Arthur the Great King
A leaf, O Laureate, for thy crown,
For this fair tracery—
This silvery mist that shadows down
A Glory to the sea!
Men walk as in the halls of death
With mute though heavy tread;
Men murmur with the muffled breath,
“Alive? or is he dead!”
A shining bark hath cleft the dark—
We see the seraph eyes;
We hear above the morning lark
The silvery psalteries;
The song-burst of a triumph-arc
Star-pulsing in the skies—
The day may dwindle to a spark:—
The Great King never dies!
A light, O Laureate, on thy crown
Of more than laurel be
That set the star “Excalibur”
Forever on the sea!
Not “Dead”,—though earth's last mountain be
Piled on the black depths of the sea,
And the last flame of lightning claim
To carve his “Memory”!
There be of warders on the wall,
Have heard by night his bugle-call,
And watchers, ere the dawn unclose,
Whose very tears are tint with rose.
As on some widowed neck the woe
Of mourning veils a whiter snow
Than April's first of whiteness, so
Across our path of murk and wrath
The clouds unclasp at times and show
The vigil-gleam at “Camelot”!
His regal front is seamed and gaunt,
His kingly curls are grizzled-scant,
His war-steed worn to Rosinante!
There's mist upon his knightly mail,
And dust on every golden scale
Of the great “Dragon,” crest to tail!
Like moonlit mist on midnight snow
The sun of battle smoulders low!
Alas! the King at Camelot!
But on his Sword nor mould nor loss,
From stainless steel to starry cross!
Ye wist, ye early at the tomb,
The whiteness that is like his plume!
Beloved of the morning-star!—
Your eyes have seen “Excalibur!”
And ye, that in the temples pray,
Have witnessed, when the aisles are gray,
A sudden rapture cleave the pane
Beyond the oriel's glory-stain—
That lingered in the holy place,
The “iris” of an angel's grace!
Then HE whose head it kindled on
Shined like Uriel of the sun!—
And were his face the Parian stone,
And were his smile King Arthur's own—
Of all that met his kindling eyes
Not one should marvel, did he Rise!
“These Little Ones”! these lambs that bear
The dew-cross of our Christ, His care,
These lilies, more than Eden blest,
“These Little Ones” have touched His hem,
Have looked upon his diadem,
Have heard His footsteps walk with them,
And bring us, from the shrouded isle
Where His great glory bides the while,
The very sunshine of his smile!
And one I know, whose saber shone
The battle's eye-light, years agone,
Who wears upon his folded hands
The welcome of the angel lands,
And bears upon his smiling lips,
The seal no shadow can eclipse.
Who waits me, as the days expire
With Arthur's soul of love and fire.
Doubt we then?
While sacrilege is charnel wise—
The arm that guilt in armor flies!
That Arthur—the great King shall rise!
That God's Eternal Truth shall reign
Imperial o'er “His own” again!
For this fair tracery—
This silvery mist that shadows down
A Glory to the sea!
Men walk as in the halls of death
With mute though heavy tread;
Men murmur with the muffled breath,
“Alive? or is he dead!”
A shining bark hath cleft the dark—
We see the seraph eyes;
We hear above the morning lark
The silvery psalteries;
The song-burst of a triumph-arc
Star-pulsing in the skies—
The day may dwindle to a spark:—
The Great King never dies!
A light, O Laureate, on thy crown
Of more than laurel be
That set the star “Excalibur”
Forever on the sea!
Not “Dead”,—though earth's last mountain be
Piled on the black depths of the sea,
And the last flame of lightning claim
To carve his “Memory”!
There be of warders on the wall,
Have heard by night his bugle-call,
And watchers, ere the dawn unclose,
Whose very tears are tint with rose.
As on some widowed neck the woe
Of mourning veils a whiter snow
Than April's first of whiteness, so
Across our path of murk and wrath
The clouds unclasp at times and show
The vigil-gleam at “Camelot”!
His regal front is seamed and gaunt,
His kingly curls are grizzled-scant,
His war-steed worn to Rosinante!
There's mist upon his knightly mail,
And dust on every golden scale
Of the great “Dragon,” crest to tail!
Like moonlit mist on midnight snow
The sun of battle smoulders low!
Alas! the King at Camelot!
But on his Sword nor mould nor loss,
From stainless steel to starry cross!
Ye wist, ye early at the tomb,
The whiteness that is like his plume!
Beloved of the morning-star!—
Your eyes have seen “Excalibur!”
And ye, that in the temples pray,
Have witnessed, when the aisles are gray,
A sudden rapture cleave the pane
Beyond the oriel's glory-stain—
That lingered in the holy place,
The “iris” of an angel's grace!
Then HE whose head it kindled on
Shined like Uriel of the sun!—
And were his face the Parian stone,
And were his smile King Arthur's own—
Of all that met his kindling eyes
Not one should marvel, did he Rise!
“These Little Ones”! these lambs that bear
The dew-cross of our Christ, His care,
These lilies, more than Eden blest,
“These Little Ones” have touched His hem,
Have looked upon his diadem,
Have heard His footsteps walk with them,
And bring us, from the shrouded isle
Where His great glory bides the while,
The very sunshine of his smile!
And one I know, whose saber shone
The battle's eye-light, years agone,
Who wears upon his folded hands
The welcome of the angel lands,
And bears upon his smiling lips,
The seal no shadow can eclipse.
Who waits me, as the days expire
With Arthur's soul of love and fire.
Doubt we then?
While sacrilege is charnel wise—
The arm that guilt in armor flies!
That Arthur—the great King shall rise!
That God's Eternal Truth shall reign
Imperial o'er “His own” again!
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