So runs the chronicle; and thus Mr. Burne-Jones, the 'Archimage of the
esoteric unreal,' treats the subject. Stretched upon a low branch of the
tree, and encircled with the glory of the white hawthorn-blossoms, half
sits, half lies, the great enchanter. He is not drawn as Mr. Tennyson
has described him, with the 'vast and shaggy mantle of a beard,' which
youth gone out had left in ashes; smooth and clear-cut and very pale is
his face; time has not seared him with wrinkles or the signs of age; one
would hardly know him to be old were it not that he seems very weary of
seeking into the mysteries of the world, and that the great sadness that
is born of wisdom has cast a shadow on him. But now what availeth him
his wisdom or his arts? His eyes, that saw once so clear, are dim and
glazed with coming death, and his white and delicate hands that wrought
of old such works of marvel, hang listlessly. Vivien, a tall, lithe
woman, beautiful and subtle to look on, like a snake, stands in front of
him, reading the fatal spell from the enchanted book; mocking the utter
helplessness of him whom once her lying tongue had called

Her lord and liege,
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,
Her god, her Merlin, the one passionate love
Of her whole life.

In her brown crisp hair is the gleam of a golden snake, and she is clad
in a silken robe of dark violet that clings tightly to her limbs, more
expressing than hiding them; the colour of this dress is like the colour
of a purple sea-shell, broken here and there with slight gleams of silver
and pink and azure; it has a strange metallic lustre like the iris-neck
of the dove. Were this Mr. Burne-Jones's only work it would be enough of
itself to make him rank as a great painter. The picture is full of