thou art,
  For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
  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
  Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
  Yet, 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 Bedivere, and ran,
  And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
  Among the bulrush beds, and clutch’d the sword,
  And strongly wheel’d and threw it.  The great brand
  Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
  And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
  Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
  Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
  By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. 
  So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur: 
  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
  And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
  Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
  And lightly went the other to the King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
  “Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
  Speak out:  what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
  “Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
  Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
  Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
  Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,
  So great a 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 brandish’d him
  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
  “My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone
  Make broad thy shoulders 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 Bedivere
  Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
  And would have spoken, but he found not words: 
  Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
  O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
  And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

  But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
  Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
  When all the house is mute.  So sigh’d the King,
  Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick! 
  I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”