No More Learning

We learn
from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for
in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, "out of a MS.
in a little red book," and again we learn that he repeated some lines of
it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding "Not bad
that, Fitz. , is it? " ('Life', i. , 184). It is here represented as the
eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, though
Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, with
what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, 'The Idylls of the
King'. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth and
fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory's 'Romance', which is
followed very closely. It is called "an Homeric echo," but the diction
bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that of Homer,
though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It is
Tennyson's masterpiece in "the grand style," and is indeed as near
perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular
mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times
ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so noble and impressive
is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered
except in the spelling of "mere" and "though" in lines 37, 77, 147, 155,
162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:--

"Across the ridge and pac'd beside the mere. "



So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, [1]
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved.
I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand [2] Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. "
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word. "
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, [3]
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind, [4]
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded king.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, [5]
And the wild water lapping on the crag. "
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.