not where,
Still standing for some false, impossible shore. 
And sterner comes the roar
Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom
Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom,
And he too disappears, and comes no more.

Is there no life, but these alone? 
Madman or slave, must man be one?

Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain! 
Clearness divine! 
Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign
Of languor, though so calm, and though so great
Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;
Who, though so noble, share in the world’s toil,
And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil! 
I will not say that your mild deeps retain
A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain
Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain—­
But I will rather say that you remain

A world above man’s head, to let him see
How boundless might his soul’s horizons be,
How vast, yet of what clear transparency! 
How it were good to live there, and breathe free;
How fair a lot to fill
Is left to each man still!

THE BETTER PART

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
How angrily thou spurn’st all simpler fare! 
“Christ,” some one says, “was human as we are;
No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan;
We live no more when we have done our span.”—­
“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, “who can care? 
From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? 
Live we like brutes our life without a plan!”
So answerest thou; but why not rather say,
“Hath man no second life?—­Pitch this one high! 
Sits there no judge in Heaven our sin to see?—­
More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! 
Was Christ a man like us?—­Ah! let us try
If we then, too, can be such men as he!”

THE LAST WORD

Creep into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said! 
Vain thy onset! all stands fast. 
Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will! 
Thou art tired; best be still.

     They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee? 
     Better men fared thus before thee;
     Fired their ringing shot and passed,
     Hotly charged—­and sank at last.

     Charge once more, then, and be dumb! 
     Let the victors, when they come,
     When the forts of folly fall,
     Find thy body by the wall!

THE ARTHURIAN LEGENDS

(Eighth to Twelfth Centuries)

BY RICHARD JONES