d his limbs grew tense
And writhen then ungathered limp with death.
Bent to him Arthur, from the brow beneath,
Unlaced the helm and doffed it and so asked,
When the fair forehead's hair curled dark uncasqued,
"Say! ere I slay thee, whence and what thou art?
What King, what court be thine? and from what part,
Speak! or thou diest!--Yet, that brow, methinks
I have beheld it--where? say, ere death drinks
The soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art--
What art thou, speak!"
He answered slow and short
With tortured breathing: "I?--one, Accolon
Of Gaul, a knight of Arthur's court--at dawn--
God wot what now I am for love so slain!"
Then seemed the victor spasmed with keen pain,
Covered with mailed hands his visored face;
"Thou Accolon? art Accolon?" a space
Exclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, "Say,
Whence gatest thou this sword, or in what way
Thou hadst it, speak?" But wandering that knight
Heard dully, senses clodded thick with night;
Then rallying earthward: "Woe, woe worth the sword!
--From love of love who lives, for love yet lord!--
Morgane!--thy love for love in love hadst made
Me strong o'er kings an hundred! to have swayed
Britain! had this not risen like a fate,
Spawned up, a Hell's miscarriage sired of Hate!--
A king? thou curse! a gold and blood crowned king,
With Arthur's sister queen?--'Twas she who schemed.
And there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
Gone some twelve months. There so we had devolved
How Arthur's death were compassed and resolved
Each liberal morning, like an almoner,
Prodigal of silver to the begging air;
Each turbulent eve that in heaven's turquoise rolled
Convulsive fiery glories deep in gold;
Each night--hilarious heavens vast of night!--
Boisterous with quivering stars buoyed bubble-light
In flexuous labyrinths o' the intricate sphere.
We dreamed and spake Ambition at our ear--
Nay! a crowned curse and crimeful clad she came,
To me, that woman, brighter than a flame;
And laughed on me with pouting lips up-pursed
For kisses which I gave for love: How cursed
Was I thereafter! For, lie fleshed in truth,
She shrivels to a hag! Behind that youth
Ugly, misshapen; Lust not Love, wherein
Germs pregnant seed of Hell for hate and sin.--
_I_ seek for such the proudest height of seat,
King Arthur's kingdom, and bold fame complete?--
Harlot!--sweet spouse of Uri