Hollydaze Quotemail #3: The Once & Future King

Hello everyone – 

The tales of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table have fascinated me for half a century. 😊 Initially inspired by my mother reading the Disney storybook of The Sword in the Stone to me in my preschool days, my interest in the Arthurian legendarium has only grown with time. As we conclude the Yuletide season in the next few days, and the Old Year departs to make room for the New Year, here are some reflections – in poetry and prose – on King Arthur’s mysterious departure from this world’s realm to the Otherworldly Isle of Avalon, from whence (it is said) that he will one day return to usher in a new Golden Age for Britain and the entire world.

 

From the Vita Merlini (Life of Merlin)

By Geoffrey of Monmouth (ca. 1095-1155 CE)

Editor’s Note: In this excerpt, the Welsh bard Taliesin is relating to Merlin how he accompanied King Arthur on his final journey out of this world into the Otherworldly Isle of Avalon, where Arthur was to be cared for by his sister Morgan Le Fay (who, in this narrative, is a queen of the Fair Folk, and not an evil sorceress, as in later retellings).

The island of apples [Avalon], which men call “The Fortunate Isle,” gets its name from the fact that it produces all things of itself; the fields there have no need of the ploughs of the farmers and all cultivation is lacking except what nature provides.  Of its own accord it produces grain and grapes, and apple trees grow in its woods from the close-clipped grass.  The ground of its own accord produces everything instead of merely grass, and people live there a hundred years or more.  There nine sisters rule by a pleasing set of laws those who come to them from our country. She who is first of them is more skilled in the healing art, and excels her sisters in the beauty of her person.  Morgen is her name, and she has learned what useful properties all the herbs contain, so that she can cure sick bodies.  She also knows an art by which to change her shape, and to cleave the air on new wings like Daedalus; when she wishes she is at Brest, Chartres, or Pavia, and when she will she slips down from the air onto your shores.  And men say that she has taught mathematics to her sisters, Moronoe, Mazoe, Gliten, Glitonea, Gliton, Tyronoe, Thitis; Thitis best known for her cither.  Thither after the battle of Camlann we took the wounded Arthur, guided by Barinthus, to whom the waters and the stars of heaven were well known.  With him steering the ship, we arrived there with the prince, and Morgen received us with fitting honor, and in her chamber she placed the king on a golden bed and with her own hand she uncovered his honorable wound and gazed at it for a long time.  At length she said that health could be restored to him if he stayed with her for a long time and made use of her healing art.  Rejoicing, therefore, we entrusted the king to her and returning spread our sails to the favoring winds.

 

From Le Morte D’Arthur (Book 21, Chapter 7)

By Sir Thomas Malory (15^th Century CE)

Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.  I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say: here in this world he changed his life.  But many men say that there is written upon his tomb this verse:  <Hic jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus” [“Here lies Arthur, the once and future King”].

 

From “Morte D’Arthur”

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Editor’s Note: The complete text of this poem, which features the faithful knight Sir Bedivere, the fate of the sword Excalibur, and King Arthur’s final departure, can be read at https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45370/morte-darthur.

         Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

Beneath them; and descending they were ware

That all the decks were dense with stately forms

Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by 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 waste land, where no one comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

         Then murmured Arthur, "Place me in 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 loosed the shattered casque, 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, and like the withered moon

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—

That made his forehead like a rising sun

High from the daïs-throne—were parched with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

So like a shattered column lay the King;

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament,

Shot through' the lists at Camelot, and charged

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

         Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:

"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 knight.

Such times have been not since the light that led

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

But 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:

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils 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 shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

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 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 seëst—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; but it lies

Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

         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 swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull

Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

 

“Lead, Kindly Light”

By John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

 

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst the encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene; one step enough for me.

 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou

Shouldst lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path; but now

Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,

Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

Will lead me on.

Over moor and fen, over crag and torrent, till

The night is gone,

And with the morn those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

 

Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898): Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon

 

Until next time –

Rob 😊