. . . . . . . .  ’What know I? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,
And dark in hair and eyes am I; . .
  . . . . yea and dark was Uther too,
Wellnigh to blackness; but this king is fair
Beyond the race of Britons and of men.

  ’But let me tell thee now another tale: 

* * * * *

. . . . . . . . on the night
When Uther in Tintagil past away
Moaning and wailing for an heir, Merlin
Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe,

* * * * *

Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps
It seem’d in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof
A dragon wing’d and all from stem to stern
Bright with a shining people on the decks,
And gone as soon as seen. . . . . .  He
  . . . . . .watch’d the great sea fall,
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: 
And down the wave and in the flame was borne
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin’s feet,
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, “The King!”

* * * * *

And presently thereafter follow’d calm,
Free sky and stars:  “And this same child,” he said,
“Is he who reigns.” . . . .

* * * * *

. . . . . .  And ever since the Lords
Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves,
So that the realm has gone to wrack; but now,
This year, when Merlin—­for his hour had come—­
Brought Arthur forth, and sat him in the hall,
Proclaiming, “Here is Uther’s heir, your King,”
A hundred voices cried:  “Away with him! 
No king of ours!” . . . . .

* * * * *

. . . .  Yet Merlin thro’ his craft, And while the people clamor’d for a king, Had Arthur crown’d; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.

* * * * *

. . . . and Merlin in our time
Hath spoken also, . . . . . 
Tho’ men may wound him that he will not die,
But pass, again to come, and then or now
Utterly smite the heathen under foot,
Till these and all men hail him for their king.’

. . . . .  King Leodogran rejoiced,
But musing ‘Shall I answer yea or nay?’
Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,
Dreaming a slope of land that ever grew,
Field after field, up to a height, the peak
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,
Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,
Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,
In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,
Stream’d to the peak, and mingled with the haze