Then, ere that last weird battle 'gainst the Lords,

There came on Arthur, sleeping, in his chair,

At Malwood—musing, by his own fireside,

After much totting up of Trade Returns,

And Navy Estimates—a whisper blown

Along a wandering wind, and in his ear

Went shrilling, "Hollow! hollow! Forfar! Brigg!

Our small majority shall pass away!

Farewell! There is thine Hampshire rest for thee,

But I am blown about a wandering wind,

And 'Follow! follow! follow!' day and night,

The fighting factions of our army cry

To me—their 'Leader!' And I cannot face

Five ways at once, and it's a beastly bore!

And if I could, how can I get a Bill

Passed by the Lords?"

And Arthur woke, and called,

"Who spake? A dream! O light upon the wind,

Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these poor 'cries'

Thine? Or doth that same army, growing wild,

Mourn, wishing it had gone along with Me?"

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere, and spake:

"O me, my Chief! to pass whatever Bill,

Upstairs, seems hopeless. Tory glamour clings

To all high places like a darkening cloud

For ever. Is it your intent to 'pass'

(In Tennysonian sense), since your Bills won't?"

And Arthur said: "Sir Bedivere, blue funk

Sits ill upon a knight. Gawain is light—

No one at least can say the same of me!"

(Bedivere murmured, "No, by—Behemoth!")

"I hear the steps of Mordred in the West,

And with him many of the people by rights,

And thine, whom thou hast served, ungrateful grown,

The idiots!—splitting up their ranks—and ours!

But 'pass,' in Tennysonian sense? No fear!

I shall arise and smash 'em as of old!"

Then to King Arthur spoke Sir Bedivere:

"Far other is this battle, our great test,

Whereto we move, than when great Lancelot

(Now far cavorting in the snow at Cannes)

Thrust his great rival from St. Stephen's seats,

And shook him thro' the North. Ill doom is ours

To war against our rivals, and each other.

The chief who fights old followers fights himself,

And they, old friends who loved us once, the stroke

We strike at them is a back-stroke to us.

Nay, even the stroke of your Excalibur

Hath scarcely its old swashing force. Men say

It shall not strike again,—men whisper so!—

That she, the Lady of the Hibernian Lake,

Awaiteth its return. Ah! you unsheath it!

Say, must I take it—take Excalibur,

And fling it far into the middle mere,

Mark what occurs, and lightly bring you word?"

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:—

"O sombre Little-faith, miscalled the Bold!

Not if I know it! 'Tis a beauteous blade—

Broad, and bejewelled, and but lately gript

By my long-waiting hand. I have it now,

And if indeed I cast the brand away,

Surely a craven donkey I shall be!

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm undone? By George! Sir Bedivere,

'Twixt frivolling Gawain and too doleful you,

I have a pretty pair of knightly pals,—

Nay, I mean palfry'd knights!—to back me up.

Is this the loyalty of the Table Round?

Were Mordred a worse traitor? or e'en he,

The Midland Knight, who pushes for my place

As he did for Sir Lancelot's? Oh, get out!

What should my dauntless Derby henchmen say

Should I, on Wednesday, show the feather white

And say I'd chucked the sword Excalibur

Away, unchallenged, in a fit of funk?

I lose the sword? I've not yet lost the scabbard!

Nay, I shall flash it flaming in their sight,

And brandish it, and promise swashing blows

Of the keen blade, as ofttimes heretofore.

I'll outshine Tennyson, out-hero Irving!

Trust me 'tis not yet time for that weird arm,

'Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,'

To emerge from out the misty middle-mere

And snatch from Me the Sword Excalibur!"

[Freezes on to it.