Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;
Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran
Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.
But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,
Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,
Whom will ye find to wear his wingëd helm
Or ride his charger down the lists of time?
The new Pendragon—where can such be found?
Alas, not one of all your Table Round!