Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,
Crusted with blood, a knight in armor—dead:
Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms
By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,
Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,
"This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.
And what remains?—From Camelot to Gore
That night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,—
As old romances tell,—of Avalon;