The Prophecy of Merlin, and Other Poems

by John Reade

And then a gloom o’ershadowed Merlin’s face,
That caused Sir Bedivere to pity him;
And they both wept, as one, amid the dead,
Thinking of all the sorrows of the world.
But Merlin, when his face grew calm again,
Began: “Come, hearken now, Sir Bedivere,
And I will give an answer to thy quest:
King Arthur sleeps in Avalon, and many a change
Must over-pass this land before he wake.
The great White Dragon of the stormy North,
Rearing his crest above the foaming waves,
Shall shake the ground, and level all the hills,—
And war shall follow war,—and blood shall flow
In every vale,—and smoke of burning towns
Shall reach the sky,—and men shall cry for aid
Unto the sea, to hide them from the foe—
And still shall Arthur sleep in Avalon.

And when the Dragon, sated with the blood
Of Christian men and women, yields at length
To a mild victor, Tigers of the Sea
Shall come, from craggy homes, to rend and tear,
And brave men’s hearts shall quail before their eyes—
Yet still shall Arthur sleep in Avalon.

The Tigers’ wrath appeased, another foe
Shall wave a foreign banner o’er the land,
And trample down beneath his horses’ hoofs
Briton, and Dane, and Saxon, till the ground
Is rank with blood, as when upon the slopes
Of Badon Arthur charged the heathen host—
Yet still the King shall sleep in Avalon.

But as the ages pass, these foes shall join
In friendship, and a nation shall arise,
Like a strong oak amid the forest trees,
Which, growing slowly, ceases not to grow,
But fastens firmly, as it aims aloft,
And spreads its branches far on every side,
A shelter to the stranger of all lands—
While Arthur still sleeps on in Avalon.

And many Kings shall rule and win renown
For this now saddened and distracted realm;
And Britain shall be great by land and sea,
And stretch her conquering arms around the world,
And gather treasures from all climes, and teach
Her tongues to distant nations, and her name
Shall be a word of praise to all the earth—
While Arthur still sleeps on in Avalon.
But though he sleep, he still shall wear the crown
As rightful lord of Britain, for on him,—
The image of a noble Christian King,
The image of a ruler sent of God,—
The people still shall look in whoso reigns.
And if there be a King of soul impure—
Or if there be a King of hand unjust—
Or if there be a King who weighs himself
Against the nation’s weal (such Kings there are
And ever shall be until Arthur wake),—
It is the real King the people serve,
The Blameless Prince that never can do wrong,
And not the false usurper of his name.”

Then, wondering much, broke in Sir Bedivere:
“O Merlin, thou art far too wise for me,
Though well I love thy speech. But, in good sooth,
And plainly, as we speak of common things,
Answer me: Will the King come back again
In his own fleshly guise, the very same
As when he feasted erst in Camelot
With all the Table Round? And will he wear
The crown, and gird him with Excalibur,
And conquer heathen foes, and rid the land
Of all that speaketh lies or doeth wrong?—
Or, must he sleep for ever, and his face
Be hid away from those that love him well?
For, if I thought that it were so to be,
I never could have comfort in my life.”

Then answered Merlin: “Let me tell my tale
In my own way, and hearken till the close.
All these things happen not as we desire,
But as the ages need. Such men as he
Come not without great travail and sore pain;
They are the ripe fruit of the centuries,
Who nourish noble thoughts and noble deeds,
Give health and vigour to the sickly times,
And stir the gross blood of the sleepy world;
And when they pass away, their names, endued
With life, still head the van of truth and right:
So shall the name and spirit of the King,
Who ruled in Camelot the Table Round,
Guide Britain into ever-growing fame;
And all her Kings that reign shall reign in him,
The golden type of kingly chivalry.
And those three Queens thou sawest, three fair Queens,
So sweet and womanly, who, in the barge,
Bore, tenderly, away the wounded King,
Shall reign in Britain in the after-time,—
As, in the old time, Carismandua
And brave Bonduca whom the Romans feared
Held a firm sceptre in a gentle hand.
Of best and purest Queenhood, they, the type,
As Arthur is the type of Blameless Kings.
And as by three sweet names of holy kin
They shall be known, so shall they also shew
A triple sisterhood beneath one crown—
Britain, and Albyn, and green Innisfail.

Now, when the last of three Queens has slept
For many years, there shall arise a Fourth—
Fair, good and wise, and loved by all the land
Of Britain, and by many lands on every sea.
And in her days the world shall have much changed
From that which now we live in. Mysteries,
Save unto me in vision, now unknown,
Shall then be clear as day. The earth and air
Shall yield strange secrets for the use of men,—
The planets, in their courses, shall draw near,
And men shall see their marvels, as the flowers
That grace the meads of Summer,—time and space
Shall know new laws, and history shall walk
Abreast with fact o’er all the peopled world:—
For words shall flash like light from shore to shore,
And light itself shall chronicle men’s deeds.
Great ships shall plough the ocean without sail,
And steedless chariots shoot with arrowy speed
O’er hill and dale and river, and beneath
The solid floor we tread,—the silent rocks
Shall tell the story of the infant world,—
The falling leaf shall shew the cause of things
Sages have sought in vain—and the whole vast
Of sight and sound shall be to men a school
Where they may learn strange lessons; and great truths
That long have slept in the deep heart of God
Shall waken and come forth and dwell with men,
As in the elder days the tented lord
Of countless herds was taught by angel-guests.
And this fair land of Britain then shall be
Engrailed with stately cities,—and by streams
Where now the greedy wolf roams shall be heard
The multitudinous voice of Industry,—
And Labour, incense-crowned, shall hold her court
Where now the sun scarce touches with his beams
The scattered seeds of future argosies,
That to the furthest limit of the world
Shall bear the glory of the British name.
And where a Grecian victor never trod,
And where a Roman banner never waved,
East, West, and North, and South, and to those Isles,
Happy and rich, of which the poets dreamed
But never saw, set far in Western seas,
Beyond the pillars of the heathen god—
Shall Arthur’s realm extend, and dusky Kings
Shall yield obeisance to his conquering fame.

And She, the fourth fair tenant of the throne,
Heir to the ripe fruit of long centuries,
Shall reign o’er such an empire, and her name,
Clasping the trophies of all ages, won
By knightly deeds in every land and sea,
Shall be Victoria.
Then shall come a Prince
From o’er the sea, of goodly mien and fair,
And, winning her, win all that she has won—
Wedded to her, be good as she is pure—
Reigning with her, be wise as she is great—
And, loving her, be loved by all the world.”

Then spake Sir Bedivere, all eagerly:
“He, Merlin, is he not our Blameless King,
Returned from his long sleep in Avalon,
To crown the glories of the later world?”