that?

Yet do not rise: for you may look on me,
And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maimed?
I think you know I have some power with
Heaven

From my long penance: let him speak his wish.
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from

me.

They say that they are healed. Ah, hark! they shout

"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so,
God reaps a harvest in me.
O my soul,
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,
Can I work miracles and not be saved?
This is not told of any.
It cannot be but that I
Yea, crowned a saint.
saint!"

They were saints.
shall be saved;
They shout, "Behold a

And lower voices saint me from above.
Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath

now

Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives.

O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here proclaim

pain,

Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:
God only through his bounty hath thought fit,
Among the powers and princes of this world,
To make me an example to mankind,

Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say
But that a time may come-yea, even now,
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold
stairs

Of life-I say, that time is at the doors
When you may worship me without reproach:
For I will leave my relics in your land,
And you may carve a shrine about my dust,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gathered to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ran shrivelling through me, and a cloud-like change,

In passing, with a grosser film made thick
These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!
Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a
shade,

A flash of light. Is that the angel there

That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother,

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face

I see the mouldered Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke;
And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak:

For when my passion first began,

Ere that, which in me burned, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself returned;

To yonder oak within the field

I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appealed Than Papist unto saint.

For oft I talked with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarized a heart,

And answered with a voice.

Though what he whispered under heaven
None else could understand,

I found him garrulously given,
A babbler in the land.

But since I heard him make reply
Is many a weary hour;

'T were well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,

Broad oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place!

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs.

"O Walter, I have sheltered here
Whatever maiden grace
The good old summers, year by year,
Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

"Old summers, when the monk was fat,
And, issuing shorn and sleek,
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
The girls upon the cheek,

"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And numbered bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence, And turned the cowls adrift:

"And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose

To chase the deer at five;