To plenty with the blessed hopes of earth,
And all of this I owe unto thy favor.
My thunder-clouds are past, my future clear
As yon, blue summer sky. No evil lurks
In secret for to strike at this my glory,
Unless a bolt fell from yon dazzling blue!
[Thunder heard in the distance—Arthur staggers back
A portent! A portent!
Merlin. ’Tis nought, O King, but gathering thunderheads
About the thick, close heatings of the west,