For thence, in heat of hate and pride, As one that man might bid not bide, He craved the high king’s grace to ride On quest of Balen far and wide And wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought. “Yea,” Arthur said, “for such despite Was done me never in my sight As this thine hand shall now requite If trust avail us aught.” But ere he passed, in eager mood To feed his hate with bitter food, Before the king’s face Merlin stood And heard his tale of ill and good, Of Balen, and the sword achieved, And whence it smote as heaven’s red ire That direful dame of doom as dire; And how the king’s wrath turned to fire The grief wherewith he grieved. And darkening as he gave it ear, The still face of the sacred seer Waxed wan with wrath and not with fear, And ever changed its cloudier cheer Till all his face was very night. “This damosel that brought the sword,” He said, “before the king my lord, And all these knights about his board, Hath done them all despite. “The falsest damosel she is That works men ill on earth, I wis, And all her mind is toward but this, To kill as with a lying kiss Truth, and the life of noble trust. A brother hath she,—see but now The flame of shame that brands her brow!— A true man, pure as faith’s own vow, Whose honour knows not rust. “This good knight found within her bower A felon and her paramour, And slew him in his shameful hour, As right gave might and righteous power To hands that wreaked so foul a wrong. Then, for the hate her heart put on, She sought by ways where death had gone The lady Lyle of Avalon, Whose crafts are strange and strong. “The sorceress, one with her in thought, Gave her that sword of magic, wrought By charms whereof sweet heaven sees nought, That hither girt on her she brought To be by doom her brother’s bane. And grief it is to think how he That won it, being of heart so free And perfect found in chivalry, Shall by that sword lie slain. Great pity it is and strange despite That one whose eyes are stars to light Honour, and shine as heaven’s own height, Should perish, being the goodliest knight That even the all-glorious north has borne. Nor shall my lord the king behold A lordlier friend of mightier mould Than Balen, though his tale be told Ere noon fulfil his morn.” IV As morning hears before it run The music of the mounting sun, And laughs to watch his trophies won From darkness, and her hosts undone, And all the night become a breath, Nor dreams that fear should hear and flee The summer menace of the sea, So hears our hope what life may be, And knows it not for death. Each day that slays its hours and dies Weeps, laughs, and lightens on our eyes, And sees and hears not: smiles and sighs As flowers ephemeral fall and rise About its birth, about its way, And pass as love and sorrow pass, As shadows flashing down a glass, As dew-flowers blowing in flowerless grass, As hope from yesterday.