The golden boasting of its griffin fierce
With hollow clamor down astounded ears:
No further thence—but, shattered to the grass,
That brittle blade, crushed as if made of glass,
Into hot pieces like a broken ray
Burst sunward and in feverish fragments lay.
Then groaned the King unarmed; and so he knew
This no Excalibur; that tried and true
Most perfect tempered, runed and mystical.
Sobbed, "Oh, hell-false! betray me?"— Then withal