And the table, twirling with them, seemed to each excited mind,
Though they pushed it on beside them, to be leaving them behind.
Fast and faster flew the table; faster every champion flew,
Till the swords, the helms, the banners, flagons, dishes, faces too,
Merged in one vast whirling body, many-hued and globiform,
(Like an old Cartesian whirlwind, or a rotatory storm),
With King Arthur in the centre, twirling in his royal chair,
And his great beard like a pennon streaming on the troubled air.
So till now they had been whirling, puffing, stamping, night and day:
But Sir Ector tripping, stumbled suddenly on proud Sir Kaye: