That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust,
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 220
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 225
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,