True knight, who died for those thou couldst not save
When the Round Table brake their plighted word,--
The lord of song hath set thee in thy grace
And glory, rescued from the phantom world,
Before us face to face;
No more Avilion bowers the King detain;
The mystic child returns; the Arthur reigns again!

8

--Now, as some cloud that hides a mountain bulk
Thins to white smoke, and mounts in lighten'd air,
And through the veil the gray enormous hulk
Burns, and the summit, last, is keen and bare,--
From wasted Britain so the gloaming clears;
Another birth of time breaks eager out,
And England fair appears:--
Imperial youth sign'd on her golden brow,
While the prophetic eyes with hope and promise glow.

9

Then from the wasted places of the land,
Charr'd skeletons of cities, circling walls
Of Roman might, and towers that shatter'd stand
Of that lost world survivors, forth she calls
Her new creation:--O'er the land is wrought
The happy villagedom by English tribes
From Elbe and Baltic brought;
Red kine light up with life the ravaged plain;