Arthur was a prince of the tribe of Britons called Silures, whose country was South Wales, the son of Uther, named Pendragon, a title given to an elective sovereign, paramount over the many kings of Britain.  He appears to have commenced his martial career about the year 500, and was raised to the Pendragonship about ten years later.  He is said to have gained twelve victories over the Saxons.  The most important of them was that of Badon, by some supposed to be Bath, by others Berkshire.  This was the last of his battles with the Saxons, and checked their progress so effectually, that Arthur experienced no more annoyance from them, and reigned in peace, until the revolt of his nephew Modred, twenty years later, which led to the fatal battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, in 542.  Modred was slain, and Arthur, mortally wounded, was conveyed by sea to Glastonbury, where he died, and was buried.  Tradition preserved the memory of the place of his interment within the abbey, as we are told by Giraldus Cambrensis, who was present when the grave was opened by command of Henry ii. about 1150, and saw the bones and sword of the monarch, and a leaden cross let into his tombstone, with the inscription in rude Roman letters, “Here lies buried the famous King Arthur, in the island Avalonia.”  This story has been elegantly versified by Warton.  A popular traditional belief was long entertained among the Britons, that Arthur was not dead, but had been carried off to be healed of his wounds in Fairy-land, and that he would reappear to avenge his countrymen and reinstate them in the sovereignty of Britain.  In Warton’s “Ode” a bard relates to King Henry the traditional story of Arthur’s death, and closes with these lines.

   “Yet in vain a paynim foe
    Armed with fate the mighty blow: 
    For when he fell, the Elfin queen,
    All in secret and unseen,
    O’er the fainting hero threw
    Her mantle of ambrosial blue,
    And bade her spirits bear him far,
    In Merlin’s agate-axled car,
    To her green isle’s enamelled steep,
    Far in the navel of the deep. 
    O’er his wounds she sprinkled dew
    From flowers that in Arabia grew.

    There he reigns a mighty king,
    Thence to Britain shall return,
    If right prophetic rolls I learn,
    Borne on victory’s spreading plume,
    His ancient sceptre to resume,
    His knightly table to restore,
    And brave the tournaments of yore.”

After this narration another bard came forward who recited a different story: 

   “When Arthur bowed his haughty crest,
    No princess veiled in azure vest
    Snatched him, by Merlin’s powerful spell,
    In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
    But when he fell, with winged speed,
    His champions, on a milk-white steed,
    From the battle’s hurricane,
    Bore him to Joseph’s towered fane,
    In the fair vale of Avalon;