Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd out! For ever since when traitor to the King He fought against him in the Barons' war, And Arthur gave him back his terri tory, His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love: Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird, And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, To whom the mother said, "Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth, And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet-wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son." That save he won the first by force, Mother, to gain it - your full leave to 212 Stretch'd under all the cornice and And drops of water feli from either And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm; And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur's wars in weird devices New things and old co-twisted, as if Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over High on the top were those three Of Arthur, who should help him at |