So all day long the noise of battle rolled among the mountains by the winter sea, until King Arthur's table, man by man, had fallen in lioness about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, the bold Serbedevir uplifted him, Serbedevir, the last of all his knights, and bore him to a chapel nigh the field, a broken chancel with a broken cross that stood on a dark straight of barren land. On one side lay the ocean, and on one lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Serbedevir. The sequel of today unsodders all the goodliest fellowship of famous knights whereof this world holds record, such as sleep they sleep the men I loved. I think that we shall never more, at any future time, delight our souls with talk of nightly deeds, walking about the gardens and the halls of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, though Merlin swear that I should come again to rule once more, but let what will be be. I am so deeply smitten through the helm that without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand ex-caliber, which was my pride, for thou rememberest how in those old days, one summer noon, an arm rose up out of the bosom of the lake, clothed in white Samite, mystic, wonderful, holding the sword, and how I rode across and took it, and have worn it like a king. And wheresoever I am sung or told in after-time, this also shall be known. But now delay not, take ex-caliber, and fling him far into the middle mirror. Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. To him replied the bold Sir Betavir, it is not meat, Sir King, to leave thee thus, aidless alone and smitten through the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man, yet I thy haste will all perform it full. Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word. So saying, from the ruined shrine he stepped, and in the moon thwart the place of tombs, where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, old knights, and over them the sea winds sang shrill chill with flakes of foam. He stepped down by zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, came on the shining levels of the lake. There he drew forth the brand ex-caliber, and o'er him drawing it the winter moon, opening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth, and sparkled keen with frost against the hilt. For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, myriads of topaz lights, and jasonth work of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long, that both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, this way and that dividing the swift mine in act to throw. But at the last it seemed better to leave ex-caliber concealed there in the many knotted water flags that whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded king, then spake King Arthur to Bedivere. Has thou performed my mission which I gave? What is thou hast seen, or what has heard? An answer made the bold to Bedivere. I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, and the wild water lapping on the crag. To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale, Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, not rendering true answer, as be seemed thy fealty, nor like a noble knight. For sureer sign had followed, either hand or voice, or else a motion of the mirror. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. But now I charge thee, quickly go again, as thou art leaf and deer, and do the thing I bad thee, watch and lightly bring me word. Then went Sir Bedivere the second time across the ridge, and paced beside the mirror, counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought. But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, how curiously and strangely chaste he smote his palms together, and he cried aloud. And if indeed I cast the brand away, surely the precious thing, one worthy note, should thus be lost for ever from the earth, which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm and done? Deep harm to disobey, seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Are it well to obey, then, if a king demand and act unprofitable against himself? The king is sick, and knows not what he does. What record or what relic of my lord should be to after-time, but empty breath and rumors of doubt? But were this kept, stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, someone might show it in a joust of arms, saying, King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, wrought by the lovely maiden of the lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the depths upon the hidden bases of the hills. So might some old man speak in the after-time to all the people, winning reverence. But now much honor and much fame were lost. So spake he clouded with his own conceit, and hid Excalibur the second time. One so strode back slow to the wounded king. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily. What is it thou hast seen, or what has heard? An answer made the bold Sir Bedervere. I heard the water lapping on the crag, and the long ripple washing in the reeds. To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath, Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, unnightly traitor-hearted? Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, laid widowed of the power of his eye that bode the will. I see thee what thou art, for thou the latest left of all my nights, in whom should meet the offices of all, thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt, either from lust of gold or like a girl vaulting the giddy pleasures of the eyes. For a man may fail in duty twice, and the third time may prosper, get thee hence. But if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands. Then quickly rose Sir Bedervere, and ran, and leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, and strongly wheeled, and threw it. The great brand made lightning in the splendor of the moon, and flashing round and round, and whirled in an arc shot like a streamer in the northern morn, sea where the moving aisles of winter shock by night with noises of the northern sea. So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur. But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm, clothed in white Samite, mystic, wonderful, and caught him by the hilt, and brandished him three times, and drew him under in the mirror, and lightly went the other to the king. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath. Now I see by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out, what is it thou hast heard or seen? An answer made the bold Sir Bedervere. Sir King, I close mine eyelids lest the gem should blind my purpose, for I never saw nor shall see here or elsewhere till I die, not though I live three lives of mortal men, so greater miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him, but when I looked again, behold an arm clothed in white Samite, mystic, wonderful, that caught him by the hilt and brandished him three times, and drew him under in the mirror. An answer made King Arthur, breathing hard, my end draws nigh, tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulder to receive my weight, and bear me to the margin, yet I fear my wound hath taken cold, and I shall die. So saying, from the pavement he half rose, slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, and looking wistfully with wide blue eyes, as in a picture, him Sir Bedervere remorsefully regarded through his tears, and would have spoken, but he found not words. Then took with care and kneeling on one knee, or both his shoulders drew the languid hands, and rising bore him through the place of tombs. But as he walked King Arthur panted hard, like one that feels a nightmare on his bed when all the house is mute. So sighed the King, muttering and murmuring in his ear, quick, quick, I fear it is too late, and I shall die. But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, clothed with his breath, and looking as he walked larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry before. His own thought drove him like a goat. Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves and the barren chasms, and all to left and right the bare black cliff clang drowned him. As he based his feet on juts of slippery crag that rang sharp smitten with the dint of armed heels, and on a sudden low the level lake and the long glories of the winter morn, then saw they how they hove a dusky barge dark as a funeral scar from stem to stern beneath them, and descending they were aware that all the decks were dense with stately forms, black stalled, black hooded like a dream. But these three queens with crowns of gold, and from them rose a cry that shivered to the tingling stars, and as it were one voice, an agony of lamentation, like a wind that shrills all night in a wasteland where no one comes or hath come since the making of the world. Then murmured Arthur, Place me on the barge. And to the barge they came. There those three queens put forth their hands and took the king and wept. But she that rose the tallest of them all and fairest laid his head upon her lap, and loosened the shattered cask and chafed his hands and called him by his name, complaining loud, and dropping bitter tears against his brow striped with dark blood, for all his face was white and colorless, like the withered moon smote by the fresh beam of the springing east, and all his grieves increases dashed with drops of onset. And the light and lustrous curl that made his forehead like a rising sun high from the day as thrown were parched with dust or clotted into points and hanging loose, mixed with the nightly growth that fringes his lips. So like a shattered column lay the king. Not like that Arthur who, with lance at rest, from spur to plume a star of tournament shot through the lists at Camelot and charged before the eyes of ladies and kings. Then loudly cried the bold Serbedevir, Ah, my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, when every morning brought a noble chance and every chance brought out a noble night. Such times have not been since the light that led the holy elders with the gift of myrrh. And now the whole round table is dissolved, which was an image of the mighty world. And I, the last, go forth companionless, and the days darken round me and the years among new men, strange faces, other minds. And slowly answered Arthur from the barge.  And God fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself, what comfort is in me. I have lived my life, and that which I have done may he within himself make pure. But thou, if thou shouldest never see my face again, pray for my soul.  Wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me, day and night. For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain? If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, both for themselves and for those who call them friend. For so the whole round earth is every way bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now, farewell, I am going a long way with these thou seest, if indeed I go, for all my mind is clouded with a doubt to the island valley of Avalon, where falls not hail or rain or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly. And it lies deep meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns and bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, where I will heal me of my grievous wounds. So said he, and the barge with oar and sail moved from the brink like some full-breasted swan that, fluting a wild carol, ere her death ruffles her pure cold plume and takes the flood with swarly webs, long stood Sir Bedevere, revolving many memories, till the hull looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, and on the mirror the wailing died away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1833 edition. On either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye that clothe the wold and meet the sky, and through the field the road runs by to many-towered Camelot, the yellow-leaved water lily, the green sheathed daffodilly, tremble in the water chilly round about Shalott. Willow's whiten, Aspen's shiver, the sunbeam showers break and quiver in the stream that runneth ever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle embowers the Lady of Shalott. Underneath the bearded barley, the reaper, reaping late and early, hears her ever-chanting cheerly, like an angel singing clearly, or the stream of Camelot. Piling sheaves and furrows airy, beneath the moon, the reaper weary listening whispers, tis the fairy-lady of Shalott. The little isle is all enrailed with a rose-fence, and or trailed with roses. By the marge unhailed, the shallop flitteth, silken-sailed, skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head, she leaneth on a velvet bed, fully, royally apparelid, the lady of Shalott. No time hath she to sport and play, a charmed web she weaves all way. A curse is on her if she stay her weaving, either night or day, to look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, therefore she weaveth steadily, therefore no other care hath she, the lady of Shalott. She lives with little joy or fear, over the water running near the sheep-bell tinkles in her ear, before her hangs a mirror-clear, reflecting-towered Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, she sees the surly village-churls, and the red cloaks of market-girls pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, no long-haired page in crimson clad goes by to towered Camelot. And sometimes through the mirror-blue, the knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal knight and true, the lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights. For often, through the silent knights, a funeral with plumes and lights and music came from Camelot. Or when the moon was overhead came two young lovers, lately wed. I am half-sick of shadows, said the lady of Shalott. A bow-shot from a bower eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling through the leaves and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold salance a lot. A red-crossed knight for ever kneeled to a lady in his shield that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glittered free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down from Camelot. And from his blazoned Baldrick slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armor rung beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather, thick jeweled shone the saddle-leather, the helmet, and the helmet feather burned like one burning flame together, as he rode down from Camelot. As often through the purple night below the starry clusters bright, some bearded media trailing light moves over green Shalott. His broad clear brow and sunlight glowed, unburnished hooves his warhorse trod. From underneath his helmet flowed his coal-black curls as on he rode, as he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river he flashed into the crystal mirror. Tira lira, tira lira, sang Salance a lot. She left the web. She left the loom. She made three paces through the room. She saw the water-flower bloom. She saw the helmet and the plume. She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide, the mirror cracked from side to side. The curses come upon me, cried the lady of Shalott. In the stormy east wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning. The broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily, the low sky reigning over towered Camelot. Outside the aisle a shallow boat beneath a willow-layer float. Below the carven-stone she wrote, the lady of Shalott. A cloud-white crown of pearl she dyed, all remented in snowy white that loosely flew, her zone in sight, clasped with one blinding diamond bright, her wide eyes fixed on Camelot. Though the squally east wind keenly blew, with folded arms serenely by the water stood the queenly lady of Shalott. With a steady stony glance, like some bold seer in a trance, beholding all his own mischance, mute, with a glassy countenance she looked down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day, she loosed the chain and down she lay. The broad stream bore her far away, the lady of Shalott. As when to sailors while they roam by creeks and outfalls far from home, rising and dropping with the foam. From dying swans wild warblings come, blown shoreward, so to Camelot. Still, as the boat had wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her chanting her death-song, the lady of Shalott.  For ere she reached upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing, in her song she died, the lady of Shalott. In a tower and balcony, by garden wall and gallery, a pale, pale corpse she floated by, dead cold between the house's high, dead into towered Camelot. Night and burger, lord and dame to the planked wharfage came, below the stern they read her name, the lady of Shalott. They crossed themselves, their stars they blessed, night-minstrel, abbots, squire and guest, there lay a parchment on her breast, that puzzled, more than all the rest, the well-fed wits at Camelot. The web was woven curiously, the charm is broken utterly, drawn near, and fear not. This is I, the lady of Shalott. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lady of Shalott, 1842 version, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Recorded by Kirsten Ferreri for LibriVox.org. On either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the world and meet the sky, and through the field the road runs by to many towered Camelot. And up and down the people go, gazing where the lilies blow, round an island there below, the island of Shalott. Willows whitened, aspen's quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, through the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers overlook a space of flowers, and the silent aisle embours the lady of Shalott. By the margin will availed slide the heavy barges trailed by slow horses, and unhailed the shallop flitteth silken sails skimming down to Camelot. But who hath seen her wave her hand, or hath the casement seen her stand, or is she known in all the land the lady of Shalott? Only reapers reaping early in among the bearded barley hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly down to towered Camelot. By the moon the reaper weary piling sheaves in upland's airy, listening whispers, to the fairy lady of Shalott. PART II There she weaves by night and day a magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay to look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care hath she the lady of Shalott. And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near winding down to Camelot. There the river-eddy whorls, and there the surly village churls and the red cloaks of market girls pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, or long-haired page in crimson clad goes by to towered Camelot. And sometimes through the mirror blue the nights come riding, two and two. She hath no loyal night and true the lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights, to weave the mirror's magic sights, for often through the silent nights a funeral with plumes and lights and music went to Camelot. Or when the moon was overhead came two young lovers, lately wed. I am half-sick of shadows, said the lady of Shalott. PART 3 A bow-shot from her bower eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves, the sun came dazzling through the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross night, forever, kneeled to a lady in his shield that sparkled on the yellow field, beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glittered free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to Camelot. And from his blazen baldric slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armor rung beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather, thick jeweled shone the saddle-leather, the helmet and the helmet feather, burned like one burning flame together as he rode down to Camelot. As often through the purple night, below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, trailing light, moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow and sunlight glowed, on burnished hooves his war-horse trod. From underneath his helmet flowed his cold black curls as on he rode, as he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river he flashed into the crystal mirror, Tyralira by the river, saying Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces through the room, she saw the water lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume, she looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide, the mirror cracked from side to side, the curses come upon me, cried the lady of Shalott. PART IV In the stormy east wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining over towered Camelot. Down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left to float, and round about the prow she wrote, the lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse, like some bold seer in a trance, seeing all his own mishance, with a glassy countenance did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day she loosed the chain, and down she lay, the broad stream bore her far away, the lady of Shalott. Everything robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right, the leaves upon her falling light, through the noises of the night she floated down to Camelot. And as the boat had wound along, the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the lady of Shalott.  For ere she reached upon the tide, the first house by the water-side, singing in her song, she died, the lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, by garden wall and gallery, a gleaming shape she floated by, dead pale between the houses high, silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, night and burger, lord and dame, and round the prow they read her name. The Lady of Shalott. Who is this, and what is here? And in the lighted palace near, died the sound of royal cheer, and they crossed themselves for fear, all the nights at Camelot. But Lancelot mused a little space. He said, She has a lovely face. God in his mercy lend her grace. The Lady of Shalott. End of The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. Solansalott and Queen Guinevere, a fragment by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Like souls that balance joy and pain, with tears and smiles from heaven again, the maiden's spring upon the plain came in a sunlit fall of rain. In crystal vapor everywhere, blue aisles of heaven laughed between. And far, in forest-deep sun-seen, the topmost elm-tree gathered green from drafts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song. Sometimes the throttle whistled strong. Sometimes the spar-hawk wheeled along, hushed all the groves from fear of wrong. By grassy capes with fuller sound and curves the yellowing river ran, and drooping chestnut buds began to spread into the perfect fan above the teeming ground. Then, in the boyhood of the year, Solansalott and Queen Guinevere rode through the culverts of the deer with blissful treble ringing clear. She seemed a part of joyous spring, a gown of grass-green silk she wore, buckled with golden clasps before, a light-green tuft of plumes she bore closed in a golden ring. Now on some twisted ivy net, now by some tinkling rivulet, in mosses mixed with violet her cream-white mule is past unset, and fleeter now she skimmed the plains than she whose elfin prance springs by night to eerie warblings, when all the glimmering moorland rings with jingling bridal rains. As she fled fast through sun and shade, the happy winds upon her played, blowing the ringlet from the braid. She looked so lovely as she swayed the rain with dainty fingertips. A man had given all other bliss and all his worldly worth for this, to waste his whole heart in one kiss upon her perfect lips. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kristen Hughes. The Day Before the Trial by Algenon Charles Swinburne. King Arthur says, being alone, now the day comes near and near, I feel its hot breath and see it clear.  So strange it seems to me, so new to have such shame between us two. I dare not hold this matter true nor false, because his words ran through my blood with all the shame they drew and burnt me to the bone. I knew that some such tale would be. For all these years she grew more fair, more sweet her low sweet speeches were, more long and heavy grew her hair, not such as other women wear. But ever as I looked on her, her face seemed fierce and thin. I felt half sick, and on my head the gold crown seemed not gold but lead. Strange words I heard that no man said, strange noises where all noise was dead. Was it pure blood that made her red from brows to rounded chin? Sometimes I knew she loved me not. According to my hands the blood went hot in a dull hate of Lancelot, for all the praise of her he got, being so pure of sin. For he was clean as any maid, and on his head God's hand was laid as on a maidens, so men said. But I a woman's hands there weighed, instead of God's upon my head. No maid was I, to see the white sangriaal born up in air, to touch at last God's body fair, to feel strange terror stir my hair as a slow light went past. But here I had to my honors year by year, I had the name of King to bear, and watch the eyes of Guinevere, my wife, who loves not me. lost my crown, a wife, and I have broken all my vows, a lover, and I ruined him I loved. There is no other havoc left to do. A little month ago I was a queen, and mothers held their babies up to sea, when I came riding out of Camelot. The women smiled, and all the world smiled too, and now what woman's eyes would smile on me? I am still beautiful, and yet what child would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing. An angel clad in gold and miniver. The world would run from me, and yet I am no different from the queen they used to love. If water, flowing silver over stones, is forwarded and beneath the horse's feet, grows turbid suddenly it clears again, and men will drink it with no thought of harm. Yet I am branded for a single fault. I was the flower amid a toiling world, where people smiled to see one happy thing, and they were proud and glad to raise me high. They only asked that I should be right, fair, a little kind, and gowned wondrously. And surely it were little praise to me if I had pleased them well throughout my life. I was a queen, the daughter of a king. The crown was never heavy on my head, it was my right and part of me. The women thought me proud. The men were kind, and bowed down gallantly to kiss my hand, and watch me as I passed them calmly by. Along the halls I shall not tread again. What if, to-night, I should revisit them? The warders at the gates, the kitchen-maids, the very beggars would stand off from me, and I their queen would climb the stairs alone, pass through the banquet hall, a hated thing, and seek my chambers for a hiding-place. And I should find them but a sepulcher. The very rushes rotted on the floors, the fire and ashes on the freezing hearth. I was a queen, and he who loved me best made me a woman for a night and day. And now I go unqueen'd for evermore. A queen should never dream on summer nights, when hovering spells are heavy in the dusk. I think no night was ever quite so still, so smoothly lit with red along the west. So deeply hushed with quiet through and through. And strangely clear and sharply dyed with light. The trees stood straight against a paling sky, with Venus burning lamp-like in the west. I walked alone among a thousand flowers that drooped their heads and drowsed beneath the dew. And all my thoughts were quieted to sleep. Behind me on the walk I heard a step. I did not know my heart could tell his tread. I did not know I loved him till that hour. The garden reeled a little. I was weak.  Quickly he came behind me, caught my arms, that ached beneath his touch. And then I swayed. My head fell backward, and I saw his face. All this grows bitter, that was once so sweet. And many mouths must drain the dredges of it. But none will pity me, nor pity him. In love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs. End of Guinevere. Recording by Beth Pete, on the 11th of January 2007, at Reading, United Kingdom. But knowing now that they would have her speak, she threw her wet hair backward from her brow, her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek, as though she had had there a shameful blow. And feeling it shameful to feel odd but shame all through her heart, yet felt her cheek burn so, she must a little touch it. Like one lame she walked away from Guinevere, with her head still lifted up, and on her cheek of flame the tears dried quick. She stopped at last, and said, O knights and lords, it seems but little skill to talk of well-known things past now and dead. God what I ought to say, I have done ill, and pray you all forgiveness heartily. Because you must be right, such great lords. Still listen. Once your time were come to die, and you were quite alone, and very weak. Yea, lay to dying, while very mightily the wind was ruffling up the narrow streak of river, through your broad lands running well. Suppose a hash should come, then someone speak. One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell. Now choose one cloth forever, which they be, I will not tell you. You must somehow tell of your own strength and mightiness. Here, see. Yea, yea, my lord, and you to op your eyes, and at the foot of your familiar bed, to see a great God's angel standing. With such dies not known on earth on his great wings, and hands held out two ways, light from the inner sky showing him well, and making his command seem to be God's commands. Moreover too, holding within his hands the cloths on ones, and one of these strains choosing cloths was blue, wavy, and long, and one cut short and red. No man could tell the better of the two.  Perhaps you would then roll upon your bed, and cry to all good men that loved you well. Ah Christ, if only I had known, known, known. If Lancelot went away, then I could tell, like wisest men, how all things would be, moan, and roll and hurt myself, and long to die, and yet fear much to die for what was sown.  Whatever may have happened through these years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. Her voice was low at first, being full of tears. But as it cleared it grew full and loud, growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, a ringing in their startled brains, until she said that Gawain had lied, then her voice sunk, and her great eyes began again to fill. Though still she stood right up and never shrunk, but spoke on bravely, glorious Lady Fair. For her tears, her full lips may have drunk. She stood and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, with passionate twisting of her body there. It chanced upon a day that Lancelot came to dwell at Arthur's Court. At Christmastime this happened, when the Herald sung his name. Son of King Van of Burwick seemed to chime along with all the bells that rang that day, or the white roofs with little change of rhyme. Christmas and white and winter had passed away, and over me the April sunshine came, made very awful with black hail clouds. Yeing, in the summer I grew white with flame and bowed my head down. Autumn and the sick sure knowledge of things would never be the same, however often spring might be most thick of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew careless of most things. Let the clock tick, tick to my unhappy pels, that beat right through my eager body. While I laughed out loud, and that my lips curl up at false or true, seemed cold and shallow without any cloud, behold my judges, then the clouds were brought. While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts were crowd, belonging to the time ere I was bought, by Arthur's great name and his little love. Must I give up forever then, I thought, that which deemed would ever round me move, glorifying all things? For a little word scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove stone cold forever? Pray you, does the Lord will that all folks should be quite happy and good? I love God now a little. If this cord were broken, once for all, what striving could make me love anything in heaven or earth? So day by day it grew, as if one should slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, down to a cool sea on a summer day. Yet still in slipping there were some small leaven of stretched hands catching small stones, by the way, until one surely reached the sea at last, and felt strange new joy as the worn head lay back, with the hair like seaweed. Ye all passed sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, washed utterly out by the dear waves or cast in the lone sea, far off from any ships. Do I not know now of a day in the spring? No minute of that wild day ever slipped from my memory. I hear thrushes sing, and wheresoever I may be, straight away thoughts of it come up with most fresh sting. I was half mad with beauty on that day, and went without my ladies all alone, in a quiet garden walled round in every way.  To the bone, ye right through to my heart, grown very shy with wary thoughts at pierced, and made me glad, exceedingly glad, and I knew verily a little thing just then had made me mad. I dared not think as I was wont to do sometimes upon my beauty. If I had held out my long hand up against the blue, and looking on the tenderly darkened fingers, thought that by rights one ought to see quite through. There you see, with a soft still light yet lingers round by the edges. What should I have done if this had joined with the yellow-spotted singers, and startling green-drawn upward by the sun, and shouting, loosed out, see now, all my hair, and transantly stood watching the west wind run with faintest half-curred breathing sound? Why there I lose my head in now and doing this. But shortly listen, in that garden fair came Lancelot, walking. This is true, the kiss wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, I scare-stare talk of a remembered bliss, when both our mouths went wandering and wand'd away, and aching, sorely met among the leaves. Our hands being left behind strained far away, never within a yard of my bright sleeves had Lancelot come before, and now so nigh. After that day, why is it Guinevere grieves? Nevertheless you, O Sir Gawain, lie. Whatever happened on through all those years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. Being such a lady, could I weep these tears if this were true? A great queen, such as I, having sinned this way, straighter conscious seers, and afterwards she liveth hatefully, slaying, and poisoning, which is never weeps. Guine, be friends now, speak me lovingly. Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps all through your frame and trembles in your mouth? Remember in what grave your mother sleeps, buried in some place, far down in the south, men are forgetting as I speak to you.  Let me not scream out forever after when the cheryl winds blow through half your castle locks. Let me not shout forever in the winter night when you ride out alone. In battle-route, let not my rusting tears make your sword light. God of mercy, how he turns away! So ever must I dress me to the fight. So let God's justice work, Gawain I say. See me hew down your proofs, yea all men know, even as you said how Meliagrantz one day, one bitter day in La Fausagarde, for all good nights I held it afterwards, sa, yea sirs, by cursed unightly outrage, through you, Gawain, held his word without a flaw. Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end this very day and your judges here instead of God. Did you see Meliagrantz when Lancelot stood by him? But white fear curdle his blood, and how his teeth did dance, his hides sink in. As my night cried and said, slayer of unarmed men, here is a chance, setter of traps, I pray you guard your head. By God I am so glad to fight with you, stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead for driving weight. Hurrah now, draw and do, for all my wounds are moving in my breast, and I am getting mad with waiting so. He struck his hands together, or the beast, who fell down flat and groveled at his feet, and groaned at being slain so young. At least, my night said, rise, you sir, who are so fleet at catching ladies, half armed with life fight, by left side all uncovered. Then I weeped, upspraying Sir Meliagrantz with great delight upon his nape's face. Not until just then did I quite hate him. As I saw my night along the lists look to my stake, and pen with such a joyous smile, it made me sigh from agony beneath my waist chain, when the fight began, and to me they drew nigh. Ever so Lancelot kept him on the right, and reversed warily, and ever high, and fast leapt Kate of Sword, until my night's sudden throw up his sword to his left hand, caught it, and swung it. That was all the fight, except a spout of blood on the hot land, for it was hot as summer. And I know I wondered how the fire, while I should stand, and burn against the heat, would quiver so, yards above my head. Thus these matters went, which things were only warnings of the woe that fell on me. Yet Meliagrantz was shent, for Meliagrantz had fought against the Lord. Therefore my lords, take heed, lest you be blunt with all his wickedness. Say no rash word against me, being so beautiful.  See my breast rise like waves of purple sea here as I stand, and how my arms are moved in wonderful whys. Yet also at my heart's full strong command, see through my long throat how the words go up and ripples to my mouth.  Yet now this little wind is rising. I look you up and wonder how the light is falling so within my moving tresses. Will you dare, when you've looked a little upon my brow, to say this thing is vile?  Am I not gracious proof? But in your chamber Lancelot was found. Is there a good night then would stand aloof when a queen says with gentle queenly sound, oh, true as steel, come now and talk with me. I love to see your step upon the ground unwavering. Also well, I love to see that gracious smile light up your face and hear your wonderful words that all mean verily the thing they seem to mean. Good friend, so dear to me in everything, come here tonight or else the hours will pass most dull and drear. If you come not, I fear this time I might get thinking over much of times gone by. When I was young and green hope was in sight, for no man cares now how I sigh, and no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, nor brings me the sweet flowers that lie so thick in the gardens. Therefore, once alongs to see you, Lancelot, that we may be like children once again, free from all wrongs just for one night. Did he not come to me? What thing could keep true Lancelot away if I said, come?  Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, because a balling broke our dream up. Yay, I looked at Lancelot's face and could not speak, for he looked helpless too for a little while. Then I remember how I tried to shriek and could not but fell down. From tile to tile the stones they threw up rattled over my head and made me dizzier. Till within a while my maids were all about me and my head on Lancelot's breast was being soothed away from its white chattering until Lancelot said, by God, I will not tell you more today. Judge, any way you will, what matters it? You know quite well the story of that fray.   Whatever may have happened these long years, God knows I speak truth saying that you lie. All I have said is truth by Christ's dear tears. She would not speak another word, but stood turned sideways, listening like a man who hears his brother's trumpet sounding through the wood of his foe's lances. She leaned eagerly and gave a slight spring sometimes as she could at last hear something really. Joyfully, her cheek grew crimson as the headlong speed of the drone charger drew all men to see. The night who came was Lancelot at good need. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Lundin, Chicago, Illinois. Chapter 15, The Round Table from the King Arthur and his knights section of The Age of Chivalry by Thomas Bullfinch. The famous enchanter Merlin had exerted all his skill in fabricating the round table. Of the seats which surrounded it, he had constructed 13, in memory of the 13 apostles. 12 of these seats only could be occupied, and they only by knights of the highest fame. The 13th represented the seat of the traitor Judas. It remained always empty. It was called the perilous seat. Ever since a rash and haughty, seresene night had dared to place himself in it, when the earth opened and swallowed him up. In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, fashioned by Merlin ere he passed away, and carving with strange figures. And in and out the figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin called it the siege perilous, perilous for good and ill. For there, he said, no man could sit, but he should lose himself. The Holy Grail. A magic power wrote upon each seat the name of the knight who was entitled to sit in it. No one could succeed to a vacant seat unless he surpassed in valor and glorious deeds the knight who had occupied it before him. Without this qualification he would be violently repelled by a hidden force. Thus proof was made of all those who presented themselves to replace any companions of the order who had fallen. One of the principal seats, that of Marant of Ireland, had been vacant ten years, and his name still remained over it ever since the time when that distinguished champion fell beneath the sword of Sir Tristam. Arthur now took Tristam by the hand and led him to that seat. Immediately the most melodious sounds were heard and exquisite perfumes filled the place. The name of Marant disappeared and that of Tristam blazed forth in light. The rare modesty of Tristam had now to be subjected to a severe task for the clerks charged with the duty of preserving the annals of the round table attended and he was required by the law of his order to declare what feats of arms he had accomplished to entitle him to take that seat. This ceremony being ended, Tristam received the congratulations of all his companions. Sir Lancelot and Guinevere took the occasion to speak to him of the faires sote and to express their wish that some happy chance might bring her to the kingdom of Lowegria. While Tristam was thus honored and caressed at the court of King Arthur, the most gloomy and malignant jealousy harassed the soul of Mark. He could not look upon Izzelt without remembering that she loved Tristam and the good fortune of his nephew goaded him to thoughts of vengeance. He had last resolved to go disguised into the kingdom of Lowegria, attack Tristam by stealth and put him to death. He took with him two knights brought up in his court, who he thought were devoted to him and not willing to leave Izzelt behind, named two of her maidens to attend her together with her faithful Brangwain and made them accompany him. Having arrived in the neighborhood of Camelot, Mark imparted his plan to his two knights, but they rejected it with horror. Nay, more, they declared that they would no longer remain in his service and left him, giving him reason to suppose that they should repair to the court to accuse him before Arthur. It was necessary for Mark to meet and rebut their accusation, so leaving Izzelt in an abbey, he pursued his way alone to Camelot. Mark had not ridden far when he encountered a party of knights of Arthur's court and would have avoided them, for he knew their habit of challenging to adjust every stranger knight whom they met, but it was too late. They had seen his armor and recognized him as a Cornish knight and had once resolved to have some sport with him. It happened they had with them Dagwinet, King Arthur's fool, who though deformed and weak of body, was not wanting in courage. The knights, as Mark approached, laid their plan that Dagwinet should personate Sir Lancelot of the lake and challenge the Cornish knight. They equipped him in armor belonging to one of their number who was ill and sent him forward to the crossroad to defy the strange knight. Mark, who saw that his antagonist was by no means formidable in appearance, was not disinclined to the combat, but when the dwarf rode towards him, calling out that he was Sir Lancelot of the lake, his fears prevailed, he put spurs to his horse and rode away at full speed, pursued by the shouts and laughter of the party. Meanwhile, is old, remaining at the abbey with her faithful brengwain, found her only amusement in walking occasionally in a forest, joining the abbey. There, on the brink of a fountain girdled with trees, she thought of her love and sometimes joined her voice and her harp in lays reviving the memory of its pains or pleasures. One day, the kytiff knight, Braeus the pitiless, heard her voice, concealed himself and drew near. She sang, Sweet silence, shadowy bower and verdant lair, ye court my troubled spirit to repose, while sty such dear remembrance rises there, awaken every echo with my woes. Within these woods, by nature's hand arrayed, a fountain springs and feeds a thousand flowers. Ah, how my groans do all its murmurs aid, how my sad eyes do swell it with their showers. What doth my knight the while? To him is given a double mead, in love and arms reprise, him the round table elevates to heaven. Tristim, ah, me, he hears not Isoldeus' cries. Braeus the pitiless, who, like most other kytiffs, had felt the weight of Tristim's arms and hated him accordingly, adhering his name, breathed forth by the beautiful songstress, impelled by a double impulse, rushed forth from his concealment and laid hands on his victim. Isolde fainted and Braeus filled the air with her shrieks. Braeus carried Isoldeus to the place where he had left his horse, but the animal had got away from his bridle and was at some distance. He was obliged to lay down his fair burden and go in pursuit of his horse. Just then a knight came up, drawn by the cries of Braeus and demanded the cause of her distress. She could not speak, but pointed to her mistress lying insensible on the ground. Braeus had by this time returned and the cries of Bregwain, renewed at seeing him, sufficiently showed the stranger the cause of the distress. Tristim spurred his horse toward Braeus, who, not unprepared, ran to the encounter. Braeus was unhorsed and lay motionless, pretending to be dead. But when the stranger knight left him to attend to the distress damsels, he mounted his horse and made his escape. The knight, now approached Isold, gently raised her head, drew aside the golden hair which covered her countenance and gazed thereon for an instant, uttered a cry, and fell back, insensible. Bregwain came. Her cares soon restored her mistress to life and they then turned their attention to the fallen warrior. They raised his visor and discovered the countenance of Sir Tristim. Isold threw herself on the body of her lover and bedewed his face with her tears. Their warmth revived the knight and Tristim, unawakening, found himself in the arms of his dear Isold. It was the law of the round table that each knight after his admission should pass the next 10 days in quest of adventures, during which time his companions might meet him in disguised armor and try their strength with him. Tristim had now been out seven days and in that time had encountered many of the best knights of the round table and acquitted himself with honor. During the remaining three days, Isold remained at the abbey under his protection and then set out with her maidens escorted by Sir Tristim to rejoin King Mark at the court of Camelot. This happy journey was one of the brightest epochs in the lives of Tristim and Isold. He celebrated it by a lay upon the harp in a peculiar measure to which the French give him the name of Troiolet. With fair Isold and with love, ah, how sweet the life I lead, how blessed forever thus to row with fair Isold and with love as she wills I live and move and cloudless days to days succeed with fair Isold and with love, ah, how sweet the life I lead. Journeying on from break of day, feel you not fatigued, my fair. Yon Green Turf invites to play. Journeying on from day to day, ah, let us to that shade away where it but to slumber there. Journeying on from break of day, feel you not fatigued, my fair. They arrived at Camelot where Sir Lancelot received them most cordially. Isold was introduced to King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, who welcomed her as a sister. As King Mark was held in arrest under the accusation of the two Cornish knights, Queen Isold could not rejoin her husband and Sir Lancelot placed his castle of La Joieuse Garde at the disposal of his friends who there took up their abode. King Mark, who found himself obliged to confess the truth of the charge against him or to clear himself by combat with his accusers, performed the former and King Arthur, as his crime had not been perpetrated, remitted the penalty, only enjoining upon him under pain of his signal displeasure to lay aside all thoughts of vengeance against his nephew. In the presence of the King and his court, all parties were formally reconciled. Mark and his Queen departed for their home and Tristum remained at Arthur's court. End of story. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. This is an excerpt from Idols of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson, entitled Merlin and Vivian. A storm was coming, but the winds were still, and in the wild woods of Brociliand, before an oak so hollow, huge, and old, it looked a tower of ivied mason work at Merlin's feet, the wily Vivian lay. For he that always bare and bitter grudge the slights of Arthur and his table, Mark, the Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice, a minstrel of carallion by strong storm blown into shelter at Tintagel, say that out of naked night-like purity Sir Lancelot worshipped no unmarried girl, but the great queen herself, fought in her name, swear by her, vows like theirs, that high in heaven love most, but neither marry, nor are given in marriage, angels of our Lord's report. He ceased, and then, for Vivian sweetly said, she sat beside the banquet nearest Mark, and is the fair example followed, Sir, in Arthur's household? Answered innocently. I, by some few, I truly, used that hold it more be seems the perfect virgin night to worship woman as true wife beyond all hoats of gaining than his maiden girl. They placed their pride in Lancelot and the queen, so passionate for a nutter purity, beyond the limit of their bond are these, for Arthur bound them not to singleness, brave hearts and clean, and yet God guide them young. Then Mark was half-in-heart to hurl his cup straight at the speaker, but for bore. He rose to leave the hall, and Vivian following him, turned to her. Here are snakes within the grass, and Yumi thinks, oh Vivian, save ye fear the monkish manhood, and the mask of pure worn by this court, can stir them till they sting. And Vivian answered, smiling scornfully, why fear, because that fostered at thy court I savor of thy virtues, fear them? No, as love, if love is perfect, cast out fear, so hate, if hate is perfect, cast out fear. My father died in battle against the king, my mother on his corpse an open field. She bore me there, for born from death was I, among the dead and sewn upon the wind. And then on thee, and shown the truth be times, that old true filth and bottom of the well where truth is hidden, gracious lessons thine and maxims of the mud. This Arthur pure, great nature through the flesh your self hath made gives him the lie. There is no being pure, my cherub, sayeth not holy writ the same. If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood, thy blessing stainless king, I bring thee back, when I have ferreted out their burrowings, the hearts of all this order in mine hand. I, so that fate and craft and folly close, perchance one curl of Arthur's golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine is cleaner fashioned. Well, I love thee first, that warps the wit. Loud laugh the graceless mark, but Vivian into Camelot stealing, lodged low in the city, and on a festal day when Guinevere was crossing the great hall, cast yourself down, knelt to the queen and wailed. Why kneel ye there? What evil hath he wrought? Rise, and the damsobidden rise arose and stood with folded hands and downward eyes of glancing corner, and all meekly said, none wrought, but suffered much, an orphan made. My father died in battle for thy king, my mother on his corpse in open field, the sad, sea-sounding wastes of Leonese. Poor wretch, no friend, and now by mark the king for that small charm of feature mine pursued. If any such be mine, I fly to thee. Save, save me thou, woman of women, thine the wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, be thine the balm of pity, O heaven's own white earth angel, stainless bride of stainless king. Help, for he follows. Take me to thyself. O, yield me shelter for mine innocency among thy maidens. Hear her slow, sweet eyes, fear tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose fixed on her hearers. While the queen who stood all glittering like May sunshine on May leaves in green and gold, and plumed with green replied, Peace, child, of overpraise and overblame, we choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay, we believe all evil of thy mark. Well, we shall test thee farther, but this hour we ride a hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained. We go to prove it. By ye hear the while. She passed, and Vivian murmured after, Go, I bide the while. Then through the portal arch, peering a scance and muttering broken wise, as one that labors with an evil dream, beheld the queen and Lancelot get to horse. Is that the Lancelot? Goodly, I, but gaunt. Cardius, a men's for gauntness, takes her hand. That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been a clinging kiss. How hand lingers in hand, let go at last. They ride away to hawk for waterfowl. The royaler game is mine, for such a super sensual bond is that great cricket chirped of at our hearth. Touch flax with flame, a glance will serve. The liars, a little rat that boorst in the dyke, thy hole by night, to let the boundless deep down upon far off cities while they dance, or dream, of thee they dreamed not. Nor of me, these I, but each of either. Ride and dream the mortal dream that never yet was mine. Ride, ride and dream until ye wake, to me. Then narrow cord and lover king farewell, for Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, and our wise queen, if knowing that I know, will hate, loathe, fear, but honour me the more. Yet while they rode together down the plain, their talk was all of training, terms of art, diet and ceiling, jesses, leash and lure. She is too noble, he said, to check at pies, nor will she rake, there is no baseness in her. Here when the queen demanded as by chance, no ye, this stranger woman? Let her be, said Lancelot, an unhooded casting off the goodly falcon-free. She towered, her bells tone under tone shrilled, and they lifted up their eager faces, wandering at the strength, boldness and royal knighthood of the bird who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time as once of old, among the flowers they rode. But Vivian half-forgotten of the queen among her damsels broitering sat, heard, watched and whispered. Through the peaceful court she crept and whispered. Then as Arthur in the highest leavened the world, so Vivian in the lowest, arriving at a time of golden rest, and sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, while all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, and no quest came, but all was joust in play, leavened his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left death in the living waters and withdrawn, the wily Vivian stole from Arthur's court. She hated all the nights, and heard and thought their lavish comet when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vex dead a rumour issued from herself of some corruption crept among his nights, had met her, Vivian, being greeted fair, would feign have wrought upon his cloudy mood with revered eyes, mock loyal, shaken voice, and fluttered adoration, and at last with dark sweet hints of some who prized him more than who should prize him most. At which the king had gazed upon her blankly and gone by. But one had watched, and had not held his peace. It made the laughter of an afternoon that Vivian should attempt the blameless king. And after that, she set herself to gain him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, had built the king his havens, ships, and halls, was also barred, and knew the starry heavens. The people called him wizard, whom at first she played about with slight and sprightly talk, and vivid smiles, and faintly venomed points of slander, glancing here and grazing there, and yielding to his kindlier moods, the seer would watch her at her petulance, and play, even when they seemed unlovable, and laugh as those that watch a kitten. Thus he grew tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, perceiving that she was but half disdained, began to break her sports with graver fits, turn red or pale, what often when they met sigh fully, or all silent gaze upon him with such a fixed devotion that the old man, though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times would flatter his own wish in age for love, and half believe her true. For thus at times he wavered, and that other clung to him fixed in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy. He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found a doom that ever poised itself to fall. An ever-moaning battle in the mist, world war of dying flesh against the life, death in all life, and lying in all love, the meanest having power upon the highest, and the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach. There found a little boat and stepped into it, and Vivian followed but he marked her not. She took the helm and he the sail. The boat draped with a sudden wind across the deeps, and touching Breton sands they disembarked. And then she followed Merlin all the way even to the wild woods of Brucelliand. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, the witch, if any, wrought on any one, with woven paces and with waving arms, the man so wrought on ever seemed to lie closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, from which there was no escape for evermore. And none could find that man for evermore, nor could he see but him who wrought the charm coming and going, and he lay as dead and lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivian ever sought to work the charm upon the great enchanter of the time, as fancying that her glory would be great, according to his greatness whom she quenched. There lay she all her length and kissed his feet as if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair, a robe of Samite without price that more expressed than hid her, plung about her lissum limbs, in color like the satin shining palm on salos and the windy gleams of March.  He was mute. So dark a forethought rolled about his brain as on a dull day in an ocean cave, the blind wave feeling round his long sea hall in silence. Wherefore, when she lifted up a face of sad appeal and spake and said, oh Merlin, do you love me? And again, oh Merlin, do you love me? And once more, great master, do you love me? He was mute. And lissum Vivian, holding by his heel, writhed toward him, sliding up his knee, and sat behind his ankle twined her hollow feet together, curved an arm about his neck, plung like a snake, and letting her left hand root from his mighty shoulder as a leaf, made with her right a comb of pearl to part the liss of such a beard as youth gone out had left in ashes. Then he spoke and said, not looking at her. Who are wise in love, love most, say least. And Vivian answered quick, I saw the little elf-god Eilis once in Arthur's Eris Hall at Camelot, but neither eyes nor tongue.  Let me think silence is wisdom. I am silent, then, and ask no kiss. Then, adding all at once, and lo, I clothe myself with wisdom, drew the vast and shaggy mantle of his beard across her neck and bosom to her knee, and called herself a kilded summer fly caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, who meant to eat her up in that wild wood without one word. So Vivian called herself, but rather seemed a lovely baleful star veiled in gray vapor, till he sadly smiled. To what request for what strange boon, he said, are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, oh Vivian, the preamble? Yet my thanks for these have broken up, my melancholy. And Vivian answered, smiling saucily, what, oh my master, have you found your voice? I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last. But yesterday you never opened lip, except indeed to drink, no cup, had we. In my own Lady Palms I called the spring that gathered trickling drop-wise from the cleft, and made a pretty cup of both my hands and offered you it kneeling. Then you drank, and knew no more, nor gave me one poor word. Oh, no more thanks than might a goat have given, with no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, and I was faint to swooning, and you lay foot-guilt with all the blossom dust of those deep meadows we had traversed, did you know that Vivian bathed your feet before her own? And yet no thanks, and all through this wild wood, and all this morning when I fondled you. Boon, aye, there was a boon. One not so strange. How had I wronged you? Surely ye are wise, but such a silence is more wise than kind. And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said, oh, did ye never lie upon the shore and watch the curled white of the coming wave glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks? Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, dark in the glass of some pre-sageful mood, had I for three days seen ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court to break the mood. You followed me unasked. And when I looked and saw you following me still, my mind involved yourself the nearest thing in that mind mist. For shall I tell you truth? You seemed that wave about to break upon me and sweep me from my hold upon the world, my use and name and fame. You're part and child, your pretty sports have brightened me all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, once for wrong done you by confusion. Next, for thanks it seems till now neglected. Last, for these your dainty gambles, wherefore ask, and take this boon so strange and not so strange. And Vivian answered, smiling mournfully, oh, not so strange as my long asking it, yet not so strange as you yourself are strange, nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever feared you were not wholly mine. And see, yourself having owned ye did me wrong. The people call you prophet, let it be, but not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivian for expounder.  Whenever I have asked this very boon, now asked again, for see you not, dear love, that such a mood is that which lately gloomed your fancy when you saw me following you, must make me fears still more that you are not mine, must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, and make me wish still more to learn this charm of woven paces and of waving hands as proof of trust. Oh, Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest, for grant me some slight power upon your fate. I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, should rest and let you rest knowing you mine, and therefore be as great as you are named, not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly, oh, if you think this wickedness in me that I should prove it on you unawares, that makes me passing wrathful, that our bond had best be loosed forever. But think or not, by heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, as clean as blood of babes or white as milk. Oh, Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, if these unwitty wandering wits of mine, even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, have tripped upon such conjectural treachery. May this hard earth cleave to the native hell, down, down, and close again and nip me flat if I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, till which I scarce can yield you all I am, and grant my reiterated wish, the great proof of your love, because I think, however wise, he hardly know me yet. And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, I never was less wise, however wise, too curious, Vivian, though you talk of trust, than when I told you first of such a charm. Yay, if you talk of trust I tell you this, too much I trusted when I told you that, and stirred this vice in you, which ruined man through woman the first hour, for how soare in children a great curiousness be well, who have to learn themselves in all the world, in you that are no child, for still I find your face is practised when I spell the lines. I call it, well, I will not call it vice. But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, that settles beaten back and beaten back, settles till one could yield for weariness. But since I will not yield to give you power upon my life and use and name and fame, why will you never ask some other boon? Yay, by God's rude I trusted you too much. And Vivian, like the tenderest heart it made, that ever-bited trist and village style, made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid. Caress her, let her feel herself forgiven, who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme of trust be not at all or all in all. I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, and it shall answer for me. Listen to it. In love if love be love, if love be ours, faith and unfaith can never be equal powers. Unfaith and ought is want of faith in all. It is the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute and ever widening slowly silence all. The little rift within the lover's lute or little pitted speckin' garnered fruit that rotting inward slowly molders all. It is not worth the keeping, let it go, but shall it answer, darling, answer, no, and trust me not at all or all in all. Oh, Master, do you love my tender rhyme? And Merlin looked and half believed her true. So tender was her voice, so fair her face, so sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears, like sunlight on the plane behind a shower, and yet he answered half indignantly. Far other was the song that once I heard by this huge oak sung nearly where we sit, for here we met, some 10 or 12 of us, to chase a creature that was current then in these wild woods, the heart with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose about the founding of a table round that was to be for love of God and men and noble deeds the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds, and while we waited one, the youngest of us, we could not keep him silent. Out he flashed and into such a song, such fire for fame, such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down to such a stern and iron-clashing close that when he stopped we longed to hurl together and should have done it, but the beauteous beast scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, and like a silver shadow slipped away through the dim land, and all day long we rode through the dim land against a rushing wind, that glorious roundel echoing in our ears, and chased the flashes of his golden horns till they vanished by the fairy well that laughs at iron. As our warriors did, where children cast their pins and nails and cry, laugh little well, but touch it with a sword, it buzzes fiercely round the point, and there we lost him. Such a noble song was that. But Vivian, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursed charm, were proving it on me, and that I lay and felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame. And Vivian answered, smiling mournfully, Oh, mine have ebbed away for evermore, and all through following you to this wild wood, because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo, now, what hearts have men? They never mount as high as women in their selfless mood. And touching fame, how air ye score in my song? Take one verse more. The lady speaks it, this. My name wants mine, now thine is closely your mine. For fame could fame be mine, that fame were thine. And shame could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me, not at all, or all in all. Says she not well, and there is more. This rhyme is like the fair pearl necklace of the queen that burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt. Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept.  So is it with this rhyme. It lives dispersedly in many hands, and every minstrel sings it differently. Yet there is one true line, the pearl of pearls. Man dreams of fame while woman wakes to love. Yay, love though love were of the grossest, carves a portion from the solid present, eats and uses, careless of the rest, but fame. The fame that follows death is nothing to us. And what is fame in life but half disfame and counter-changed with darkness? You yourself know well that Envy calls you devil's son. And since she seemed the master of all art, they fame would make you master of all vice. End of part one.


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aking mistakes can't have that in today's hollywood what a take right oh yes it's a woman that's your only reason oh I hate like the concept of women an actual woman yeah never mind going line by line oh my god what were you thinking what was that what was going for so for context because I don't need to show these I can just tell you guys at this point because the other references have shown how much of a I was going to say liar let's just say how much of an incompetent person Jack is so they need the there's so much about the film the predator that is fucking awful in terms of storytelling and obviously they need the girl to be knocked out so that the team of heroes that we're with can take her back and like when she wakes up she's like what the fuck why am I here and then they break it down then she works with them so they needed to get her out of the action situation but on board with them that's your writing problem so you go how do we do this like we'll get her unconscious and then they'll pick her up to help her and then she's with them how do we do that well we could have her like you know fall off the van that she's currently on and hit her head vaguely and just knock around it's like no no she's holding a a tank gun have her shoot herself in the foot it's like what you're like she just shoots herself with the fuck I don't know you're like so she's sitting on the van with her legs in front of her trying to aim at something and they hit like a rock with the car and the van and she accidentally shoots herself wow okay yeah we'll go with that that was a fifth and so my rage videos are supposed to be me in like utter disbelief for some of these things and you'd be like you didn't explain why that's bad and I'm like oh well yeah you got me I just thought that was stupid intrinsically but like sure and the irony is that he's been doing it throughout this whole video with a lot of quotes and clips of mine but he like doesn't appreciate it when I do it about a movie as opposed to him doing it about my character it's like cool the standards are very interesting but yeah and then his take that how dare a woman make a mistake yeah and it's weird too because it's all like he's immediately equated it to a strong female character doing it as if that's supposed to be normal like are women supposed to fuck up that hard and you expect that I think he's just trying to be tongue-in-cheek because I literally sorry go ahead I literally don't understand what kind of point he's trying to make because it seems to go against previous points he's been making if he is suggesting that you think she should be stronger than this as a female character if that's the insinuation like I find myself thinking about this statement a lot with his video but I'm like what do you think you're saying Jack because I yeah I'm not getting it that's basically the question I would have from at this point what does he think he said what point does he just think he made give it to me again the same between the different between the rage and the praise videos as you go line by line that's the same thing everything else is like well you're going to be gushing about one thing or going to be hating on something so that's a pretty clear distinction he's not I don't think he actually made that distinction between your type as you described throughout the show he just wasn't catching onto the fact that oh he's really praising something here or in this video it's all hated or it's all criticism it's like okay can is there a different style he's using perhaps is he there's a reason why he's doing that either way let's continue with the tranquilizer in her own fucking foot God really a strong female character making mistakes can't have that in today's Hollywood with all that said I think I'm getting it now writing this with Eric combing through the archives I get why Mauler and those who follow him have convinced themselves that this is the same as a real in-depth nitty gritty critique real in-depth nitty gritty the hell do any of those leave does he want like like dramatic structure like what does he want to what what does it have definition what you might like you write a book like an essay and like publish it like what does he want well I mean you know he's telling me that there are no such things like an objective standard that I can adhere to or have presented and then he's like I am not adhering to standards that he he apparently has that I a nebulous too it's just like God this is just so confusing to follow but sure hey it's the it's the notepad is that the first time you've taken that out this video well the problem is that um it's all horrible and I don't know which I'm trying to think of which part the thing is with the notepad what I've just put down is is already been from other videos the real thing in-depth and nitty gritty I guess I can keep but I've already planned to put real into the thing because it's just funny to keep referring to the thing you're describing as real it's not that I've never done it before it's just that come on Jack real and in-depth what is a real critique what does that even mean yeah what would he define as one what do you think you're saying Jack it's clearly he's saying this and can't and in uh you know he's saying it in a very sarcastic way so it's like okay so he's he's is he suggesting that it's fake so what do you suggest is real and um yeah it's just find real first by the way they're just placeholders because he can't actually figure out what he's actually trying to tell me like does he mean inaccurate that's a different word altogether you know yeah you have an area unexamined in your mind and that's where the combination of conscious and unconscious impulses that make you feel certain ways about certain things lie you've built a system a conc- there's no such thing as being aware of your unconscious mind and it's called the subconscious if you want to be specific correct but yes but you wouldn't be aware of your unconscious during that time you'd be asleep and in beta mode or whatever well I'm assuming he's making the argument here that what I'm referring to as objective criticism is just a part of my mind that I'm not quite aware of uh you use both that's bizarre I don't I would never want to guesstimate his mental state or yours but if you listen to any of your videos whether it's the rage or the praise videos you do use objective observation and then you have a lot of emotion behind it so it's not really half and half but there is a difference apparently Jack just said he's still up for chat with Mola but nothing other than a one-on-one at this stage at least he's conceding that I personally I would do it just to see how it goes down because I think is would that be I feel like or to just be he he has to leave at one point and then I bring on Wolfenrags again well here's here's the thing he's not going to fucking he's not gonna work with you unless you strictly adhere to his rules so that's pretty much the only way you're going to get him to talk to you is by you know letting him throw his tantrum and just believe you know just going by his terms and I would say just do it just this once when I do him it'll clearly show that you're like the bigger person because I understand not throwing rags out that makes perfect sense but if he's going to concede that he's at least willing to have a conversation I would be interested in hearing it it's just so weird what is the animosity towards rags it looked like he was going to elaborate on that and then they just cut it out he just wanted it to be two on two he wanted to be him and Eric I don't know he's toxic Eric once said after he completed his video on wolf that uh he's happy to talk to wolf about it personally but not me and rags and I asked him why and he said because me and rags are two of the most toxic youtubers on the platform so I was like okay interesting but if he's likely he's willing to talk to me now I don't really want him at my birthday party sorry? it comes down to I don't really want him at my birthday party yeah obviously because we've addressed this now the whole he called me a schoolyard insult I have this the reaction of it's a schoolyard insult I'm confused why you're taking it so seriously if it's you would you agree that it's something that you shouldn't even matter and I've seen he very very polite everyone that disagrees with you whenever they come on your you know in your show like I know you'd be just a simple big bomber guy we're talking about rags though from what rags is like I don't know what would you describe him as rough or brutal rough rough I get it bloods sure none of these equalities that I actually have any problem with with rags I like how clear he is with the person he has an issue with but there's an element that you might find him too intimidating to want to I don't know be engaged with maybe they don't provide us a reason we're trying to assume one Jack has also just said your crowd led to the mass harassment of Star Wars crew members okay yeah that's not true Jack orchestrated many abuse campaigns in several countries including Australia and Germany if I say it's just true that's how this works to say repeat the lie enough right also I want to say I like rags a lot I think he's really cool I always enjoy listening to him and I left this comment on his newest video about Paul 76 but holy shit somebody give him more royalty free music to use because after an hour of that one lo-fi hip-hop song being used I wanted to shoot myself in the mouth again I really like rags but I was miserable say one point like the music just ended like for the last like 45 minutes or so there was like nothing left there was no music at all I would take no music over that same song for an hour I do agree that does but just switch it up a little bit how can he say that this is the kind of thing that results in the harassment the cast and crew when there's literally a part of the dream where you tell people not to harass him because that would be bad it doesn't matter it just doesn't matter I've had other people address this before they'd be like Mola what do you say the fact that your critiques would give people the sense that they are right to go after the cast and crew members whether or not you intended that I'm like what do you want me to say to that and they're like I want you to admit that you're responsible for cast and crew harassment and I'm like I'm not is this weird like I don't know if it's like an ideology thing but like if you read a book on fishing and then decide to kill your parents it's like you can't blame the fishing book it's sort of a guilty association thing honestly it's a very weak argument like your your followers or adults they're going to do what they want I disagreed with Jack on Twitter about some stuff and maybe I got a little bit nasty at first just seeing the way that he was approaching things really irked me because it was very insincere and very immature but you know I I tried my best not to attack him or anything like that I just think that people conflate the two very frequently um but yeah anyway let's kick on give us everything you got Jack create coherent system that has made it easier for you to identify what things specifically you don't like mostly somewhere along the way you convinced yourself that these things being objectively a part of the text arguably make your feelings on them also objective no arguably yeah but the arguably even if everything he said here was coherent and true all I have to do to prove him wrong is give him a film that I think is objectively bad that I enjoy therefore meaning my feelings contradicted to the what I would consider the objective assessment because his his revelation here for me is to be like Moeller don't you understand all of your feelings on films happen just so happened to line up with all your all your objective assessments on films and I'd be like but they don't though then he's like oh what and I'm like yeah so like the room I think it's fucking awful but I really enjoy it Batman and Robin is fucking awful but I really enjoy it um there are movies infinity war I think it's really flawed but I think like I I enjoy it to a level that's far beyond how flawed I consider it to be objectively GG0 I'm going oh yeah for sure is yeah the rest of this video is just going to be a 10 minutes of pseudo psycho analysis followed by a three minute patron crawl I'm going to be pissed a little bit for a minute I'm going to go grab a snack and then I'll just meet myself for like probably 10 minutes all good man bye these things being objectively a part of the text arguably make sure feelings on them also objective and now you've decided without a lick of real study into how most of this stuff could or should be measured that you're simply on another level to other critics you've seen the code now you can spread the word by giving really long summaries of things and going this good this bad this good this bad hell if you do it enough it's just like a real analysis it I nailed it shit nailed it wow that's exactly what you do this is the conciest misrepresentation I've ever heard of your content this good this bad long man bad he keeps that's the meme that's a new one right there we're using that I really like it long man how do you measure things like objectively like you just you just look at it it's just there it's right in front of your face that's it it's all we're doing what's weird is he keeps referring to the unbridled rages where it's just like quick and mostly entertaining and you you flat out say it like it's not facts I just realized we're at seven hours nine minutes and there's no way we're finishing within an hour I don't think especially with super chastity right out apparently YouTube streaming has a limit of eight hours oh start another well it's gonna say I can start another but that's like we're not stopping for anyone should I do you think I should stop and start now so it's chunkier on the other end of it or yeah good I would say so I think that would make sense so yeah this is gonna be a too far too far two-part e-fap and uh we we'll just I'll take the break for about five minutes I supposed to make sure they separate out um and then we will return and I I can just redo the thumbnail because it'll be a different cast that makes enough sense and we will address the rest of this video and then all the super chats after doing sort of conclusion it's gonna be great too far too far too farter let's go so yes goodbye chat we will return give us five to 10 minutes donate to my patreon