Sir Bedivere, in silence, watched the barge That bore away King Arthur to the vale Of Avalon, till it was seen no more. Then, on the beach, alone amid the dead, He lifted up his voice and sorely wept. “Alas!” he cried, “gone are the pleasant days At Camelot, and the sweet fellowship Of noble knights and true, and beauteous dames Who have no peers in all the living world, Is quite dissolved for ever, and the King Has gone and left none like him among men. O happy, thrice and fourfold, ye who rest, Both friends and foemen, in one peaceful bed, While I am sick at soul and cannot die! Oh! that the battle might be fought again! Then would I surely seek the way to death, And bleed and sleep like you, and be at peace. But now, ah! whither, whither can I go, Since he is gone who was my light of life, And whom to see was bliss? What can I do Without the voice that gave my arm its strength? Or wherefore bear a sword, since now no more Excalibur points forth to noble deeds?” And then he drew his blade, and threw it far Into the Lake, and, as he saw it sink, “Would God,” said he, “that so I followed him.” But with the strain his wounds began to bleed, And he grew weak, and sank upon the ground, And swooned. And when he woke, he was aware Of Merlin, who stood watching by his side. Then cried Sir Bedivere: “O good and wise, I bid thee welcome, for, in all the world, There is none other I would fainer see. Yet am I sad to see thee, for the King Is gone, and none is left of all his Knights Save me, and I am weary of my life.” But Merlin, ere he answered, staunched his wound, And gave him wine out of a golden flask, And, by the healing art which he possessed, Restored him sound and whole. And then he spake: “There is no need to tell me, for I know All thou would’st say, and knew ere thou wast born That all these things should be. But weep no more, Sir Bedivere. The past no man can change, Nor make what has been other than it is. As in the forests of Broceliande, The leaves fall year by year, and give the oaks All bare to wintry blasts, so, swept apace Before the breath of Time, the race of men Passes away, and may be seen no more. And yet the breeze of Spring is no less sweet, Which plays around the tender budding leaves, And calls to life their beauty, that it is As well a requiem as baby-song. So weep not for the days that are no more, But pray, as the King bade thee, for his soul, That to his far-off home no sigh may come From this, his orphan and unhappy realm, To mar the melody of Avalon.”