MY DEAR CHILDREN

I strung the following lines together hoping to give you pleasure. The stories are taken from a book called 'Morte d'Arthur' which you will read when you are older, and will see that I have often used the very words of the translator

YOUR LOVING GRANNY

THE BIRTH OF KING ARTHUR.

'To horse! to horse! my noble lord,'
Thus spake the fair Igraine,
'Ride hard -- ride fast all through the night,
Nor stay, nor slack the rein.'

'Now why such haste to leave the Court?'
The Duke of Cornwall cried.
'Ah me,' she said, 'King Uther wills
Thy wife should be his bride.'

Fast, fast they rode all through the night,
Nor stayed, nor slacked the rein,
Until the towers of Tintagel
Rose shining o'er the plain.

But on the morrow, messengers
Came riding from the King:
'Uther Pendragon bids the Duke
Himself and wife to bring
Back to fair London town.' -- 'Unto
The King this answer give:
Nor self nor wife shall tread his halls
So long as either live.'

Then sware the King a dreadful oath,
Or ere the fortieth day
He would unearth him from his lair,
And waste, and burn, and slay.

Alack for right 'gainst regal might!
It boots but ill to tell
How in a sally 'gainst the King
The brave Duke Cornwall fell.

The towers he manned, the wife he loved,
Became King Uther's prey,
And from her home at Tintagel
Igraine was borne away.

And when her baby boy was born,
In cloth of gold with state
'Twas given to a beggar-man,
Who waited at the gate.

But this was Merlin, in disguise
Of beggar old and grey,
The great enchanter, Merlin hight,
Who bore the babe away
Unto a holy, saintly man,
Who christened him by name
Of Arthur -- prince of chivalry,
First on the scroll of fame.

And good Sir Ector's noble wife
Nurtured the baby fair,
And brought him up in gentle ways,
Befitting England's heir.

Eftsoons King Uther sickenèd
And fell in woful plight;
He spake to non or great or small,
By day nor eke by night.

Then Merlin rose in council full,
And spake both loud and high:
'God's will be done, but I will make
Him speak or ere he die!'

So in hot haste, without delay,
Unto the King he hied,
Knelt down beside the royal couch:
'Wilt thou, O Sire,' he cried

'That Arthur, thy own son, shall rule
O'er England in thy stead?'
The noble vassals gathered round,
Listening astonishèd.
For naught knew they of infant son,
But every Baron there
Mighty of men, and strong of arm,
Wended to be the heir.

King Uther Pendragon turned round
Upon his dying bed,
And to the knights assembled there
And to great Merlin said:

'May God Almighty bless my son!
I, too, my blessing give;
Bid him use fitting holy prayers
That my poor soul may live:

'And claim the crown right worshipful
On pain of blessing lost.'
With that he turned him o'er again,
And yielded up the ghost.

They buried him with regal pomp,
While all his Barons wept,
As did Igraine, his beauteous queen --
But Uther calmly slept.