Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 205 Put forth their hands, and took the King, and went. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood for all his face was white Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 210 215 220 225 230 Which was an image of the mighty world; And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfills Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. I have lived my life, and that which I have done Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 235 240 245 250 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 255 For so the whole round earth is every way (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 26c So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 265 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR FULL knee-deep lies the winter's snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move : He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true truelove, Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; 270 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 I've half a mind to die with you. He was full of joke and jest, To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride posthaste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, 30 And the new year blithe and bold, my friend, 35 CHAPTER XVIII JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719 "Give days and nights, sir, to the study of Addison, if you mean to be a good writer, or, what is more worth, an honest man." -DR. JOHNSON. JOSEPH ADDISON, the great English prose writer, was born in 1672, at Milston, near Amesbury, England, of which place his father was rector. He received his earlier education at the Charter House, in London; from which school he passed, at the age of fifteen, to the University of Oxford, where he had a distinguished career. Some eulogistic verses of his upon William the Third obtained him, through the influence of two of his college friends, a government pension of three hundred pounds a year. Thus furnished with the necessary funds, Addison resolved to add to his scholarly attainments as was then the custom with all scholars who could afford it - by traveling on the Continent. His pension ceased at the death of William; but he again commended himself to royalty in the person of Queen Anne, and was appointed Commissioner of Appeals in consideration of his having glorified in "The Campaign" the military triumphs of Marlborough. He was subsequently appointed to the post of secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and went to that country to reside. In the meantime, his friend Richard Steele, who had been his schoolfellow at |