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La Mort D'arthur Not

*

An Arthurian Miscellany

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt,

Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,

Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.

A roughening wind was bringing in the waves

With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,

And a great bank of clouds came sailing up

Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,

Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,

With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound;

But long enough it was to let the rust

Lick half the surface of his polished shield;

For it was made by far inferior hands,

Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,

Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore

The magic stamp of MECHI'S Silver Steel.
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