But come to her waking, or find her asleep,
Powers of the height, powers of the deep,
And comfort her though I die.”
Surely this is the pure, unadulterated metal. Alas! that it should sometimes lack the glitter of that counterfeit which women grasp at so eagerly in preference to the true gold. So, in extremity of danger, shattered in battle against the chosen friend and comrade whose treachery was only less galling to his noble heart than the disloyalty of his queen, beset by
“The godless hosts
Of heathen swarming o’er the Northern sea,”
stern old foes of himself and Christendom, erst by prowess of that “glorious company,”
“The Table Round,
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown,”
now panting for reprisal and revenge, menaced with open rebellion by a sister’s son, his army melting, his adherents failing, his sceptre sliding from his grasp, Arthur can yet provide tenderly and carefully for her safety who has brought down on him all this shame, ruin, and defeat.