Is drawn as others." With that word he leapt Into the boat, and o'er the cushions crept From stem to stern, but found no rudder there, Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fair Made wet by any dashing of the sea. Now while he pondered how these things could be, The boat began to move therefrom at last, But over him a drowsiness was cast, And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass, He clean forgot his death and where he was. At last he woke up to a sunny day, And, looking round, saw that his shallop lay Moored at the edge of some fair tideless sea Unto an overhanging thick-leaved tree, Where in the green waves did the low bank dip Its fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip; But Ogier looking thence no more could see That sad abode of death and misery, Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, grey With gathering haze, for now it neared midday; Then from the golden cushions did he rise, And wondering still if this were Paradise He stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his sword And muttered therewithal a holy word. Fair was the place, as though amidst of May, Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day, For with their quivering song the air was sweet; Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet, And on his head the blossoms down did rain, Yet mid these fair things slowly and with pain He 'gan to go, yea, even when his foot First touched the flowery sod, to his heart's root A coldness seemed to strike, and now each limb Was growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim, And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail, Nor yet would his once mighty heart avail For lamentations o'er his changed lot; Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what, Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet, Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet, For what then seemed to him a weary way, Whereon his steps he needs must often stay And lean upon the mighty well-worn sword That in those hands, grown old, for king or lord Had small respect in glorious days long past.