So like a shatter'd column lay the King:
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

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 that 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 friends?
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
(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-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.

GLAD TIDINGS

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

To convert the heathen conquerors to Christianity, Pope Gregory I. sent Augustine to Britain (597). The missionaries landed at Thanet in Kent, where they were hospitably received by King Ethelbert. The procession of priests in white vestments, chanting the litany and bearing aloft a silver cross and a banner on which was painted the crucifixion, made a deep impression on the mind of the king. He gave Augustine permission to preach the word of God throughout Kent. Within the next hundred years all Britain was converted to Christianity.

For ever hallowed be this morning fair,
Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread,
And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead
Of martial banner, in procession bear;
The Cross preceding Him who floats in air,
The pictured Saviour! — By Augustin led,
They come, and onward travel without dread,
Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, —

Sung for themselves and those whom they would free!

Rich conquest waits them :— the tempestuous sea
Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high,
And heeded not the voice of clashing swords,
These good men humble by a few bare words,
And calm with fear of God's divinity.

ALFRED AND HIS DESCENDANTS

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

No sooner had the English established themselves in Britain, adopted Christianity, and settled down to an orderly life, than their land was overrun by new barbarians. These were the Danes, daring sea-rovers, who had abandoned their own bleak country and come south to seek booty and conquest along the rich Channel coasts. Among the kings who strove to defend England against the Danes, Alfred, king of Wessex, was the most glorious. His hard-fought victories, the wisdom of his rule, his zealous care for learning and for religion, won for him, alone among English kings, the title of "the Great." Among the descendants of Alfred, his son, Edward the Elder, his daughter, Ethelflæda, Lady of Mercia, his great-grandson, Edgar the Peaceful, proved worthy of their high inheritance.

I

Behold a pupil of the Monkish gown,

The pious ALFRED, King to Justice dear!
Lord of the harp and liberating spear;
Mirror of Princes! Indigent Renown
Might range the starry ether for a crown
Equal to his deserts, who like a year

Pours forth his bounty, like a day doth cheer,
And awes like night with mercy-tempered frown.
Ease from this noble miser of his time

No moment steals; pain narrows not his cares.
Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem
Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem,

And Christian India, through her widespread clime,

In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares.

II

When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains,
Darling of England! many a bitter shower

Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power
Flowed in thy line through undegenerate veins.
The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains
When dangers threaten, dangers ever new!
Black tempests bursting, blacker still in view!
But manly sovereignty its hold retains;
The root sincere, the branches bold to strive
With the fierce tempest, while, within the round
Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive;
As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground,
Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom,

The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom.

CANUTE THE DANE

MICHAEL FIELD

EDGAR'S son, Ethelred the Unready, was a feeble king, and the realm was wrested from him by Swegen, king of Denmark. Canute, Swegen's son, reigned over England twenty-one years (1014-1035). The Danes were hated by the English as barbarians and pagans, but Canute became a Christian and proved a wise and able ruler.

ACT III
SCENE II

Canute (a voice singing). Is that a child At babble with his vespers? - Silver sweet! It minds me of the holy brotherhood, Chanting adown the banks. As yesterday