- The Project Gutenberg EBook of Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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- Title: Idylls of the King
- Author: Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- Posting Date: August 4, 2008 [EBook #610]
- Release Date: August, 1996
- Language: English
- *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING ***
- Produced by Ng E-Ching.
- Idylls of the King
- IN TWELVE BOOKS
- by
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- Flos Regum Arthurus (Joseph of Exeter)
- Contents
- Dedication
- The Coming of Arthur
- THE ROUND TABLE
- Gareth and Lynette
- The Marriage of Geraint
- Geraint and Enid
- Balin and Balan
- Merlin and Vivien
- Lancelot and Elaine
- The Holy Grail
- Pelleas and Ettarre
- The Last Tournament
- Guinevere
- The Passing of Arthur
- To the Queen
- Dedication
- These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
- Perchance as finding there unconsciously
- Some image of himself--I dedicate,
- I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
- These Idylls.
- And indeed He seems to me
- Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
- 'Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
- Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
- Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
- Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
- Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
- Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
- The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
- Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
- We know him now: all narrow jealousies
- Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
- How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
- With what sublime repression of himself,
- And in what limits, and how tenderly;
- Not swaying to this faction or to that;
- Not making his high place the lawless perch
- Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
- For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
- Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
- Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
- In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
- And blackens every blot: for where is he,
- Who dares foreshadow for an only son
- A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his?
- Or how should England dreaming of his sons
- Hope more for these than some inheritance
- Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
- Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
- Laborious for her people and her poor--
- Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day--
- Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
- To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace--
- Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
- Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
- Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
- Beyond all titles, and a household name,
- Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.
- Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure;
- Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
- Remembering all the beauty of that star
- Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
- One light together, but has past and leaves
- The Crown a lonely splendour.
- May all love,
- His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,
- The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,
- The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,
- The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
- Till God's love set Thee at his side again!
- The Coming of Arthur
- Leodogran, the King of Cameliard,
- Had one fair daughter, and none other child;
- And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth,
- Guinevere, and in her his one delight.
- For many a petty king ere Arthur came
- Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war
- Each upon other, wasted all the land;
- And still from time to time the heathen host
- Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left.
- And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,
- Wherein the beast was ever more and more,
- But man was less and less, till Arthur came.
- For first Aurelius lived and fought and died,
- And after him King Uther fought and died,
- But either failed to make the kingdom one.
- And after these King Arthur for a space,
- And through the puissance of his Table Round,
- Drew all their petty princedoms under him.
- Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned.
- And thus the land of Cameliard was waste,
- Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein,
- And none or few to scare or chase the beast;
- So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear
- Came night and day, and rooted in the fields,
- And wallowed in the gardens of the King.
- And ever and anon the wolf would steal
- The children and devour, but now and then,
- Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat
- To human sucklings; and the children, housed
- In her foul den, there at their meat would growl,
- And mock their foster mother on four feet,
- Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men,
- Worse than the wolves. And King Leodogran
- Groaned for the Roman legions here again,
- And Caesar's eagle: then his brother king,
- Urien, assailed him: last a heathen horde,
- Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood,
- And on the spike that split the mother's heart
- Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed,
- He knew not whither he should turn for aid.
- But--for he heard of Arthur newly crowned,
- Though not without an uproar made by those
- Who cried, 'He is not Uther's son'--the King
- Sent to him, saying, 'Arise, and help us thou!
- For here between the man and beast we die.'
- And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms,
- But heard the call, and came: and Guinevere
- Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass;
- But since he neither wore on helm or shield
- The golden symbol of his kinglihood,
- But rode a simple knight among his knights,
- And many of these in richer arms than he,
- She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw,
- One among many, though his face was bare.
- But Arthur, looking downward as he past,
- Felt the light of her eyes into his life
- Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitched
- His tents beside the forest. Then he drave
- The heathen; after, slew the beast, and felled
- The forest, letting in the sun, and made
- Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight
- And so returned.
- For while he lingered there,
- A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts
- Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
- Flashed forth and into war: for most of these,
- Colleaguing with a score of petty kings,
- Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he
- That he should rule us? who hath proven him
- King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him,
- And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice,
- Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.
- This is the son of Gorlois, not the King;
- This is the son of Anton, not the King.'
- And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt
- Travail, and throes and agonies of the life,
- Desiring to be joined with Guinevere;
- And thinking as he rode, 'Her father said
- That there between the man and beast they die.
- Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts
- Up to my throne, and side by side with me?
- What happiness to reign a lonely king,
- Vext--O ye stars that shudder over me,
- O earth that soundest hollow under me,
- Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be joined
- To her that is the fairest under heaven,
- I seem as nothing in the mighty world,
- And cannot will my will, nor work my work
- Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm
- Victor and lord. But were I joined with her,
- Then might we live together as one life,
- And reigning with one will in everything
- Have power on this dark land to lighten it,
- And power on this dead world to make it live.'
- Thereafter--as he speaks who tells the tale--
- When Arthur reached a field-of-battle bright
- With pitched pavilions of his foe, the world
- Was all so clear about him, that he saw
- The smallest rock far on the faintest hill,
- And even in high day the morning star.
- So when the King had set his banner broad,
- At once from either side, with trumpet-blast,
- And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood,
- The long-lanced battle let their horses run.
- And now the Barons and the kings prevailed,
- And now the King, as here and there that war
- Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world
- Made lightnings and great thunders over him,
- And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might,
- And mightier of his hands with every blow,
- And leading all his knighthood threw the kings
- Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales,
- Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland,
- The King Brandagoras of Latangor,
- With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore,
- And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice
- As dreadful as the shout of one who sees
- To one who sins, and deems himself alone
- And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake
- Flying, and Arthur called to stay the brands
- That hacked among the flyers, 'Ho! they yield!'
- So like a painted battle the war stood
- Silenced, the living quiet as the dead,
- And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord.
- He laughed upon his warrior whom he loved
- And honoured most. 'Thou dost not doubt me King,
- So well thine arm hath wrought for me today.'
- 'Sir and my liege,' he cried, 'the fire of God
- Descends upon thee in the battle-field:
- I know thee for my King!' Whereat the two,
- For each had warded either in the fight,
- Sware on the field of death a deathless love.
- And Arthur said, 'Man's word is God in man:
- Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.'
- Then quickly from the foughten field he sent
- Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere,
- His new-made knights, to King Leodogran,
- Saying, 'If I in aught have served thee well,
- Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.'
- Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart
- Debating--'How should I that am a king,
- However much he holp me at my need,
- Give my one daughter saving to a king,
- And a king's son?'--lifted his voice, and called
- A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom
- He trusted all things, and of him required
- His counsel: 'Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?'
- Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said,
- 'Sir King, there be but two old men that know:
- And each is twice as old as I; and one
- Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served
- King Uther through his magic art; and one
- Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys,
- Who taught him magic, but the scholar ran
- Before the master, and so far, that Bleys,
- Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote
- All things and whatsoever Merlin did
- In one great annal-book, where after-years
- Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.'
- To whom the King Leodogran replied,
- 'O friend, had I been holpen half as well
- By this King Arthur as by thee today,
- Then beast and man had had their share of me:
- But summon here before us yet once more
- Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.'
- Then, when they came before him, the King said,
- 'I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl,
- And reason in the chase: but wherefore now
- Do these your lords stir up the heat of war,
- Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois,
- Others of Anton? Tell me, ye yourselves,
- Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son?'
- And Ulfius and Brastias answered, 'Ay.'
- Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights
- Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake--
- For bold in heart and act and word was he,
- Whenever slander breathed against the King--
- 'Sir, there be many rumours on this head:
- For there be those who hate him in their hearts,
- Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet,
- And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man:
- And there be those who deem him more than man,
- And dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief
- In all this matter--so ye care to learn--
- Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time
- The prince and warrior Gorlois, he that held
- Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea,
- Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne:
- And daughters had she borne him,--one whereof,
- Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent,
- Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved
- To Arthur,--but a son she had not borne.
- And Uther cast upon her eyes of love:
- But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois,
- So loathed the bright dishonour of his love,
- That Gorlois and King Uther went to war:
- And overthrown was Gorlois and slain.
- Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged
- Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men,
- Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls,
- Left her and fled, and Uther entered in,
- And there was none to call to but himself.
- So, compassed by the power of the King,
- Enforced was she to wed him in her tears,
- And with a shameful swiftness: afterward,
- Not many moons, King Uther died himself,
- Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule
- After him, lest the realm should go to wrack.
- And that same night, the night of the new year,
- By reason of the bitterness and grief
- That vext his mother, all before his time
- Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born
- Delivered at a secret postern-gate
- To Merlin, to be holden far apart
- Until his hour should come; because the lords
- Of that fierce day were as the lords of this,
- Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child
- Piecemeal among them, had they known; for each
- But sought to rule for his own self and hand,
- And many hated Uther for the sake
- Of Gorlois. Wherefore Merlin took the child,
- And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight
- And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife
- Nursed the young prince, and reared him with her own;
- And no man knew. And ever since the lords
- Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves,
- So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now,
- This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come)
- Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall,
- Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your king,"
- A hundred voices cried, "Away with him!
- No king of ours! a son of Gorlois he,
- Or else the child of Anton, and no king,
- Or else baseborn." Yet Merlin through his craft,
- And while the people clamoured for a king,
- Had Arthur crowned; but after, the great lords
- Banded, and so brake out in open war.'
- Then while the King debated with himself
- If Arthur were the child of shamefulness,
- Or born the son of Gorlois, after death,
- Or Uther's son, and born before his time,
- Or whether there were truth in anything
- Said by these three, there came to Cameliard,
- With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons,
- Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent;
- Whom as he could, not as he would, the King
- Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat,
- 'A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
- Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men
- Report him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king--
- So many those that hate him, and so strong,
- So few his knights, however brave they be--
- Hath body enow to hold his foemen down?'
- 'O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell thee: few,
- Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him;
- For I was near him when the savage yells
- Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat
- Crowned on the dais, and his warriors cried,
- "Be thou the king, and we will work thy will
- Who love thee." Then the King in low deep tones,
- And simple words of great authority,
- Bound them by so strait vows to his own self,
- That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some
- Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,
- Some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes
- Half-blinded at the coming of a light.
- 'But when he spake and cheered his Table Round
- With large, divine, and comfortable words,
- Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheld
- From eye to eye through all their Order flash
- A momentary likeness of the King:
- And ere it left their faces, through the cross
- And those around it and the Crucified,
- Down from the casement over Arthur, smote
- Flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays,
- One falling upon each of three fair queens,
- Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends
- Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright
- Sweet faces, who will help him at his need.
- 'And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit
- And hundred winters are but as the hands
- Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege.
- 'And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,
- Who knows a subtler magic than his own--
- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
- She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,
- Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist
- Of incense curled about her, and her face
- Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom;
- But there was heard among the holy hymns
- A voice as of the waters, for she dwells
- Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms
- May shake the world, and when the surface rolls,
- Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.
- 'There likewise I beheld Excalibur
- Before him at his crowning borne, the sword
- That rose from out the bosom of the lake,
- And Arthur rowed across and took it--rich
- With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,
- Bewildering heart and eye--the blade so bright
- That men are blinded by it--on one side,
- Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world,
- "Take me," but turn the blade and ye shall see,
- And written in the speech ye speak yourself,
- "Cast me away!" And sad was Arthur's face
- Taking it, but old Merlin counselled him,
- "Take thou and strike! the time to cast away
- Is yet far-off." So this great brand the king
- Took, and by this will beat his foemen down.'
- Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought
- To sift his doubtings to the last, and asked,
- Fixing full eyes of question on her face,
- 'The swallow and the swift are near akin,
- But thou art closer to this noble prince,
- Being his own dear sister;' and she said,
- 'Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am I;'
- 'And therefore Arthur's sister?' asked the King.
- She answered, 'These be secret things,' and signed
- To those two sons to pass, and let them be.
- And Gawain went, and breaking into song
- Sprang out, and followed by his flying hair
- Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw:
- But Modred laid his ear beside the doors,
- And there half-heard; the same that afterward
- Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom.
- And then the Queen made answer, 'What know I?
- For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,
- And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark
- Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too,
- Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair
- Beyond the race of Britons and of men.
- Moreover, always in my mind I hear
- A cry from out the dawning of my life,
- A mother weeping, and I hear her say,
- "O that ye had some brother, pretty one,
- To guard thee on the rough ways of the world."'
- 'Ay,' said the King, 'and hear ye such a cry?
- But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?'
- 'O King!' she cried, 'and I will tell thee true:
- He found me first when yet a little maid:
- Beaten I had been for a little fault
- Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran
- And flung myself down on a bank of heath,
- And hated this fair world and all therein,
- And wept, and wished that I were dead; and he--
- I know not whether of himself he came,
- Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk
- Unseen at pleasure--he was at my side,
- And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart,
- And dried my tears, being a child with me.
- And many a time he came, and evermore
- As I grew greater grew with me; and sad
- At times he seemed, and sad with him was I,
- Stern too at times, and then I loved him not,
- But sweet again, and then I loved him well.
- And now of late I see him less and less,
- But those first days had golden hours for me,
- For then I surely thought he would be king.
- 'But let me tell thee now another tale:
- For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say,
- Died but of late, and sent his cry to me,
- To hear him speak before he left his life.
- Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage;
- And when I entered told me that himself
- And Merlin ever served about the King,
- Uther, before he died; and on the night
- When Uther in Tintagil past away
- Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two
- Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe,
- Then from the castle gateway by the chasm
- Descending through the dismal night--a night
- In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost--
- Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps
- It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof
- A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern
- Bright with a shining people on the decks,
- And gone as soon as seen. And then the two
- Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall,
- Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,
- Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep
- And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
- Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:
- And down the wave and in the flame was borne
- A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,
- Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "The King!
- Here is an heir for Uther!" And the fringe
- Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand,
- Lashed at the wizard as he spake the word,
- And all at once all round him rose in fire,
- So that the child and he were clothed in fire.
- And presently thereafter followed calm,
- Free sky and stars: "And this the same child," he said,
- "Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace
- Till this were told." And saying this the seer
- Went through the strait and dreadful pass of death,
- Not ever to be questioned any more
- Save on the further side; but when I met
- Merlin, and asked him if these things were truth--
- The shining dragon and the naked child
- Descending in the glory of the seas--
- He laughed as is his wont, and answered me
- In riddling triplets of old time, and said:
- '"Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky!
- A young man will be wiser by and by;
- An old man's wit may wander ere he die.
- Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea!
- And truth is this to me, and that to thee;
- And truth or clothed or naked let it be.
- Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows:
- Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?
- From the great deep to the great deep he goes."
- 'So Merlin riddling angered me; but thou
- Fear not to give this King thy only child,
- Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing
- Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old
- Ranging and ringing through the minds of men,
- And echoed by old folk beside their fires
- For comfort after their wage-work is done,
- Speak of the King; and Merlin in our time
- Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn
- Though men may wound him that he will not die,
- But pass, again to come; and then or now
- Utterly smite the heathen underfoot,
- Till these and all men hail him for their king.'
- She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced,
- But musing, 'Shall I answer yea or nay?'
- Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,
- Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew,
- Field after field, up to a height, the peak
- Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,
- Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope
- The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,
- Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,
- In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,
- Streamed to the peak, and mingled with the haze
- And made it thicker; while the phantom king
- Sent out at times a voice; and here or there
- Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest
- Slew on and burnt, crying, 'No king of ours,
- No son of Uther, and no king of ours;'
- Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze
- Descended, and the solid earth became
- As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven,
- Crowned. And Leodogran awoke, and sent
- Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere,
- Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.
- Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved
- And honoured most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth
- And bring the Queen;--and watched him from the gates:
- And Lancelot past away among the flowers,
- (For then was latter April) and returned
- Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere.
- To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint,
- Chief of the church in Britain, and before
- The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King
- That morn was married, while in stainless white,
- The fair beginners of a nobler time,
- And glorying in their vows and him, his knights
- Stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy.
- Far shone the fields of May through open door,
- The sacred altar blossomed white with May,
- The Sun of May descended on their King,
- They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen,
- Rolled incense, and there past along the hymns
- A voice as of the waters, while the two
- Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love:
- And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom is mine.
- Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!'
- To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes,
- 'King and my lord, I love thee to the death!'
- And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake,
- 'Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world
- Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee,
- And all this Order of thy Table Round
- Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!'
- So Dubric said; but when they left the shrine
- Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood,
- In scornful stillness gazing as they past;
- Then while they paced a city all on fire
- With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew,
- And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:--
- 'Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with May;
- Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away!
- Blow through the living world--"Let the King reign."
- 'Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm?
- Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm,
- Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
- 'Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard
- That God hath told the King a secret word.
- Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.
- 'Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust.
- Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust!
- Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
- 'Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,
- The King is King, and ever wills the highest.
- Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
- 'Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!
- Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day!
- Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.
- 'The King will follow Christ, and we the King
- In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.
- Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.'
- So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall.
- There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome,
- The slowly-fading mistress of the world,
- Strode in, and claimed their tribute as of yore.
- But Arthur spake, 'Behold, for these have sworn
- To wage my wars, and worship me their King;
- The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
- And we that fight for our fair father Christ,
- Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old
- To drive the heathen from your Roman wall,
- No tribute will we pay:' so those great lords
- Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome.
- And Arthur and his knighthood for a space
- Were all one will, and through that strength the King
- Drew in the petty princedoms under him,
- Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame
- The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned.
- Gareth and Lynette
- The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
- And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
- Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
- Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
- 'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
- Or evil king before my lance if lance
- Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
- Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
- And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
- And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
- The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
- Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
- Linger with vacillating obedience,
- Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
- Since the good mother holds me still a child!
- Good mother is bad mother unto me!
- A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
- Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
- To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
- Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
- In ever-highering eagle-circles up
- To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
- Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
- A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
- To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
- With Modred hither in the summertime,
- Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
- Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
- Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
- "Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
- Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
- For he is alway sullen: what care I?'
- And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
- Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
- Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
- 'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
- 'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
- 'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
- Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
- An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'
- And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
- 'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
- Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
- For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
- Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
- As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
- And there was ever haunting round the palm
- A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw
- The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought
- "An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,
- Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings."
- But ever when he reached a hand to climb,
- One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught
- And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck,
- I charge thee by my love," and so the boy,
- Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,
- But brake his very heart in pining for it,
- And past away.'
- To whom the mother said,
- 'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
- And handed down the golden treasure to him.'
- And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
- 'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she,
- Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world
- Had ventured--had the thing I spake of been
- Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel,
- Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,
- And lightnings played about it in the storm,
- And all the little fowl were flurried at it,
- And there were cries and clashings in the nest,
- That sent him from his senses: let me go.'
- Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,
- 'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?
- Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth
- Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!
- For ever since when traitor to the King
- He fought against him in the Barons' war,
- And Arthur gave him back his territory,
- His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there
- A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,
- No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.
- And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall,
- Albeit neither loved with that full love
- I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:
- Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,
- And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,
- Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang
- Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance
- In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,
- Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer
- By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;
- So make thy manhood mightier day by day;
- Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out
- Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace
- Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,
- Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness
- I know not thee, myself, nor anything.
- Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.'
- Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child,
- Hear yet once more the story of the child.
- For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.
- The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,
- Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King
- Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed--
- But to be won by force--and many men
- Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.
- And these were the conditions of the King:
- That save he won the first by force, he needs
- Must wed that other, whom no man desired,
- A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,
- That evermore she longed to hide herself,
- Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye--
- Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her.
- And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother,
- How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame.
- Man am I grown, a man's work must I do.
- Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,
- Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King--
- Else, wherefore born?'
- To whom the mother said
- 'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,
- Or will not deem him, wholly proven King--
- Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,
- When I was frequent with him in my youth,
- And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him
- No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,
- Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave
- Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,
- Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?
- Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth
- Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.'
- And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour,
- So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire,
- Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go.
- Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome
- From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed
- The Idolaters, and made the people free?
- Who should be King save him who makes us free?'
- So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain
- To break him from the intent to which he grew,
- Found her son's will unwaveringly one,
- She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire?
- Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.
- Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,
- Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,
- Of thine obedience and thy love to me,
- Thy mother,--I demand.
- And Gareth cried,
- 'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.
- Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!'
- But slowly spake the mother looking at him,
- 'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall,
- And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks
- Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,
- And those that hand the dish across the bar.
- Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.
- And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.'
- For so the Queen believed that when her son
- Beheld his only way to glory lead
- Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,
- Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud
- To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,
- Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.
- Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,
- 'The thrall in person may be free in soul,
- And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,
- And since thou art my mother, must obey.
- I therefore yield me freely to thy will;
- For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself
- To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;
- Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.'
- Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye
- Full of the wistful fear that he would go,
- And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned,
- Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,
- When wakened by the wind which with full voice
- Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,
- He rose, and out of slumber calling two
- That still had tended on him from his birth,
- Before the wakeful mother heard him, went.
- The three were clad like tillers of the soil.
- Southward they set their faces. The birds made
- Melody on branch, and melody in mid air.
- The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,
- And the live green had kindled into flowers,
- For it was past the time of Easterday.
- So, when their feet were planted on the plain
- That broadened toward the base of Camelot,
- Far off they saw the silver-misty morn
- Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,
- That rose between the forest and the field.
- At times the summit of the high city flashed;
- At times the spires and turrets half-way down
- Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone
- Only, that opened on the field below:
- Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared.
- Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,
- One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord.
- Here is a city of Enchanters, built
- By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him,
- 'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home
- To Northward, that this King is not the King,
- But only changeling out of Fairyland,
- Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery
- And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again,
- 'Lord, there is no such city anywhere,
- But all a vision.'
- Gareth answered them
- With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow
- In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,
- To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;
- So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.
- And there was no gate like it under heaven.
- For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined
- And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,
- The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress
- Wept from her sides as water flowing away;
- But like the cross her great and goodly arms
- Stretched under the cornice and upheld:
- And drops of water fell from either hand;
- And down from one a sword was hung, from one
- A censer, either worn with wind and storm;
- And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish;
- And in the space to left of her, and right,
- Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done,
- New things and old co-twisted, as if Time
- Were nothing, so inveterately, that men
- Were giddy gazing there; and over all
- High on the top were those three Queens, the friends
- Of Arthur, who should help him at his need.
- Then those with Gareth for so long a space
- Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed
- The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings
- Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called
- To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.'
- And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes
- So long, that even to him they seemed to move.
- Out of the city a blast of music pealed.
- Back from the gate started the three, to whom
- From out thereunder came an ancient man,
- Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?'
- Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,
- Who leaving share in furrow come to see
- The glories of our King: but these, my men,
- (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)
- Doubt if the King be King at all, or come
- From Fairyland; and whether this be built
- By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;
- Or whether there be any city at all,
- Or all a vision: and this music now
- Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.'
- Then that old Seer made answer playing on him
- And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail
- Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,
- And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:
- And here is truth; but an it please thee not,
- Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.
- For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King
- And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;
- They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
- Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,
- And built it to the music of their harps.
- And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,
- For there is nothing in it as it seems
- Saving the King; though some there be that hold
- The King a shadow, and the city real:
- Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass
- Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become
- A thrall to his enchantments, for the King
- Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame
- A man should not be bound by, yet the which
- No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,
- Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide
- Without, among the cattle of the field.
- For an ye heard a music, like enow
- They are building still, seeing the city is built
- To music, therefore never built at all,
- And therefore built for ever.'
- Gareth spake
- Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard
- That looks as white as utter truth, and seems
- Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!
- Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been
- To thee fair-spoken?'
- But the Seer replied,
- 'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
- "Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
- Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"?
- I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,
- And all that see thee, for thou art not who
- Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.
- And now thou goest up to mock the King,
- Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.'
- Unmockingly the mocker ending here
- Turned to the right, and past along the plain;
- Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men,
- Our one white lie sits like a little ghost
- Here on the threshold of our enterprise.
- Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:
- Well, we will make amends.'
- With all good cheer
- He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain
- Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
- And stately, rich in emblem and the work
- Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
- Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
- Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere
- At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak
- And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.
- And ever and anon a knight would pass
- Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms
- Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear.
- And out of bower and casement shyly glanced
- Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;
- And all about a healthful people stept
- As in the presence of a gracious king.
- Then into hall Gareth ascending heard
- A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld
- Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall
- The splendour of the presence of the King
- Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more--
- But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,
- And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie
- The truthful King will doom me when I speak.'
- Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find
- Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one
- Nor other, but in all the listening eyes
- Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,
- Clear honour shining like the dewy star
- Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure
- Affection, and the light of victory,
- And glory gained, and evermore to gain.
- Then came a widow crying to the King,
- 'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft
- From my dead lord a field with violence:
- For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold,
- Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,
- We yielded not; and then he reft us of it
- Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.'
- Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?'
- To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord,
- The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.'
- And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again,
- And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof,
- According to the years. No boon is here,
- But justice, so thy say be proven true.
- Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did
- Would shape himself a right!'
- And while she past,
- Came yet another widow crying to him,
- 'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.
- With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,
- A knight of Uther in the Barons' war,
- When Lot and many another rose and fought
- Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.
- I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.
- Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son
- Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;
- And standeth seized of that inheritance
- Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.
- So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,
- Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,
- Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.'
- Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,
- 'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.
- Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.'
- Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,
- 'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,
- This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall--
- None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.'
- But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged
- Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord.
- Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!
- The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,
- Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,
- And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence--
- Lest that rough humour of the kings of old
- Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,
- Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,
- But bring him here, that I may judge the right,
- According to the justice of the King:
- Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King
- Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.'
- Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,
- A name of evil savour in the land,
- The Cornish king. In either hand he bore
- What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines
- A field of charlock in the sudden sun
- Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,
- Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,
- Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,
- Was even upon his way to Camelot;
- For having heard that Arthur of his grace
- Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,
- And, for himself was of the greater state,
- Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord
- Would yield him this large honour all the more;
- So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,
- In token of true heart and fealty.
- Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend
- In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.
- An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight!
- What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?'
- For, midway down the side of that long hall
- A stately pile,--whereof along the front,
- Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank,
- There ran a treble range of stony shields,--
- Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth.
- And under every shield a knight was named:
- For this was Arthur's custom in his hall;
- When some good knight had done one noble deed,
- His arms were carven only; but if twain
- His arms were blazoned also; but if none,
- The shield was blank and bare without a sign
- Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw
- The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright,
- And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried
- To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.
- 'More like are we to reave him of his crown
- Than make him knight because men call him king.
- The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands
- From war among themselves, but left them kings;
- Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,
- Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled
- Among us, and they sit within our hall.
- But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king,
- As Mark would sully the low state of churl:
- And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,
- Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,
- Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,
- Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots,
- Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings--
- No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal
- Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied--
- Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!'
- And many another suppliant crying came
- With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,
- And evermore a knight would ride away.
- Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily
- Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,
- Approached between them toward the King, and asked,
- 'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),
- For see ye not how weak and hungerworn
- I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve
- For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves
- A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.
- Hereafter I will fight.'
- To him the King,
- 'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!
- But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,
- The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.'
- He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien
- Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself
- Root-bitten by white lichen,
- 'Lo ye now!
- This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where,
- God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,
- However that might chance! but an he work,
- Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,
- And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.'
- Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal,
- Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds;
- A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know:
- Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,
- High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands
- Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery--
- But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy
- Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,
- Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.'
- Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery?
- Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish?
- Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery!
- Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked
- For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth!
- Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it
- That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day
- Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.'
- So Gareth all for glory underwent
- The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage;
- Ate with young lads his portion by the door,
- And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.
- And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,
- But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,
- Would hustle and harry him, and labour him
- Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set
- To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,
- Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself
- With all obedience to the King, and wrought
- All kind of service with a noble ease
- That graced the lowliest act in doing it.
- And when the thralls had talk among themselves,
- And one would praise the love that linkt the King
- And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life
- In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's--
- For Lancelot was the first in Tournament,
- But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field--
- Gareth was glad. Or if some other told,
- How once the wandering forester at dawn,
- Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,
- On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King,
- A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,
- 'He passes to the Isle Avilion,
- He passes and is healed and cannot die'--
- Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,
- Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,
- Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud
- That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him.
- Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale
- Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way
- Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held
- All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates
- Lying or sitting round him, idle hands,
- Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come
- Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind
- Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart.
- Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,
- So there were any trial of mastery,
- He, by two yards in casting bar or stone
- Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust,
- So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,
- Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights
- Clash like the coming and retiring wave,
- And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy
- Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.
- So for a month he wrought among the thralls;
- But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen,
- Repentant of the word she made him swear,
- And saddening in her childless castle, sent,
- Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,
- Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.
- This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot
- With whom he used to play at tourney once,
- When both were children, and in lonely haunts
- Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand,
- And each at either dash from either end--
- Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.
- He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once
- I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee--
- These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's--
- Descend into the city:' whereon he sought
- The King alone, and found, and told him all.
- 'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt
- For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I.
- Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name
- Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring
- Like flame from ashes.'
- Here the King's calm eye
- Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow
- Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him,
- 'Son, the good mother let me know thee here,
- And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.
- Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows
- Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness,
- And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,
- And uttermost obedience to the King.'
- Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees,
- 'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.
- For uttermost obedience make demand
- Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal,
- No mellow master of the meats and drinks!
- And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,
- But love I shall, God willing.'
- And the King
- 'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,
- Our noblest brother, and our truest man,
- And one with me in all, he needs must know.'
- 'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know,
- Thy noblest and thy truest!'
- And the King--
- 'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you?
- Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,
- And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed,
- Than to be noised of.'
- Merrily Gareth asked,
- 'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it?
- Let be my name until I make my name!
- My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.'
- So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm
- Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly
- Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.
- Then, after summoning Lancelot privily,
- 'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven.
- Look therefore when he calls for this in hall,
- Thou get to horse and follow him far away.
- Cover the lions on thy shield, and see
- Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.'
- Then that same day there past into the hall
- A damsel of high lineage, and a brow
- May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,
- Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose
- Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower;
- She into hall past with her page and cried,
- 'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,
- See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset
- By bandits, everyone that owns a tower
- The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?
- Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,
- Till even the lonest hold were all as free
- From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth
- From that best blood it is a sin to spill.'
- 'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine
- Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,
- The wastest moorland of our realm shall be
- Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.
- What is thy name? thy need?'
- 'My name?' she said--
- 'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight
- To combat for my sister, Lyonors,
- A lady of high lineage, of great lands,
- And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.
- She lives in Castle Perilous: a river
- Runs in three loops about her living-place;
- And o'er it are three passings, and three knights
- Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth
- And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed
- In her own castle, and so besieges her
- To break her will, and make her wed with him:
- And but delays his purport till thou send
- To do the battle with him, thy chief man
- Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow,
- Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed
- Save whom she loveth, or a holy life.
- Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.'
- Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked,
- 'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush
- All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four,
- Who be they? What the fashion of the men?'
- 'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,
- The fashion of that old knight-errantry
- Who ride abroad, and do but what they will;
- Courteous or bestial from the moment, such
- As have nor law nor king; and three of these
- Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,
- Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,
- Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise
- The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,
- A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.
- He names himself the Night and oftener Death,
- And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,
- And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,
- To show that who may slay or scape the three,
- Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.
- And all these four be fools, but mighty men,
- And therefore am I come for Lancelot.'
- Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,
- A head with kindling eyes above the throng,
- 'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked
- Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull--
- 'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,
- And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,
- And I can topple over a hundred such.
- Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him,
- Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden,
- And pardonable, worthy to be knight--
- Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed.
- But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath
- Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm,
- 'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,
- And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.'
- Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,
- Fled down the lane of access to the King,
- Took horse, descended the slope street, and past
- The weird white gate, and paused without, beside
- The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.'
- Now two great entries opened from the hall,
- At one end one, that gave upon a range
- Of level pavement where the King would pace
- At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;
- And down from this a lordly stairway sloped
- Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;
- And out by this main doorway past the King.
- But one was counter to the hearth, and rose
- High that the highest-crested helm could ride
- Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled
- The damsel in her wrath, and on to this
- Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door
- King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town,
- A warhorse of the best, and near it stood
- The two that out of north had followed him:
- This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held
- The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed
- A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,
- A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,
- And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,
- That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those
- Dull-coated things, that making slide apart
- Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns
- A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.
- So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.
- Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield
- And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain
- Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt
- With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest
- The people, while from out of kitchen came
- The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked
- Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,
- Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,
- 'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!'
- And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode
- Down the slope street, and past without the gate.
- So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur
- Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause
- Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,
- His owner, but remembers all, and growls
- Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door
- Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used
- To harry and hustle.
- 'Bound upon a quest
- With horse and arms--the King hath past his time--
- My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,
- For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!
- Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?
- Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow
- Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth
- So shook his wits they wander in his prime--
- Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,
- Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.
- Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,
- Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing.
- Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn
- Whether he know me for his master yet.
- Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance
- Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire--
- Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,
- Into the smoke again.'
- But Lancelot said,
- 'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,
- For that did never he whereon ye rail,
- But ever meekly served the King in thee?
- Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great
- And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.'
- 'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine
- To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:'
- Then mounted, on through silent faces rode
- Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.
- But by the field of tourney lingering yet
- Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King
- Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least
- He might have yielded to me one of those
- Who tilt for lady's love and glory here,
- Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him--
- His kitchen-knave.'
- To whom Sir Gareth drew
- (And there were none but few goodlier than he)
- Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine.
- Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one
- That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,
- And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,
- Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose
- With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence!
- Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.
- And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay.
- 'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.
- We lack thee by the hearth.'
- And Gareth to him,
- 'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay--
- The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.'
- 'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay
- Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,
- 'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled.
- But after sod and shingle ceased to fly
- Behind her, and the heart of her good horse
- Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,
- Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.
- 'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?
- Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more
- Or love thee better, that by some device
- Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,
- Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!--
- Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me
- Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.'
- 'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say
- Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say,
- I leave not till I finish this fair quest,
- Or die therefore.'
- 'Ay, wilt thou finish it?
- Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!
- The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.
- But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,
- And then by such a one that thou for all
- The kitchen brewis that was ever supt
- Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.'
- 'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile
- That maddened her, and away she flashed again
- Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,
- And Gareth following was again beknaved.
- 'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way
- Where Arthur's men are set along the wood;
- The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:
- If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,
- Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?
- Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.'
- So till the dusk that followed evensong
- Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;
- Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,
- Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines
- A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink
- To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere,
- Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,
- Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts
- Ascended, and there brake a servingman
- Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,
- 'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.'
- Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged,
- But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.'
- And when the damsel spake contemptuously,
- 'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again,
- 'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines
- He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,
- And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,
- Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,
- A stone about his neck to drown him in it.
- Three with good blows he quieted, but three
- Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone
- From off his neck, then in the mere beside
- Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.
- Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet
- Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend.
- 'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues
- Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs
- To hate me, for my wont hath ever been
- To catch my thief, and then like vermin here
- Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;
- And under this wan water many of them
- Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,
- And rise, and flickering in a grimly light
- Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life
- Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.
- And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.
- What guerdon will ye?'
- Gareth sharply spake,
- 'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed,
- In uttermost obedience to the King.
- But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?'
- Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe
- You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh
- Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth,
- And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!--
- But deem not I accept thee aught the more,
- Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit
- Down on a rout of craven foresters.
- A thresher with his flail had scattered them.
- Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still.
- But an this lord will yield us harbourage,
- Well.'
- So she spake. A league beyond the wood,
- All in a full-fair manor and a rich,
- His towers where that day a feast had been
- Held in high hall, and many a viand left,
- And many a costly cate, received the three.
- And there they placed a peacock in his pride
- Before the damsel, and the Baron set
- Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.
- 'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,
- Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.
- Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall,
- And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot
- To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night--
- The last a monster unsubduable
- Of any save of him for whom I called--
- Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,
- "The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,
- And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I."
- Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,
- "Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him--
- Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine
- Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong,
- Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.'
- Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord
- Now looked at one and now at other, left
- The damsel by the peacock in his pride,
- And, seating Gareth at another board,
- Sat down beside him, ate and then began.
- 'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,
- Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy,
- And whether she be mad, or else the King,
- Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,
- I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,
- For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,
- And saver of my life; and therefore now,
- For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh
- Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back
- To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.
- Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,
- The saver of my life.'
- And Gareth said,
- 'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,
- Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.'
- So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved
- Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way
- And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,
- 'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied.
- 'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.
- Lion and stout have isled together, knave,
- In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks
- Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?
- For hard by here is one will overthrow
- And slay thee: then will I to court again,
- And shame the King for only yielding me
- My champion from the ashes of his hearth.'
- To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,
- 'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.
- Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find
- My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay
- Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.'
- Then to the shore of one of those long loops
- Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.
- Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream
- Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
- Took at a leap; and on the further side
- Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
- In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
- Save that the dome was purple, and above,
- Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
- And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
- Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he,
- The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall?
- For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said,
- 'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
- Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
- His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:
- See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
- And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.'
- Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn,
- And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
- Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds
- Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
- In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet
- In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair
- All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
- Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.
- These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield
- Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
- And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
- Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
- Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone
- Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly,
- The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
- His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.
- Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so?
- Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:
- Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
- Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.'
- Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight,
- Far liefer had I fight a score of times
- Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
- Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
- But truly foul are better, for they send
- That strength of anger through mine arms, I know
- That I shall overthrow him.'
- And he that bore
- The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge,
- 'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
- Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
- For this were shame to do him further wrong
- Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
- And arms, and so return him to the King.
- Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
- Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave
- To ride with such a lady.'
- 'Dog, thou liest.
- I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.'
- He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
- Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear
- Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
- Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult
- Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge,
- Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
- And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand
- He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
- The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!'
- Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke
- Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.
- Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.'
- And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me
- Good--I accord it easily as a grace.'
- She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee?
- I bound to thee for any favour asked!'
- 'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced
- His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,
- 'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
- One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge
- Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
- Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
- And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say
- His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
- His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
- Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.
- Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou,
- Lead, and I follow.'
- And fast away she fled.
- Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought,
- Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge
- The savour of thy kitchen came upon me
- A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:
- I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang,
- '"O morning star" (not that tall felon there
- Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness
- Or some device, hast foully overthrown),
- "O morning star that smilest in the blue,
- O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
- Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me."
- 'But thou begone, take counsel, and away,
- For hard by here is one that guards a ford--
- The second brother in their fool's parable--
- Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.
- Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.'
- To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,
- 'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.
- When I was kitchen-knave among the rest
- Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
- Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,
- "Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it.
- And such a coat art thou, and thee the King
- Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,
- To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave--
- The knave that doth thee service as full knight
- Is all as good, meseems, as any knight
- Toward thy sister's freeing.'
- 'Ay, Sir Knave!
- Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,
- Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.'
- 'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,
- That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.'
- 'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.'
- So when they touched the second river-loop,
- Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
- Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun
- Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,
- That blows a globe of after arrowlets,
- Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,
- All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots
- Before them when he turned from watching him.
- He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,
- 'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?'
- And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,
- 'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall
- Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.'
- 'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red
- And cipher face of rounded foolishness,
- Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,
- Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there
- For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck
- With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight
- Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun
- Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,
- The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
- Descended, and the Sun was washed away.
- Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
- So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
- As being all bone-battered on the rock,
- Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King,
- 'Myself when I return will plead for thee.'
- 'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led.
- 'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?'
- 'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.
- There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
- His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it.
- '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,
- Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness),
- "O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
- O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
- Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
- What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?
- Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
- Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,--
- '"O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
- O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
- Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
- 'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
- To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
- Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
- A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
- The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head?
- Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.
- '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
- O birds that warble as the day goes by,
- Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."
- 'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
- Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
- May-music growing with the growing light,
- Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare
- (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,
- Larding and basting. See thou have not now
- Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
- There stands the third fool of their allegory.'
- For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
- All in a rose-red from the west, and all
- Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad
- Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,
- That named himself the Star of Evening, stood.
- And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there
- Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried,
- 'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins
- That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
- His armour off him, these will turn the blade.'
- Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge,
- 'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?
- Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain
- The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried,
- 'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven
- With all disaster unto thine and thee!
- For both thy younger brethren have gone down
- Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;
- Art thou not old?'
- 'Old, damsel, old and hard,
- Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.'
- Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag!
- But that same strength which threw the Morning Star
- Can throw the Evening.'
- Then that other blew
- A hard and deadly note upon the horn.
- 'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out
- An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained
- Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
- And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm
- With but a drying evergreen for crest,
- And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even
- Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
- But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow,
- They madly hurled together on the bridge;
- And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,
- There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,
- But up like fire he started: and as oft
- As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,
- So many a time he vaulted up again;
- Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,
- Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,
- Laboured within him, for he seemed as one
- That all in later, sadder age begins
- To war against ill uses of a life,
- But these from all his life arise, and cry,
- 'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!'
- He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike
- Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,
- 'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave--
- O knave, as noble as any of all the knights--
- Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied--
- Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round--
- His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin--
- Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.'
- And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
- And hewed great pieces of his armour off him,
- But lashed in vain against the hardened skin,
- And could not wholly bring him under, more
- Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,
- The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs
- For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand
- Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.
- 'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang,
- And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms
- Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,
- Strangled, but straining even his uttermost
- Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge
- Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried,
- 'Lead, and I follow.'
- But the damsel said,
- 'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;
- Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.
- '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
- O rainbow with three colours after rain,
- Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me."
- 'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight,
- But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,--
- Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,
- Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King
- Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
- For thou hast ever answered courteously,
- And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
- As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave,
- Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.'
- 'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame,
- Saving that you mistrusted our good King
- Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one
- Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;
- Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold
- He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet
- To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
- His heart be stirred with any foolish heat
- At any gentle damsel's waywardness.
- Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:
- And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks
- There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,
- Hath force to quell me.'
- Nigh upon that hour
- When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,
- Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams
- Of goodly supper in the distant pool,
- Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,
- And told him of a cavern hard at hand,
- Where bread and baken meats and good red wine
- Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors
- Had sent her coming champion, waited him.
- Anon they past a narrow comb wherein
- Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse
- Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.
- 'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,
- Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock
- The war of Time against the soul of man.
- And yon four fools have sucked their allegory
- From these damp walls, and taken but the form.
- Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read--
- In letters like to those the vexillary
- Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt--
- 'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'--
- 'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armed men,
- Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
- And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled
- With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,
- For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.
- 'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,
- Who comes behind?'
- For one--delayed at first
- Through helping back the dislocated Kay
- To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,
- The damsel's headlong error through the wood--
- Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops--
- His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew
- Behind the twain, and when he saw the star
- Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried,
- 'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.'
- And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;
- But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch
- Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world--
- Went sliding down so easily, and fell,
- That when he found the grass within his hands
- He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:
- Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown,
- And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,
- Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?'
- 'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son
- Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,
- And victor of the bridges and the ford,
- And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom
- I know not, all through mere unhappiness--
- Device and sorcery and unhappiness--
- Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince,
- O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness
- Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,
- Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,
- As on the day when Arthur knighted him.'
- Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand
- That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast
- Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--
- Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,
- Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!'
- Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot,
- Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now
- Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,
- Who being still rebuked, would answer still
- Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight,
- The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,
- And only wondering wherefore played upon:
- And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.
- Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,
- In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,
- I hate thee and for ever.'
- And Lancelot said,
- 'Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
- To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise
- To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?
- Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
- Victor from vanquished issues at the last,
- And overthrower from being overthrown.
- With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
- And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
- Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.
- Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
- And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,
- And when reviled, hast answered graciously,
- And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight
- Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!'
- And then when turning to Lynette he told
- The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,
- 'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled
- Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave,
- Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
- And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.
- But all about it flies a honeysuckle.
- Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found,
- Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
- Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
- 'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
- Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
- As any mother? Ay, but such a one
- As all day long hath rated at her child,
- And vext his day, but blesses him asleep--
- Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle
- In the hushed night, as if the world were one
- Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!
- O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands--
- 'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
- Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
- Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
- To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
- Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
- Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave
- Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.'
- Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name,
- May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
- Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,
- Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well
- As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said,
- 'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.'
- And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;
- 'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears
- Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
- Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!--
- Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
- O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
- Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame
- Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.
- Hence: let us go.'
- Silent the silent field
- They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan,
- In counter motion to the clouds, allured
- The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.
- A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'
- An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'
- Suddenly she that rode upon his left
- Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,
- 'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight:
- I curse the tongue that all through yesterday
- Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
- To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;
- Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow
- In having flung the three: I see thee maimed,
- Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.'
- 'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.
- You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
- Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery
- Appal me from the quest.'
- 'Nay, Prince,' she cried,
- 'God wot, I never looked upon the face,
- Seeing he never rides abroad by day;
- But watched him have I like a phantom pass
- Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
- Always he made his mouthpiece of a page
- Who came and went, and still reported him
- As closing in himself the strength of ten,
- And when his anger tare him, massacring
- Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!
- Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,
- Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
- The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.'
- Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this,
- Belike he wins it as the better man:
- Thus--and not else!'
- But Lancelot on him urged
- All the devisings of their chivalry
- When one might meet a mightier than himself;
- How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,
- And so fill up the gap where force might fail
- With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.
- Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one--
- To dash against mine enemy and win.
- Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,
- And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette.
- Then for a space, and under cloud that grew
- To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode
- In converse till she made her palfrey halt,
- Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'
- And all the three were silent seeing, pitched
- Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,
- A huge pavilion like a mountain peak
- Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,
- Black, with black banner, and a long black horn
- Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
- And so, before the two could hinder him,
- Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.
- Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon
- Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
- Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down
- And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;
- Till high above him, circled with her maids,
- The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,
- Beautiful among lights, and waving to him
- White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince
- Three times had blown--after long hush--at last--
- The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,
- Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.
- High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,
- With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,
- And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps--
- In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced
- The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.
- But Gareth spake and all indignantly,
- 'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,
- Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
- But must, to make the terror of thee more,
- Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries
- Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
- Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers
- As if for pity?' But he spake no word;
- Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;
- The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,
- As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;
- Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm;
- And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt
- Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.
- At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed,
- And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.
- Then those that did not blink the terror, saw
- That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
- But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
- Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
- Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm
- As throughly as the skull; and out from this
- Issued the bright face of a blooming boy
- Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight,
- Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
- To make a horror all about the house,
- And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.
- They never dreamed the passes would be past.'
- Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one
- Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child,
- What madness made thee challenge the chief knight
- Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
- They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend,
- They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,
- They never dreamed the passes could be past.'
- Then sprang the happier day from underground;
- And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance
- And revel and song, made merry over Death,
- As being after all their foolish fears
- And horrors only proven a blooming boy.
- So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.
- And he that told the tale in older times
- Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,
- But he, that told it later, says Lynette.
- The Marriage of Geraint
- The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,
- A tributary prince of Devon, one
- Of that great Order of the Table Round,
- Had married Enid, Yniol's only child,
- And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.
- And as the light of Heaven varies, now
- At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night
- With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint
- To make her beauty vary day by day,
- In crimsons and in purples and in gems.
- And Enid, but to please her husband's eye,
- Who first had found and loved her in a state
- Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him
- In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,
- Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,
- Loved her, and often with her own white hands
- Arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest,
- Next after her own self, in all the court.
- And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart
- Adored her, as the stateliest and the best
- And loveliest of all women upon earth.
- And seeing them so tender and so close,
- Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.
- But when a rumour rose about the Queen,
- Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,
- Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard
- The world's loud whisper breaking into storm,
- Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell
- A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,
- Through that great tenderness for Guinevere,
- Had suffered, or should suffer any taint
- In nature: wherefore going to the King,
- He made this pretext, that his princedom lay
- Close on the borders of a territory,
- Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,
- Assassins, and all flyers from the hand
- Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law:
- And therefore, till the King himself should please
- To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,
- He craved a fair permission to depart,
- And there defend his marches; and the King
- Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,
- Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode,
- And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores
- Of Severn, and they past to their own land;
- Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife
- True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,
- He compassed her with sweet observances
- And worship, never leaving her, and grew
- Forgetful of his promise to the King,
- Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt,
- Forgetful of the tilt and tournament,
- Forgetful of his glory and his name,
- Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.
- And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.
- And by and by the people, when they met
- In twos and threes, or fuller companies,
- Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him
- As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,
- And molten down in mere uxoriousness.
- And this she gathered from the people's eyes:
- This too the women who attired her head,
- To please her, dwelling on his boundless love,
- Told Enid, and they saddened her the more:
- And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,
- But could not out of bashful delicacy;
- While he that watched her sadden, was the more
- Suspicious that her nature had a taint.
- At last, it chanced that on a summer morn
- (They sleeping each by either) the new sun
- Beat through the blindless casement of the room,
- And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;
- Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside,
- And bared the knotted column of his throat,
- The massive square of his heroic breast,
- And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,
- As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone,
- Running too vehemently to break upon it.
- And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,
- Admiring him, and thought within herself,
- Was ever man so grandly made as he?
- Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk
- And accusation of uxoriousness
- Across her mind, and bowing over him,
- Low to her own heart piteously she said:
- 'O noble breast and all-puissant arms,
- Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men
- Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?
- I am the cause, because I dare not speak
- And tell him what I think and what they say.
- And yet I hate that he should linger here;
- I cannot love my lord and not his name.
- Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,
- And ride with him to battle and stand by,
- And watch his mightful hand striking great blows
- At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
- Far better were I laid in the dark earth,
- Not hearing any more his noble voice,
- Not to be folded more in these dear arms,
- And darkened from the high light in his eyes,
- Than that my lord through me should suffer shame.
- Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
- And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
- And maybe pierced to death before mine eyes,
- And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
- And how men slur him, saying all his force
- Is melted into mere effeminacy?
- O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'
- Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,
- And the strong passion in her made her weep
- True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
- And these awoke him, and by great mischance
- He heard but fragments of her later words,
- And that she feared she was not a true wife.
- And then he thought, 'In spite of all my care,
- For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
- She is not faithful to me, and I see her
- Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.'
- Then though he loved and reverenced her too much
- To dream she could be guilty of foul act,
- Right through his manful breast darted the pang
- That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
- Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
- At this he hurled his huge limbs out of bed,
- And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,
- 'My charger and her palfrey;' then to her,
- 'I will ride forth into the wilderness;
- For though it seems my spurs are yet to win,
- I have not fallen so low as some would wish.
- And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress
- And ride with me.' And Enid asked, amazed,
- 'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'
- But he, 'I charge thee, ask not, but obey.'
- Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
- A faded mantle and a faded veil,
- And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
- Wherein she kept them folded reverently
- With sprigs of summer laid between the folds,
- She took them, and arrayed herself therein,
- Remembering when first he came on her
- Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
- And all her foolish fears about the dress,
- And all his journey to her, as himself
- Had told her, and their coming to the court.
- For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before
- Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
- There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
- Before him came a forester of Dean,
- Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
- Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,
- First seen that day: these things he told the King.
- Then the good King gave order to let blow
- His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.
- And when the King petitioned for his leave
- To see the hunt, allowed it easily.
- So with the morning all the court were gone.
- But Guinevere lay late into the morn,
- Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love
- For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt;
- But rose at last, a single maiden with her,
- Took horse, and forded Usk, and gained the wood;
- There, on a little knoll beside it, stayed
- Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead
- A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
- Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
- Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
- Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford
- Behind them, and so galloped up the knoll.
- A purple scarf, at either end whereof
- There swung an apple of the purest gold,
- Swayed round about him, as he galloped up
- To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly
- In summer suit and silks of holiday.
- Low bowed the tributary Prince, and she,
- Sweet and statelily, and with all grace
- Of womanhood and queenhood, answered him:
- 'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later than we!'
- 'Yea, noble Queen,' he answered, 'and so late
- That I but come like you to see the hunt,
- Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with me,' she said;
- 'For on this little knoll, if anywhere,
- There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
- Here often they break covert at our feet.'
- And while they listened for the distant hunt,
- And chiefly for the baying of Cavall,
- King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode
- Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
- Whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight
- Had vizor up, and showed a youthful face,
- Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.
- And Guinevere, not mindful of his face
- In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent
- Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf;
- Who being vicious, old and irritable,
- And doubling all his master's vice of pride,
- Made answer sharply that she should not know.
- 'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said.
- 'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf;
- 'Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;'
- And when she put her horse toward the knight,
- Struck at her with his whip, and she returned
- Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
- Exclaiming, 'Surely I will learn the name,'
- Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him,
- Who answered as before; and when the Prince
- Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,
- Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
- The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf,
- Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand
- Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him:
- But he, from his exceeding manfulness
- And pure nobility of temperament,
- Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrained
- From even a word, and so returning said:
- 'I will avenge this insult, noble Queen,
- Done in your maiden's person to yourself:
- And I will track this vermin to their earths:
- For though I ride unarmed, I do not doubt
- To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
- On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,
- Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
- And on the third day will again be here,
- So that I be not fallen in fight. Farewell.'
- 'Farewell, fair Prince,' answered the stately Queen.
- 'Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;
- And may you light on all things that you love,
- And live to wed with her whom first you love:
- But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
- And I, were she the daughter of a king,
- Yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge,
- Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.'
- And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard
- The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
- A little vext at losing of the hunt,
- A little at the vile occasion, rode,
- By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade
- And valley, with fixt eye following the three.
- At last they issued from the world of wood,
- And climbed upon a fair and even ridge,
- And showed themselves against the sky, and sank.
- And thither there came Geraint, and underneath
- Beheld the long street of a little town
- In a long valley, on one side whereof,
- White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose;
- And on one side a castle in decay,
- Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine:
- And out of town and valley came a noise
- As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed
- Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks
- At distance, ere they settle for the night.
- And onward to the fortress rode the three,
- And entered, and were lost behind the walls.
- 'So,' thought Geraint, 'I have tracked him to his earth.'
- And down the long street riding wearily,
- Found every hostel full, and everywhere
- Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
- And bustling whistle of the youth who scoured
- His master's armour; and of such a one
- He asked, 'What means the tumult in the town?'
- Who told him, scouring still, 'The sparrow-hawk!'
- Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
- Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
- Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,
- Asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here?
- Who answered gruffly, 'Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.'
- Then riding further past an armourer's,
- Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work,
- Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
- He put the self-same query, but the man
- Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:
- 'Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk
- Has little time for idle questioners.'
- Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen:
- 'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
- Tits, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead!
- Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
- The murmur of the world! What is it to me?
- O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
- Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
- Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
- Where can I get me harbourage for the night?
- And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!'
- Whereat the armourer turning all amazed
- And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
- Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
- And answered, 'Pardon me, O stranger knight;
- We hold a tourney here tomorrow morn,
- And there is scantly time for half the work.
- Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.
- Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
- It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge
- Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again.
- Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
- Across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine.
- There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
- (His dress a suit of frayed magnificence,
- Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said:
- 'Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint replied,
- 'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.'
- Then Yniol, 'Enter therefore and partake
- The slender entertainment of a house
- Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.'
- 'Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint;
- 'So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks
- For supper, I will enter, I will eat
- With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.'
- Then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,
- And answered, 'Graver cause than yours is mine
- To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk:
- But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,
- We will not touch upon him even in jest.'
- Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
- His charger trampling many a prickly star
- Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
- He looked and saw that all was ruinous.
- Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern;
- And here had fallen a great part of a tower,
- Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
- And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:
- And high above a piece of turret stair,
- Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
- Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
- Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,
- And sucked the joining of the stones, and looked
- A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.
- And while he waited in the castle court,
- The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang
- Clear through the open casement of the hall,
- Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
- Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,
- Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
- That sings so delicately clear, and make
- Conjecture of the plumage and the form;
- So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;
- And made him like a man abroad at morn
- When first the liquid note beloved of men
- Comes flying over many a windy wave
- To Britain, and in April suddenly
- Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
- And he suspends his converse with a friend,
- Or it may be the labour of his hands,
- To think or say, 'There is the nightingale;'
- So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
- 'Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.'
- It chanced the song that Enid sang was one
- Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:
- 'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
- Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;
- Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
- 'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
- With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
- Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
- 'Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
- Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
- For man is man and master of his fate.
- 'Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
- Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
- Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.'
- 'Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,'
- Said Yniol; 'enter quickly.' Entering then,
- Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
- The dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall,
- He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;
- And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,
- That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,
- Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,
- Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,
- 'Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.'
- But none spake word except the hoary Earl:
- 'Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court;
- Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then
- Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;
- And we will make us merry as we may.
- Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.'
- He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain
- To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught
- His purple scarf, and held, and said, 'Forbear!
- Rest! the good house, though ruined, O my son,
- Endures not that her guest should serve himself.'
- And reverencing the custom of the house
- Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.
- So Enid took his charger to the stall;
- And after went her way across the bridge,
- And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl
- Yet spoke together, came again with one,
- A youth, that following with a costrel bore
- The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.
- And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,
- And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.
- And then, because their hall must also serve
- For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board,
- And stood behind, and waited on the three.
- And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
- Geraint had longing in him evermore
- To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb,
- That crost the trencher as she laid it down:
- But after all had eaten, then Geraint,
- For now the wine made summer in his veins,
- Let his eye rove in following, or rest
- On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work,
- Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;
- Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:
- 'Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy;
- This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.
- His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it:
- For if he be the knight whom late I saw
- Ride into that new fortress by your town,
- White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn
- From his own lips to have it--I am Geraint
- Of Devon--for this morning when the Queen
- Sent her own maiden to demand the name,
- His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,
- Struck at her with his whip, and she returned
- Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore
- That I would track this caitiff to his hold,
- And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.
- And all unarmed I rode, and thought to find
- Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;
- They take the rustic murmur of their bourg
- For the great wave that echoes round the world;
- They would not hear me speak: but if ye know
- Where I can light on arms, or if yourself
- Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn
- That I will break his pride and learn his name,
- Avenging this great insult done the Queen.'
- Then cried Earl Yniol, 'Art thou he indeed,
- Geraint, a name far-sounded among men
- For noble deeds? and truly I, when first
- I saw you moving by me on the bridge,
- Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state
- And presence might have guessed you one of those
- That eat in Arthur's hall in Camelot.
- Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;
- For this dear child hath often heard me praise
- Your feats of arms, and often when I paused
- Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear;
- So grateful is the noise of noble deeds
- To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:
- O never yet had woman such a pair
- Of suitors as this maiden: first Limours,
- A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,
- Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead
- I know not, but he past to the wild land.
- The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,
- My curse, my nephew--I will not let his name
- Slip from my lips if I can help it--he,
- When that I knew him fierce and turbulent
- Refused her to him, then his pride awoke;
- And since the proud man often is the mean,
- He sowed a slander in the common ear,
- Affirming that his father left him gold,
- And in my charge, which was not rendered to him;
- Bribed with large promises the men who served
- About my person, the more easily
- Because my means were somewhat broken into
- Through open doors and hospitality;
- Raised my own town against me in the night
- Before my Enid's birthday, sacked my house;
- From mine own earldom foully ousted me;
- Built that new fort to overawe my friends,
- For truly there are those who love me yet;
- And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,
- Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,
- But that his pride too much despises me:
- And I myself sometimes despise myself;
- For I have let men be, and have their way;
- Am much too gentle, have not used my power:
- Nor know I whether I be very base
- Or very manful, whether very wise
- Or very foolish; only this I know,
- That whatsoever evil happen to me,
- I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,
- But can endure it all most patiently.'
- 'Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, 'but arms,
- That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight
- In next day's tourney I may break his pride.'
- And Yniol answered, 'Arms, indeed, but old
- And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,
- Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine.
- But in this tournament can no man tilt,
- Except the lady he loves best be there.
- Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground,
- And over these is placed a silver wand,
- And over that a golden sparrow-hawk,
- The prize of beauty for the fairest there.
- And this, what knight soever be in field
- Lays claim to for the lady at his side,
- And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,
- Who being apt at arms and big of bone
- Has ever won it for the lady with him,
- And toppling over all antagonism
- Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.'
- But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.'
- To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,
- Leaning a little toward him, 'Thy leave!
- Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,
- For this dear child, because I never saw,
- Though having seen all beauties of our time,
- Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.
- And if I fall her name will yet remain
- Untarnished as before; but if I live,
- So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,
- As I will make her truly my true wife.'
- Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart
- Danced in his bosom, seeing better days,
- And looking round he saw not Enid there,
- (Who hearing her own name had stolen away)
- But that old dame, to whom full tenderly
- And folding all her hand in his he said,
- 'Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,
- And best by her that bore her understood.
- Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest
- Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.'
- So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she
- With frequent smile and nod departing found,
- Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl;
- Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then
- On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
- And kept her off and gazed upon her face,
- And told them all their converse in the hall,
- Proving her heart: but never light and shade
- Coursed one another more on open ground
- Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
- Across the face of Enid hearing her;
- While slowly falling as a scale that falls,
- When weight is added only grain by grain,
- Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;
- Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,
- Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;
- So moving without answer to her rest
- She found no rest, and ever failed to draw
- The quiet night into her blood, but lay
- Contemplating her own unworthiness;
- And when the pale and bloodless east began
- To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised
- Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved
- Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,
- And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.
- And thither came the twain, and when Geraint
- Beheld her first in field, awaiting him,
- He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,
- Himself beyond the rest pushing could move
- The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms
- Were on his princely person, but through these
- Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights
- And ladies came, and by and by the town
- Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists.
- And there they fixt the forks into the ground,
- And over these they placed the silver wand,
- And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.
- Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown,
- Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed,
- 'Advance and take, as fairest of the fair,
- What I these two years past have won for thee,
- The prize of beauty.' Loudly spake the Prince,
- 'Forbear: there is a worthier,' and the knight
- With some surprise and thrice as much disdain
- Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face
- Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule,
- So burnt he was with passion, crying out,
- 'Do battle for it then,' no more; and thrice
- They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears.
- Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each
- So often and with such blows, that all the crowd
- Wondered, and now and then from distant walls
- There came a clapping as of phantom hands.
- So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still
- The dew of their great labour, and the blood
- Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force.
- But either's force was matched till Yniol's cry,
- 'Remember that great insult done the Queen,'
- Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft,
- And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone,
- And felled him, and set foot upon his breast,
- And said, 'Thy name?' To whom the fallen man
- Made answer, groaning, 'Edyrn, son of Nudd!
- Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.
- My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.'
- 'Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint,
- 'These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.
- First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf,
- Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there,
- Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,
- And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,
- Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.
- These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.'
- And Edyrn answered, 'These things will I do,
- For I have never yet been overthrown,
- And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride
- Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!'
- And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court,
- And there the Queen forgave him easily.
- And being young, he changed and came to loathe
- His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself
- Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last
- In the great battle fighting for the King.
- But when the third day from the hunting-morn
- Made a low splendour in the world, and wings
- Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay
- With her fair head in the dim-yellow light,
- Among the dancing shadows of the birds,
- Woke and bethought her of her promise given
- No later than last eve to Prince Geraint--
- So bent he seemed on going the third day,
- He would not leave her, till her promise given--
- To ride with him this morning to the court,
- And there be made known to the stately Queen,
- And there be wedded with all ceremony.
- At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,
- And thought it never yet had looked so mean.
- For as a leaf in mid-November is
- To what it is in mid-October, seemed
- The dress that now she looked on to the dress
- She looked on ere the coming of Geraint.
- And still she looked, and still the terror grew
- Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,
- All staring at her in her faded silk:
- And softly to her own sweet heart she said:
- 'This noble prince who won our earldom back,
- So splendid in his acts and his attire,
- Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!
- Would he could tarry with us here awhile,
- But being so beholden to the Prince,
- It were but little grace in any of us,
- Bent as he seemed on going this third day,
- To seek a second favour at his hands.
- Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,
- Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame,
- Far liefer than so much discredit him.'
- And Enid fell in longing for a dress
- All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift
- Of her good mother, given her on the night
- Before her birthday, three sad years ago,
- That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house,
- And scattered all they had to all the winds:
- For while the mother showed it, and the two
- Were turning and admiring it, the work
- To both appeared so costly, rose a cry
- That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled
- With little save the jewels they had on,
- Which being sold and sold had bought them bread:
- And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight,
- And placed them in this ruin; and she wished
- The Prince had found her in her ancient home;
- Then let her fancy flit across the past,
- And roam the goodly places that she knew;
- And last bethought her how she used to watch,
- Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;
- And one was patched and blurred and lustreless
- Among his burnished brethren of the pool;
- And half asleep she made comparison
- Of that and these to her own faded self
- And the gay court, and fell asleep again;
- And dreamt herself was such a faded form
- Among her burnished sisters of the pool;
- But this was in the garden of a king;
- And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew
- That all was bright; that all about were birds
- Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work;
- That all the turf was rich in plots that looked
- Each like a garnet or a turkis in it;
- And lords and ladies of the high court went
- In silver tissue talking things of state;
- And children of the King in cloth of gold
- Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks;
- And while she thought 'They will not see me,' came
- A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,
- And all the children in their cloth of gold
- Ran to her, crying, 'If we have fish at all
- Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now
- To pick the faded creature from the pool,
- And cast it on the mixen that it die.'
- And therewithal one came and seized on her,
- And Enid started waking, with her heart
- All overshadowed by the foolish dream,
- And lo! it was her mother grasping her
- To get her well awake; and in her hand
- A suit of bright apparel, which she laid
- Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:
- 'See here, my child, how fresh the colours look,
- How fast they hold like colours of a shell
- That keeps the wear and polish of the wave.
- Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow:
- Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.'
- And Enid looked, but all confused at first,
- Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream:
- Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced,
- And answered, 'Yea, I know it; your good gift,
- So sadly lost on that unhappy night;
- Your own good gift!' 'Yea, surely,' said the dame,
- 'And gladly given again this happy morn.
- For when the jousts were ended yesterday,
- Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere
- He found the sack and plunder of our house
- All scattered through the houses of the town;
- And gave command that all which once was ours
- Should now be ours again: and yester-eve,
- While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince,
- Came one with this and laid it in my hand,
- For love or fear, or seeking favour of us,
- Because we have our earldom back again.
- And yester-eve I would not tell you of it,
- But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.
- Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?
- For I myself unwillingly have worn
- My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,
- And howsoever patient, Yniol his.
- Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,
- With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,
- And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,
- And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all
- That appertains to noble maintenance.
- Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;
- But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade,
- And all through that young traitor, cruel need
- Constrained us, but a better time has come;
- So clothe yourself in this, that better fits
- Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride:
- For though ye won the prize of fairest fair,
- And though I heard him call you fairest fair,
- Let never maiden think, however fair,
- She is not fairer in new clothes than old.
- And should some great court-lady say, the Prince
- Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge,
- And like a madman brought her to the court,
- Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince
- To whom we are beholden; but I know,
- That when my dear child is set forth at her best,
- That neither court nor country, though they sought
- Through all the provinces like those of old
- That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.'
- Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;
- And Enid listened brightening as she lay;
- Then, as the white and glittering star of morn
- Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by
- Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,
- And left her maiden couch, and robed herself,
- Helped by the mother's careful hand and eye,
- Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown;
- Who, after, turned her daughter round, and said,
- She never yet had seen her half so fair;
- And called her like that maiden in the tale,
- Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers
- And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,
- Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first
- Invaded Britain, 'But we beat him back,
- As this great Prince invaded us, and we,
- Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy
- And I can scarcely ride with you to court,
- For old am I, and rough the ways and wild;
- But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream
- I see my princess as I see her now,
- Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.'
- But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint
- Woke where he slept in the high hall, and called
- For Enid, and when Yniol made report
- Of that good mother making Enid gay
- In such apparel as might well beseem
- His princess, or indeed the stately Queen,
- He answered: 'Earl, entreat her by my love,
- Albeit I give no reason but my wish,
- That she ride with me in her faded silk.'
- Yniol with that hard message went; it fell
- Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn:
- For Enid, all abashed she knew not why,
- Dared not to glance at her good mother's face,
- But silently, in all obedience,
- Her mother silent too, nor helping her,
- Laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift,
- And robed them in her ancient suit again,
- And so descended. Never man rejoiced
- More than Geraint to greet her thus attired;
- And glancing all at once as keenly at her
- As careful robins eye the delver's toil,
- Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall,
- But rested with her sweet face satisfied;
- Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow,
- Her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said,
- 'O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved
- At thy new son, for my petition to her.
- When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen,
- In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,
- Made promise, that whatever bride I brought,
- Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.
- Thereafter, when I reached this ruined hall,
- Beholding one so bright in dark estate,
- I vowed that could I gain her, our fair Queen,
- No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst
- Sunlike from cloud--and likewise thought perhaps,
- That service done so graciously would bind
- The two together; fain I would the two
- Should love each other: how can Enid find
- A nobler friend? Another thought was mine;
- I came among you here so suddenly,
- That though her gentle presence at the lists
- Might well have served for proof that I was loved,
- I doubted whether daughter's tenderness,
- Or easy nature, might not let itself
- Be moulded by your wishes for her weal;
- Or whether some false sense in her own self
- Of my contrasting brightness, overbore
- Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall;
- And such a sense might make her long for court
- And all its perilous glories: and I thought,
- That could I someway prove such force in her
- Linked with such love for me, that at a word
- (No reason given her) she could cast aside
- A splendour dear to women, new to her,
- And therefore dearer; or if not so new,
- Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power
- Of intermitted usage; then I felt
- That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,
- Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest,
- A prophet certain of my prophecy,
- That never shadow of mistrust can cross
- Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts:
- And for my strange petition I will make
- Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,
- When your fair child shall wear your costly gift
- Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees,
- Who knows? another gift of the high God,
- Which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.'
- He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears,
- Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,
- And claspt and kissed her, and they rode away.
- Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climbed
- The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,
- Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,
- And white sails flying on the yellow sea;
- But not to goodly hill or yellow sea
- Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,
- By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;
- And then descending met them at the gates,
- Embraced her with all welcome as a friend,
- And did her honour as the Prince's bride,
- And clothed her for her bridals like the sun;
- And all that week was old Caerleon gay,
- For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,
- They twain were wedded with all ceremony.
- And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide.
- But Enid ever kept the faded silk,
- Remembering how first he came on her,
- Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
- And all her foolish fears about the dress,
- And all his journey toward her, as himself
- Had told her, and their coming to the court.
- And now this morning when he said to her,
- 'Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found
- And took it, and arrayed herself therein.
- Geraint and Enid
- O purblind race of miserable men,
- How many among us at this very hour
- Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
- By taking true for false, or false for true;
- Here, through the feeble twilight of this world
- Groping, how many, until we pass and reach
- That other, where we see as we are seen!
- So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth
- That morning, when they both had got to horse,
- Perhaps because he loved her passionately,
- And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,
- Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce
- Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:
- 'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,
- Ever a good way on before; and this
- I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
- Whatever happens, not to speak to me,
- No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast;
- And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,
- When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am,
- I will not fight my way with gilded arms,
- All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse,
- Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire.
- So the last sight that Enid had of home
- Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown
- With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire
- Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again,
- 'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks
- Through which he bad her lead him on, they past
- The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,
- Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,
- And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:
- Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon:
- A stranger meeting them had surely thought
- They rode so slowly and they looked so pale,
- That each had suffered some exceeding wrong.
- For he was ever saying to himself,
- 'O I that wasted time to tend upon her,
- To compass her with sweet observances,
- To dress her beautifully and keep her true'--
- And there he broke the sentence in his heart
- Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue
- May break it, when his passion masters him.
- And she was ever praying the sweet heavens
- To save her dear lord whole from any wound.
- And ever in her mind she cast about
- For that unnoticed failing in herself,
- Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
- Till the great plover's human whistle amazed
- Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared
- In every wavering brake an ambuscade.
- Then thought again, 'If there be such in me,
- I might amend it by the grace of Heaven,
- If he would only speak and tell me of it.'
- But when the fourth part of the day was gone,
- Then Enid was aware of three tall knights
- On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock
- In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all;
- And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look,
- Here comes a laggard hanging down his head,
- Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound;
- Come, we will slay him and will have his horse
- And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.'
- Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said:
- 'I will go back a little to my lord,
- And I will tell him all their caitiff talk;
- For, be he wroth even to slaying me,
- Far liefer by his dear hand had I die,
- Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.'
- Then she went back some paces of return,
- Met his full frown timidly firm, and said;
- 'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock
- Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast
- That they would slay you, and possess your horse
- And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.'
- He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wish
- Your warning or your silence? one command
- I laid upon you, not to speak to me,
- And thus ye keep it! Well then, look--for now,
- Whether ye wish me victory or defeat,
- Long for my life, or hunger for my death,
- Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.'
- Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful,
- And down upon him bare the bandit three.
- And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint
- Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast
- And out beyond; and then against his brace
- Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him
- A lance that splintered like an icicle,
- Swung from his brand a windy buffet out
- Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain
- Or slew them, and dismounting like a man
- That skins the wild beast after slaying him,
- Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born
- The three gay suits of armour which they wore,
- And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits
- Of armour on their horses, each on each,
- And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
- Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
- Before you;' and she drove them through the waste.
- He followed nearer; ruth began to work
- Against his anger in him, while he watched
- The being he loved best in all the world,
- With difficulty in mild obedience
- Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her,
- And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath
- And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within;
- But evermore it seemed an easier thing
- At once without remorse to strike her dead,
- Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face
- Accuse her of the least immodesty:
- And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
- That she could speak whom his own ear had heard
- Call herself false: and suffering thus he made
- Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time
- Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,
- Before he turn to fall seaward again,
- Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold
- In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,
- Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,
- Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed,
- Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord,
- And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize!
- Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
- And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.'
- 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.'
- The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.'
- The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one?
- Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.'
- And Enid pondered in her heart and said,
- 'I will abide the coming of my lord,
- And I will tell him all their villainy.
- My lord is weary with the fight before,
- And they will fall upon him unawares.
- I needs must disobey him for his good;
- How should I dare obey him to his harm?
- Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it,
- I save a life dearer to me than mine.'
- And she abode his coming, and said to him
- With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?'
- He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke.
- 'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood,
- And each of them is wholly armed, and one
- Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say
- That they will fall upon you while ye pass.'
- To which he flung a wrathful answer back:
- 'And if there were an hundred in the wood,
- And every man were larger-limbed than I,
- And all at once should sally out upon me,
- I swear it would not ruffle me so much
- As you that not obey me. Stand aside,
- And if I fall, cleave to the better man.'
- And Enid stood aside to wait the event,
- Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe
- Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.
- And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.
- Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's,
- A little in the late encounter strained,
- Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home,
- And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled,
- And there lay still; as he that tells the tale
- Saw once a great piece of a promontory,
- That had a sapling growing on it, slide
- From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach,
- And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew:
- So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair
- Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince,
- When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;
- On whom the victor, to confound them more,
- Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one,
- That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,
- All through the crash of the near cataract hears
- The drumming thunder of the huger fall
- At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear
- His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
- And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned
- Flying, but, overtaken, died the death
- Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.
- Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance
- That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves
- Their three gay suits of armour, each from each,
- And bound them on their horses, each on each,
- And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
- Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
- Before you,' and she drove them through the wood.
- He followed nearer still: the pain she had
- To keep them in the wild ways of the wood,
- Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,
- Together, served a little to disedge
- The sharpness of that pain about her heart:
- And they themselves, like creatures gently born
- But into bad hands fallen, and now so long
- By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt
- Her low firm voice and tender government.
- So through the green gloom of the wood they past,
- And issuing under open heavens beheld
- A little town with towers, upon a rock,
- And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased
- In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:
- And down a rocky pathway from the place
- There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand
- Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint
- Had ruth again on Enid looking pale:
- Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,
- He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said,
- 'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.'
- 'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou,
- My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse,
- And only meet for mowers;' then set down
- His basket, and dismounting on the sward
- They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.
- And Enid took a little delicately,
- Less having stomach for it than desire
- To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint
- Ate all the mowers' victual unawares,
- And when he found all empty, was amazed;
- And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take
- A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.'
- He, reddening in extremity of delight,
- 'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.'
- 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince.
- 'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy,
- 'Not guerdon; for myself can easily,
- While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch
- Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl;
- For these are his, and all the field is his,
- And I myself am his; and I will tell him
- How great a man thou art: he loves to know
- When men of mark are in his territory:
- And he will have thee to his palace here,
- And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.'
- Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare:
- I never ate with angrier appetite
- Than when I left your mowers dinnerless.
- And into no Earl's palace will I go.
- I know, God knows, too much of palaces!
- And if he want me, let him come to me.
- But hire us some fair chamber for the night,
- And stalling for the horses, and return
- With victual for these men, and let us know.'
- 'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went,
- Held his head high, and thought himself a knight,
- And up the rocky pathway disappeared,
- Leading the horse, and they were left alone.
- But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
- Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance
- At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,
- That shadow of mistrust should never cross
- Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed;
- Then with another humorous ruth remarked
- The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,
- And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,
- And after nodded sleepily in the heat.
- But she, remembering her old ruined hall,
- And all the windy clamour of the daws
- About her hollow turret, plucked the grass
- There growing longest by the meadow's edge,
- And into many a listless annulet,
- Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
- Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned
- And told them of a chamber, and they went;
- Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will,
- Call for the woman of the house,' to which
- She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained
- Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute
- As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth,
- Or two wild men supporters of a shield,
- Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
- The one at other, parted by the shield.
- On a sudden, many a voice along the street,
- And heel against the pavement echoing, burst
- Their drowse; and either started while the door,
- Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall,
- And midmost of a rout of roisterers,
- Femininely fair and dissolutely pale,
- Her suitor in old years before Geraint,
- Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours.
- He moving up with pliant courtliness,
- Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily,
- In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand,
- Found Enid with the corner of his eye,
- And knew her sitting sad and solitary.
- Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer
- To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously
- According to his fashion, bad the host
- Call in what men soever were his friends,
- And feast with these in honour of their Earl;
- 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.'
- And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours
- Drank till he jested with all ease, and told
- Free tales, and took the word and played upon it,
- And made it of two colours; for his talk,
- When wine and free companions kindled him,
- Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem
- Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince
- To laughter and his comrades to applause.
- Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours,
- 'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak
- To your good damsel there who sits apart,
- And seems so lonely?' 'My free leave,' he said;
- 'Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.'
- Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet,
- Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail,
- Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes,
- Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly:
- 'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,
- Enid, my early and my only love,
- Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild--
- What chance is this? how is it I see you here?
- Ye are in my power at last, are in my power.
- Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild,
- But keep a touch of sweet civility
- Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.
- I thought, but that your father came between,
- In former days you saw me favourably.
- And if it were so do not keep it back:
- Make me a little happier: let me know it:
- Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost?
- Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are.
- And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy,
- Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him,
- You come with no attendance, page or maid,
- To serve you--doth he love you as of old?
- For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know
- Though men may bicker with the things they love,
- They would not make them laughable in all eyes,
- Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress,
- A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks
- Your story, that this man loves you no more.
- Your beauty is no beauty to him now:
- A common chance--right well I know it--palled--
- For I know men: nor will ye win him back,
- For the man's love once gone never returns.
- But here is one who loves you as of old;
- With more exceeding passion than of old:
- Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round:
- He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up;
- They understand: nay; I do not mean blood:
- Nor need ye look so scared at what I say:
- My malice is no deeper than a moat,
- No stronger than a wall: there is the keep;
- He shall not cross us more; speak but the word:
- Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me
- The one true lover whom you ever owned,
- I will make use of all the power I have.
- O pardon me! the madness of that hour,
- When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.'
- At this the tender sound of his own voice
- And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it,
- Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes,
- Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast;
- And answered with such craft as women use,
- Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
- That breaks upon them perilously, and said:
- 'Earl, if you love me as in former years,
- And do not practise on me, come with morn,
- And snatch me from him as by violence;
- Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.'
- Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume
- Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl,
- And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night.
- He moving homeward babbled to his men,
- How Enid never loved a man but him,
- Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.
- But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint,
- Debating his command of silence given,
- And that she now perforce must violate it,
- Held commune with herself, and while she held
- He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart
- To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased
- To find him yet unwounded after fight,
- And hear him breathing low and equally.
- Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped
- The pieces of his armour in one place,
- All to be there against a sudden need;
- Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled
- By that day's grief and travel, evermore
- Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then
- Went slipping down horrible precipices,
- And strongly striking out her limbs awoke;
- Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door,
- With all his rout of random followers,
- Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her;
- Which was the red cock shouting to the light,
- As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world,
- And glimmered on his armour in the room.
- And once again she rose to look at it,
- But touched it unawares: jangling, the casque
- Fell, and he started up and stared at her.
- Then breaking his command of silence given,
- She told him all that Earl Limours had said,
- Except the passage that he loved her not;
- Nor left untold the craft herself had used;
- But ended with apology so sweet,
- Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed
- So justified by that necessity,
- That though he thought 'was it for him she wept
- In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan,
- Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools
- And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring
- Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out
- Among the heavy breathings of the house,
- And like a household Spirit at the walls
- Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned:
- Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked,
- In silence, did him service as a squire;
- Till issuing armed he found the host and cried,
- 'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take
- Five horses and their armours;' and the host
- Suddenly honest, answered in amaze,
- 'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!'
- 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince,
- And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today
- I charge you, Enid, more especially,
- What thing soever ye may hear, or see,
- Or fancy (though I count it of small use
- To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.'
- And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know
- Your wish, and would obey; but riding first,
- I hear the violent threats you do not hear,
- I see the danger which you cannot see:
- Then not to give you warning, that seems hard;
- Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.'
- 'Yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise;
- Seeing that ye are wedded to a man,
- Not all mismated with a yawning clown,
- But one with arms to guard his head and yours,
- With eyes to find you out however far,
- And ears to hear you even in his dreams.'
- With that he turned and looked as keenly at her
- As careful robins eye the delver's toil;
- And that within her, which a wanton fool,
- Or hasty judger would have called her guilt,
- Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall.
- And Geraint looked and was not satisfied.
- Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,
- Led from the territory of false Limours
- To the waste earldom of another earl,
- Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull,
- Went Enid with her sullen follower on.
- Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride
- More near by many a rood than yestermorn,
- It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint
- Waving an angry hand as who should say
- 'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again.
- But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,
- The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof
- Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw
- Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it.
- Then not to disobey her lord's behest,
- And yet to give him warning, for he rode
- As if he heard not, moving back she held
- Her finger up, and pointed to the dust.
- At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
- Because she kept the letter of his word,
- Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood.
- And in the moment after, wild Limours,
- Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
- Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm,
- Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
- And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
- Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
- Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
- The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead,
- And overthrew the next that followed him,
- And blindly rushed on all the rout behind.
- But at the flash and motion of the man
- They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal
- Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
- Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
- Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand,
- But if a man who stands upon the brink
- But lift a shining hand against the sun,
- There is not left the twinkle of a fin
- Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
- So, scared but at the motion of the man,
- Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
- And left him lying in the public way;
- So vanish friendships only made in wine.
- Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint,
- Who saw the chargers of the two that fell
- Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly,
- Mixt with the flyers. 'Horse and man,' he said,
- 'All of one mind and all right-honest friends!
- Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now
- Was honest--paid with horses and with arms;
- I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg:
- And so what say ye, shall we strip him there
- Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough
- To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine?
- No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray
- That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm,
- I too would still be honest.' Thus he said:
- And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins,
- And answering not one word, she led the way.
- But as a man to whom a dreadful loss
- Falls in a far land and he knows it not,
- But coming back he learns it, and the loss
- So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;
- So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked
- In combat with the follower of Limours,
- Bled underneath his armour secretly,
- And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife
- What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself,
- Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged;
- And at a sudden swerving of the road,
- Though happily down on a bank of grass,
- The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.
- And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
- Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
- Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,
- Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
- Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
- And tearing off her veil of faded silk
- Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
- And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life.
- Then after all was done that hand could do,
- She rested, and her desolation came
- Upon her, and she wept beside the way.
- And many past, but none regarded her,
- For in that realm of lawless turbulence,
- A woman weeping for her murdered mate
- Was cared as much for as a summer shower:
- One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm,
- Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him:
- Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms,
- Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl;
- Half whistling and half singing a coarse song,
- He drove the dust against her veilless eyes:
- Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm
- Before an ever-fancied arrow, made
- The long way smoke beneath him in his fear;
- At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel,
- And scoured into the coppices and was lost,
- While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.
- But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm,
- Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard,
- Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey,
- Came riding with a hundred lances up;
- But ere he came, like one that hails a ship,
- Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?'
- 'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste.
- 'Would some of your people take him up,
- And bear him hence out of this cruel sun?
- Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.'
- Then said Earl Doorm: 'Well, if he be not dead,
- Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child.
- And be he dead, I count you for a fool;
- Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not,
- Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears.
- Yet, since the face is comely--some of you,
- Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall:
- An if he live, we will have him of our band;
- And if he die, why earth has earth enough
- To hide him. See ye take the charger too,
- A noble one.'
- He spake, and past away,
- But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced,
- Each growling like a dog, when his good bone
- Seems to be plucked at by the village boys
- Who love to vex him eating, and he fears
- To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it,
- Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled,
- Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man,
- Their chance of booty from the morning's raid,
- Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier,
- Such as they brought upon their forays out
- For those that might be wounded; laid him on it
- All in the hollow of his shield, and took
- And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm,
- (His gentle charger following him unled)
- And cast him and the bier in which he lay
- Down on an oaken settle in the hall,
- And then departed, hot in haste to join
- Their luckier mates, but growling as before,
- And cursing their lost time, and the dead man,
- And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her.
- They might as well have blest her: she was deaf
- To blessing or to cursing save from one.
- So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,
- There in the naked hall, propping his head,
- And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.
- Till at the last he wakened from his swoon,
- And found his own dear bride propping his head,
- And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;
- And felt the warm tears falling on his face;
- And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:'
- And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead,
- That he might prove her to the uttermost,
- And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.'
- But in the falling afternoon returned
- The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.
- His lusty spearmen followed him with noise:
- Each hurling down a heap of things that rang
- Against his pavement, cast his lance aside,
- And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in,
- Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,
- A tribe of women, dressed in many hues,
- And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm
- Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board,
- And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears.
- And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,
- And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:
- And none spake word, but all sat down at once,
- And ate with tumult in the naked hall,
- Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;
- Till Enid shrank far back into herself,
- To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.
- But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,
- He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found
- A damsel drooping in a corner of it.
- Then he remembered her, and how she wept;
- And out of her there came a power upon him;
- And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat!
- I never yet beheld a thing so pale.
- God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.
- Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,
- For were I dead who is it would weep for me?
- Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath
- Have I beheld a lily like yourself.
- And so there lived some colour in your cheek,
- There is not one among my gentlewomen
- Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.
- But listen to me, and by me be ruled,
- And I will do the thing I have not done,
- For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,
- And we will live like two birds in one nest,
- And I will fetch you forage from all fields,
- For I compel all creatures to my will.'
- He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek
- Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared;
- While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn
- Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf
- And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear
- What shall not be recorded--women they,
- Women, or what had been those gracious things,
- But now desired the humbling of their best,
- Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once
- They hated her, who took no thought of them,
- But answered in low voice, her meek head yet
- Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy,
- He being as he is, to let me be.'
- She spake so low he hardly heard her speak,
- But like a mighty patron, satisfied
- With what himself had done so graciously,
- Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea,
- Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.'
- She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad
- Henceforth in all the world at anything,
- Until my lord arise and look upon me?'
- Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk,
- As all but empty heart and weariness
- And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her,
- And bare her by main violence to the board,
- And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.'
- 'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat
- Till yonder man upon the bier arise,
- And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!'
- (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,)
- 'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot,
- God's curse, with anger--often I myself,
- Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat:
- Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.'
- 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink
- Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it,
- And drink with me; and if he rise no more,
- I will not look at wine until I die.'
- At this he turned all red and paced his hall,
- Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip,
- And coming up close to her, said at last:
- 'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies,
- Take warning: yonder man is surely dead;
- And I compel all creatures to my will.
- Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one,
- Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn
- By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I,
- Beholding how ye butt against my wish,
- That I forbear you thus: cross me no more.
- At least put off to please me this poor gown,
- This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed:
- I love that beauty should go beautifully:
- For see ye not my gentlewomen here,
- How gay, how suited to the house of one
- Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?
- Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.'
- He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen
- Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom,
- Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue
- Played into green, and thicker down the front
- With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
- When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
- And with the dawn ascending lets the day
- Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.
- But Enid answered, harder to be moved
- Than hardest tyrants in their day of power,
- With life-long injuries burning unavenged,
- And now their hour has come; and Enid said:
- 'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
- And loved me serving in my father's hall:
- In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
- And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun:
- In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself,
- When now we rode upon this fatal quest
- Of honour, where no honour can be gained:
- And this poor gown I will not cast aside
- Until himself arise a living man,
- And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough:
- Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be:
- I never loved, can never love but him:
- Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
- He being as he is, to let me be.'
- Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall,
- And took his russet beard between his teeth;
- Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood
- Crying, 'I count it of no more avail,
- Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you;
- Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand,
- However lightly, smote her on the cheek.
- Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,
- And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it,
- Except he surely knew my lord was dead,'
- Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,
- As of a wild thing taken in the trap,
- Which sees the trapper coming through the wood.
- This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,
- (It lay beside him in the hollow shield),
- Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it
- Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball
- The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.
- So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.
- And all the men and women in the hall
- Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled
- Yelling as from a spectre, and the two
- Were left alone together, and he said:
- 'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;
- Done you more wrong: we both have undergone
- That trouble which has left me thrice your own:
- Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.
- And here I lay this penance on myself,
- Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn--
- You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,
- I heard you say, that you were no true wife:
- I swear I will not ask your meaning in it:
- I do believe yourself against yourself,
- And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'
- And Enid could not say one tender word,
- She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart:
- She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return
- And slay you; fly, your charger is without,
- My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you ride
- Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.'
- And moving out they found the stately horse,
- Who now no more a vassal to the thief,
- But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight,
- Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped
- With a low whinny toward the pair: and she
- Kissed the white star upon his noble front,
- Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse
- Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot
- She set her own and climbed; he turned his face
- And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms
- About him, and at once they rode away.
- And never yet, since high in Paradise
- O'er the four rivers the first roses blew,
- Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
- Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour
- Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart,
- And felt him hers again: she did not weep,
- But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist
- Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
- Before the useful trouble of the rain:
- Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes
- As not to see before them on the path,
- Right in the gateway of the bandit hold,
- A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance
- In rest, and made as if to fall upon him.
- Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood,
- She, with her mind all full of what had chanced,
- Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!'
- 'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she,
- Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd,
- Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again,
- 'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.'
- And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake:
- 'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love;
- I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm;
- And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him,
- Who love you, Prince, with something of the love
- Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.
- For once, when I was up so high in pride
- That I was halfway down the slope to Hell,
- By overthrowing me you threw me higher.
- Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round,
- And since I knew this Earl, when I myself
- Was half a bandit in my lawless hour,
- I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm
- (The King is close behind me) bidding him
- Disband himself, and scatter all his powers,
- Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.'
- 'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,'
- Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm
- Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field,
- Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,
- Were men and women staring and aghast,
- While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told
- How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.
- But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me,
- Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear
- Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured
- Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed,
- And hung his head, and halted in reply,
- Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,
- And after madness acted question asked:
- Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go
- To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,'
- 'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went.
- But Enid in their going had two fears,
- One from the bandit scattered in the field,
- And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,
- When Edyrn reined his charger at her side,
- She shrank a little. In a hollow land,
- From which old fires have broken, men may fear
- Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said:
- 'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause
- To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.
- Yourself were first the blameless cause to make
- My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood
- Break into furious flame; being repulsed
- By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought
- Until I overturned him; then set up
- (With one main purpose ever at my heart)
- My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;
- Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair,
- And, toppling over all antagonism,
- So waxed in pride, that I believed myself
- Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad:
- And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,
- I should have slain your father, seized yourself.
- I lived in hope that sometime you would come
- To these my lists with him whom best you loved;
- And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes
- The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,
- Behold me overturn and trample on him.
- Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,
- I should not less have killed him. And so you came,--
- But once you came,--and with your own true eyes
- Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one
- Speaks of a service done him) overthrow
- My proud self, and my purpose three years old,
- And set his foot upon me, and give me life.
- There was I broken down; there was I saved:
- Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life
- He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.
- And all the penance the Queen laid upon me
- Was but to rest awhile within her court;
- Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,
- And waiting to be treated like a wolf,
- Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,
- Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,
- Such fine reserve and noble reticence,
- Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace
- Of tenderest courtesy, that I began
- To glance behind me at my former life,
- And find that it had been the wolf's indeed:
- And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,
- Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,
- Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,
- Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.
- And you were often there about the Queen,
- But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;
- Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,
- But kept myself aloof till I was changed;
- And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.'
- He spoke, and Enid easily believed,
- Like simple noble natures, credulous
- Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,
- There most in those who most have done them ill.
- And when they reached the camp the King himself
- Advanced to greet them, and beholding her
- Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,
- But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held
- In converse for a little, and returned,
- And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,
- And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like,
- And showed an empty tent allotted her,
- And glancing for a minute, till he saw her
- Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said:
- 'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave
- To move to your own land, and there defend
- Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof,
- As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,
- By having looked too much through alien eyes,
- And wrought too long with delegated hands,
- Not used mine own: but now behold me come
- To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,
- With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked
- At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?
- This work of his is great and wonderful.
- His very face with change of heart is changed.
- The world will not believe a man repents:
- And this wise world of ours is mainly right.
- Full seldom doth a man repent, or use
- Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
- Of blood and custom wholly out of him,
- And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.
- Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart
- As I will weed this land before I go.
- I, therefore, made him of our Table Round,
- Not rashly, but have proved him everyway
- One of our noblest, our most valorous,
- Sanest and most obedient: and indeed
- This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself
- After a life of violence, seems to me
- A thousand-fold more great and wonderful
- Than if some knight of mine, risking his life,
- My subject with my subjects under him,
- Should make an onslaught single on a realm
- Of robbers, though he slew them one by one,
- And were himself nigh wounded to the death.'
- So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt
- His work was neither great nor wonderful,
- And past to Enid's tent; and thither came
- The King's own leech to look into his hurt;
- And Enid tended on him there; and there
- Her constant motion round him, and the breath
- Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,
- Filled all the genial courses of his blood
- With deeper and with ever deeper love,
- As the south-west that blowing Bala lake
- Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.
- But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,
- The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes
- On each of all whom Uther left in charge
- Long since, to guard the justice of the King:
- He looked and found them wanting; and as now
- Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills
- To keep him bright and clean as heretofore,
- He rooted out the slothful officer
- Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,
- And in their chairs set up a stronger race
- With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men
- To till the wastes, and moving everywhere
- Cleared the dark places and let in the law,
- And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.
- Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past
- With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.
- There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,
- And clothed her in apparel like the day.
- And though Geraint could never take again
- That comfort from their converse which he took
- Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon,
- He rested well content that all was well.
- Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,
- And fifty knights rode with them to the shores
- Of Severn, and they past to their own land.
- And there he kept the justice of the King
- So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts
- Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died:
- And being ever foremost in the chase,
- And victor at the tilt and tournament,
- They called him the great Prince and man of men.
- But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call
- Enid the Fair, a grateful people named
- Enid the Good; and in their halls arose
- The cry of children, Enids and Geraints
- Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more,
- But rested in her fealty, till he crowned
- A happy life with a fair death, and fell
- Against the heathen of the Northern Sea
- In battle, fighting for the blameless King.
- Balin and Balan
- Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot
- In that first war, and had his realm restored
- But rendered tributary, failed of late
- To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called
- His treasurer, one of many years, and spake,
- 'Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,
- Lest we should set one truer on his throne.
- Man's word is God in man.'
- His Baron said
- 'We go but harken: there be two strange knights
- Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side,
- A mile beneath the forest, challenging
- And overthrowing every knight who comes.
- Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass,
- And send them to thee?'
- Arthur laughed upon him.
- 'Old friend, too old to be so young, depart,
- Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,
- Until they find a lustier than themselves.'
- So these departed. Early, one fair dawn,
- The light-winged spirit of his youth returned
- On Arthur's heart; he armed himself and went,
- So coming to the fountain-side beheld
- Balin and Balan sitting statuelike,
- Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,
- From underneath a plume of lady-fern,
- Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it.
- And on the right of Balin Balin's horse
- Was fast beside an alder, on the left
- Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree.
- 'Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?'
- Balin and Balan answered 'For the sake
- Of glory; we be mightier men than all
- In Arthur's court; that also have we proved;
- For whatsoever knight against us came
- Or I or he have easily overthrown.'
- 'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's hall,
- But rather proven in his Paynim wars
- Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not,
- Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.'
- And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down,
- And lightly so returned, and no man knew.
- Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside
- The carolling water set themselves again,
- And spake no word until the shadow turned;
- When from the fringe of coppice round them burst
- A spangled pursuivant, and crying 'Sirs,
- Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,'
- They followed; whom when Arthur seeing asked
- 'Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?'
- Balin the stillness of a minute broke
- Saying 'An unmelodious name to thee,
- Balin, "the Savage"--that addition thine--
- My brother and my better, this man here,
- Balan. I smote upon the naked skull
- A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand
- Was gauntleted, half slew him; for I heard
- He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath
- Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes.
- I have not lived my life delightsomely:
- For I that did that violence to thy thrall,
- Had often wrought some fury on myself,
- Saving for Balan: those three kingless years
- Have past--were wormwood-bitter to me. King,
- Methought that if we sat beside the well,
- And hurled to ground what knight soever spurred
- Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back,
- And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine
- Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said.
- Not so--not all. A man of thine today
- Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?'
- Said Arthur 'Thou hast ever spoken truth;
- Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie.
- Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou
- Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move
- To music with thine Order and the King.
- Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands
- Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!'
- Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall,
- The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven
- With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth
- Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers,
- Along the walls and down the board; they sat,
- And cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang,
- Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon
- Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made
- Those banners of twelve battles overhead
- Stir, as they stirred of old, when Arthur's host
- Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won.
- Then Balan added to their Order lived
- A wealthier life than heretofore with these
- And Balin, till their embassage returned.
- 'Sir King' they brought report 'we hardly found,
- So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall
- Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once
- A Christless foe of thine as ever dashed
- Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm
- Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King
- Took, as in rival heat, to holy things;
- And finds himself descended from the Saint
- Arimathaean Joseph; him who first
- Brought the great faith to Britain over seas;
- He boasts his life as purer than thine own;
- Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat;
- Hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets
- Or dame or damsel enter at his gates
- Lest he should be polluted. This gray King
- Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders--yea--
- Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,
- Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,
- And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought
- By holy Joseph thither, that same spear
- Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.
- He much amazed us; after, when we sought
- The tribute, answered "I have quite foregone
- All matters of this world: Garlon, mine heir,
- Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave
- With much ado, railing at thine and thee.
- 'But when we left, in those deep woods we found
- A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind,
- Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us
- Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there
- Reported of some demon in the woods
- Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues
- From all his fellows, lived alone, and came
- To learn black magic, and to hate his kind
- With such a hate, that when he died, his soul
- Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life
- Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence,
- Strikes from behind. This woodman showed the cave
- From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt.
- We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.'
- Then Arthur, 'Let who goes before me, see
- He do not fall behind me: foully slain
- And villainously! who will hunt for me
- This demon of the woods?' Said Balan, 'I'!
- So claimed the quest and rode away, but first,
- Embracing Balin, 'Good my brother, hear!
- Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone
- Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends,
- Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside,
- Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream
- That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself.
- Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they
- To speak no evil. Truly save for fears,
- My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship
- Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them,
- Be one indeed: consider them, and all
- Their bearing in their common bond of love,
- No more of hatred than in Heaven itself,
- No more of jealousy than in Paradise.'
- So Balan warned, and went; Balin remained:
- Who--for but three brief moons had glanced away
- From being knighted till he smote the thrall,
- And faded from the presence into years
- Of exile--now would strictlier set himself
- To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy,
- Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round
- Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile
- In passing, and a transitory word
- Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem
- From being smiled at happier in themselves--
- Sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height,
- That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak
- Sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star;
- For one from out his village lately climed
- And brought report of azure lands and fair,
- Far seen to left and right; and he himself
- Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet
- Up from the base: so Balin marvelling oft
- How far beyond him Lancelot seemed to move,
- Groaned, and at times would mutter, 'These be gifts,
- Born with the blood, not learnable, divine,
- Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten--well--
- In those fierce wars, struck hard--and had I crowned
- With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew--
- So--better!--But this worship of the Queen,
- That honour too wherein she holds him--this,
- This was the sunshine that hath given the man
- A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest,
- And strength against all odds, and what the King
- So prizes--overprizes--gentleness.
- Her likewise would I worship an I might.
- I never can be close with her, as he
- That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King
- To let me bear some token of his Queen
- Whereon to gaze, remembering her--forget
- My heats and violences? live afresh?
- What, if the Queen disdained to grant it! nay
- Being so stately-gentle, would she make
- My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace
- She greeted my return! Bold will I be--
- Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere,
- In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield,
- Langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.'
- And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said
- 'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was bold, and asked
- To bear her own crown-royal upon shield,
- Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King,
- Who answered 'Thou shalt put the crown to use.
- The crown is but the shadow of the King,
- And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it,
- So this will help him of his violences!'
- 'No shadow' said Sir Balin 'O my Queen,
- But light to me! no shadow, O my King,
- But golden earnest of a gentler life!'
- So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights
- Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world
- Made music, and he felt his being move
- In music with his Order, and the King.
- The nightingale, full-toned in middle May,
- Hath ever and anon a note so thin
- It seems another voice in other groves;
- Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath,
- The music in him seemed to change, and grow
- Faint and far-off.
- And once he saw the thrall
- His passion half had gauntleted to death,
- That causer of his banishment and shame,
- Smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously:
- His arm half rose to strike again, but fell:
- The memory of that cognizance on shield
- Weighted it down, but in himself he moaned:
- 'Too high this mount of Camelot for me:
- These high-set courtesies are not for me.
- Shall I not rather prove the worse for these?
- Fierier and stormier from restraining, break
- Into some madness even before the Queen?'
- Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home,
- And glancing on the window, when the gloom
- Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame
- That rages in the woodland far below,
- So when his moods were darkened, court and King
- And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall
- Shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove
- To learn the graces of their Table, fought
- Hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace.
- Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat
- Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall.
- A walk of roses ran from door to door;
- A walk of lilies crost it to the bower:
- And down that range of roses the great Queen
- Came with slow steps, the morning on her face;
- And all in shadow from the counter door
- Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once,
- As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced
- The long white walk of lilies toward the bower.
- Followed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her 'Prince,
- Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen,
- As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?'
- To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth,
- 'Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.'
- 'Yea so' she said 'but so to pass me by--
- So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself,
- Whom all men rate the king of courtesy.
- Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.'
- Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers
- 'Yea--for a dream. Last night methought I saw
- That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand
- In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark,
- And all the light upon her silver face
- Flowed from the spiritual lily that she held.
- Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away:
- For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush
- As hardly tints the blossom of the quince
- Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.'
- 'Sweeter to me' she said 'this garden rose
- Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still
- The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May.
- Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers
- In those fair days--not all as cool as these,
- Though season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?
- Our noble King will send thee his own leech--
- Sick? or for any matter angered at me?'
- Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt
- Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue
- Changed at his gaze: so turning side by side
- They past, and Balin started from his bower.
- 'Queen? subject? but I see not what I see.
- Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear.
- My father hath begotten me in his wrath.
- I suffer from the things before me, know,
- Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight;
- A churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom
- Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield,
- Nor stayed to crave permission of the King,
- But, mad for strange adventure, dashed away.
- He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw
- The fountain where they sat together, sighed
- 'Was I not better there with him?' and rode
- The skyless woods, but under open blue
- Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough
- Wearily hewing. 'Churl, thine axe!' he cried,
- Descended, and disjointed it at a blow:
- To whom the woodman uttered wonderingly
- 'Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods
- If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried
- 'Him, or the viler devil who plays his part,
- To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.'
- 'Nay' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth,
- I saw the flash of him but yestereven.
- And some do say that our Sir Garlon too
- Hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen.
- Look to the cave.' But Balin answered him
- 'Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl,
- Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him,
- Now with slack rein and careless of himself,
- Now with dug spur and raving at himself,
- Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode;
- So marked not on his right a cavern-chasm
- Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within,
- The whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks
- Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor,
- Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night
- Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell.
- He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all
- Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within,
- Past eastward from the falling sun. At once
- He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud
- And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear,
- Shot from behind him, ran along the ground.
- Sideways he started from the path, and saw,
- With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape,
- A light of armour by him flash, and pass
- And vanish in the woods; and followed this,
- But all so blind in rage that unawares
- He burst his lance against a forest bough,
- Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled
- Far, till the castle of a King, the hall
- Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped
- With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong;
- The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss,
- The battlement overtopt with ivytods,
- A home of bats, in every tower an owl.
- Then spake the men of Pellam crying 'Lord,
- Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?'
- Said Balin 'For the fairest and the best
- Of ladies living gave me this to bear.'
- So stalled his horse, and strode across the court,
- But found the greetings both of knight and King
- Faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves
- Laid their green faces flat against the panes,
- Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without
- Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within,
- Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise asked
- 'Why wear ye that crown-royal?' Balin said
- 'The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all,
- As fairest, best and purest, granted me
- To bear it!' Such a sound (for Arthur's knights
- Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes
- The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears
- A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds,
- Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled.
- 'Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best,
- Best, purest? thou from Arthur's hall, and yet
- So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these
- So far besotted that they fail to see
- This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame?
- Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.'
- A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed
- With holy Joseph's legend, on his right
- Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea
- And ship and sail and angels blowing on it:
- And one was rough with wattling, and the walls
- Of that low church he built at Glastonbury.
- This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl,
- Through memory of that token on the shield
- Relaxed his hold: 'I will be gentle' he thought
- 'And passing gentle' caught his hand away,
- Then fiercely to Sir Garlon 'Eyes have I
- That saw today the shadow of a spear,
- Shot from behind me, run along the ground;
- Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws
- From homage to the best and purest, might,
- Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine,
- Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure
- To mouth so huge a foulness--to thy guest,
- Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk!
- Let be! no more!'
- But not the less by night
- The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest,
- Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves
- Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs
- Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met
- The scorner in the castle court, and fain,
- For hate and loathing, would have past him by;
- But when Sir Garlon uttered mocking-wise;
- 'What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?'
- His countenance blackened, and his forehead veins
- Bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath
- The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery 'Ha!
- So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,'
- Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew
- Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones.
- Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell,
- And Balin by the banneret of his helm
- Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry
- Sounded across the court, and--men-at-arms,
- A score with pointed lances, making at him--
- He dashed the pummel at the foremost face,
- Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet
- Wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked
- The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide
- And inward to the wall; he stept behind;
- Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves
- Howling; but while he stared about the shrine,
- In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints,
- Beheld before a golden altar lie
- The longest lance his eyes had ever seen,
- Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon
- Pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it,
- Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth;
- Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side
- The blindfold rummage buried in the walls
- Might echo, ran the counter path, and found
- His charger, mounted on him and away.
- An arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left,
- One overhead; and Pellam's feeble cry
- 'Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things
- With earthly uses'--made him quickly dive
- Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile
- Of dense and open, till his goodly horse,
- Arising wearily at a fallen oak,
- Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground.
- Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad,
- Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed,
- Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck,
- Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought
- 'I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me,
- Thee will I bear no more,' high on a branch
- Hung it, and turned aside into the woods,
- And there in gloom cast himself all along,
- Moaning 'My violences, my violences!'
- But now the wholesome music of the wood
- Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark,
- A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode
- The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire.
- 'The fire of Heaven has killed the barren cold,
- And kindled all the plain and all the wold.
- The new leaf ever pushes off the old.
- The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.
- 'Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire--
- Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire,
- Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire!
- The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.
- 'The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways.
- The wayside blossoms open to the blaze.
- The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.
- The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.
- 'The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good,
- And starve not thou this fire within thy blood,
- But follow Vivien through the fiery flood!
- The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!'
- Then turning to her Squire 'This fire of Heaven,
- This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again,
- And beat the cross to earth, and break the King
- And all his Table.'
- Then they reached a glade,
- Where under one long lane of cloudless air
- Before another wood, the royal crown
- Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm
- Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire;
- Amazed were these; 'Lo there' she cried--'a crown--
- Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall,
- And there a horse! the rider? where is he?
- See, yonder lies one dead within the wood.
- Not dead; he stirs!--but sleeping. I will speak.
- Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest,
- Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds.
- But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall,
- To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame,
- A lustful King, who sought to win my love
- Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode,
- Hath suffered misadventure, and my squire
- Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince,
- Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King,
- Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid,
- To get me shelter for my maidenhood.
- I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield,
- And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence.'
- And Balin rose, 'Thither no more! nor Prince
- Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed
- The cognizance she gave me: here I dwell
- Savage among the savage woods, here die--
- Die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre
- Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord.
- O me, that such a name as Guinevere's,
- Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up,
- And been thereby uplifted, should through me,
- My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.'
- Thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon
- Sighed all as suddenly. Said Balin to her
- 'Is this thy courtesy--to mock me, ha?
- Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again she sighed
- 'Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh
- When sick at heart, when rather we should weep.
- I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest,
- And now full loth am I to break thy dream,
- But thou art man, and canst abide a truth,
- Though bitter. Hither, boy--and mark me well.
- Dost thou remember at Caerleon once--
- A year ago--nay, then I love thee not--
- Ay, thou rememberest well--one summer dawn--
- By the great tower--Caerleon upon Usk--
- Nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord,
- The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt
- In amorous homage--knelt--what else?--O ay
- Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair
- And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress
- Had wandered from her own King's golden head,
- And lost itself in darkness, till she cried--
- I thought the great tower would crash down on both--
- "Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips,
- Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word
- Is mere white truth in simple nakedness,
- Saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak,
- So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints,
- The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven,
- Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me!
- Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would'st,
- Do these more shame than these have done themselves.'
- She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he,
- Remembering that dark bower at Camelot,
- Breathed in a dismal whisper 'It is truth.'
- Sunnily she smiled 'And even in this lone wood,
- Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this.
- Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues,
- As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me,
- And we will speak at first exceeding low.
- Meet is it the good King be not deceived.
- See now, I set thee high on vantage ground,
- From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like
- Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.'
- She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,
- He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell,
- Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield,
- Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown,
- Stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him
- Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,
- The told-of, and the teller.
- That weird yell,
- Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast,
- Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurking there
- (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought
- 'The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!'
- Then nearing 'Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,
- And tramples on the goodly shield to show
- His loathing of our Order and the Queen.
- My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man
- Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake not word,
- But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire,
- And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed
- In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear,
- Reputed to be red with sinless blood,
- Redded at once with sinful, for the point
- Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked
- The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin's horse
- Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed,
- Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man
- Inward, and either fell, and swooned away.
- Then to her Squire muttered the damsel 'Fools!
- This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen:
- Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved
- And thus foamed over at a rival name:
- But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,
- Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down--
- Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk--
- And yet hast often pleaded for my love--
- See what I see, be thou where I have been,
- Or else Sir Chick--dismount and loose their casques
- I fain would know what manner of men they be.'
- And when the Squire had loosed them, 'Goodly!--look!
- They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,
- And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,
- Dead for one heifer!
- Then the gentle Squire
- 'I hold them happy, so they died for love:
- And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog,
- I too could die, as now I live, for thee.'
- 'Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. 'I better prize
- The living dog than the dead lion: away!
- I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.'
- Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak,
- And bounding forward 'Leave them to the wolves.'
- But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,
- Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,
- Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan,
- Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay,
- And on his dying brother cast himself
- Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt
- One near him; all at once they found the world,
- Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail
- And drawing down the dim disastrous brow
- That o'er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake;
- 'O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died
- To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.
- Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why
- Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?'
- Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,
- All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again.
- 'Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall:
- This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not.
- And one said "Eat in peace! a liar is he,
- And hates thee for the tribute!" this good knight
- Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,
- And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,
- Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.
- I well believe this damsel, and the one
- Who stood beside thee even now, the same.
- "She dwells among the woods" he said "and meets
- And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell."
- Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.
- Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen."
- 'O brother' answered Balin 'woe is me!
- My madness all thy life has been thy doom,
- Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now
- The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.
- Goodnight! for we shall never bid again
- Goodmorrow--Dark my doom was here, and dark
- It will be there. I see thee now no more.
- I would not mine again should darken thine,
- Goodnight, true brother.
- Balan answered low
- 'Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there!
- We two were born together, and we die
- Together by one doom:' and while he spoke
- Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep
- With Balin, either locked in either's arm.
- Merlin and Vivien
- A storm was coming, but the winds were still,
- And in the wild woods of Broceliande,
- Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old
- It looked a tower of ivied masonwork,
- At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay.
- For he that always bare in bitter grudge
- The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark
- The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,
- A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm
- Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say
- That out of naked knightlike purity
- Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl
- But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,
- Sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven
- Love most, but neither marry, nor are given
- In marriage, angels of our Lord's report.
- He ceased, and then--for Vivien sweetly said
- (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),
- 'And is the fair example followed, Sir,
- In Arthur's household?'--answered innocently:
- 'Ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold
- It more beseems the perfect virgin knight
- To worship woman as true wife beyond
- All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.
- They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.
- So passionate for an utter purity
- Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,
- For Arthur bound them not to singleness.
- Brave hearts and clean! and yet--God guide them--young.'
- Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup
- Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose
- To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,
- Turned to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass;
- And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear
- The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure
- Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.'
- And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully,
- 'Why fear? because that fostered at thy court
- I savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no.
- As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear,
- So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear.
- My father died in battle against the King,
- My mother on his corpse in open field;
- She bore me there, for born from death was I
- Among the dead and sown upon the wind--
- And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes,
- That old true filth, and bottom of the well
- Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine
- And maxims of the mud! "This Arthur pure!
- Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made
- Gives him the lie! There is no being pure,
- My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?"--
- If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood.
- Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back,
- When I have ferreted out their burrowings,
- The hearts of all this Order in mine hand--
- Ay--so that fate and craft and folly close,
- Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard.
- To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine
- Is cleaner-fashioned--Well, I loved thee first,
- That warps the wit.'
- Loud laughed the graceless Mark,
- But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged
- Low in the city, and on a festal day
- When Guinevere was crossing the great hall
- Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed.
- 'Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought?
- Rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose
- And stood with folded hands and downward eyes
- Of glancing corner, and all meekly said,
- 'None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid!
- My father died in battle for thy King,
- My mother on his corpse--in open field,
- The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse--
- Poor wretch--no friend!--and now by Mark the King
- For that small charm of feature mine, pursued--
- If any such be mine--I fly to thee.
- Save, save me thou--Woman of women--thine
- The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power,
- Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white
- Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King--
- Help, for he follows! take me to thyself!
- O yield me shelter for mine innocency
- Among thy maidens!
- Here her slow sweet eyes
- Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose
- Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood
- All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves
- In green and gold, and plumed with green replied,
- 'Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame
- We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him
- Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know.
- Nay--we believe all evil of thy Mark--
- Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour
- We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot.
- He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained;
- We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.'
- She past; and Vivien murmured after 'Go!
- I bide the while.' Then through the portal-arch
- Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise,
- As one that labours with an evil dream,
- Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse.
- 'Is that the Lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt:
- Courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand--
- That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been
- A clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand!
- Let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk
- For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine.
- For such a supersensual sensual bond
- As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth--
- Touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars!
- Ah little rat that borest in the dyke
- Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep
- Down upon far-off cities while they dance--
- Or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me
- These--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream
- The mortal dream that never yet was mine--
- Ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me!
- Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell!
- For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat,
- And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know,
- Will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.'
- Yet while they rode together down the plain,
- Their talk was all of training, terms of art,
- Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure.
- 'She is too noble' he said 'to check at pies,
- Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.'
- Here when the Queen demanded as by chance
- 'Know ye the stranger woman?' 'Let her be,'
- Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off
- The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells,
- Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up
- Their eager faces, wondering at the strength,
- Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird
- Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time
- As once--of old--among the flowers--they rode.
- But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen
- Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched
- And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept
- And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest
- Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest,
- Arriving at a time of golden rest,
- And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear,
- While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet,
- And no quest came, but all was joust and play,
- Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be.
- Thereafter as an enemy that has left
- Death in the living waters, and withdrawn,
- The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court.
- She hated all the knights, and heard in thought
- Their lavish comment when her name was named.
- For once, when Arthur walking all alone,
- Vext at a rumour issued from herself
- Of some corruption crept among his knights,
- Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair,
- Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood
- With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice,
- And fluttered adoration, and at last
- With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more
- Than who should prize him most; at which the King
- Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by:
- But one had watched, and had not held his peace:
- It made the laughter of an afternoon
- That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.
- And after that, she set herself to gain
- Him, the most famous man of all those times,
- Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts,
- Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls,
- Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens;
- The people called him Wizard; whom at first
- She played about with slight and sprightly talk,
- And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points
- Of slander, glancing here and grazing there;
- And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer
- Would watch her at her petulance, and play,
- Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh
- As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew
- Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she,
- Perceiving that she was but half disdained,
- Began to break her sports with graver fits,
- Turn red or pale, would often when they met
- Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him
- With such a fixt devotion, that the old man,
- Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times
- Would flatter his own wish in age for love,
- And half believe her true: for thus at times
- He wavered; but that other clung to him,
- Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.
- Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy;
- He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found
- A doom that ever poised itself to fall,
- An ever-moaning battle in the mist,
- World-war of dying flesh against the life,
- Death in all life and lying in all love,
- The meanest having power upon the highest,
- And the high purpose broken by the worm.
- So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach;
- There found a little boat, and stept into it;
- And Vivien followed, but he marked her not.
- She took the helm and he the sail; the boat
- Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps,
- And touching Breton sands, they disembarked.
- And then she followed Merlin all the way,
- Even to the wild woods of Broceliande.
- For Merlin once had told her of a charm,
- The which if any wrought on anyone
- With woven paces and with waving arms,
- The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie
- Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower,
- From which was no escape for evermore;
- And none could find that man for evermore,
- Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm
- Coming and going, and he lay as dead
- And lost to life and use and name and fame.
- And Vivien ever sought to work the charm
- Upon the great Enchanter of the Time,
- As fancying that her glory would be great
- According to his greatness whom she quenched.
- There lay she all her length and kissed his feet,
- As if in deepest reverence and in love.
- A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe
- Of samite without price, that more exprest
- Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs,
- In colour like the satin-shining palm
- On sallows in the windy gleams of March:
- And while she kissed them, crying, 'Trample me,
- Dear feet, that I have followed through the world,
- And I will pay you worship; tread me down
- And I will kiss you for it;' he was mute:
- So dark a forethought rolled about his brain,
- As on a dull day in an Ocean cave
- The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall
- In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up
- A face of sad appeal, and spake and said,
- 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and again,
- 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and once more,
- 'Great Master, do ye love me?' he was mute.
- And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel,
- Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat,
- Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet
- Together, curved an arm about his neck,
- Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand
- Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf,
- Made with her right a comb of pearl to part
- The lists of such a board as youth gone out
- Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said,
- Not looking at her, 'Who are wise in love
- Love most, say least,' and Vivien answered quick,
- 'I saw the little elf-god eyeless once
- In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot:
- But neither eyes nor tongue--O stupid child!
- Yet you are wise who say it; let me think
- Silence is wisdom: I am silent then,
- And ask no kiss;' then adding all at once,
- 'And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew
- The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard
- Across her neck and bosom to her knee,
- And called herself a gilded summer fly
- Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web,
- Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood
- Without one word. So Vivien called herself,
- But rather seemed a lovely baleful star
- Veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled:
- 'To what request for what strange boon,' he said,
- 'Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries,
- O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks,
- For these have broken up my melancholy.'
- And Vivien answered smiling saucily,
- 'What, O my Master, have ye found your voice?
- I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last!
- But yesterday you never opened lip,
- Except indeed to drink: no cup had we:
- In mine own lady palms I culled the spring
- That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft,
- And made a pretty cup of both my hands
- And offered you it kneeling: then you drank
- And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word;
- O no more thanks than might a goat have given
- With no more sign of reverence than a beard.
- And when we halted at that other well,
- And I was faint to swooning, and you lay
- Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those
- Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know
- That Vivien bathed your feet before her own?
- And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood
- And all this morning when I fondled you:
- Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange--
- How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise,
- But such a silence is more wise than kind.'
- And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said:
- 'O did ye never lie upon the shore,
- And watch the curled white of the coming wave
- Glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks?
- Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable,
- Dark in the glass of some presageful mood,
- Had I for three days seen, ready to fall.
- And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court
- To break the mood. You followed me unasked;
- And when I looked, and saw you following me still,
- My mind involved yourself the nearest thing
- In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth?
- You seemed that wave about to break upon me
- And sweep me from my hold upon the world,
- My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child.
- Your pretty sports have brightened all again.
- And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice,
- Once for wrong done you by confusion, next
- For thanks it seems till now neglected, last
- For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask;
- And take this boon so strange and not so strange.'
- And Vivien answered smiling mournfully:
- 'O not so strange as my long asking it,
- Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange,
- Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours.
- I ever feared ye were not wholly mine;
- And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong.
- The people call you prophet: let it be:
- But not of those that can expound themselves.
- Take Vivien for expounder; she will call
- That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours
- No presage, but the same mistrustful mood
- That makes you seem less noble than yourself,
- Whenever I have asked this very boon,
- Now asked again: for see you not, dear love,
- That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed
- Your fancy when ye saw me following you,
- Must make me fear still more you are not mine,
- Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine,
- And make me wish still more to learn this charm
- Of woven paces and of waving hands,
- As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me.
- The charm so taught will charm us both to rest.
- For, grant me some slight power upon your fate,
- I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust,
- Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine.
- And therefore be as great as ye are named,
- Not muffled round with selfish reticence.
- How hard you look and how denyingly!
- O, if you think this wickedness in me,
- That I should prove it on you unawares,
- That makes me passing wrathful; then our bond
- Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not,
- By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth,
- As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk:
- O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I,
- If these unwitty wandering wits of mine,
- Even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream,
- Have tript on such conjectural treachery--
- May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell
- Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat,
- If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon,
- Till which I scarce can yield you all I am;
- And grant my re-reiterated wish,
- The great proof of your love: because I think,
- However wise, ye hardly know me yet.'
- And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said,
- 'I never was less wise, however wise,
- Too curious Vivien, though you talk of trust,
- Than when I told you first of such a charm.
- Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this,
- Too much I trusted when I told you that,
- And stirred this vice in you which ruined man
- Through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er
- In children a great curiousness be well,
- Who have to learn themselves and all the world,
- In you, that are no child, for still I find
- Your face is practised when I spell the lines,
- I call it,--well, I will not call it vice:
- But since you name yourself the summer fly,
- I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat,
- That settles, beaten back, and beaten back
- Settles, till one could yield for weariness:
- But since I will not yield to give you power
- Upon my life and use and name and fame,
- Why will ye never ask some other boon?
- Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.'
- And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid
- That ever bided tryst at village stile,
- Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears:
- 'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid;
- Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven
- Who feels no heart to ask another boon.
- I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme
- Of "trust me not at all or all in all."
- I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once,
- And it shall answer for me. Listen to it.
- "In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
- Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:
- Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
- "It is the little rift within the lute,
- That by and by will make the music mute,
- And ever widening slowly silence all.
- "The little rift within the lover's lute
- Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
- That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
- "It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
- But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
- And trust me not at all or all in all."
- O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?'
- And Merlin looked and half believed her true,
- So tender was her voice, so fair her face,
- So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears
- Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower:
- And yet he answered half indignantly:
- 'Far other was the song that once I heard
- By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit:
- For here we met, some ten or twelve of us,
- To chase a creature that was current then
- In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns.
- It was the time when first the question rose
- About the founding of a Table Round,
- That was to be, for love of God and men
- And noble deeds, the flower of all the world.
- And each incited each to noble deeds.
- And while we waited, one, the youngest of us,
- We could not keep him silent, out he flashed,
- And into such a song, such fire for fame,
- Such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down
- To such a stern and iron-clashing close,
- That when he stopt we longed to hurl together,
- And should have done it; but the beauteous beast
- Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet,
- And like a silver shadow slipt away
- Through the dim land; and all day long we rode
- Through the dim land against a rushing wind,
- That glorious roundel echoing in our ears,
- And chased the flashes of his golden horns
- Till they vanished by the fairy well
- That laughs at iron--as our warriors did--
- Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry,
- "Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword,
- It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there
- We lost him: such a noble song was that.
- But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme,
- I felt as though you knew this cursed charm,
- Were proving it on me, and that I lay
- And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.'
- And Vivien answered smiling mournfully:
- 'O mine have ebbed away for evermore,
- And all through following you to this wild wood,
- Because I saw you sad, to comfort you.
- Lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount
- As high as woman in her selfless mood.
- And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song,
- Take one verse more--the lady speaks it--this:
- '"My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine,
- For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine,
- And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine.
- So trust me not at all or all in all."
- 'Says she not well? and there is more--this rhyme
- Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen,
- That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt;
- Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept.
- But nevermore the same two sister pearls
- Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other
- On her white neck--so is it with this rhyme:
- It lives dispersedly in many hands,
- And every minstrel sings it differently;
- Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls:
- "Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love."
- Yea! Love, though Love were of the grossest, carves
- A portion from the solid present, eats
- And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame,
- The Fame that follows death is nothing to us;
- And what is Fame in life but half-disfame,
- And counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself
- Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son,
- And since ye seem the Master of all Art,
- They fain would make you Master of all vice.'
- And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said,
- 'I once was looking for a magic weed,
- And found a fair young squire who sat alone,
- Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood,
- And then was painting on it fancied arms,
- Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun
- In dexter chief; the scroll "I follow fame."
- And speaking not, but leaning over him
- I took his brush and blotted out the bird,
- And made a Gardener putting in a graff,
- With this for motto, "Rather use than fame."
- You should have seen him blush; but afterwards
- He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien,
- For you, methinks you think you love me well;
- For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love
- Should have some rest and pleasure in himself,
- Not ever be too curious for a boon,
- Too prurient for a proof against the grain
- Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men,
- Being but ampler means to serve mankind,
- Should have small rest or pleasure in herself,
- But work as vassal to the larger love,
- That dwarfs the petty love of one to one.
- Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again
- Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon!
- What other? for men sought to prove me vile,
- Because I fain had given them greater wits:
- And then did Envy call me Devil's son:
- The sick weak beast seeking to help herself
- By striking at her better, missed, and brought
- Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart.
- Sweet were the days when I was all unknown,
- But when my name was lifted up, the storm
- Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it.
- Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame,
- Yet needs must work my work. That other fame,
- To one at least, who hath not children, vague,
- The cackle of the unborn about the grave,
- I cared not for it: a single misty star,
- Which is the second in a line of stars
- That seem a sword beneath a belt of three,
- I never gazed upon it but I dreamt
- Of some vast charm concluded in that star
- To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear,
- Giving you power upon me through this charm,
- That you might play me falsely, having power,
- However well ye think ye love me now
- (As sons of kings loving in pupilage
- Have turned to tyrants when they came to power)
- I rather dread the loss of use than fame;
- If you--and not so much from wickedness,
- As some wild turn of anger, or a mood
- Of overstrained affection, it may be,
- To keep me all to your own self,--or else
- A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,--
- Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.'
- And Vivien answered smiling as in wrath:
- 'Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good!
- Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out;
- And being found take heed of Vivien.
- A woman and not trusted, doubtless I
- Might feel some sudden turn of anger born
- Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet
- Is accurate too, for this full love of mine
- Without the full heart back may merit well
- Your term of overstrained. So used as I,
- My daily wonder is, I love at all.
- And as to woman's jealousy, O why not?
- O to what end, except a jealous one,
- And one to make me jealous if I love,
- Was this fair charm invented by yourself?
- I well believe that all about this world
- Ye cage a buxom captive here and there,
- Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower
- From which is no escape for evermore.'
- Then the great Master merrily answered her:
- 'Full many a love in loving youth was mine;
- I needed then no charm to keep them mine
- But youth and love; and that full heart of yours
- Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine;
- So live uncharmed. For those who wrought it first,
- The wrist is parted from the hand that waved,
- The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones
- Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear
- The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme?
- 'There lived a king in the most Eastern East,
- Less old than I, yet older, for my blood
- Hath earnest in it of far springs to be.
- A tawny pirate anchored in his port,
- Whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles;
- And passing one, at the high peep of dawn,
- He saw two cities in a thousand boats
- All fighting for a woman on the sea.
- And pushing his black craft among them all,
- He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off,
- With loss of half his people arrow-slain;
- A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful,
- They said a light came from her when she moved:
- And since the pirate would not yield her up,
- The King impaled him for his piracy;
- Then made her Queen: but those isle-nurtured eyes
- Waged such unwilling though successful war
- On all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned,
- And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew
- The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts;
- And beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt
- Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back
- That carry kings in castles, bowed black knees
- Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands,
- To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells.
- What wonder, being jealous, that he sent
- His horns of proclamation out through all
- The hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed
- To find a wizard who might teach the King
- Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen
- Might keep her all his own: to such a one
- He promised more than ever king has given,
- A league of mountain full of golden mines,
- A province with a hundred miles of coast,
- A palace and a princess, all for him:
- But on all those who tried and failed, the King
- Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it
- To keep the list low and pretenders back,
- Or like a king, not to be trifled with--
- Their heads should moulder on the city gates.
- And many tried and failed, because the charm
- Of nature in her overbore their own:
- And many a wizard brow bleached on the walls:
- And many weeks a troop of carrion crows
- Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.'
- And Vivien breaking in upon him, said:
- 'I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks,
- Thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyself.
- The lady never made unwilling war
- With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it,
- And made her good man jealous with good cause.
- And lived there neither dame nor damsel then
- Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame,
- I mean, as noble, as the Queen was fair?
- Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes,
- Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink,
- Or make her paler with a poisoned rose?
- Well, those were not our days: but did they find
- A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee?
- She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck
- Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes
- Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's
- On her new lord, her own, the first of men.
- He answered laughing, 'Nay, not like to me.
- At last they found--his foragers for charms--
- A little glassy-headed hairless man,
- Who lived alone in a great wild on grass;
- Read but one book, and ever reading grew
- So grated down and filed away with thought,
- So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin
- Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine.
- And since he kept his mind on one sole aim,
- Nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh,
- Nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall
- That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men
- Became a crystal, and he saw them through it,
- And heard their voices talk behind the wall,
- And learnt their elemental secrets, powers
- And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye
- Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud,
- And lashed it at the base with slanting storm;
- Or in the noon of mist and driving rain,
- When the lake whitened and the pinewood roared,
- And the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned
- The world to peace again: here was the man.
- And so by force they dragged him to the King.
- And then he taught the King to charm the Queen
- In such-wise, that no man could see her more,
- Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm,
- Coming and going, and she lay as dead,
- And lost all use of life: but when the King
- Made proffer of the league of golden mines,
- The province with a hundred miles of coast,
- The palace and the princess, that old man
- Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass,
- And vanished, and his book came down to me.'
- And Vivien answered smiling saucily:
- 'Ye have the book: the charm is written in it:
- Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once:
- For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest,
- With each chest locked and padlocked thirty-fold,
- And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound
- As after furious battle turfs the slain
- On some wild down above the windy deep,
- I yet should strike upon a sudden means
- To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm:
- Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then?'
- And smiling as a master smiles at one
- That is not of his school, nor any school
- But that where blind and naked Ignorance
- Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed,
- On all things all day long, he answered her:
- 'Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien!
- O ay, it is but twenty pages long,
- But every page having an ample marge,
- And every marge enclosing in the midst
- A square of text that looks a little blot,
- The text no larger than the limbs of fleas;
- And every square of text an awful charm,
- Writ in a language that has long gone by.
- So long, that mountains have arisen since
- With cities on their flanks--thou read the book!
- And ever margin scribbled, crost, and crammed
- With comment, densest condensation, hard
- To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights
- Of my long life have made it easy to me.
- And none can read the text, not even I;
- And none can read the comment but myself;
- And in the comment did I find the charm.
- O, the results are simple; a mere child
- Might use it to the harm of anyone,
- And never could undo it: ask no more:
- For though you should not prove it upon me,
- But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance,
- Assay it on some one of the Table Round,
- And all because ye dream they babble of you.'
- And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said:
- 'What dare the full-fed liars say of me?
- They ride abroad redressing human wrongs!
- They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn!
- They bound to holy vows of chastity!
- Were I not woman, I could tell a tale.
- But you are man, you well can understand
- The shame that cannot be explained for shame.
- Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!'
- Then answered Merlin careless of her words:
- 'You breathe but accusation vast and vague,
- Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know,
- Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!'
- And Vivien answered frowning wrathfully:
- 'O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him
- Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife
- And two fair babes, and went to distant lands;
- Was one year gone, and on returning found
- Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one
- But one hour old! What said the happy sire?'
- A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift.
- Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.'
- Then answered Merlin, 'Nay, I know the tale.
- Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame:
- Some cause had kept him sundered from his wife:
- One child they had: it lived with her: she died:
- His kinsman travelling on his own affair
- Was charged by Valence to bring home the child.
- He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth.'
- 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'overtrue a tale.
- What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore,
- That ardent man? "to pluck the flower in season,"
- So says the song, "I trow it is no treason."
- O Master, shall we call him overquick
- To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?'
- And Merlin answered, 'Overquick art thou
- To catch a loathly plume fallen from the wing
- Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey
- Is man's good name: he never wronged his bride.
- I know the tale. An angry gust of wind
- Puffed out his torch among the myriad-roomed
- And many-corridored complexities
- Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door,
- And darkling felt the sculptured ornament
- That wreathen round it made it seem his own;
- And wearied out made for the couch and slept,
- A stainless man beside a stainless maid;
- And either slept, nor knew of other there;
- Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose
- In Arthur's casement glimmered chastely down,
- Blushing upon them blushing, and at once
- He rose without a word and parted from her:
- But when the thing was blazed about the court,
- The brute world howling forced them into bonds,
- And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.'
- 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'that were likely too.
- What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale
- And of the horrid foulness that he wrought,
- The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ,
- Or some black wether of St Satan's fold.
- What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard,
- Among the knightly brasses of the graves,
- And by the cold Hic Jacets of the dead!'
- And Merlin answered careless of her charge,
- 'A sober man is Percivale and pure;
- But once in life was flustered with new wine,
- Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard;
- Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught
- And meant to stamp him with her master's mark;
- And that he sinned is not believable;
- For, look upon his face!--but if he sinned,
- The sin that practice burns into the blood,
- And not the one dark hour which brings remorse,
- Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be:
- Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns
- Are chanted in the minster, worse than all.
- But is your spleen frothed out, or have ye more?'
- And Vivien answered frowning yet in wrath:
- 'O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend
- Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen,
- I ask you, is it clamoured by the child,
- Or whispered in the corner? do ye know it?'
- To which he answered sadly, 'Yea, I know it.
- Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first,
- To fetch her, and she watched him from her walls.
- A rumour runs, she took him for the King,
- So fixt her fancy on him: let them be.
- But have ye no one word of loyal praise
- For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?'
- She answered with a low and chuckling laugh:
- 'Man! is he man at all, who knows and winks?
- Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks?
- By which the good King means to blind himself,
- And blinds himself and all the Table Round
- To all the foulness that they work. Myself
- Could call him (were it not for womanhood)
- The pretty, popular cause such manhood earns,
- Could call him the main cause of all their crime;
- Yea, were he not crowned King, coward, and fool.'
- Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said:
- 'O true and tender! O my liege and King!
- O selfless man and stainless gentleman,
- Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain
- Have all men true and leal, all women pure;
- How, in the mouths of base interpreters,
- From over-fineness not intelligible
- To things with every sense as false and foul
- As the poached filth that floods the middle street,
- Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!'
- But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne
- By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue
- Rage like a fire among the noblest names,
- Polluting, and imputing her whole self,
- Defaming and defacing, till she left
- Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean.
- Her words had issue other than she willed.
- He dragged his eyebrow bushes down, and made
- A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes,
- And muttered in himself, 'Tell her the charm!
- So, if she had it, would she rail on me
- To snare the next, and if she have it not
- So will she rail. What did the wanton say?
- "Not mount as high;" we scarce can sink as low:
- For men at most differ as Heaven and earth,
- But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.
- I know the Table Round, my friends of old;
- All brave, and many generous, and some chaste.
- She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies;
- I well believe she tempted them and failed,
- Being so bitter: for fine plots may fail,
- Though harlots paint their talk as well as face
- With colours of the heart that are not theirs.
- I will not let her know: nine tithes of times
- Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same.
- And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime
- Are pronest to it, and impute themselves,
- Wanting the mental range; or low desire
- Not to feel lowest makes them level all;
- Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain,
- To leave an equal baseness; and in this
- Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find
- Some stain or blemish in a name of note,
- Not grieving that their greatest are so small,
- Inflate themselves with some insane delight,
- And judge all nature from her feet of clay,
- Without the will to lift their eyes, and see
- Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire,
- And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.'
- He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part,
- Half-suffocated in the hoary fell
- And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin.
- But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood,
- And hearing 'harlot' muttered twice or thrice,
- Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood
- Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight,
- How from the rosy lips of life and love,
- Flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death!
- White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puffed
- Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clenched
- Went faltering sideways downward to her belt,
- And feeling; had she found a dagger there
- (For in a wink the false love turns to hate)
- She would have stabbed him; but she found it not:
- His eye was calm, and suddenly she took
- To bitter weeping like a beaten child,
- A long, long weeping, not consolable.
- Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs:
- 'O crueller than was ever told in tale,
- Or sung in song! O vainly lavished love!
- O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange,
- Or seeming shameful--for what shame in love,
- So love be true, and not as yours is--nothing
- Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust
- Who called her what he called her--all her crime,
- All--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.'
- She mused a little, and then clapt her hands
- Together with a wailing shriek, and said:
- 'Stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart!
- Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk!
- Killed with a word worse than a life of blows!
- I thought that he was gentle, being great:
- O God, that I had loved a smaller man!
- I should have found in him a greater heart.
- O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw
- The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light,
- Who loved to make men darker than they are,
- Because of that high pleasure which I had
- To seat you sole upon my pedestal
- Of worship--I am answered, and henceforth
- The course of life that seemed so flowery to me
- With you for guide and master, only you,
- Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short,
- And ending in a ruin--nothing left,
- But into some low cave to crawl, and there,
- If the wolf spare me, weep my life away,
- Killed with inutterable unkindliness.'
- She paused, she turned away, she hung her head,
- The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid
- Slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh,
- And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm
- In silence, while his anger slowly died
- Within him, till he let his wisdom go
- For ease of heart, and half believed her true:
- Called her to shelter in the hollow oak,
- 'Come from the storm,' and having no reply,
- Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face
- Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame;
- Then thrice essayed, by tenderest-touching terms,
- To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain.
- At last she let herself be conquered by him,
- And as the cageling newly flown returns,
- The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing
- Came to her old perch back, and settled there.
- There while she sat, half-falling from his knees,
- Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw
- The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet,
- About her, more in kindness than in love,
- The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm.
- But she dislinked herself at once and rose,
- Her arms upon her breast across, and stood,
- A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged,
- Upright and flushed before him: then she said:
- 'There must now be no passages of love
- Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore;
- Since, if I be what I am grossly called,
- What should be granted which your own gross heart
- Would reckon worth the taking? I will go.
- In truth, but one thing now--better have died
- Thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay--
- That proof of trust--so often asked in vain!
- How justly, after that vile term of yours,
- I find with grief! I might believe you then,
- Who knows? once more. Lo! what was once to me
- Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown
- The vast necessity of heart and life.
- Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear
- My fate or folly, passing gayer youth
- For one so old, must be to love thee still.
- But ere I leave thee let me swear once more
- That if I schemed against thy peace in this,
- May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send
- One flash, that, missing all things else, may make
- My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.'
- Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt
- (For now the storm was close above them) struck,
- Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining
- With darted spikes and splinters of the wood
- The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw
- The tree that shone white-listed through the gloom.
- But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath,
- And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork,
- And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps
- That followed, flying back and crying out,
- 'O Merlin, though you do not love me, save,
- Yet save me!' clung to him and hugged him close;
- And called him dear protector in her fright,
- Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,
- But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close.
- The pale blood of the wizard at her touch
- Took gayer colours, like an opal warmed.
- She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales:
- She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept
- Of petulancy; she called him lord and liege,
- Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,
- Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love
- Of her whole life; and ever overhead
- Bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch
- Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain
- Above them; and in change of glare and gloom
- Her eyes and neck glittering went and came;
- Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent,
- Moaning and calling out of other lands,
- Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more
- To peace; and what should not have been had been,
- For Merlin, overtalked and overworn,
- Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.
- Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm
- Of woven paces and of waving hands,
- And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,
- And lost to life and use and name and fame.
- Then crying 'I have made his glory mine,'
- And shrieking out 'O fool!' the harlot leapt
- Adown the forest, and the thicket closed
- Behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.'
- Lancelot and Elaine
- Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
- Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
- High in her chamber up a tower to the east
- Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
- Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
- Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
- Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
- A case of silk, and braided thereupon
- All the devices blazoned on the shield
- In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
- A border fantasy of branch and flower,
- And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
- Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
- Leaving her household and good father, climbed
- That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
- Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
- Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
- Now made a pretty history to herself
- Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
- And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
- Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
- That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
- That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
- And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
- And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
- Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
- And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.
- How came the lily maid by that good shield
- Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
- He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
- For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
- Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
- Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.
- For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
- Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
- Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
- A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
- Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
- For here two brothers, one a king, had met
- And fought together; but their names were lost;
- And each had slain his brother at a blow;
- And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
- And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
- And lichened into colour with the crags:
- And he, that once was king, had on a crown
- Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
- And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
- All in a misty moonshine, unawares
- Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull
- Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown
- Rolled into light, and turning on its rims
- Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:
- And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,
- And set it on his head, and in his heart
- Heard murmurs, 'Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.'
- Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems
- Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights,
- Saying, 'These jewels, whereupon I chanced
- Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's--
- For public use: henceforward let there be,
- Once every year, a joust for one of these:
- For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn
- Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow
- In use of arms and manhood, till we drive
- The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land
- Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus he spoke:
- And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still
- Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year,
- With purpose to present them to the Queen,
- When all were won; but meaning all at once
- To snare her royal fancy with a boon
- Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.
- Now for the central diamond and the last
- And largest, Arthur, holding then his court
- Hard on the river nigh the place which now
- Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust
- At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh
- Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere,
- 'Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move
- To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.'
- 'Then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds
- Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,
- A sight ye love to look on.' And the Queen
- Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly
- On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.
- He thinking that he read her meaning there,
- 'Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more
- Than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart
- Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen
- (However much he yearned to make complete
- The tale of diamonds for his destined boon)
- Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,
- 'Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,
- And lets me from the saddle;' and the King
- Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way.
- No sooner gone than suddenly she began:
- 'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame!
- Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights
- Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd
- Will murmur, "Lo the shameless ones, who take
- Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"'
- Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain:
- 'Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise,
- My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first.
- Then of the crowd ye took no more account
- Than of the myriad cricket of the mead,
- When its own voice clings to each blade of grass,
- And every voice is nothing. As to knights,
- Them surely can I silence with all ease.
- But now my loyal worship is allowed
- Of all men: many a bard, without offence,
- Has linked our names together in his lay,
- Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere,
- The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast
- Have pledged us in this union, while the King
- Would listen smiling. How then? is there more?
- Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself,
- Now weary of my service and devoir,
- Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?'
- She broke into a little scornful laugh:
- 'Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,
- That passionate perfection, my good lord--
- But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven?
- He never spake word of reproach to me,
- He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,
- He cares not for me: only here today
- There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes:
- Some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else
- Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round,
- And swearing men to vows impossible,
- To make them like himself: but, friend, to me
- He is all fault who hath no fault at all:
- For who loves me must have a touch of earth;
- The low sun makes the colour: I am yours,
- Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond.
- And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts:
- The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream
- When sweetest; and the vermin voices here
- May buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.'
- Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights:
- 'And with what face, after my pretext made,
- Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I
- Before a King who honours his own word,
- As if it were his God's?'
- 'Yea,' said the Queen,
- 'A moral child without the craft to rule,
- Else had he not lost me: but listen to me,
- If I must find you wit: we hear it said
- That men go down before your spear at a touch,
- But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name,
- This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown:
- Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King
- Will then allow your pretext, O my knight,
- As all for glory; for to speak him true,
- Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem,
- No keener hunter after glory breathes.
- He loves it in his knights more than himself:
- They prove to him his work: win and return.'
- Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse,
- Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known,
- He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare,
- Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot,
- And there among the solitary downs,
- Full often lost in fancy, lost his way;
- Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track,
- That all in loops and links among the dales
- Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw
- Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers.
- Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn.
- Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man,
- Who let him into lodging and disarmed.
- And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man;
- And issuing found the Lord of Astolat
- With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine,
- Moving to meet him in the castle court;
- And close behind them stept the lily maid
- Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house
- There was not: some light jest among them rose
- With laughter dying down as the great knight
- Approached them: then the Lord of Astolat:
- 'Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name
- Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state
- And presence I might guess thee chief of those,
- After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls.
- Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round,
- Known as they are, to me they are unknown.'
- Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights:
- 'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known,
- What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield.
- But since I go to joust as one unknown
- At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not,
- Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield--
- I pray you lend me one, if such you have,
- Blank, or at least with some device not mine.'
- Then said the Lord of Astolat, 'Here is Torre's:
- Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre.
- And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough.
- His ye can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre,
- 'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.'
- Here laughed the father saying, 'Fie, Sir Churl,
- Is that answer for a noble knight?
- Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here,
- He is so full of lustihood, he will ride,
- Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour,
- And set it in this damsel's golden hair,
- To make her thrice as wilful as before.'
- 'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not
- Before this noble knight,' said young Lavaine,
- 'For nothing. Surely I but played on Torre:
- He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go:
- A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt
- That some one put this diamond in her hand,
- And that it was too slippery to be held,
- And slipt and fell into some pool or stream,
- The castle-well, belike; and then I said
- That if I went and if I fought and won it
- (But all was jest and joke among ourselves)
- Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest.
- But, father, give me leave, an if he will,
- To ride to Camelot with this noble knight:
- Win shall I not, but do my best to win:
- Young as I am, yet would I do my best.'
- 'So will ye grace me,' answered Lancelot,
- Smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship
- O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself,
- Then were I glad of you as guide and friend:
- And you shall win this diamond,--as I hear
- It is a fair large diamond,--if ye may,
- And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.'
- 'A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre,
- 'Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.'
- Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground,
- Elaine, and heard her name so tost about,
- Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement
- Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her,
- Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned:
- 'If what is fair be but for what is fair,
- And only queens are to be counted so,
- Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid
- Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth,
- Not violating the bond of like to like.'
- He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,
- Won by the mellow voice before she looked,
- Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.
- The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,
- In battle with the love he bare his lord,
- Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.
- Another sinning on such heights with one,
- The flower of all the west and all the world,
- Had been the sleeker for it: but in him
- His mood was often like a fiend, and rose
- And drove him into wastes and solitudes
- For agony, who was yet a living soul.
- Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man
- That ever among ladies ate in hall,
- And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.
- However marred, of more than twice her years,
- Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,
- And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
- And loved him, with that love which was her doom.
- Then the great knight, the darling of the court,
- Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall
- Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain
- Hid under grace, as in a smaller time,
- But kindly man moving among his kind:
- Whom they with meats and vintage of their best
- And talk and minstrel melody entertained.
- And much they asked of court and Table Round,
- And ever well and readily answered he:
- But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere,
- Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,
- Heard from the Baron that, ten years before,
- The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue.
- 'He learnt and warned me of their fierce design
- Against my house, and him they caught and maimed;
- But I, my sons, and little daughter fled
- From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods
- By the great river in a boatman's hut.
- Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke
- The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.'
- 'O there, great lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt
- By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth
- Toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought.
- O tell us--for we live apart--you know
- Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke
- And answered him at full, as having been
- With Arthur in the fight which all day long
- Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem;
- And in the four loud battles by the shore
- Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war
- That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts
- Of Celidon the forest; and again
- By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King
- Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head,
- Carved of one emerald centered in a sun
- Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed;
- And at Caerleon had he helped his lord,
- When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse
- Set every gilded parapet shuddering;
- And up in Agned-Cathregonion too,
- And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,
- Where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount
- Of Badon I myself beheld the King
- Charge at the head of all his Table Round,
- And all his legions crying Christ and him,
- And break them; and I saw him, after, stand
- High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume
- Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,
- And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,
- "They are broken, they are broken!" for the King,
- However mild he seems at home, nor cares
- For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts--
- For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs
- Saying, his knights are better men than he--
- Yet in this heathen war the fire of God
- Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives
- No greater leader.'
- While he uttered this,
- Low to her own heart said the lily maid,
- 'Save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell
- From talk of war to traits of pleasantry--
- Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind--
- She still took note that when the living smile
- Died from his lips, across him came a cloud
- Of melancholy severe, from which again,
- Whenever in her hovering to and fro
- The lily maid had striven to make him cheer,
- There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness
- Of manners and of nature: and she thought
- That all was nature, all, perchance, for her.
- And all night long his face before her lived,
- As when a painter, poring on a face,
- Divinely through all hindrance finds the man
- Behind it, and so paints him that his face,
- The shape and colour of a mind and life,
- Lives for his children, ever at its best
- And fullest; so the face before her lived,
- Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full
- Of noble things, and held her from her sleep.
- Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought
- She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.
- First in fear, step after step, she stole
- Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating:
- Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,
- 'This shield, my friend, where is it?' and Lavaine
- Past inward, as she came from out the tower.
- There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed
- The glossy shoulder, humming to himself.
- Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew
- Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed
- Than if seven men had set upon him, saw
- The maiden standing in the dewy light.
- He had not dreamed she was so beautiful.
- Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,
- For silent, though he greeted her, she stood
- Rapt on his face as if it were a God's.
- Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire,
- That he should wear her favour at the tilt.
- She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.
- 'Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is,
- I well believe, the noblest--will you wear
- My favour at this tourney?' 'Nay,' said he,
- 'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn
- Favour of any lady in the lists.
- Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.'
- 'Yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine
- Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,
- That those who know should know you.' And he turned
- Her counsel up and down within his mind,
- And found it true, and answered, 'True, my child.
- Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me:
- What is it?' and she told him 'A red sleeve
- Broidered with pearls,' and brought it: then he bound
- Her token on his helmet, with a smile
- Saying, 'I never yet have done so much
- For any maiden living,' and the blood
- Sprang to her face and filled her with delight;
- But left her all the paler, when Lavaine
- Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield,
- His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot,
- Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:
- 'Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield
- In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to me,'
- She answered, 'twice today. I am your squire!'
- Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 'Lily maid,
- For fear our people call you lily maid
- In earnest, let me bring your colour back;
- Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:'
- So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,
- And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute,
- Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there--
- Her bright hair blown about the serious face
- Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss--
- Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield
- In silence, while she watched their arms far-off
- Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.
- Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield,
- There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.
- Meanwhile the new companions past away
- Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs,
- To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight
- Not far from Camelot, now for forty years
- A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed,
- And ever labouring had scooped himself
- In the white rock a chapel and a hall
- On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave,
- And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry;
- The green light from the meadows underneath
- Struck up and lived along the milky roofs;
- And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees
- And poplars made a noise of falling showers.
- And thither wending there that night they bode.
- But when the next day broke from underground,
- And shot red fire and shadows through the cave,
- They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away:
- Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but hold my name
- Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,'
- Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence,
- Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,
- But left him leave to stammer, 'Is it indeed?'
- And after muttering 'The great Lancelot,
- At last he got his breath and answered, 'One,
- One have I seen--that other, our liege lord,
- The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings,
- Of whom the people talk mysteriously,
- He will be there--then were I stricken blind
- That minute, I might say that I had seen.'
- So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists
- By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes
- Run through the peopled gallery which half round
- Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass,
- Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat
- Robed in red samite, easily to be known,
- Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,
- And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,
- And from the carven-work behind him crept
- Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make
- Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them
- Through knots and loops and folds innumerable
- Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found
- The new design wherein they lost themselves,
- Yet with all ease, so tender was the work:
- And, in the costly canopy o'er him set,
- Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.
- Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said,
- 'Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat,
- The truer lance: but there is many a youth
- Now crescent, who will come to all I am
- And overcome it; and in me there dwells
- No greatness, save it be some far-off touch
- Of greatness to know well I am not great:
- There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon him
- As on a thing miraculous, and anon
- The trumpets blew; and then did either side,
- They that assailed, and they that held the lists,
- Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,
- Meet in the midst, and there so furiously
- Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive,
- If any man that day were left afield,
- The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.
- And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw
- Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it
- Against the stronger: little need to speak
- Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl,
- Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew.
- But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin,
- Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,
- Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight
- Should do and almost overdo the deeds
- Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, 'Lo!
- What is he? I do not mean the force alone--
- The grace and versatility of the man!
- Is it not Lancelot?' 'When has Lancelot worn
- Favour of any lady in the lists?
- Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.'
- 'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all,
- A fiery family passion for the name
- Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.
- They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus,
- Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made
- In moving, all together down upon him
- Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea,
- Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all
- Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies,
- Down on a bark, and overbears the bark,
- And him that helms it, so they overbore
- Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear
- Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear
- Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head
- Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained.
- Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;
- He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,
- And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.
- He up the side, sweating with agony, got,
- But thought to do while he might yet endure,
- And being lustily holpen by the rest,
- His party,--though it seemed half-miracle
- To those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin,
- And all the Table Round that held the lists,
- Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew
- Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve
- Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,
- His party, cried 'Advance and take thy prize
- The diamond;' but he answered, 'Diamond me
- No diamonds! for God's love, a little air!
- Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!
- Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.'
- He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field
- With young Lavaine into the poplar grove.
- There from his charger down he slid, and sat,
- Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lance-head:'
- 'Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine,
- 'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.'
- But he, 'I die already with it: draw--
- Draw,'--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave
- A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,
- And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank
- For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away.
- Then came the hermit out and bare him in,
- There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt
- Whether to live or die, for many a week
- Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove
- Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,
- And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.
- But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,
- His party, knights of utmost North and West,
- Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles,
- Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,
- 'Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day,
- Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize
- Untaken, crying that his prize is death.'
- 'Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that such an one,
- So great a knight as we have seen today--
- He seemed to me another Lancelot--
- Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot--
- He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise,
- O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight.
- Wounded and wearied needs must he be near.
- I charge you that you get at once to horse.
- And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you
- Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given:
- His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him
- No customary honour: since the knight
- Came not to us, of us to claim the prize,
- Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take
- This diamond, and deliver it, and return,
- And bring us where he is, and how he fares,
- And cease not from your quest until ye find.'
- So saying, from the carven flower above,
- To which it made a restless heart, he took,
- And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat
- At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose,
- With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince
- In the mid might and flourish of his May,
- Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong,
- And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint
- And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal
- Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot,
- Nor often loyal to his word, and now
- Wroth that the King's command to sally forth
- In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave
- The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.
- So all in wrath he got to horse and went;
- While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,
- Past, thinking 'Is it Lancelot who hath come
- Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain
- Of glory, and hath added wound to wound,
- And ridden away to die?' So feared the King,
- And, after two days' tarriance there, returned.
- Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked,
- 'Love, are you yet so sick?' 'Nay, lord,' she said.
- 'And where is Lancelot?' Then the Queen amazed,
- 'Was he not with you? won he not your prize?'
- 'Nay, but one like him.' 'Why that like was he.'
- And when the King demanded how she knew,
- Said, 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us,
- Than Lancelot told me of a common talk
- That men went down before his spear at a touch,
- But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name
- Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name
- From all men, even the King, and to this end
- Had made a pretext of a hindering wound,
- That he might joust unknown of all, and learn
- If his old prowess were in aught decayed;
- And added, "Our true Arthur, when he learns,
- Will well allow me pretext, as for gain
- Of purer glory."'
- Then replied the King:
- 'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,
- In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,
- To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.
- Surely his King and most familiar friend
- Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed,
- Albeit I know my knights fantastical,
- So fine a fear in our large Lancelot
- Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains
- But little cause for laughter: his own kin--
- Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!--
- His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;
- So that he went sore wounded from the field:
- Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine
- That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart.
- He wore, against his wont, upon his helm
- A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls,
- Some gentle maiden's gift.'
- 'Yea, lord,' she said,
- 'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked,
- And sharply turned about to hide her face,
- Past to her chamber, and there flung herself
- Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it,
- And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm,
- And shrieked out 'Traitor' to the unhearing wall,
- Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again,
- And moved about her palace, proud and pale.
- Gawain the while through all the region round
- Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,
- Touched at all points, except the poplar grove,
- And came at last, though late, to Astolat:
- Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid
- Glanced at, and cried, 'What news from Camelot, lord?
- What of the knight with the red sleeve?' 'He won.'
- 'I knew it,' she said. 'But parted from the jousts
- Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath;
- Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go;
- Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned:
- And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came
- The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince
- Reported who he was, and on what quest
- Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find
- The victor, but had ridden a random round
- To seek him, and had wearied of the search.
- To whom the Lord of Astolat, 'Bide with us,
- And ride no more at random, noble Prince!
- Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;
- This will he send or come for: furthermore
- Our son is with him; we shall hear anon,
- Needs must hear.' To this the courteous Prince
- Accorded with his wonted courtesy,
- Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,
- And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:
- Where could be found face daintier? then her shape
- From forehead down to foot, perfect--again
- From foot to forehead exquisitely turned:
- 'Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!'
- And oft they met among the garden yews,
- And there he set himself to play upon her
- With sallying wit, free flashes from a height
- Above her, graces of the court, and songs,
- Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence
- And amorous adulation, till the maid
- Rebelled against it, saying to him, 'Prince,
- O loyal nephew of our noble King,
- Why ask you not to see the shield he left,
- Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King,
- And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove
- No surer than our falcon yesterday,
- Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went
- To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine head,' said he,
- 'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,
- O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;
- But an ye will it let me see the shield.'
- And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw
- Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold,
- Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked:
- 'Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!'
- 'And right was I,' she answered merrily, 'I,
- Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.'
- 'And if I dreamed,' said Gawain, 'that you love
- This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!
- Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?'
- Full simple was her answer, 'What know I?
- My brethren have been all my fellowship;
- And I, when often they have talked of love,
- Wished it had been my mother, for they talked,
- Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself--
- I know not if I know what true love is,
- But if I know, then, if I love not him,
- I know there is none other I can love.'
- 'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love him well,
- But would not, knew ye what all others know,
- And whom he loves.' 'So be it,' cried Elaine,
- And lifted her fair face and moved away:
- But he pursued her, calling, 'Stay a little!
- One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve:
- Would he break faith with one I may not name?
- Must our true man change like a leaf at last?
- Nay--like enow: why then, far be it from me
- To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!
- And, damsel, for I deem you know full well
- Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave
- My quest with you; the diamond also: here!
- For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;
- And if he love, it will be sweet to have it
- From your own hand; and whether he love or not,
- A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well
- A thousand times!--a thousand times farewell!
- Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two
- May meet at court hereafter: there, I think,
- So ye will learn the courtesies of the court,
- We two shall know each other.'
- Then he gave,
- And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave,
- The diamond, and all wearied of the quest
- Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went
- A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.
- Thence to the court he past; there told the King
- What the King knew, 'Sir Lancelot is the knight.'
- And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I learnt;
- But failed to find him, though I rode all round
- The region: but I lighted on the maid
- Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her,
- Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,
- I gave the diamond: she will render it;
- For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.'
- The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied,
- 'Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more
- On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget
- Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.'
- He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe,
- For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,
- Lingered that other, staring after him;
- Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad
- About the maid of Astolat, and her love.
- All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed:
- 'The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,
- Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.'
- Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all
- Had marvel what the maid might be, but most
- Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame
- Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.
- She, that had heard the noise of it before,
- But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low,
- Marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity.
- So ran the tale like fire about the court,
- Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared:
- Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice
- Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,
- And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid
- Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat
- With lips severely placid, felt the knot
- Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen
- Crushed the wild passion out against the floor
- Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became
- As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged.
- But far away the maid in Astolat,
- Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept
- The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart,
- Crept to her father, while he mused alone,
- Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said,
- 'Father, you call me wilful, and the fault
- Is yours who let me have my will, and now,
- Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?'
- 'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, let me hence,'
- She answered, 'and find out our dear Lavaine.'
- 'Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine:
- Bide,' answered he: 'we needs must hear anon
- Of him, and of that other.' 'Ay,' she said,
- 'And of that other, for I needs must hence
- And find that other, wheresoe'er he be,
- And with mine own hand give his diamond to him,
- Lest I be found as faithless in the quest
- As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me.
- Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams
- Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
- Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid.
- The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound,
- My father, to be sweet and serviceable
- To noble knights in sickness, as ye know
- When these have worn their tokens: let me hence
- I pray you.' Then her father nodding said,
- 'Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child,
- Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole,
- Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it--
- And sure I think this fruit is hung too high
- For any mouth to gape for save a queen's--
- Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone,
- Being so very wilful you must go.'
- Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away,
- And while she made her ready for her ride,
- Her father's latest word hummed in her ear,
- 'Being so very wilful you must go,'
- And changed itself and echoed in her heart,
- 'Being so very wilful you must die.'
- But she was happy enough and shook it off,
- As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;
- And in her heart she answered it and said,
- 'What matter, so I help him back to life?'
- Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide
- Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs
- To Camelot, and before the city-gates
- Came on her brother with a happy face
- Making a roan horse caper and curvet
- For pleasure all about a field of flowers:
- Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'Lavaine,
- How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?' He amazed,
- 'Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot!
- How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?'
- But when the maid had told him all her tale,
- Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods
- Left them, and under the strange-statued gate,
- Where Arthur's wars were rendered mystically,
- Past up the still rich city to his kin,
- His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot;
- And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove
- Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque
- Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve,
- Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away,
- Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed,
- Because he had not loosed it from his helm,
- But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.
- And when they gained the cell wherein he slept,
- His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands
- Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream
- Of dragging down his enemy made them move.
- Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,
- Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,
- Uttered a little tender dolorous cry.
- The sound not wonted in a place so still
- Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes
- Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,
- 'Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:'
- His eyes glistened: she fancied 'Is it for me?'
- And when the maid had told him all the tale
- Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest
- Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt
- Full lowly by the corners of his bed,
- And laid the diamond in his open hand.
- Her face was near, and as we kiss the child
- That does the task assigned, he kissed her face.
- At once she slipt like water to the floor.
- 'Alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you.
- Rest must you have.' 'No rest for me,' she said;
- 'Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.'
- What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,
- Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her,
- Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself
- In the heart's colours on her simple face;
- And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind,
- And being weak in body said no more;
- But did not love the colour; woman's love,
- Save one, he not regarded, and so turned
- Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept.
- Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields,
- And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates
- Far up the dim rich city to her kin;
- There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past
- Down through the dim rich city to the fields,
- Thence to the cave: so day by day she past
- In either twilight ghost-like to and fro
- Gliding, and every day she tended him,
- And likewise many a night: and Lancelot
- Would, though he called his wound a little hurt
- Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times
- Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem
- Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid
- Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him
- Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,
- Milder than any mother to a sick child,
- And never woman yet, since man's first fall,
- Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love
- Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all
- The simples and the science of that time,
- Told him that her fine care had saved his life.
- And the sick man forgot her simple blush,
- Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,
- Would listen for her coming and regret
- Her parting step, and held her tenderly,
- And loved her with all love except the love
- Of man and woman when they love their best,
- Closest and sweetest, and had died the death
- In any knightly fashion for her sake.
- And peradventure had he seen her first
- She might have made this and that other world
- Another world for the sick man; but now
- The shackles of an old love straitened him,
- His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
- And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
- Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made
- Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.
- These, as but born of sickness, could not live:
- For when the blood ran lustier in him again,
- Full often the bright image of one face,
- Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,
- Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.
- Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace
- Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not,
- Or short and coldly, and she knew right well
- What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant
- She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight,
- And drave her ere her time across the fields
- Far into the rich city, where alone
- She murmured, 'Vain, in vain: it cannot be.
- He will not love me: how then? must I die?'
- Then as a little helpless innocent bird,
- That has but one plain passage of few notes,
- Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er
- For all an April morning, till the ear
- Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid
- Went half the night repeating, 'Must I die?'
- And now to right she turned, and now to left,
- And found no ease in turning or in rest;
- And 'Him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,'
- Again and like a burthen, 'Him or death.'
- But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole,
- To Astolat returning rode the three.
- There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self
- In that wherein she deemed she looked her best,
- She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought
- 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes,
- If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.'
- And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid
- That she should ask some goodly gift of him
- For her own self or hers; 'and do not shun
- To speak the wish most near to your true heart;
- Such service have ye done me, that I make
- My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I
- In mine own land, and what I will I can.'
- Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,
- But like a ghost without the power to speak.
- And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,
- And bode among them yet a little space
- Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced
- He found her in among the garden yews,
- And said, 'Delay no longer, speak your wish,
- Seeing I go today:' then out she brake:
- 'Going? and we shall never see you more.
- And I must die for want of one bold word.'
- 'Speak: that I live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.'
- Then suddenly and passionately she spoke:
- 'I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.'
- 'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?'
- And innocently extending her white arms,
- 'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.'
- And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed,
- I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:
- But now there never will be wife of mine.'
- 'No, no,' she cried, 'I care not to be wife,
- But to be with you still, to see your face,
- To serve you, and to follow you through the world.'
- And Lancelot answered, 'Nay, the world, the world,
- All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
- To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
- To blare its own interpretation--nay,
- Full ill then should I quit your brother's love,
- And your good father's kindness.' And she said,
- 'Not to be with you, not to see your face--
- Alas for me then, my good days are done.'
- 'Nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay!
- This is not love: but love's first flash in youth,
- Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self:
- And you yourself will smile at your own self
- Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life
- To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age:
- And then will I, for true you are and sweet
- Beyond mine old belief in womanhood,
- More specially should your good knight be poor,
- Endow you with broad land and territory
- Even to the half my realm beyond the seas,
- So that would make you happy: furthermore,
- Even to the death, as though ye were my blood,
- In all your quarrels will I be your knight.
- This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake,
- And more than this I cannot.'
- While he spoke
- She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale
- Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied:
- 'Of all this will I nothing;' and so fell,
- And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.
- Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew
- Their talk had pierced, her father: 'Ay, a flash,
- I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead.
- Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot.
- I pray you, use some rough discourtesy
- To blunt or break her passion.'
- Lancelot said,
- 'That were against me: what I can I will;'
- And there that day remained, and toward even
- Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid,
- Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield;
- Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones,
- Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked
- Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone.
- And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound;
- And she by tact of love was well aware
- That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him.
- And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand,
- Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away.
- This was the one discourtesy that he used.
- So in her tower alone the maiden sat:
- His very shield was gone; only the case,
- Her own poor work, her empty labour, left.
- But still she heard him, still his picture formed
- And grew between her and the pictured wall.
- Then came her father, saying in low tones,
- 'Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly.
- Then came her brethren saying, 'Peace to thee,
- Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm.
- But when they left her to herself again,
- Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field
- Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls
- Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt
- Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms
- Of evening, and the moanings of the wind.
- And in those days she made a little song,
- And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,'
- And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing.
- 'Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain;
- And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:
- I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
- 'Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be:
- Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
- O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.
- 'Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
- Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
- I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
- 'I fain would follow love, if that could be;
- I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
- Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.'
- High with the last line scaled her voice, and this,
- All in a fiery dawning wild with wind
- That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought
- With shuddering, 'Hark the Phantom of the house
- That ever shrieks before a death,' and called
- The father, and all three in hurry and fear
- Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn
- Flared on her face, she shrilling, 'Let me die!'
- As when we dwell upon a word we know,
- Repeating, till the word we know so well
- Becomes a wonder, and we know not why,
- So dwelt the father on her face, and thought
- 'Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell,
- Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay,
- Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes.
- At last she said, 'Sweet brothers, yesternight
- I seemed a curious little maid again,
- As happy as when we dwelt among the woods,
- And when ye used to take me with the flood
- Up the great river in the boatman's boat.
- Only ye would not pass beyond the cape
- That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt
- Your limit, oft returning with the tide.
- And yet I cried because ye would not pass
- Beyond it, and far up the shining flood
- Until we found the palace of the King.
- And yet ye would not; but this night I dreamed
- That I was all alone upon the flood,
- And then I said, "Now shall I have my will:"
- And there I woke, but still the wish remained.
- So let me hence that I may pass at last
- Beyond the poplar and far up the flood,
- Until I find the palace of the King.
- There will I enter in among them all,
- And no man there will dare to mock at me;
- But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,
- And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me;
- Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me,
- Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one:
- And there the King will know me and my love,
- And there the Queen herself will pity me,
- And all the gentle court will welcome me,
- And after my long voyage I shall rest!'
- 'Peace,' said her father, 'O my child, ye seem
- Light-headed, for what force is yours to go
- So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look
- On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?'
- Then the rough Torre began to heave and move,
- And bluster into stormy sobs and say,
- 'I never loved him: an I meet with him,
- I care not howsoever great he be,
- Then will I strike at him and strike him down,
- Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead,
- For this discomfort he hath done the house.'
- To whom the gentle sister made reply,
- 'Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth,
- Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault
- Not to love me, than it is mine to love
- Him of all men who seems to me the highest.'
- 'Highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?'
- (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay,
- Daughter, I know not what you call the highest;
- But this I know, for all the people know it,
- He loves the Queen, and in an open shame:
- And she returns his love in open shame;
- If this be high, what is it to be low?'
- Then spake the lily maid of Astolat:
- 'Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I
- For anger: these are slanders: never yet
- Was noble man but made ignoble talk.
- He makes no friend who never made a foe.
- But now it is my glory to have loved
- One peerless, without stain: so let me pass,
- My father, howsoe'er I seem to you,
- Not all unhappy, having loved God's best
- And greatest, though my love had no return:
- Yet, seeing you desire your child to live,
- Thanks, but you work against your own desire;
- For if I could believe the things you say
- I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease,
- Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man
- Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.'
- So when the ghostly man had come and gone,
- She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven,
- Besought Lavaine to write as she devised
- A letter, word for word; and when he asked
- 'Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord?
- Then will I bear it gladly;' she replied,
- 'For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world,
- But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote
- The letter she devised; which being writ
- And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true,
- Deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet
- Denied my fancies--this, however strange,
- My latest: lay the letter in my hand
- A little ere I die, and close the hand
- Upon it; I shall guard it even in death.
- And when the heat is gone from out my heart,
- Then take the little bed on which I died
- For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's
- For richness, and me also like the Queen
- In all I have of rich, and lay me on it.
- And let there be prepared a chariot-bier
- To take me to the river, and a barge
- Be ready on the river, clothed in black.
- I go in state to court, to meet the Queen.
- There surely I shall speak for mine own self,
- And none of you can speak for me so well.
- And therefore let our dumb old man alone
- Go with me, he can steer and row, and he
- Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.'
- She ceased: her father promised; whereupon
- She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death
- Was rather in the fantasy than the blood.
- But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh
- Her father laid the letter in her hand,
- And closed the hand upon it, and she died.
- So that day there was dole in Astolat.
- But when the next sun brake from underground,
- Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows
- Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier
- Past like a shadow through the field, that shone
- Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge,
- Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.
- There sat the lifelong creature of the house,
- Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,
- Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.
- So those two brethren from the chariot took
- And on the black decks laid her in her bed,
- Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung
- The silken case with braided blazonings,
- And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her
- 'Sister, farewell for ever,' and again
- 'Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears.
- Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,
- Oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood--
- In her right hand the lily, in her left
- The letter--all her bright hair streaming down--
- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
- Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white
- All but her face, and that clear-featured face
- Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
- But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.
- That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved
- Audience of Guinevere, to give at last,
- The price of half a realm, his costly gift,
- Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow,
- With deaths of others, and almost his own,
- The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw
- One of her house, and sent him to the Queen
- Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed
- With such and so unmoved a majesty
- She might have seemed her statue, but that he,
- Low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet
- For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye
- The shadow of some piece of pointed lace,
- In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls,
- And parted, laughing in his courtly heart.
- All in an oriel on the summer side,
- Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream,
- They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttered, 'Queen,
- Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy,
- Take, what I had not won except for you,
- These jewels, and make me happy, making them
- An armlet for the roundest arm on earth,
- Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's
- Is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words:
- Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin
- In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it
- Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words
- Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen,
- I hear of rumours flying through your court.
- Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife,
- Should have in it an absoluter trust
- To make up that defect: let rumours be:
- When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust
- That you trust me in your own nobleness,
- I may not well believe that you believe.'
- While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen
- Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine
- Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off,
- Till all the place whereon she stood was green;
- Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand
- Received at once and laid aside the gems
- There on a table near her, and replied:
- 'It may be, I am quicker of belief
- Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake.
- Our bond is not the bond of man and wife.
- This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill,
- It can be broken easier. I for you
- This many a year have done despite and wrong
- To one whom ever in my heart of hearts
- I did acknowledge nobler. What are these?
- Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth
- Being your gift, had you not lost your own.
- To loyal hearts the value of all gifts
- Must vary as the giver's. Not for me!
- For her! for your new fancy. Only this
- Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart.
- I doubt not that however changed, you keep
- So much of what is graceful: and myself
- Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy
- In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule:
- So cannot speak my mind. An end to this!
- A strange one! yet I take it with Amen.
- So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls;
- Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down:
- An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's
- Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck
- O as much fairer--as a faith once fair
- Was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine--
- Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself,
- Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will--
- She shall not have them.'
- Saying which she seized,
- And, through the casement standing wide for heat,
- Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream.
- Then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were,
- Diamonds to meet them, and they past away.
- Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain
- At love, life, all things, on the window ledge,
- Close underneath his eyes, and right across
- Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge.
- Whereon the lily maid of Astolat
- Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night.
- But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away
- To weep and wail in secret; and the barge,
- On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused.
- There two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom,
- All up the marble stair, tier over tier,
- Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked
- 'What is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face,
- As hard and still as is the face that men
- Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks
- On some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said
- 'He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she,
- Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair!
- Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood?
- Or come to take the King to Fairyland?
- For some do hold our Arthur cannot die,
- But that he passes into Fairyland.'
- While thus they babbled of the King, the King
- Came girt with knights: then turned the tongueless man
- From the half-face to the full eye, and rose
- And pointed to the damsel, and the doors.
- So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale
- And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid;
- And reverently they bore her into hall.
- Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her,
- And Lancelot later came and mused at her,
- And last the Queen herself, and pitied her:
- But Arthur spied the letter in her hand,
- Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all:
- 'Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake,
- I, sometime called the maid of Astolat,
- Come, for you left me taking no farewell,
- Hither, to take my last farewell of you.
- I loved you, and my love had no return,
- And therefore my true love has been my death.
- And therefore to our Lady Guinevere,
- And to all other ladies, I make moan:
- Pray for my soul, and yield me burial.
- Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot,
- As thou art a knight peerless.'
- Thus he read;
- And ever in the reading, lords and dames
- Wept, looking often from his face who read
- To hers which lay so silent, and at times,
- So touched were they, half-thinking that her lips,
- Who had devised the letter, moved again.
- Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all:
- 'My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear,
- Know that for this most gentle maiden's death
- Right heavy am I; for good she was and true,
- But loved me with a love beyond all love
- In women, whomsoever I have known.
- Yet to be loved makes not to love again;
- Not at my years, however it hold in youth.
- I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave
- No cause, not willingly, for such a love:
- To this I call my friends in testimony,
- Her brethren, and her father, who himself
- Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use,
- To break her passion, some discourtesy
- Against my nature: what I could, I did.
- I left her and I bad her no farewell;
- Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died,
- I might have put my wits to some rough use,
- And helped her from herself.'
- Then said the Queen
- (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm)
- 'Ye might at least have done her so much grace,
- Fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.'
- He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell,
- He adding,
- 'Queen, she would not be content
- Save that I wedded her, which could not be.
- Then might she follow me through the world, she asked;
- It could not be. I told her that her love
- Was but the flash of youth, would darken down
- To rise hereafter in a stiller flame
- Toward one more worthy of her--then would I,
- More specially were he, she wedded, poor,
- Estate them with large land and territory
- In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas,
- To keep them in all joyance: more than this
- I could not; this she would not, and she died.'
- He pausing, Arthur answered, 'O my knight,
- It will be to thy worship, as my knight,
- And mine, as head of all our Table Round,
- To see that she be buried worshipfully.'
- So toward that shrine which then in all the realm
- Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went
- The marshalled Order of their Table Round,
- And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see
- The maiden buried, not as one unknown,
- Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies,
- And mass, and rolling music, like a queen.
- And when the knights had laid her comely head
- Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings,
- Then Arthur spake among them, 'Let her tomb
- Be costly, and her image thereupon,
- And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet
- Be carven, and her lily in her hand.
- And let the story of her dolorous voyage
- For all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb
- In letters gold and azure!' which was wrought
- Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames
- And people, from the high door streaming, brake
- Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen,
- Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart,
- Drew near, and sighed in passing, 'Lancelot,
- Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.'
- He answered with his eyes upon the ground,
- 'That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.'
- But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows,
- Approached him, and with full affection said,
- 'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have
- Most joy and most affiance, for I know
- What thou hast been in battle by my side,
- And many a time have watched thee at the tilt
- Strike down the lusty and long practised knight,
- And let the younger and unskilled go by
- To win his honour and to make his name,
- And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man
- Made to be loved; but now I would to God,
- Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes,
- Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems,
- By God for thee alone, and from her face,
- If one may judge the living by the dead,
- Delicately pure and marvellously fair,
- Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man
- Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons
- Born to the glory of thine name and fame,
- My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.'
- Then answered Lancelot, 'Fair she was, my King,
- Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be.
- To doubt her fairness were to want an eye,
- To doubt her pureness were to want a heart--
- Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love
- Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.'
- 'Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King.
- 'Let love be free; free love is for the best:
- And, after heaven, on our dull side of death,
- What should be best, if not so pure a love
- Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee
- She failed to bind, though being, as I think,
- Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.'
- And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went,
- And at the inrunning of a little brook
- Sat by the river in a cove, and watched
- The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes
- And saw the barge that brought her moving down,
- Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said
- Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and sweet,
- Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love
- Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul?
- Ay, that will I. Farewell too--now at last--
- Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love?"
- Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride?
- Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love,
- May not your crescent fear for name and fame
- Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes?
- Why did the King dwell on my name to me?
- Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach,
- Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake
- Caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one
- Who passes through the vision of the night--
- She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns
- Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn
- She kissed me saying, "Thou art fair, my child,
- As a king's son," and often in her arms
- She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere.
- Would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be!
- For what am I? what profits me my name
- Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it:
- Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain;
- Now grown a part of me: but what use in it?
- To make men worse by making my sin known?
- Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great?
- Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man
- Not after Arthur's heart! I needs must break
- These bonds that so defame me: not without
- She wills it: would I, if she willed it? nay,
- Who knows? but if I would not, then may God,
- I pray him, send a sudden Angel down
- To seize me by the hair and bear me far,
- And fling me deep in that forgotten mere,
- Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.'
- So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain,
- Not knowing he should die a holy man.
- The Holy Grail
- From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
- In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale,
- Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,
- Had passed into the silent life of prayer,
- Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl
- The helmet in an abbey far away
- From Camelot, there, and not long after, died.
- And one, a fellow-monk among the rest,
- Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest,
- And honoured him, and wrought into his heart
- A way by love that wakened love within,
- To answer that which came: and as they sat
- Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half
- The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
- That puffed the swaying branches into smoke
- Above them, ere the summer when he died
- The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale:
- 'O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke,
- Spring after spring, for half a hundred years:
- For never have I known the world without,
- Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee,
- When first thou camest--such a courtesy
- Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew
- For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall;
- For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,
- Some true, some light, but every one of you
- Stamped with the image of the King; and now
- Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round,
- My brother? was it earthly passion crost?'
- 'Nay,' said the knight; 'for no such passion mine.
- But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail
- Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries,
- And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out
- Among us in the jousts, while women watch
- Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength
- Within us, better offered up to Heaven.'
- To whom the monk: 'The Holy Grail!--I trust
- We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much
- We moulder--as to things without I mean--
- Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours,
- Told us of this in our refectory,
- But spake with such a sadness and so low
- We heard not half of what he said. What is it?
- The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?'
- 'Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale.
- 'The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord
- Drank at the last sad supper with his own.
- This, from the blessed land of Aromat--
- After the day of darkness, when the dead
- Went wandering o'er Moriah--the good saint
- Arimathaean Joseph, journeying brought
- To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn
- Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord.
- And there awhile it bode; and if a man
- Could touch or see it, he was healed at once,
- By faith, of all his ills. But then the times
- Grew to such evil that the holy cup
- Was caught away to Heaven, and disappeared.'
- To whom the monk: 'From our old books I know
- That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury,
- And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus,
- Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build;
- And there he built with wattles from the marsh
- A little lonely church in days of yore,
- For so they say, these books of ours, but seem
- Mute of this miracle, far as I have read.
- But who first saw the holy thing today?'
- 'A woman,' answered Percivale, 'a nun,
- And one no further off in blood from me
- Than sister; and if ever holy maid
- With knees of adoration wore the stone,
- A holy maid; though never maiden glowed,
- But that was in her earlier maidenhood,
- With such a fervent flame of human love,
- Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot
- Only to holy things; to prayer and praise
- She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet,
- Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court,
- Sin against Arthur and the Table Round,
- And the strange sound of an adulterous race,
- Across the iron grating of her cell
- Beat, and she prayed and fasted all the more.
- 'And he to whom she told her sins, or what
- Her all but utter whiteness held for sin,
- A man wellnigh a hundred winters old,
- Spake often with her of the Holy Grail,
- A legend handed down through five or six,
- And each of these a hundred winters old,
- From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made
- His Table Round, and all men's hearts became
- Clean for a season, surely he had thought
- That now the Holy Grail would come again;
- But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come,
- And heal the world of all their wickedness!
- "O Father!" asked the maiden, "might it come
- To me by prayer and fasting?" "Nay," said he,
- "I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow."
- And so she prayed and fasted, till the sun
- Shone, and the wind blew, through her, and I thought
- She might have risen and floated when I saw her.
- 'For on a day she sent to speak with me.
- And when she came to speak, behold her eyes
- Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful,
- Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful,
- Beautiful in the light of holiness.
- And "O my brother Percivale," she said,
- "Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail:
- For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound
- As of a silver horn from o'er the hills
- Blown, and I thought, 'It is not Arthur's use
- To hunt by moonlight;' and the slender sound
- As from a distance beyond distance grew
- Coming upon me--O never harp nor horn,
- Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand,
- Was like that music as it came; and then
- Streamed through my cell a cold and silver beam,
- And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail,
- Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive,
- Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed
- With rosy colours leaping on the wall;
- And then the music faded, and the Grail
- Past, and the beam decayed, and from the walls
- The rosy quiverings died into the night.
- So now the Holy Thing is here again
- Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray,
- And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray,
- That so perchance the vision may be seen
- By thee and those, and all the world be healed."
- 'Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this
- To all men; and myself fasted and prayed
- Always, and many among us many a week
- Fasted and prayed even to the uttermost,
- Expectant of the wonder that would be.
- 'And one there was among us, ever moved
- Among us in white armour, Galahad.
- "God make thee good as thou art beautiful,"
- Said Arthur, when he dubbed him knight; and none,
- In so young youth, was ever made a knight
- Till Galahad; and this Galahad, when he heard
- My sister's vision, filled me with amaze;
- His eyes became so like her own, they seemed
- Hers, and himself her brother more than I.
- 'Sister or brother none had he; but some
- Called him a son of Lancelot, and some said
- Begotten by enchantment--chatterers they,
- Like birds of passage piping up and down,
- That gape for flies--we know not whence they come;
- For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd?
- 'But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away
- Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair
- Which made a silken mat-work for her feet;
- And out of this she plaited broad and long
- A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread
- And crimson in the belt a strange device,
- A crimson grail within a silver beam;
- And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him,
- Saying, "My knight, my love, my knight of heaven,
- O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine,
- I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt.
- Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen,
- And break through all, till one will crown thee king
- Far in the spiritual city:" and as she spake
- She sent the deathless passion in her eyes
- Through him, and made him hers, and laid her mind
- On him, and he believed in her belief.
- 'Then came a year of miracle: O brother,
- In our great hall there stood a vacant chair,
- Fashioned by Merlin ere he past away,
- And carven with strange figures; and in and out
- The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll
- Of letters in a tongue no man could read.
- And Merlin called it "The Siege perilous,"
- Perilous for good and ill; "for there," he said,
- "No man could sit but he should lose himself:"
- And once by misadvertence Merlin sat
- In his own chair, and so was lost; but he,
- Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom,
- Cried, "If I lose myself, I save myself!"
- 'Then on a summer night it came to pass,
- While the great banquet lay along the hall,
- That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair.
- 'And all at once, as there we sat, we heard
- A cracking and a riving of the roofs,
- And rending, and a blast, and overhead
- Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry.
- And in the blast there smote along the hall
- A beam of light seven times more clear than day:
- And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail
- All over covered with a luminous cloud.
- And none might see who bare it, and it past.
- But every knight beheld his fellow's face
- As in a glory, and all the knights arose,
- And staring each at other like dumb men
- Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow.
- 'I sware a vow before them all, that I,
- Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride
- A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it,
- Until I found and saw it, as the nun
- My sister saw it; and Galahad sware the vow,
- And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware,
- And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights,
- And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest.'
- Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him,
- 'What said the King? Did Arthur take the vow?'
- 'Nay, for my lord,' said Percivale, 'the King,
- Was not in hall: for early that same day,
- Scaped through a cavern from a bandit hold,
- An outraged maiden sprang into the hall
- Crying on help: for all her shining hair
- Was smeared with earth, and either milky arm
- Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore
- Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn
- In tempest: so the King arose and went
- To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees
- That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit
- Some little of this marvel he too saw,
- Returning o'er the plain that then began
- To darken under Camelot; whence the King
- Looked up, calling aloud, "Lo, there! the roofs
- Of our great hall are rolled in thunder-smoke!
- Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt."
- For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours,
- As having there so oft with all his knights
- Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven.
- 'O brother, had you known our mighty hall,
- Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago!
- For all the sacred mount of Camelot,
- And all the dim rich city, roof by roof,
- Tower after tower, spire beyond spire,
- By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook,
- Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built.
- And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt
- With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall:
- And in the lowest beasts are slaying men,
- And in the second men are slaying beasts,
- And on the third are warriors, perfect men,
- And on the fourth are men with growing wings,
- And over all one statue in the mould
- Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown,
- And peaked wings pointed to the Northern Star.
- And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown
- And both the wings are made of gold, and flame
- At sunrise till the people in far fields,
- Wasted so often by the heathen hordes,
- Behold it, crying, "We have still a King."
- 'And, brother, had you known our hall within,
- Broader and higher than any in all the lands!
- Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars,
- And all the light that falls upon the board
- Streams through the twelve great battles of our King.
- Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end,
- Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere,
- Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur.
- And also one to the west, and counter to it,
- And blank: and who shall blazon it? when and how?--
- O there, perchance, when all our wars are done,
- The brand Excalibur will be cast away.
- 'So to this hall full quickly rode the King,
- In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought,
- Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt
- In unremorseful folds of rolling fire.
- And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw
- The golden dragon sparkling over all:
- And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms
- Hacked, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and seared,
- Followed, and in among bright faces, ours,
- Full of the vision, prest: and then the King
- Spake to me, being nearest, "Percivale,"
- (Because the hall was all in tumult--some
- Vowing, and some protesting), "what is this?"
- 'O brother, when I told him what had chanced,
- My sister's vision, and the rest, his face
- Darkened, as I have seen it more than once,
- When some brave deed seemed to be done in vain,
- Darken; and "Woe is me, my knights," he cried,
- "Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow."
- Bold was mine answer, "Had thyself been here,
- My King, thou wouldst have sworn." "Yea, yea," said he,
- "Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail?"
- '"Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light,
- But since I did not see the Holy Thing,
- I sware a vow to follow it till I saw."
- 'Then when he asked us, knight by knight, if any
- Had seen it, all their answers were as one:
- "Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows."
- '"Lo now," said Arthur, "have ye seen a cloud?
- What go ye into the wilderness to see?"
- 'Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice
- Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, called,
- "But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail,
- I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry--
- 'O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.'"
- '"Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the King, "for such
- As thou art is the vision, not for these.
- Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign--
- Holier is none, my Percivale, than she--
- A sign to maim this Order which I made.
- But ye, that follow but the leader's bell"
- (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights)
- "Taliessin is our fullest throat of song,
- And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing.
- Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne
- Five knights at once, and every younger knight,
- Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot,
- Till overborne by one, he learns--and ye,
- What are ye? Galahads?--no, nor Percivales"
- (For thus it pleased the King to range me close
- After Sir Galahad); "nay," said he, "but men
- With strength and will to right the wronged, of power
- To lay the sudden heads of violence flat,
- Knights that in twelve great battles splashed and dyed
- The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood--
- But one hath seen, and all the blind will see.
- Go, since your vows are sacred, being made:
- Yet--for ye know the cries of all my realm
- Pass through this hall--how often, O my knights,
- Your places being vacant at my side,
- This chance of noble deeds will come and go
- Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires
- Lost in the quagmire! Many of you, yea most,
- Return no more: ye think I show myself
- Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet
- The morrow morn once more in one full field
- Of gracious pastime, that once more the King,
- Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count
- The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights,
- Rejoicing in that Order which he made."
- 'So when the sun broke next from under ground,
- All the great table of our Arthur closed
- And clashed in such a tourney and so full,
- So many lances broken--never yet
- Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came;
- And I myself and Galahad, for a strength
- Was in us from this vision, overthrew
- So many knights that all the people cried,
- And almost burst the barriers in their heat,
- Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale!"
- 'But when the next day brake from under ground--
- O brother, had you known our Camelot,
- Built by old kings, age after age, so old
- The King himself had fears that it would fall,
- So strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs
- Tottered toward each other in the sky,
- Met foreheads all along the street of those
- Who watched us pass; and lower, and where the long
- Rich galleries, lady-laden, weighed the necks
- Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls,
- Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers
- Fell as we past; and men and boys astride
- On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan,
- At all the corners, named us each by name,
- Calling, "God speed!" but in the ways below
- The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor
- Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak
- For grief, and all in middle street the Queen,
- Who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud,
- "This madness has come on us for our sins."
- So to the Gate of the three Queens we came,
- Where Arthur's wars are rendered mystically,
- And thence departed every one his way.
- 'And I was lifted up in heart, and thought
- Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists,
- How my strong lance had beaten down the knights,
- So many and famous names; and never yet
- Had heaven appeared so blue, nor earth so green,
- For all my blood danced in me, and I knew
- That I should light upon the Holy Grail.
- 'Thereafter, the dark warning of our King,
- That most of us would follow wandering fires,
- Came like a driving gloom across my mind.
- Then every evil word I had spoken once,
- And every evil thought I had thought of old,
- And every evil deed I ever did,
- Awoke and cried, "This Quest is not for thee."
- And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself
- Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns,
- And I was thirsty even unto death;
- And I, too, cried, "This Quest is not for thee."
- 'And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst
- Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook,
- With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white
- Played ever back upon the sloping wave,
- And took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook
- Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook
- Fallen, and on the lawns. "I will rest here,"
- I said, "I am not worthy of the Quest;"
- But even while I drank the brook, and ate
- The goodly apples, all these things at once
- Fell into dust, and I was left alone,
- And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns.
- 'And then behold a woman at a door
- Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat,
- And kind the woman's eyes and innocent,
- And all her bearing gracious; and she rose
- Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say,
- "Rest here;" but when I touched her, lo! she, too,
- Fell into dust and nothing, and the house
- Became no better than a broken shed,
- And in it a dead babe; and also this
- Fell into dust, and I was left alone.
- 'And on I rode, and greater was my thirst.
- Then flashed a yellow gleam across the world,
- And where it smote the plowshare in the field,
- The plowman left his plowing, and fell down
- Before it; where it glittered on her pail,
- The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down
- Before it, and I knew not why, but thought
- "The sun is rising," though the sun had risen.
- Then was I ware of one that on me moved
- In golden armour with a crown of gold
- About a casque all jewels; and his horse
- In golden armour jewelled everywhere:
- And on the splendour came, flashing me blind;
- And seemed to me the Lord of all the world,
- Being so huge. But when I thought he meant
- To crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too,
- Opened his arms to embrace me as he came,
- And up I went and touched him, and he, too,
- Fell into dust, and I was left alone
- And wearying in a land of sand and thorns.
- 'And I rode on and found a mighty hill,
- And on the top, a city walled: the spires
- Pricked with incredible pinnacles into heaven.
- And by the gateway stirred a crowd; and these
- Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, Percivale!
- Thou mightiest and thou purest among men!"
- And glad was I and clomb, but found at top
- No man, nor any voice. And thence I past
- Far through a ruinous city, and I saw
- That man had once dwelt there; but there I found
- Only one man of an exceeding age.
- "Where is that goodly company," said I,
- "That so cried out upon me?" and he had
- Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped,
- "Whence and what art thou?" and even as he spoke
- Fell into dust, and disappeared, and I
- Was left alone once more, and cried in grief,
- "Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself
- And touch it, it will crumble into dust."
- 'And thence I dropt into a lowly vale,
- Low as the hill was high, and where the vale
- Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby
- A holy hermit in a hermitage,
- To whom I told my phantoms, and he said:
- '"O son, thou hast not true humility,
- The highest virtue, mother of them all;
- For when the Lord of all things made Himself
- Naked of glory for His mortal change,
- 'Take thou my robe,' she said, 'for all is thine,'
- And all her form shone forth with sudden light
- So that the angels were amazed, and she
- Followed Him down, and like a flying star
- Led on the gray-haired wisdom of the east;
- But her thou hast not known: for what is this
- Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins?
- Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself
- As Galahad." When the hermit made an end,
- In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone
- Before us, and against the chapel door
- Laid lance, and entered, and we knelt in prayer.
- And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst,
- And at the sacring of the mass I saw
- The holy elements alone; but he,
- "Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail,
- The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine:
- I saw the fiery face as of a child
- That smote itself into the bread, and went;
- And hither am I come; and never yet
- Hath what thy sister taught me first to see,
- This Holy Thing, failed from my side, nor come
- Covered, but moving with me night and day,
- Fainter by day, but always in the night
- Blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh
- Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top
- Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below
- Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode,
- Shattering all evil customs everywhere,
- And past through Pagan realms, and made them mine,
- And clashed with Pagan hordes, and bore them down,
- And broke through all, and in the strength of this
- Come victor. But my time is hard at hand,
- And hence I go; and one will crown me king
- Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too,
- For thou shalt see the vision when I go."
- 'While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine,
- Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew
- One with him, to believe as he believed.
- Then, when the day began to wane, we went.
- 'There rose a hill that none but man could climb,
- Scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses--
- Storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm
- Round us and death; for every moment glanced
- His silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick
- The lightnings here and there to left and right
- Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead,
- Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death,
- Sprang into fire: and at the base we found
- On either hand, as far as eye could see,
- A great black swamp and of an evil smell,
- Part black, part whitened with the bones of men,
- Not to be crost, save that some ancient king
- Had built a way, where, linked with many a bridge,
- A thousand piers ran into the great Sea.
- And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge,
- And every bridge as quickly as he crost
- Sprang into fire and vanished, though I yearned
- To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens
- Opened and blazed with thunder such as seemed
- Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first
- At once I saw him far on the great Sea,
- In silver-shining armour starry-clear;
- And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung
- Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud.
- And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat,
- If boat it were--I saw not whence it came.
- And when the heavens opened and blazed again
- Roaring, I saw him like a silver star--
- And had he set the sail, or had the boat
- Become a living creature clad with wings?
- And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung
- Redder than any rose, a joy to me,
- For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn.
- Then in a moment when they blazed again
- Opening, I saw the least of little stars
- Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star
- I saw the spiritual city and all her spires
- And gateways in a glory like one pearl--
- No larger, though the goal of all the saints--
- Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot
- A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there
- Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail,
- Which never eyes on earth again shall see.
- Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep.
- And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge
- No memory in me lives; but that I touched
- The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence
- Taking my war-horse from the holy man,
- Glad that no phantom vext me more, returned
- To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars.'
- 'O brother,' asked Ambrosius,--'for in sooth
- These ancient books--and they would win thee--teem,
- Only I find not there this Holy Grail,
- With miracles and marvels like to these,
- Not all unlike; which oftentime I read,
- Who read but on my breviary with ease,
- Till my head swims; and then go forth and pass
- Down to the little thorpe that lies so close,
- And almost plastered like a martin's nest
- To these old walls--and mingle with our folk;
- And knowing every honest face of theirs
- As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep,
- And every homely secret in their hearts,
- Delight myself with gossip and old wives,
- And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in,
- And mirthful sayings, children of the place,
- That have no meaning half a league away:
- Or lulling random squabbles when they rise,
- Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross,
- Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine,
- Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs--
- O brother, saving this Sir Galahad,
- Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest,
- No man, no woman?'
- Then Sir Percivale:
- 'All men, to one so bound by such a vow,
- And women were as phantoms. O, my brother,
- Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee
- How far I faltered from my quest and vow?
- For after I had lain so many nights
- A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake,
- In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan
- And meagre, and the vision had not come;
- And then I chanced upon a goodly town
- With one great dwelling in the middle of it;
- Thither I made, and there was I disarmed
- By maidens each as fair as any flower:
- But when they led me into hall, behold,
- The Princess of that castle was the one,
- Brother, and that one only, who had ever
- Made my heart leap; for when I moved of old
- A slender page about her father's hall,
- And she a slender maiden, all my heart
- Went after her with longing: yet we twain
- Had never kissed a kiss, or vowed a vow.
- And now I came upon her once again,
- And one had wedded her, and he was dead,
- And all his land and wealth and state were hers.
- And while I tarried, every day she set
- A banquet richer than the day before
- By me; for all her longing and her will
- Was toward me as of old; till one fair morn,
- I walking to and fro beside a stream
- That flashed across her orchard underneath
- Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk,
- And calling me the greatest of all knights,
- Embraced me, and so kissed me the first time,
- And gave herself and all her wealth to me.
- Then I remembered Arthur's warning word,
- That most of us would follow wandering fires,
- And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon,
- The heads of all her people drew to me,
- With supplication both of knees and tongue:
- "We have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight,
- Our Lady says it, and we well believe:
- Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us,
- And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land."
- O me, my brother! but one night my vow
- Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled,
- But wailed and wept, and hated mine own self,
- And even the Holy Quest, and all but her;
- Then after I was joined with Galahad
- Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.'
- Then said the monk, 'Poor men, when yule is cold,
- Must be content to sit by little fires.
- And this am I, so that ye care for me
- Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven
- That brought thee here to this poor house of ours
- Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm
- My cold heart with a friend: but O the pity
- To find thine own first love once more--to hold,
- Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms,
- Or all but hold, and then--cast her aside,
- Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed.
- For we that want the warmth of double life,
- We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet
- Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,--
- Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthlywise,
- Seeing I never strayed beyond the cell,
- But live like an old badger in his earth,
- With earth about him everywhere, despite
- All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside,
- None of your knights?'
- 'Yea so,' said Percivale:
- 'One night my pathway swerving east, I saw
- The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors
- All in the middle of the rising moon:
- And toward him spurred, and hailed him, and he me,
- And each made joy of either; then he asked,
- "Where is he? hast thou seen him--Lancelot?--Once,"
- Said good Sir Bors, "he dashed across me--mad,
- And maddening what he rode: and when I cried,
- 'Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest
- So holy,' Lancelot shouted, 'Stay me not!
- I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace,
- For now there is a lion in the way.'
- So vanished."
- 'Then Sir Bors had ridden on
- Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot,
- Because his former madness, once the talk
- And scandal of our table, had returned;
- For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him
- That ill to him is ill to them; to Bors
- Beyond the rest: he well had been content
- Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen,
- The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed,
- Being so clouded with his grief and love,
- Small heart was his after the Holy Quest:
- If God would send the vision, well: if not,
- The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven.
- 'And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors
- Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm,
- And found a people there among their crags,
- Our race and blood, a remnant that were left
- Paynim amid their circles, and the stones
- They pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men
- Were strong in that old magic which can trace
- The wandering of the stars, and scoffed at him
- And this high Quest as at a simple thing:
- Told him he followed--almost Arthur's words--
- A mocking fire: "what other fire than he,
- Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows,
- And the sea rolls, and all the world is warmed?"
- And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd,
- Hearing he had a difference with their priests,
- Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell
- Of great piled stones; and lying bounden there
- In darkness through innumerable hours
- He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep
- Over him till by miracle--what else?--
- Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell,
- Such as no wind could move: and through the gap
- Glimmered the streaming scud: then came a night
- Still as the day was loud; and through the gap
- The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table Round--
- For, brother, so one night, because they roll
- Through such a round in heaven, we named the stars,
- Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King--
- And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends,
- In on him shone: "And then to me, to me,"
- Said good Sir Bors, "beyond all hopes of mine,
- Who scarce had prayed or asked it for myself--
- Across the seven clear stars--O grace to me--
- In colour like the fingers of a hand
- Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail
- Glided and past, and close upon it pealed
- A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, a maid,
- Who kept our holy faith among her kin
- In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.'
- To whom the monk: 'And I remember now
- That pelican on the casque: Sir Bors it was
- Who spake so low and sadly at our board;
- And mighty reverent at our grace was he:
- A square-set man and honest; and his eyes,
- An out-door sign of all the warmth within,
- Smiled with his lips--a smile beneath a cloud,
- But heaven had meant it for a sunny one:
- Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else? But when ye reached
- The city, found ye all your knights returned,
- Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy,
- Tell me, and what said each, and what the King?'
- Then answered Percivale: 'And that can I,
- Brother, and truly; since the living words
- Of so great men as Lancelot and our King
- Pass not from door to door and out again,
- But sit within the house. O, when we reached
- The city, our horses stumbling as they trode
- On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns,
- Cracked basilisks, and splintered cockatrices,
- And shattered talbots, which had left the stones
- Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall.
- 'And there sat Arthur on the dais-throne,
- And those that had gone out upon the Quest,
- Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them,
- And those that had not, stood before the King,
- Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail,
- Saying, "A welfare in thine eye reproves
- Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee
- On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford.
- So fierce a gale made havoc here of late
- Among the strange devices of our kings;
- Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours,
- And from the statue Merlin moulded for us
- Half-wrenched a golden wing; but now--the Quest,
- This vision--hast thou seen the Holy Cup,
- That Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury?"
- 'So when I told him all thyself hast heard,
- Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve
- To pass away into the quiet life,
- He answered not, but, sharply turning, asked
- Of Gawain, "Gawain, was this Quest for thee?"
- '"Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not for such as I.
- Therefore I communed with a saintly man,
- Who made me sure the Quest was not for me;
- For I was much awearied of the Quest:
- But found a silk pavilion in a field,
- And merry maidens in it; and then this gale
- Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin,
- And blew my merry maidens all about
- With all discomfort; yea, and but for this,
- My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me."
- 'He ceased; and Arthur turned to whom at first
- He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, pushed
- Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand,
- Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood,
- Until the King espied him, saying to him,
- "Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true
- Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;" and Bors,
- "Ask me not, for I may not speak of it:
- I saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes.
- 'Then there remained but Lancelot, for the rest
- Spake but of sundry perils in the storm;
- Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ,
- Our Arthur kept his best until the last;
- "Thou, too, my Lancelot," asked the king, "my friend,
- Our mightiest, hath this Quest availed for thee?"
- '"Our mightiest!" answered Lancelot, with a groan;
- "O King!"--and when he paused, methought I spied
- A dying fire of madness in his eyes--
- "O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be,
- Happier are those that welter in their sin,
- Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime,
- Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin
- So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure,
- Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung
- Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower
- And poisonous grew together, each as each,
- Not to be plucked asunder; and when thy knights
- Sware, I sware with them only in the hope
- That could I touch or see the Holy Grail
- They might be plucked asunder. Then I spake
- To one most holy saint, who wept and said,
- That save they could be plucked asunder, all
- My quest were but in vain; to whom I vowed
- That I would work according as he willed.
- And forth I went, and while I yearned and strove
- To tear the twain asunder in my heart,
- My madness came upon me as of old,
- And whipt me into waste fields far away;
- There was I beaten down by little men,
- Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword
- And shadow of my spear had been enow
- To scare them from me once; and then I came
- All in my folly to the naked shore,
- Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew;
- But such a blast, my King, began to blow,
- So loud a blast along the shore and sea,
- Ye could not hear the waters for the blast,
- Though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea
- Drove like a cataract, and all the sand
- Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens
- Were shaken with the motion and the sound.
- And blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat,
- Half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain;
- And in my madness to myself I said,
- 'I will embark and I will lose myself,
- And in the great sea wash away my sin.'
- I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat.
- Seven days I drove along the dreary deep,
- And with me drove the moon and all the stars;
- And the wind fell, and on the seventh night
- I heard the shingle grinding in the surge,
- And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up,
- Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek,
- A castle like a rock upon a rock,
- With chasm-like portals open to the sea,
- And steps that met the breaker! there was none
- Stood near it but a lion on each side
- That kept the entry, and the moon was full.
- Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs.
- There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes
- Those two great beasts rose upright like a man,
- Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between;
- And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice,
- 'Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts
- Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with violence
- The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell.
- And up into the sounding hall I past;
- But nothing in the sounding hall I saw,
- No bench nor table, painting on the wall
- Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon
- Through the tall oriel on the rolling sea.
- But always in the quiet house I heard,
- Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark,
- A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower
- To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps
- With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb
- For ever: at the last I reached a door,
- A light was in the crannies, and I heard,
- 'Glory and joy and honour to our Lord
- And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.'
- Then in my madness I essayed the door;
- It gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat
- As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I,
- Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was,
- With such a fierceness that I swooned away--
- O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail,
- All palled in crimson samite, and around
- Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.
- And but for all my madness and my sin,
- And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw
- That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled
- And covered; and this Quest was not for me."
- 'So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left
- The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain--nay,
- Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,--
- A reckless and irreverent knight was he,
- Now boldened by the silence of his King,--
- Well, I will tell thee: "O King, my liege," he said,
- "Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine?
- When have I stinted stroke in foughten field?
- But as for thine, my good friend Percivale,
- Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad,
- Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least.
- But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear,
- I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat,
- And thrice as blind as any noonday owl,
- To holy virgins in their ecstasies,
- Henceforward."
- '"Deafer," said the blameless King,
- "Gawain, and blinder unto holy things
- Hope not to make thyself by idle vows,
- Being too blind to have desire to see.
- But if indeed there came a sign from heaven,
- Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale,
- For these have seen according to their sight.
- For every fiery prophet in old times,
- And all the sacred madness of the bard,
- When God made music through them, could but speak
- His music by the framework and the chord;
- And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth.
- '"Nay--but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet
- Could all of true and noble in knight and man
- Twine round one sin, whatever it might be,
- With such a closeness, but apart there grew,
- Save that he were the swine thou spakest of,
- Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness;
- Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower.
- '"And spake I not too truly, O my knights?
- Was I too dark a prophet when I said
- To those who went upon the Holy Quest,
- That most of them would follow wandering fires,
- Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone,
- And left me gazing at a barren board,
- And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe--
- And out of those to whom the vision came
- My greatest hardly will believe he saw;
- Another hath beheld it afar off,
- And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,
- Cares but to pass into the silent life.
- And one hath had the vision face to face,
- And now his chair desires him here in vain,
- However they may crown him otherwhere.
- '"And some among you held, that if the King
- Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow:
- Not easily, seeing that the King must guard
- That which he rules, and is but as the hind
- To whom a space of land is given to plow.
- Who may not wander from the allotted field
- Before his work be done; but, being done,
- Let visions of the night or of the day
- Come, as they will; and many a time they come,
- Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,
- This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,
- This air that smites his forehead is not air
- But vision--yea, his very hand and foot--
- In moments when he feels he cannot die,
- And knows himself no vision to himself,
- Nor the high God a vision, nor that One
- Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen."
- 'So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.'
- Pelleas and Ettarre
- King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap
- Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat
- In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors
- Were softly sundered, and through these a youth,
- Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
- Past, and the sunshine came along with him.
- 'Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King,
- All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.'
- Such was his cry: for having heard the King
- Had let proclaim a tournament--the prize
- A golden circlet and a knightly sword,
- Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won
- The golden circlet, for himself the sword:
- And there were those who knew him near the King,
- And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.
- And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles--
- But lately come to his inheritance,
- And lord of many a barren isle was he--
- Riding at noon, a day or twain before,
- Across the forest called of Dean, to find
- Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun
- Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled
- Almost to falling from his horse; but saw
- Near him a mound of even-sloping side,
- Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew,
- And here and there great hollies under them;
- But for a mile all round was open space,
- And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew
- To that dim day, then binding his good horse
- To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay
- At random looking over the brown earth
- Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove,
- It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without
- Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
- So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
- Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud
- Floating, and once the shadow of a bird
- Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed.
- And since he loved all maidens, but no maid
- In special, half-awake he whispered, 'Where?
- O where? I love thee, though I know thee not.
- For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere,
- And I will make thee with my spear and sword
- As famous--O my Queen, my Guinevere,
- For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.'
- Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk
- And laughter at the limit of the wood,
- And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw,
- Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed
- A vision hovering on a sea of fire,
- Damsels in divers colours like the cloud
- Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them
- On horses, and the horses richly trapt
- Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood:
- And all the damsels talked confusedly,
- And one was pointing this way, and one that,
- Because the way was lost.
- And Pelleas rose,
- And loosed his horse, and led him to the light.
- There she that seemed the chief among them said,
- 'In happy time behold our pilot-star!
- Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride,
- Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights
- There at Caerleon, but have lost our way:
- To right? to left? straight forward? back again?
- Which? tell us quickly.'
- Pelleas gazing thought,
- 'Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?'
- For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom
- A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens,
- And round her limbs, mature in womanhood;
- And slender was her hand and small her shape;
- And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn,
- She might have seemed a toy to trifle with,
- And pass and care no more. But while he gazed
- The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy,
- As though it were the beauty of her soul:
- For as the base man, judging of the good,
- Puts his own baseness in him by default
- Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend
- All the young beauty of his own soul to hers,
- Believing her; and when she spake to him,
- Stammered, and could not make her a reply.
- For out of the waste islands had he come,
- Where saving his own sisters he had known
- Scarce any but the women of his isles,
- Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls,
- Makers of nets, and living from the sea.
- Then with a slow smile turned the lady round
- And looked upon her people; and as when
- A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn,
- The circle widens till it lip the marge,
- Spread the slow smile through all her company.
- Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled,
- Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre,
- And she was a great lady in her land.
- Again she said, 'O wild and of the woods,
- Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech?
- Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face,
- Lacking a tongue?'
- 'O damsel,' answered he,
- 'I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom
- Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave
- Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I
- Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?'
- 'Lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went.
- And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes,
- His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe,
- His broken utterances and bashfulness,
- Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart
- She muttered, 'I have lighted on a fool,
- Raw, yet so stale!' But since her mind was bent
- On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name
- And title, 'Queen of Beauty,' in the lists
- Cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought
- That peradventure he will fight for me,
- And win the circlet: therefore flattered him,
- Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed
- His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights
- And all her damsels too were gracious to him,
- For she was a great lady.
- And when they reached
- Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she,
- Taking his hand, 'O the strong hand,' she said,
- 'See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me,
- And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas,
- That I may love thee?'
- Then his helpless heart
- Leapt, and he cried, 'Ay! wilt thou if I win?'
- 'Ay, that will I,' she answered, and she laughed,
- And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her;
- Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers,
- Till all her ladies laughed along with her.
- 'O happy world,' thought Pelleas, 'all, meseems,
- Are happy; I the happiest of them all.'
- Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood,
- And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves;
- Then being on the morrow knighted, sware
- To love one only. And as he came away,
- The men who met him rounded on their heels
- And wondered after him, because his face
- Shone like the countenance of a priest of old
- Against the flame about a sacrifice
- Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he.
- Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights
- From the four winds came in: and each one sat,
- Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea,
- Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes
- His neighbour's make and might: and Pelleas looked
- Noble among the noble, for he dreamed
- His lady loved him, and he knew himself
- Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight
- Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more
- Than all the ranged reasons of the world.
- Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts,
- And this was called 'The Tournament of Youth:'
- For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld
- His older and his mightier from the lists,
- That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love,
- According to her promise, and remain
- Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts
- Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk
- Holden: the gilded parapets were crowned
- With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes
- Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew.
- There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field
- With honour: so by that strong hand of his
- The sword and golden circlet were achieved.
- Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat
- Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye
- Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance,
- And there before the people crowned herself:
- So for the last time she was gracious to him.
- Then at Caerleon for a space--her look
- Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight--
- Lingered Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop,
- Said Guinevere, 'We marvel at thee much,
- O damsel, wearing this unsunny face
- To him who won thee glory!' And she said,
- 'Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower,
- My Queen, he had not won.' Whereat the Queen,
- As one whose foot is bitten by an ant,
- Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way.
- But after, when her damsels, and herself,
- And those three knights all set their faces home,
- Sir Pelleas followed. She that saw him cried,
- 'Damsels--and yet I should be shamed to say it--
- I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back
- Among yourselves. Would rather that we had
- Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way,
- Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride
- And jest with: take him to you, keep him off,
- And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will,
- Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep,
- Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.
- Nay, should ye try him with a merry one
- To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us,
- Small matter! let him.' This her damsels heard,
- And mindful of her small and cruel hand,
- They, closing round him through the journey home,
- Acted her hest, and always from her side
- Restrained him with all manner of device,
- So that he could not come to speech with her.
- And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge,
- Down rang the grate of iron through the groove,
- And he was left alone in open field.
- 'These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas thought,
- 'To those who love them, trials of our faith.
- Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost,
- For loyal to the uttermost am I.'
- So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought
- A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose
- With morning every day, and, moist or dry,
- Full-armed upon his charger all day long
- Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him.
- And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath.
- Then calling her three knights, she charged them, 'Out!
- And drive him from the walls.' And out they came
- But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed
- Against him one by one; and these returned,
- But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.
- Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once,
- A week beyond, while walking on the walls
- With her three knights, she pointed downward, 'Look,
- He haunts me--I cannot breathe--besieges me;
- Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes,
- And drive him from my walls.' And down they went,
- And Pelleas overthrew them one by one;
- And from the tower above him cried Ettarre,
- 'Bind him, and bring him in.'
- He heard her voice;
- Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown
- Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew
- Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.
- Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight
- Of her rich beauty made him at one glance
- More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.
- Yet with good cheer he spake, 'Behold me, Lady,
- A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will;
- And if thou keep me in thy donjon here,
- Content am I so that I see thy face
- But once a day: for I have sworn my vows,
- And thou hast given thy promise, and I know
- That all these pains are trials of my faith,
- And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained
- And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length
- Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.'
- Then she began to rail so bitterly,
- With all her damsels, he was stricken mute;
- But when she mocked his vows and the great King,
- Lighted on words: 'For pity of thine own self,
- Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?'
- 'Thou fool,' she said, 'I never heard his voice
- But longed to break away. Unbind him now,
- And thrust him out of doors; for save he be
- Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones,
- He will return no more.' And those, her three,
- Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.
- And after this, a week beyond, again
- She called them, saying, 'There he watches yet,
- There like a dog before his master's door!
- Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye?
- Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace,
- Affronted with his fulsome innocence?
- Are ye but creatures of the board and bed,
- No men to strike? Fall on him all at once,
- And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail,
- Give ye the slave mine order to be bound,
- Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in:
- It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.'
- She spake; and at her will they couched their spears,
- Three against one: and Gawain passing by,
- Bound upon solitary adventure, saw
- Low down beneath the shadow of those towers
- A villainy, three to one: and through his heart
- The fire of honour and all noble deeds
- Flashed, and he called, 'I strike upon thy side--
- The caitiffs!' 'Nay,' said Pelleas, 'but forbear;
- He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.'
- So Gawain, looking at the villainy done,
- Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness
- Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld
- A moment from the vermin that he sees
- Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills.
- And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three;
- And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in.
- Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned
- Full on her knights in many an evil name
- Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound:
- 'Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch,
- Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out,
- And let who will release him from his bonds.
- And if he comes again'--there she brake short;
- And Pelleas answered, 'Lady, for indeed
- I loved you and I deemed you beautiful,
- I cannot brook to see your beauty marred
- Through evil spite: and if ye love me not,
- I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn:
- I had liefer ye were worthy of my love,
- Than to be loved again of you--farewell;
- And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love,
- Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.'
- While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man
- Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought,
- 'Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves,
- If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why?
- I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him
- A something--was it nobler than myself?
- Seemed my reproach? He is not of my kind.
- He could not love me, did he know me well.
- Nay, let him go--and quickly.' And her knights
- Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door.
- Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds,
- And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward,
- Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag,
- 'Faith of my body,' he said, 'and art thou not--
- Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made
- Knight of his table; yea and he that won
- The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed
- Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest,
- As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?'
- And Pelleas answered, 'O, their wills are hers
- For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers,
- Thus to be bounden, so to see her face,
- Marred though it be with spite and mockery now,
- Other than when I found her in the woods;
- And though she hath me bounden but in spite,
- And all to flout me, when they bring me in,
- Let me be bounden, I shall see her face;
- Else must I die through mine unhappiness.'
- And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn,
- 'Why, let my lady bind me if she will,
- And let my lady beat me if she will:
- But an she send her delegate to thrall
- These fighting hands of mine--Christ kill me then
- But I will slice him handless by the wrist,
- And let my lady sear the stump for him,
- Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend:
- Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth,
- Yea, by the honour of the Table Round,
- I will be leal to thee and work thy work,
- And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand.
- Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say
- That I have slain thee. She will let me in
- To hear the manner of thy fight and fall;
- Then, when I come within her counsels, then
- From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise
- As prowest knight and truest lover, more
- Than any have sung thee living, till she long
- To have thee back in lusty life again,
- Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm,
- Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse
- And armour: let me go: be comforted:
- Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope
- The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.'
- Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms,
- Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took
- Gawain's, and said, 'Betray me not, but help--
- Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?'
- 'Ay,' said Gawain, 'for women be so light.'
- Then bounded forward to the castle walls,
- And raised a bugle hanging from his neck,
- And winded it, and that so musically
- That all the old echoes hidden in the wall
- Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide.
- Up ran a score of damsels to the tower;
- 'Avaunt,' they cried, 'our lady loves thee not.'
- But Gawain lifting up his vizor said,
- 'Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court,
- And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate:
- Behold his horse and armour. Open gates,
- And I will make you merry.'
- And down they ran,
- Her damsels, crying to their lady, 'Lo!
- Pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath
- His horse and armour: will ye let him in?
- He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court,
- Sir Gawain--there he waits below the wall,
- Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.'
- And so, leave given, straight on through open door
- Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously.
- 'Dead, is it so?' she asked. 'Ay, ay,' said he,
- 'And oft in dying cried upon your name.'
- 'Pity on him,' she answered, 'a good knight,
- But never let me bide one hour at peace.'
- 'Ay,' thought Gawain, 'and you be fair enow:
- But I to your dead man have given my troth,
- That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.'
- So those three days, aimless about the land,
- Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering
- Waited, until the third night brought a moon
- With promise of large light on woods and ways.
- Hot was the night and silent; but a sound
- Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay--
- Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen,
- And seen her sadden listening--vext his heart,
- And marred his rest--'A worm within the rose.'
- 'A rose, but one, none other rose had I,
- A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair,
- One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky,
- One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air--
- I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.
- 'One rose, a rose to gather by and by,
- One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear,
- No rose but one--what other rose had I?
- One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,--
- He dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.'
- This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt,
- 'Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?'
- So shook him that he could not rest, but rode
- Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse
- Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates,
- And no watch kept; and in through these he past,
- And heard but his own steps, and his own heart
- Beating, for nothing moved but his own self,
- And his own shadow. Then he crost the court,
- And spied not any light in hall or bower,
- But saw the postern portal also wide
- Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all
- Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt
- And overgrowing them, went on, and found,
- Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon,
- Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave
- Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself
- Among the roses, and was lost again.
- Then was he ware of three pavilions reared
- Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one,
- Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights
- Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet:
- In one, their malice on the placid lip
- Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay:
- And in the third, the circlet of the jousts
- Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.
- Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf
- To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew:
- Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears
- To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound
- Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame
- Creep with his shadow through the court again,
- Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood
- There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought,
- 'I will go back, and slay them where they lie.'
- And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep
- Said, 'Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep,
- Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought,
- 'What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound
- And sworn me to this brotherhood;' again,
- 'Alas that ever a knight should be so false.'
- Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid
- The naked sword athwart their naked throats,
- There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay,
- The circlet of her tourney round her brows,
- And the sword of the tourney across her throat.
- And forth he past, and mounting on his horse
- Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves
- In their own darkness, thronged into the moon.
- Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched
- His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned:
- 'Would they have risen against me in their blood
- At the last day? I might have answered them
- Even before high God. O towers so strong,
- Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze
- The crack of earthquake shivering to your base
- Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs
- Bellowing, and charred you through and through within,
- Black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull!
- Let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes,
- And whirl the dust of harlots round and round
- In dung and nettles! hiss, snake--I saw him there--
- Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells
- Here in the still sweet summer night, but I--
- I, the poor Pelleas whom she called her fool?
- Fool, beast--he, she, or I? myself most fool;
- Beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced,
- Dishonoured all for trial of true love--
- Love?--we be all alike: only the King
- Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows!
- O great and sane and simple race of brutes
- That own no lust because they have no law!
- For why should I have loved her to my shame?
- I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame.
- I never loved her, I but lusted for her--
- Away--'
- He dashed the rowel into his horse,
- And bounded forth and vanished through the night.
- Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat,
- Awaking knew the sword, and turned herself
- To Gawain: 'Liar, for thou hast not slain
- This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain
- Me and thyself.' And he that tells the tale
- Says that her ever-veering fancy turned
- To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth,
- And only lover; and through her love her life
- Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain.
- But he by wild and way, for half the night,
- And over hard and soft, striking the sod
- From out the soft, the spark from off the hard,
- Rode till the star above the wakening sun,
- Beside that tower where Percivale was cowled,
- Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn.
- For so the words were flashed into his heart
- He knew not whence or wherefore: 'O sweet star,
- Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!'
- And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes
- Harder and drier than a fountain bed
- In summer: thither came the village girls
- And lingered talking, and they come no more
- Till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights
- Again with living waters in the change
- Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart
- Seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he,
- Gasping, 'Of Arthur's hall am I, but here,
- Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down,
- And gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay,
- Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired
- The hall of Merlin, and the morning star
- Reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell.
- He woke, and being ware of some one nigh,
- Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying,
- 'False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.'
- But Percivale stood near him and replied,
- 'Am I but false as Guinevere is pure?
- Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one
- Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard
- That Lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused.
- Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one
- Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword
- That made it plunges through the wound again,
- And pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wailed,
- 'Is the Queen false?' and Percivale was mute.
- 'Have any of our Round Table held their vows?'
- And Percivale made answer not a word.
- 'Is the King true?' 'The King!' said Percivale.
- 'Why then let men couple at once with wolves.
- What! art thou mad?'
- But Pelleas, leaping up,
- Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse
- And fled: small pity upon his horse had he,
- Or on himself, or any, and when he met
- A cripple, one that held a hand for alms--
- Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm
- That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy
- Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 'False,
- And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised
- And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood
- Went ever streaming by him till the gloom,
- That follows on the turning of the world,
- Darkened the common path: he twitched the reins,
- And made his beast that better knew it, swerve
- Now off it and now on; but when he saw
- High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built,
- Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even,
- 'Black nest of rats,' he groaned, 'ye build too high.'
- Not long thereafter from the city gates
- Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily,
- Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen,
- Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star
- And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy,
- Across the silent seeded meadow-grass
- Borne, clashed: and Lancelot, saying, 'What name hast thou
- That ridest here so blindly and so hard?'
- 'No name, no name,' he shouted, 'a scourge am I
- To lash the treasons of the Table Round.'
- 'Yea, but thy name?' 'I have many names,' he cried:
- 'I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame,
- And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast
- And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.'
- 'First over me,' said Lancelot, 'shalt thou pass.'
- 'Fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight
- Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once
- The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung
- His rider, who called out from the dark field,
- 'Thou art as false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.'
- Then Lancelot, 'Yea, between thy lips--and sharp;
- But here I will disedge it by thy death.'
- 'Slay then,' he shrieked, 'my will is to be slain,'
- And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen,
- Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake:
- 'Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.'
- And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back
- To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while
- Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field,
- And followed to the city. It chanced that both
- Brake into hall together, worn and pale.
- There with her knights and dames was Guinevere.
- Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot
- So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, him
- Who had not greeted her, but cast himself
- Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 'Have ye fought?'
- She asked of Lancelot. 'Ay, my Queen,' he said.
- 'And hast thou overthrown him?' 'Ay, my Queen.'
- Then she, turning to Pelleas, 'O young knight,
- Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed
- So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly,
- A fall from him?' Then, for he answered not,
- 'Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen,
- May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.'
- But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce
- She quailed; and he, hissing 'I have no sword,'
- Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen
- Looked hard upon her lover, he on her;
- And each foresaw the dolorous day to be:
- And all talk died, as in a grove all song
- Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey;
- Then a long silence came upon the hall,
- And Modred thought, 'The time is hard at hand.'
- The Last Tournament
- Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
- Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
- At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
- Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
- And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand,
- And from the crown thereof a carcanet
- Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize
- Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,
- Came Tristram, saying, 'Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?'
- For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
- Far down beneath a winding wall of rock
- Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead,
- From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,
- Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air
- Bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree
- Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind
- Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree
- Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,
- This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
- And all unscarred from beak or talon, brought
- A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,
- Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
- But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms
- Received, and after loved it tenderly,
- And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
- A moment, and her cares; till that young life
- Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold
- Past from her; and in time the carcanet
- Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:
- So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
- 'Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,
- And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.'
- To whom the King, 'Peace to thine eagle-borne
- Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
- Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
- Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
- Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
- And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.'
- 'Would rather you had let them fall,' she cried,
- 'Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were,
- A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed,
- Not knowing they were lost as soon as given--
- Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
- Above the river--that unhappy child
- Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go
- With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
- Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,
- But the sweet body of a maiden babe.
- Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights
- May win them for the purest of my maids.'
- She ended, and the cry of a great jousts
- With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways
- From Camelot in among the faded fields
- To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights
- Armed for a day of glory before the King.
- But on the hither side of that loud morn
- Into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed
- From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose
- Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off,
- And one with shattered fingers dangling lame,
- A churl, to whom indignantly the King,
- 'My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast
- Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend?
- Man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus?'
- Then, sputtering through the hedge of splintered teeth,
- Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump
- Pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl,
- 'He took them and he drave them to his tower--
- Some hold he was a table-knight of thine--
- A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he--
- Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight
- Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower;
- And when I called upon thy name as one
- That doest right by gentle and by churl,
- Maimed me and mauled, and would outright have slain,
- Save that he sware me to a message, saying,
- "Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I
- Have founded my Round Table in the North,
- And whatsoever his own knights have sworn
- My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say
- My tower is full of harlots, like his court,
- But mine are worthier, seeing they profess
- To be none other than themselves--and say
- My knights are all adulterers like his own,
- But mine are truer, seeing they profess
- To be none other; and say his hour is come,
- The heathen are upon him, his long lance
- Broken, and his Excalibur a straw."'
- Then Arthur turned to Kay the seneschal,
- 'Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously
- Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole.
- The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave,
- Hurled back again so often in empty foam,
- Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades,
- Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom
- The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,
- Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,--now
- Make their last head like Satan in the North.
- My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower
- Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds,
- Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved,
- The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore.
- But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place
- Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field;
- For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it,
- Only to yield my Queen her own again?
- Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?'
- Thereto Sir Lancelot answered, 'It is well:
- Yet better if the King abide, and leave
- The leading of his younger knights to me.
- Else, for the King has willed it, it is well.'
- Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him,
- And while they stood without the doors, the King
- Turned to him saying, 'Is it then so well?
- Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he
- Of whom was written, "A sound is in his ears"?
- The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance
- That only seems half-loyal to command,--
- A manner somewhat fallen from reverence--
- Or have I dreamed the bearing of our knights
- Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
- Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared,
- By noble deeds at one with noble vows,
- From flat confusion and brute violences,
- Reel back into the beast, and be no more?'
- He spoke, and taking all his younger knights,
- Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned
- North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen,
- Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
- Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed.
- Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme
- Of bygone Merlin, 'Where is he who knows?
- From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'
- But when the morning of a tournament,
- By these in earnest those in mockery called
- The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,
- Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,
- Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey,
- The words of Arthur flying shrieked, arose,
- And down a streetway hung with folds of pure
- White samite, and by fountains running wine,
- Where children sat in white with cups of gold,
- Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps
- Ascending, filled his double-dragoned chair.
- He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
- Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen
- White-robed in honour of the stainless child,
- And some with scattered jewels, like a bank
- Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
- He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again.
- The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream
- To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll
- Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:
- And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf
- And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume
- Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one
- Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,
- When all the goodlier guests are past away,
- Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists.
- He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
- Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down
- Before his throne of arbitration cursed
- The dead babe and the follies of the King;
- And once the laces of a helmet cracked,
- And showed him, like a vermin in its hole,
- Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
- The voice that billowed round the barriers roar
- An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
- But newly-entered, taller than the rest,
- And armoured all in forest green, whereon
- There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
- And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,
- With ever-scattering berries, and on shield
- A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late
- From overseas in Brittany returned,
- And marriage with a princess of that realm,
- Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods--
- Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain
- His own against him, and now yearned to shake
- The burthen off his heart in one full shock
- With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript
- And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
- Until he groaned for wrath--so many of those,
- That ware their ladies' colours on the casque,
- Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
- And there with gibes and flickering mockeries
- Stood, while he muttered, 'Craven crests! O shame!
- What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
- The glory of our Round Table is no more.'
- So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems,
- Not speaking other word than 'Hast thou won?
- Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand
- Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to whom
- Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood,
- Made answer, 'Ay, but wherefore toss me this
- Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?
- Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart
- And might of limb, but mainly use and skill,
- Are winners in this pastime of our King.
- My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it--
- No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
- Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,
- Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
- Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.'
- And Tristram round the gallery made his horse
- Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying,
- 'Fair damsels, each to him who worships each
- Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold
- This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.'
- And most of these were mute, some angered, one
- Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' and one,
- 'The glory of our Round Table is no more.'
- Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
- And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day
- Went glooming down in wet and weariness:
- But under her black brows a swarthy one
- Laughed shrilly, crying, 'Praise the patient saints,
- Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
- Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
- The snowdrop only, flowering through the year,
- Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.
- Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's
- And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity
- With all the kindlier colours of the field.'
- So dame and damsel glittered at the feast
- Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
- Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold
- Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
- And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
- Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
- With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;
- So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
- And glowing in all colours, the live grass,
- Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
- About the revels, and with mirth so loud
- Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
- And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
- Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
- Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.
- And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
- High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
- Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
- Then Tristram saying, 'Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?'
- Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
- 'Belike for lack of wiser company;
- Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
- Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
- To know myself the wisest knight of all.'
- 'Ay, fool,' said Tristram, 'but 'tis eating dry
- To dance without a catch, a roundelay
- To dance to.' Then he twangled on his harp,
- And while he twangled little Dagonet stood
- Quiet as any water-sodden log
- Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook;
- But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
- And being asked, 'Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?'
- Made answer, 'I had liefer twenty years
- Skip to the broken music of my brains
- Than any broken music thou canst make.'
- Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
- 'Good now, what music have I broken, fool?'
- And little Dagonet, skipping, 'Arthur, the King's;
- For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
- Thou makest broken music with thy bride,
- Her daintier namesake down in Brittany--
- And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.'
- 'Save for that broken music in thy brains,
- Sir Fool,' said Tristram, 'I would break thy head.
- Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er,
- The life had flown, we sware but by the shell--
- I am but a fool to reason with a fool--
- Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down,
- Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears,
- And harken if my music be not true.
- '"Free love--free field--we love but while we may:
- The woods are hushed, their music is no more:
- The leaf is dead, the yearning past away:
- New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er:
- New life, new love, to suit the newer day:
- New loves are sweet as those that went before:
- Free love--free field--we love but while we may."
- 'Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune,
- Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods,
- And heard it ring as true as tested gold.'
- But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
- 'Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
- Made to run wine?--but this had run itself
- All out like a long life to a sour end--
- And them that round it sat with golden cups
- To hand the wine to whosoever came--
- The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
- In honour of poor Innocence the babe,
- Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
- Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
- Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips
- Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
- "Drink, drink, Sir Fool," and thereupon I drank,
- Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud.'
- And Tristram, 'Was it muddier than thy gibes?
- Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?--
- Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool--
- "Fear God: honour the King--his one true knight--
- Sole follower of the vows"--for here be they
- Who knew thee swine enow before I came,
- Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King
- Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up
- It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;
- Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,
- A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still,
- For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.'
- And little Dagonet mincing with his feet,
- 'Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck
- In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch
- Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
- Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed--the world
- Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.
- The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
- Hath fouled me--an I wallowed, then I washed--
- I have had my day and my philosophies--
- And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.
- Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese
- Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed
- On such a wire as musically as thou
- Some such fine song--but never a king's fool.'
- And Tristram, 'Then were swine, goats, asses, geese
- The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard
- Had such a mastery of his mystery
- That he could harp his wife up out of hell.'
- Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,
- 'And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself
- Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,
- That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star
- We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?'
- And Tristram, 'Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King
- Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,
- Glorying in each new glory, set his name
- High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.'
- And Dagonet answered, 'Ay, and when the land
- Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself
- To babble about him, all to show your wit--
- And whether he were King by courtesy,
- Or King by right--and so went harping down
- The black king's highway, got so far, and grew
- So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes
- With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire.
- Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?'
- 'Nay, fool,' said Tristram, 'not in open day.'
- And Dagonet, 'Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.
- It makes a silent music up in heaven,
- And I, and Arthur and the angels hear,
- And then we skip.' 'Lo, fool,' he said, 'ye talk
- Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?'
- Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled,
- 'Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!
- Conceits himself as God that he can make
- Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk
- From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs,
- And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!'
- And down the city Dagonet danced away;
- But through the slowly-mellowing avenues
- And solitary passes of the wood
- Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west.
- Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt
- With ruby-circled neck, but evermore
- Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood
- Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye
- For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew.
- Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,
- Unruffling waters re-collect the shape
- Of one that in them sees himself, returned;
- But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,
- Or even a fallen feather, vanished again.
- So on for all that day from lawn to lawn
- Through many a league-long bower he rode. At length
- A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs
- Furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself
- Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt
- Against a shower, dark in the golden grove
- Appearing, sent his fancy back to where
- She lived a moon in that low lodge with him:
- Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King,
- With six or seven, when Tristram was away,
- And snatched her thence; yet dreading worse than shame
- Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,
- But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.
- And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt
- So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank
- Down on a drift of foliage random-blown;
- But could not rest for musing how to smoothe
- And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.
- Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all
- The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.
- But then what folly had sent him overseas
- After she left him lonely here? a name?
- Was it the name of one in Brittany,
- Isolt, the daughter of the King? 'Isolt
- Of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name
- Allured him first, and then the maid herself,
- Who served him well with those white hands of hers,
- And loved him well, until himself had thought
- He loved her also, wedded easily,
- But left her all as easily, and returned.
- The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes
- Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid
- His brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed.
- He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany
- Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,
- And showed them both the ruby-chain, and both
- Began to struggle for it, till his Queen
- Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red.
- Then cried the Breton, 'Look, her hand is red!
- These be no rubies, this is frozen blood,
- And melts within her hand--her hand is hot
- With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look,
- Is all as cool and white as any flower.'
- Followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then
- A whimpering of the spirit of the child,
- Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet.
- He dreamed; but Arthur with a hundred spears
- Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,
- And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,
- The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh
- Glared on a huge machicolated tower
- That stood with open doors, whereout was rolled
- A roar of riot, as from men secure
- Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease
- Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.
- 'Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, for there,
- High on a grim dead tree before the tower,
- A goodly brother of the Table Round
- Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield
- Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,
- And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights
- At that dishonour done the gilded spur,
- Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn.
- But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode.
- Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,
- That sent the face of all the marsh aloft
- An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud
- Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all,
- Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,
- In blood-red armour sallying, howled to the King,
- 'The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!--
- Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King
- Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world--
- The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I!
- Slain was the brother of my paramour
- By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine
- And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too,
- Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell,
- And stings itself to everlasting death,
- To hang whatever knight of thine I fought
- And tumbled. Art thou King? --Look to thy life!'
- He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face
- Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name
- Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.
- And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword,
- But let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse
- To strike him, overbalancing his bulk,
- Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp
- Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave,
- Heard in dead night along that table-shore,
- Drops flat, and after the great waters break
- Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves,
- Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,
- From less and less to nothing; thus he fell
- Head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared
- And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen;
- There trampled out his face from being known,
- And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves:
- Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang
- Through open doors, and swording right and left
- Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled
- The tables over and the wines, and slew
- Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,
- And all the pavement streamed with massacre:
- Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower,
- Which half that autumn night, like the live North,
- Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor,
- Made all above it, and a hundred meres
- About it, as the water Moab saw
- Came round by the East, and out beyond them flushed
- The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.
- So all the ways were safe from shore to shore,
- But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.
- Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream
- Fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned,
- Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs.
- He whistled his good warhorse left to graze
- Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him,
- And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,
- Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross,
- Stayed him. 'Why weep ye?' 'Lord,' she said, 'my man
- Hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought--
- 'What, if she hate me now? I would not this.
- What, if she love me still? I would not that.
- I know not what I would'--but said to her,
- 'Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return,
- He find thy favour changed and love thee not'--
- Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse
- Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard
- The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds
- Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained
- Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land,
- A crown of towers.
- Down in a casement sat,
- A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair
- And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.
- And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind
- The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,
- Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there
- Belted his body with her white embrace,
- Crying aloud, 'Not Mark--not Mark, my soul!
- The footstep fluttered me at first: not he:
- Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark,
- But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls
- Who hates thee, as I him--even to the death.
- My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark
- Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.'
- To whom Sir Tristram smiling, 'I am here.
- Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.'
- And drawing somewhat backward she replied,
- 'Can he be wronged who is not even his own,
- But save for dread of thee had beaten me,
- Scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow--Mark?
- What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
- Not lift a hand--not, though he found me thus!
- But harken! have ye met him? hence he went
- Today for three days' hunting--as he said--
- And so returns belike within an hour.
- Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark,
- Because he hates thee even more than fears;
- Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood
- Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush
- Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.
- My God, the measure of my hate for Mark
- Is as the measure of my love for thee.'
- So, plucked one way by hate and one by love,
- Drained of her force, again she sat, and spake
- To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying,
- 'O hunter, and O blower of the horn,
- Harper, and thou hast been a rover too,
- For, ere I mated with my shambling king,
- Ye twain had fallen out about the bride
- Of one--his name is out of me--the prize,
- If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)--
- Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks
- To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight,
- What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?'
- And Tristram, 'Last to my Queen Paramount,
- Here now to my Queen Paramount of love
- And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first
- Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse,
- Sailing from Ireland.'
- Softly laughed Isolt;
- 'Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen
- My dole of beauty trebled?' and he said,
- 'Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine,
- And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind--
- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips
- Most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him,
- Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow
- To make one doubt if ever the great Queen
- Have yielded him her love.'
- To whom Isolt,
- 'Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou
- Who brakest through the scruple of my bond,
- Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me
- That Guinevere had sinned against the highest,
- And I--misyoked with such a want of man--
- That I could hardly sin against the lowest.'
- He answered, 'O my soul, be comforted!
- If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings,
- If here be comfort, and if ours be sin,
- Crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin
- That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear
- And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale--
- Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories
- Of Tristram in that year he was away.'
- And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt,
- 'I had forgotten all in my strong joy
- To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour,
- Here in the never-ended afternoon,
- O sweeter than all memories of thee,
- Deeper than any yearnings after thee
- Seemed those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas,
- Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dashed
- Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
- Would that have chilled her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
- Fought in her father's battles? wounded there?
- The King was all fulfilled with gratefulness,
- And she, my namesake of the hands, that healed
- Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress--
- Well--can I wish her any huger wrong
- Than having known thee? her too hast thou left
- To pine and waste in those sweet memories.
- O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men
- Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.'
- And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied,
- 'Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well.
- Did I love her? the name at least I loved.
- Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt!
- The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt!
- The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt?
- Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek,
- Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.'
- And Isolt answered, 'Yea, and why not I?
- Mine is the larger need, who am not meek,
- Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now.
- Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat,
- Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where,
- Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing,
- And once or twice I spake thy name aloud.
- Then flashed a levin-brand; and near me stood,
- In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend--
- Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark--
- For there was Mark: "He has wedded her," he said,
- Not said, but hissed it: then this crown of towers
- So shook to such a roar of all the sky,
- That here in utter dark I swooned away,
- And woke again in utter dark, and cried,
- "I will flee hence and give myself to God"--
- And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.'
- Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand,
- 'May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray,
- And past desire!' a saying that angered her.
- '"May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old,
- And sweet no more to me!" I need Him now.
- For when had Lancelot uttered aught so gross
- Even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast?
- The greater man, the greater courtesy.
- Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight!
- But thou, through ever harrying thy wild beasts--
- Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance
- Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself.
- How darest thou, if lover, push me even
- In fancy from thy side, and set me far
- In the gray distance, half a life away,
- Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear!
- Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak,
- Broken with Mark and hate and solitude,
- Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck
- Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe.
- Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel,
- And solemnly as when ye sware to him,
- The man of men, our King--My God, the power
- Was once in vows when men believed the King!
- They lied not then, who sware, and through their vows
- The King prevailing made his realm:--I say,
- Swear to me thou wilt love me even when old,
- Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.'
- Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down,
- 'Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark
- More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt,
- The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself--
- My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt--
- We run more counter to the soul thereof
- Than had we never sworn. I swear no more.
- I swore to the great King, and am forsworn.
- For once--even to the height--I honoured him.
- "Man, is he man at all?" methought, when first
- I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld
- That victor of the Pagan throned in hall--
- His hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow
- Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes,
- The golden beard that clothed his lips with light--
- Moreover, that weird legend of his birth,
- With Merlin's mystic babble about his end
- Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool
- Shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man,
- But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware,
- Being amazed: but this went by-- The vows!
- O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour--
- They served their use, their time; for every knight
- Believed himself a greater than himself,
- And every follower eyed him as a God;
- Till he, being lifted up beyond himself,
- Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done,
- And so the realm was made; but then their vows--
- First mainly through that sullying of our Queen--
- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence
- Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?
- Dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep?
- They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood
- Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord
- To bind them by inviolable vows,
- Which flesh and blood perforce would violate:
- For feel this arm of mine--the tide within
- Red with free chase and heather-scented air,
- Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure
- As any maiden child? lock up my tongue
- From uttering freely what I freely hear?
- Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it.
- And worldling of the world am I, and know
- The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour
- Woos his own end; we are not angels here
- Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods,
- And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale
- Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may;
- And therefore is my love so large for thee,
- Seeing it is not bounded save by love.'
- Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said,
- 'Good: an I turned away my love for thee
- To some one thrice as courteous as thyself--
- For courtesy wins woman all as well
- As valour may, but he that closes both
- Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed,
- Rosier and comelier, thou--but say I loved
- This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back
- Thine own small saw, "We love but while we may,"
- Well then, what answer?'
- He that while she spake,
- Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with,
- The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch
- The warm white apple of her throat, replied,
- 'Press this a little closer, sweet, until--
- Come, I am hungered and half-angered--meat,
- Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death,
- And out beyond into the dream to come.'
- So then, when both were brought to full accord,
- She rose, and set before him all he willed;
- And after these had comforted the blood
- With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts--
- Now talking of their woodland paradise,
- The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns;
- Now mocking at the much ungainliness,
- And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark--
- Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:
- 'Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier!
- A star in heaven, a star within the mere!
- Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire,
- And one was far apart, and one was near:
- Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass!
- And one was water and one star was fire,
- And one will ever shine and one will pass.
- Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere.'
- Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram showed
- And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried,
- 'The collar of some Order, which our King
- Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul,
- For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.'
- 'Not so, my Queen,' he said, 'but the red fruit
- Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven,
- And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize,
- And hither brought by Tristram for his last
- Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.'
- He spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck,
- Claspt it, and cried, 'Thine Order, O my Queen!'
- But, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat,
- Out of the dark, just as the lips had touched,
- Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek--
- 'Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him through the brain.
- That night came Arthur home, and while he climbed,
- All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,
- The stairway to the hall, and looked and saw
- The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet
- A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it,
- 'What art thou?' and the voice about his feet
- Sent up an answer, sobbing, 'I am thy fool,
- And I shall never make thee smile again.'
- Guinevere
- Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat
- There in the holy house at Almesbury
- Weeping, none with her save a little maid,
- A novice: one low light betwixt them burned
- Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad,
- Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,
- The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,
- Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.
- For hither had she fled, her cause of flight
- Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast
- Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,
- Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this
- He chilled the popular praises of the King
- With silent smiles of slow disparagement;
- And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse,
- Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought
- To make disruption in the Table Round
- Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds
- Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims
- Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot.
- For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,
- Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may,
- Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned,
- That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,
- Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall
- To spy some secret scandal if he might,
- And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best
- Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court
- The wiliest and the worst; and more than this
- He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by
- Spied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand
- Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,
- So from the high wall and the flowering grove
- Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel,
- And cast him as a worm upon the way;
- But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust,
- He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man,
- Made such excuses as he might, and these
- Full knightly without scorn; for in those days
- No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn;
- But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him
- By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall,
- Scorn was allowed as part of his defect,
- And he was answered softly by the King
- And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp
- To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice
- Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went:
- But, ever after, the small violence done
- Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart,
- As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long
- A little bitter pool about a stone
- On the bare coast.
- But when Sir Lancelot told
- This matter to the Queen, at first she laughed
- Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall,
- Then shuddered, as the village wife who cries
- 'I shudder, some one steps across my grave;'
- Then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed
- She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast,
- Would track her guilt until he found, and hers
- Would be for evermore a name of scorn.
- Henceforward rarely could she front in hall,
- Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face,
- Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye:
- Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul,
- To help it from the death that cannot die,
- And save it even in extremes, began
- To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours,
- Beside the placid breathings of the King,
- In the dead night, grim faces came and went
- Before her, or a vague spiritual fear--
- Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors,
- Heard by the watcher in a haunted house,
- That keeps the rust of murder on the walls--
- Held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed
- An awful dream; for then she seemed to stand
- On some vast plain before a setting sun,
- And from the sun there swiftly made at her
- A ghastly something, and its shadow flew
- Before it, till it touched her, and she turned--
- When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet,
- And blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it
- Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke.
- And all this trouble did not pass but grew;
- Till even the clear face of the guileless King,
- And trustful courtesies of household life,
- Became her bane; and at the last she said,
- 'O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land,
- For if thou tarry we shall meet again,
- And if we meet again, some evil chance
- Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze
- Before the people, and our lord the King.'
- And Lancelot ever promised, but remained,
- And still they met and met. Again she said,
- 'O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.'
- And then they were agreed upon a night
- (When the good King should not be there) to meet
- And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard.
- She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met
- And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye,
- Low on the border of her couch they sat
- Stammering and staring. It was their last hour,
- A madness of farewells. And Modred brought
- His creatures to the basement of the tower
- For testimony; and crying with full voice
- 'Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused
- Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike
- Leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell
- Stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off,
- And all was still: then she, 'The end is come,
- And I am shamed for ever;' and he said,
- 'Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise,
- And fly to my strong castle overseas:
- There will I hide thee, till my life shall end,
- There hold thee with my life against the world.'
- She answered, 'Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so?
- Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells.
- Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself!
- Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou
- Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly,
- For I will draw me into sanctuary,
- And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse,
- Set her thereon, and mounted on his own,
- And then they rode to the divided way,
- There kissed, and parted weeping: for he past,
- Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen,
- Back to his land; but she to Almesbury
- Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald,
- And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald
- Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan:
- And in herself she moaned 'Too late, too late!'
- Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn,
- A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high,
- Croaked, and she thought, 'He spies a field of death;
- For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea,
- Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court,
- Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.'
- And when she came to Almesbury she spake
- There to the nuns, and said, 'Mine enemies
- Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,
- Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask
- Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time
- To tell you:' and her beauty, grace and power,
- Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared
- To ask it.
- So the stately Queen abode
- For many a week, unknown, among the nuns;
- Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought,
- Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift,
- But communed only with the little maid,
- Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness
- Which often lured her from herself; but now,
- This night, a rumour wildly blown about
- Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm,
- And leagued him with the heathen, while the King
- Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought,
- 'With what a hate the people and the King
- Must hate me,' and bowed down upon her hands
- Silent, until the little maid, who brooked
- No silence, brake it, uttering, 'Late! so late!
- What hour, I wonder, now?' and when she drew
- No answer, by and by began to hum
- An air the nuns had taught her; 'Late, so late!'
- Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said,
- 'O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing,
- Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.'
- Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.
- 'Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
- Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
- Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
- 'No light had we: for that we do repent;
- And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
- Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
- 'No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
- O let us in, that we may find the light!
- Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
- 'Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
- O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet!
- No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.'
- So sang the novice, while full passionately,
- Her head upon her hands, remembering
- Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen.
- Then said the little novice prattling to her,
- 'O pray you, noble lady, weep no more;
- But let my words, the words of one so small,
- Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,
- And if I do not there is penance given--
- Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow
- From evil done; right sure am I of that,
- Who see your tender grace and stateliness.
- But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's,
- And weighing find them less; for gone is he
- To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there,
- Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen;
- And Modred whom he left in charge of all,
- The traitor--Ah sweet lady, the King's grief
- For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm,
- Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours.
- For me, I thank the saints, I am not great.
- For if there ever come a grief to me
- I cry my cry in silence, and have done.
- None knows it, and my tears have brought me good:
- But even were the griefs of little ones
- As great as those of great ones, yet this grief
- Is added to the griefs the great must bear,
- That howsoever much they may desire
- Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud:
- As even here they talk at Almesbury
- About the good King and his wicked Queen,
- And were I such a King with such a Queen,
- Well might I wish to veil her wickedness,
- But were I such a King, it could not be.'
- Then to her own sad heart muttered the Queen,
- 'Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?'
- But openly she answered, 'Must not I,
- If this false traitor have displaced his lord,
- Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?'
- 'Yea,' said the maid, 'this is all woman's grief,
- That she is woman, whose disloyal life
- Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round
- Which good King Arthur founded, years ago,
- With signs and miracles and wonders, there
- At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.'
- Then thought the Queen within herself again,
- 'Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?'
- But openly she spake and said to her,
- 'O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls,
- What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round,
- Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs
- And simple miracles of thy nunnery?'
- To whom the little novice garrulously,
- 'Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs
- And wonders ere the coming of the Queen.
- So said my father, and himself was knight
- Of the great Table--at the founding of it;
- And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said
- That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain
- After the sunset, down the coast, he heard
- Strange music, and he paused, and turning--there,
- All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse,
- Each with a beacon-star upon his head,
- And with a wild sea-light about his feet,
- He saw them--headland after headland flame
- Far on into the rich heart of the west:
- And in the light the white mermaiden swam,
- And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea,
- And sent a deep sea-voice through all the land,
- To which the little elves of chasm and cleft
- Made answer, sounding like a distant horn.
- So said my father--yea, and furthermore,
- Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods,
- Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy
- Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower,
- That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes
- When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed:
- And still at evenings on before his horse
- The flickering fairy-circle wheeled and broke
- Flying, and linked again, and wheeled and broke
- Flying, for all the land was full of life.
- And when at last he came to Camelot,
- A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand
- Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall;
- And in the hall itself was such a feast
- As never man had dreamed; for every knight
- Had whatsoever meat he longed for served
- By hands unseen; and even as he said
- Down in the cellars merry bloated things
- Shouldered the spigot, straddling on the butts
- While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men
- Before the coming of the sinful Queen.'
- Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly,
- 'Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all,
- Spirits and men: could none of them foresee,
- Not even thy wise father with his signs
- And wonders, what has fallen upon the realm?'
- To whom the novice garrulously again,
- 'Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said,
- Full many a noble war-song had he sung,
- Even in the presence of an enemy's fleet,
- Between the steep cliff and the coming wave;
- And many a mystic lay of life and death
- Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops,
- When round him bent the spirits of the hills
- With all their dewy hair blown back like flame:
- So said my father--and that night the bard
- Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King
- As wellnigh more than man, and railed at those
- Who called him the false son of Gorlois:
- For there was no man knew from whence he came;
- But after tempest, when the long wave broke
- All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos,
- There came a day as still as heaven, and then
- They found a naked child upon the sands
- Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea;
- And that was Arthur; and they fostered him
- Till he by miracle was approven King:
- And that his grave should be a mystery
- From all men, like his birth; and could he find
- A woman in her womanhood as great
- As he was in his manhood, then, he sang,
- The twain together well might change the world.
- But even in the middle of his song
- He faltered, and his hand fell from the harp,
- And pale he turned, and reeled, and would have fallen,
- But that they stayed him up; nor would he tell
- His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw
- This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?'
- Then thought the Queen, 'Lo! they have set her on,
- Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns,
- To play upon me,' and bowed her head nor spake.
- Whereat the novice crying, with clasped hands,
- Shame on her own garrulity garrulously,
- Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue
- Full often, 'and, sweet lady, if I seem
- To vex an ear too sad to listen to me,
- Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales
- Which my good father told me, check me too
- Nor let me shame my father's memory, one
- Of noblest manners, though himself would say
- Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died,
- Killed in a tilt, come next, five summers back,
- And left me; but of others who remain,
- And of the two first-famed for courtesy--
- And pray you check me if I ask amiss--
- But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved
- Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?'
- Then the pale Queen looked up and answered her,
- 'Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight,
- Was gracious to all ladies, and the same
- In open battle or the tilting-field
- Forbore his own advantage, and the King
- In open battle or the tilting-field
- Forbore his own advantage, and these two
- Were the most nobly-mannered men of all;
- For manners are not idle, but the fruit
- Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.'
- 'Yea,' said the maid, 'be manners such fair fruit?'
- Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold
- Less noble, being, as all rumour runs,
- The most disloyal friend in all the world.'
- To which a mournful answer made the Queen:
- 'O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls,
- What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights
- And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe?
- If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight,
- Were for one hour less noble than himself,
- Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire,
- And weep for her that drew him to his doom.'
- 'Yea,' said the little novice, 'I pray for both;
- But I should all as soon believe that his,
- Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's,
- As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be
- Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.'
- So she, like many another babbler, hurt
- Whom she would soothe, and harmed where she would heal;
- For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat
- Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried,
- 'Such as thou art be never maiden more
- For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague
- And play upon, and harry me, petty spy
- And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake
- From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose,
- White as her veil, and stood before the Queen
- As tremulously as foam upon the beach
- Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly,
- And when the Queen had added 'Get thee hence,'
- Fled frighted. Then that other left alone
- Sighed, and began to gather heart again,
- Saying in herself, 'The simple, fearful child
- Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt,
- Simpler than any child, betrays itself.
- But help me, heaven, for surely I repent.
- For what is true repentance but in thought--
- Not even in inmost thought to think again
- The sins that made the past so pleasant to us:
- And I have sworn never to see him more,
- To see him more.'
- And even in saying this,
- Her memory from old habit of the mind
- Went slipping back upon the golden days
- In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came,
- Reputed the best knight and goodliest man,
- Ambassador, to lead her to his lord
- Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead
- Of his and her retinue moving, they,
- Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love
- And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time
- Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dreamed,)
- Rode under groves that looked a paradise
- Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth
- That seemed the heavens upbreaking through the earth,
- And on from hill to hill, and every day
- Beheld at noon in some delicious dale
- The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised
- For brief repast or afternoon repose
- By couriers gone before; and on again,
- Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw
- The Dragon of the great Pendragonship,
- That crowned the state pavilion of the King,
- Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well.
- But when the Queen immersed in such a trance,
- And moving through the past unconsciously,
- Came to that point where first she saw the King
- Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find
- Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold,
- High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him,
- 'Not like my Lancelot'--while she brooded thus
- And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again,
- There rode an armed warrior to the doors.
- A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran,
- Then on a sudden a cry, 'The King.' She sat
- Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet
- Through the long gallery from the outer doors
- Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell,
- And grovelled with her face against the floor:
- There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair
- She made her face a darkness from the King:
- And in the darkness heard his armed feet
- Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice,
- Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's
- Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's:
- 'Liest thou here so low, the child of one
- I honoured, happy, dead before thy shame?
- Well is it that no child is born of thee.
- The children born of thee are sword and fire,
- Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,
- The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts
- Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea;
- Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm,
- The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,
- Have everywhere about this land of Christ
- In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.
- And knowest thou now from whence I come--from him
- From waging bitter war with him: and he,
- That did not shun to smite me in worse way,
- Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,
- He spared to lift his hand against the King
- Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain;
- And many more, and all his kith and kin
- Clave to him, and abode in his own land.
- And many more when Modred raised revolt,
- Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave
- To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.
- And of this remnant will I leave a part,
- True men who love me still, for whom I live,
- To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,
- Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed.
- Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death.
- Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
- Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom.
- Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,
- That I the King should greatly care to live;
- For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.
- Bear with me for the last time while I show,
- Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned.
- For when the Roman left us, and their law
- Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways
- Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed
- Of prowess done redressed a random wrong.
- But I was first of all the kings who drew
- The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
- The realms together under me, their Head,
- In that fair Order of my Table Round,
- A glorious company, the flower of men,
- To serve as model for the mighty world,
- And be the fair beginning of a time.
- I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
- To reverence the King, as if he were
- Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
- To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
- To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
- To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
- To honour his own word as if his God's,
- To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
- To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
- And worship her by years of noble deeds,
- Until they won her; for indeed I knew
- Of no more subtle master under heaven
- Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
- Not only to keep down the base in man,
- But teach high thought, and amiable words
- And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
- And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
- And all this throve before I wedded thee,
- Believing, "lo mine helpmate, one to feel
- My purpose and rejoicing in my joy."
- Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;
- Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt;
- Then others, following these my mightiest knights,
- And drawing foul ensample from fair names,
- Sinned also, till the loathsome opposite
- Of all my heart had destined did obtain,
- And all through thee! so that this life of mine
- I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong,
- Not greatly care to lose; but rather think
- How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,
- To sit once more within his lonely hall,
- And miss the wonted number of my knights,
- And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds
- As in the golden days before thy sin.
- For which of us, who might be left, could speak
- Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?
- And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk
- Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,
- And I should evermore be vext with thee
- In hanging robe or vacant ornament,
- Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.
- For think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord,
- Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee.
- I am not made of so slight elements.
- Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.
- I hold that man the worst of public foes
- Who either for his own or children's sake,
- To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife
- Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house:
- For being through his cowardice allowed
- Her station, taken everywhere for pure,
- She like a new disease, unknown to men,
- Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,
- Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps
- The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse
- With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.
- Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns!
- Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart
- Than thou reseated in thy place of light,
- The mockery of my people, and their bane.'
- He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch
- Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.
- Far off a solitary trumpet blew.
- Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neighed
- At a friend's voice, and he spake again:
- 'Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes,
- I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,
- I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
- To see thee, laying there thy golden head,
- My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
- The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law,
- The doom of treason and the flaming death,
- (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past.
- The pang--which while I weighed thy heart with one
- Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,
- Made my tears burn--is also past--in part.
- And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I,
- Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God
- Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest.
- But how to take last leave of all I loved?
- O golden hair, with which I used to play
- Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form,
- And beauty such as never woman wore,
- Until it became a kingdom's curse with thee--
- I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,
- But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's.
- I cannot take thy hand: that too is flesh,
- And in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh,
- Here looking down on thine polluted, cries
- "I loathe thee:" yet not less, O Guinevere,
- For I was ever virgin save for thee,
- My love through flesh hath wrought into my life
- So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.
- Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
- Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
- And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
- Hereafter in that world where all are pure
- We two may meet before high God, and thou
- Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know
- I am thine husband--not a smaller soul,
- Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,
- I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.
- Through the thick night I hear the trumpet blow:
- They summon me their King to lead mine hosts
- Far down to that great battle in the west,
- Where I must strike against the man they call
- My sister's son--no kin of mine, who leagues
- With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights,
- Traitors--and strike him dead, and meet myself
- Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.
- And thou remaining here wilt learn the event;
- But hither shall I never come again,
- Never lie by thy side; see thee no more--
- Farewell!'
- And while she grovelled at his feet,
- She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck,
- And in the darkness o'er her fallen head,
- Perceived the waving of his hands that blest.
- Then, listening till those armed steps were gone,
- Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found
- The casement: 'peradventure,' so she thought,
- 'If I might see his face, and not be seen.'
- And lo, he sat on horseback at the door!
- And near him the sad nuns with each a light
- Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen,
- To guard and foster her for evermore.
- And while he spake to these his helm was lowered,
- To which for crest the golden dragon clung
- Of Britain; so she did not see the face,
- Which then was as an angel's, but she saw,
- Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights,
- The Dragon of the great Pendragonship
- Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire.
- And even then he turned; and more and more
- The moony vapour rolling round the King,
- Who seemed the phantom of a Giant in it,
- Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray
- And grayer, till himself became as mist
- Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.
- Then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud
- 'Oh Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly,
- Then--as a stream that spouting from a cliff
- Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base
- Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale--
- Went on in passionate utterance:
- 'Gone--my lord!
- Gone through my sin to slay and to be slain!
- And he forgave me, and I could not speak.
- Farewell? I should have answered his farewell.
- His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King,
- My own true lord! how dare I call him mine?
- The shadow of another cleaves to me,
- And makes me one pollution: he, the King,
- Called me polluted: shall I kill myself?
- What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,
- If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame;
- No, nor by living can I live it down.
- The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months
- The months will add themselves and make the years,
- The years will roll into the centuries,
- And mine will ever be a name of scorn.
- I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.
- Let the world be; that is but of the world.
- What else? what hope? I think there was a hope,
- Except he mocked me when he spake of hope;
- His hope he called it; but he never mocks,
- For mockery is the fume of little hearts.
- And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven
- My wickedness to him, and left me hope
- That in mine own heart I can live down sin
- And be his mate hereafter in the heavens
- Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord,
- Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint
- Among his warring senses, to thy knights--
- To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took
- Full easily all impressions from below,
- Would not look up, or half-despised the height
- To which I would not or I could not climb--
- I thought I could not breathe in that fine air
- That pure severity of perfect light--
- I yearned for warmth and colour which I found
- In Lancelot--now I see thee what thou art,
- Thou art the highest and most human too,
- Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none
- Will tell the King I love him though so late?
- Now--ere he goes to the great Battle? none:
- Myself must tell him in that purer life,
- But now it were too daring. Ah my God,
- What might I not have made of thy fair world,
- Had I but loved thy highest creature here?
- It was my duty to have loved the highest:
- It surely was my profit had I known:
- It would have been my pleasure had I seen.
- We needs must love the highest when we see it,
- Not Lancelot, nor another.'
- Here her hand
- Grasped, made her vail her eyes: she looked and saw
- The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her,
- 'Yea, little maid, for am I not forgiven?'
- Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns
- All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed
- Within her, and she wept with these and said,
- 'Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke
- The vast design and purpose of the King.
- O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls,
- Meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame."
- I must not scorn myself: he loves me still.
- Let no one dream but that he loves me still.
- So let me, if you do not shudder at me,
- Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;
- Wear black and white, and be a nun like you,
- Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts;
- Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,
- But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites;
- Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines;
- Do each low office of your holy house;
- Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole
- To poor sick people, richer in His eyes
- Who ransomed us, and haler too than I;
- And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;
- And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer
- The sombre close of that voluptuous day,
- Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.'
- She said: they took her to themselves; and she
- Still hoping, fearing 'is it yet too late?'
- Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died.
- Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life,
- And for the power of ministration in her,
- And likewise for the high rank she had borne,
- Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived
- For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past
- To where beyond these voices there is peace.
- The Passing of Arthur
- That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
- First made and latest left of all the knights,
- Told, when the man was no more than a voice
- In the white winter of his age, to those
- With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
- For on their march to westward, Bedivere,
- Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,
- Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:
- 'I found Him in the shining of the stars,
- I marked Him in the flowering of His fields,
- But in His ways with men I find Him not.
- I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
- O me! for why is all around us here
- As if some lesser god had made the world,
- But had not force to shape it as he would,
- Till the High God behold it from beyond,
- And enter it, and make it beautiful?
- Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
- But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
- And have not power to see it as it is:
- Perchance, because we see not to the close;--
- For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
- And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
- And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend
- Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
- Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
- My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death;
- Nay--God my Christ--I pass but shall not die.'
- Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,
- There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain killed
- In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
- Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
- Went shrilling, 'Hollow, hollow all delight!
- Hail, King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away.
- Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
- And I am blown along a wandering wind,
- And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.'
- And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
- Their season in the night and wail their way
- From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
- Shrilled; but in going mingled with dim cries
- Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,
- As of some lonely city sacked by night,
- When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
- Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and called,
- 'Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,
- Thine, Gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries
- Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
- Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?'
- This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:
- 'O me, my King, let pass whatever will,
- Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
- But in their stead thy name and glory cling
- To all high places like a golden cloud
- For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.
- Light was Gawain in life, and light in death
- Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;
- And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise--
- I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
- And with him many of thy people, and knights
- Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
- Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
- Right well in heart they know thee for the King.
- Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.'
- Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
- 'Far other is this battle in the west
- Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
- And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,
- Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
- And shook him through the north. Ill doom is mine
- To war against my people and my knights.
- The king who fights his people fights himself.
- And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
- That strikes them dead is as my death to me.
- Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way
- Through this blind haze, which ever since I saw
- One lying in the dust at Almesbury,
- Hath folded in the passes of the world.'
- Then rose the King and moved his host by night,
- And ever pushed Sir Modred, league by league,
- Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse--
- A land of old upheaven from the abyss
- By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
- Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
- And the long mountains ended in a coast
- Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
- The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
- There the pursuer could pursue no more,
- And he that fled no further fly the King;
- And there, that day when the great light of heaven
- Burned at his lowest in the rolling year,
- On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.
- Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight
- Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
- A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
- Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
- Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
- With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell
- Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.
- For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
- And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
- And some had visions out of golden youth,
- And some beheld the faces of old ghosts
- Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
- Was many a noble deed, many a base,
- And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
- And ever and anon with host to host
- Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,
- Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
- Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks
- After the Christ, of those who falling down
- Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
- And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
- Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
- Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs
- In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
- Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.
- Last, as by some one deathbed after wail
- Of suffering, silence follows, or through death
- Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,
- Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
- A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
- Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came
- A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
- The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
- Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field
- Of battle: but no man was moving there;
- Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,
- Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
- Brake in among dead faces, to and fro
- Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down
- Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,
- And shivered brands that once had fought with Rome,
- And rolling far along the gloomy shores
- The voice of days of old and days to be.
- Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
- And whiter than the mist that all day long
- Had held the field of battle was the King:
- 'Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
- And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
- And beats upon the faces of the dead,
- My dead, as though they had not died for me?--
- O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen
- Confusion, till I know not what I am,
- Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
- Behold, I seem but King among the dead.'
- Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: 'My King,
- King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,
- There also will I worship thee as King.
- Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live
- Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
- The heathen back among us, yonder stands,
- Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.'
- Then spake the King: 'My house hath been my doom.
- But call not thou this traitor of my house
- Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.
- My house are rather they who sware my vows,
- Yea, even while they brake them, owned me King.
- And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,
- When all the purport of my throne hath failed,
- That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.
- King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
- And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
- Yet, ere I pass.' And uttering this the King
- Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
- Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
- Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
- Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
- Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.
- So all day long the noise of battle rolled
- Among the mountains by the winter sea;
- Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
- Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord,
- King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
- The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
- And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
- A broken chancel with a broken cross,
- That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
- On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
- Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
- Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
- 'The sequel of today unsolders all
- The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
- Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
- They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
- Shall never more, at any future time,
- Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
- Walking about the gardens and the halls
- Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
- I perish by this people which I made,--
- Though Merlin sware that I should come again
- To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
- I am so deeply smitten through the helm
- That without help I cannot last till morn.
- Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
- Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
- In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
- Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
- Holding the sword--and how I rowed across
- And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
- And, wheresoever I am sung or told
- In aftertime, this also shall be known:
- But now delay not: take Excalibur,
- And fling him far into the middle mere:
- Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.'
- To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
- 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
- Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm--
- A little thing may harm a wounded man;
- Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
- Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.'
- So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept,
- And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
- Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
- Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
- Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
- By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
- Came on the shining levels of the lake.
- There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
- And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
- Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
- And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
- For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
- Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
- Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
- That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
- This way and that dividing the swift mind,
- In act to throw: but at the last it seemed
- Better to leave Excalibur concealed
- There in the many-knotted waterflags,
- That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
- So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
- Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
- 'Hast thou performed my mission which I gave?
- What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'
- And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
- 'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
- And the wild water lapping on the crag.'
- To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
- 'Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name,
- Not rendering true answer, as beseemed
- Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
- For surer sign had followed, either hand,
- Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
- This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
- Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,
- As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
- I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.'
- Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
- Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
- Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
- But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
- How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
- His palms together, and he cried aloud:
- 'And if indeed I cast the brand away,
- Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
- Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
- Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
- What good should follow this, if this were done?
- What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
- Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
- Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
- An act unprofitable, against himself?
- The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
- What record, or what relic of my lord
- Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
- And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
- Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
- Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
- Saying, "King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
- Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
- Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
- Upon the hidden bases of the hills."
- So might some old man speak in the aftertime
- To all the people, winning reverence.
- But now much honour and much fame were lost.'
- So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
- And hid Excalibur the second time,
- And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
- Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
- 'What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'
- And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
- 'I heard the water lapping on the crag,
- And the long ripple washing in the reeds.'
- To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
- 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
- Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
- Authority forgets a dying king,
- Laid widowed of the power in his eye
- That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art,
- For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
- In whom should meet the offices of all,
- Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
- Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
- Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
- Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
- And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
- But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
- I will arise and slay thee with my hands.'
- Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
- And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
- Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword,
- And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand
- Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
- And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch,
- Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
- Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
- By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
- So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:
- But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
- And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him
- Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
- And lightly went the other to the King.
- Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
- 'Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
- Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?'
- And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
- 'Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
- Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
- Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
- Not though I live three lives of mortal men,
- So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
- Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
- But when I looked again, behold an arm,
- Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
- That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him
- Three times, and drew him under in the mere.'
- And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
- 'My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
- Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
- And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
- My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.'
- So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
- Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
- And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
- As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
- Remorsefully regarded through his tears,
- And would have spoken, but he found not words;
- Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
- O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
- And rising bore him through the place of tombs.
- But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard,
- Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
- When all the house is mute. So sighed the King,
- Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'Quick, quick!
- I fear it is too late, and I shall die.'
- But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
- Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked,
- Larger than human on the frozen hills.
- He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
- Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
- Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves
- And barren chasms, and all to left and right
- The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based
- His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
- Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
- And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
- And the long glories of the winter moon.
- Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
- Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
- Beneath them; and descending they were ware
- That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
- Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
- Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
- A cry that shivered to the tingling stars,
- And, as it were one voice, an agony
- 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 murmured Arthur, 'Place me in the barge.'
- So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
- Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
- But she, that rose the tallest of them all
- And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
- And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,
- And called him by his name, complaining loud,
- And dropping bitter tears against a brow
- Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
- And colourless, and like the withered moon
- Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
- And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops
- Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
- That made his forehead like a rising sun
- High from the dais-throne--were parched with dust;
- Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
- Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
- So like a shattered column lay the King;
- Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
- From spur to plume a star of tournament,
- Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged
- Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
- Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
- 'Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
- Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
- For now I see the true old times are dead,
- When every morning brought a noble chance,
- And every chance brought out a noble knight.
- Such times have been not since the light that led
- The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
- But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
- Which was an image of the mighty world,
- And I, the last, go forth companionless,
- And the days darken round me, and the years,
- Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'
- And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
- 'The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
- And God fulfils himself in many ways,
- Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
- Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
- I have lived my life, and that which I have done
- May He within himself make pure! but thou,
- If thou shouldst never see my face again,
- Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
- Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
- Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
- For what are men better than sheep or goats
- That nourish a blind life within the brain,
- If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
- Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
- For so the whole round earth is every way
- Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
- But now farewell. I am going a long way
- With these thou seest--if indeed I go
- (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
- To the island-valley of Avilion;
- Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
- Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
- Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
- And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
- Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'
- 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,
- Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
- With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
- Revolving many memories, till the hull
- Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
- And on the mere the wailing died away.
- But when that moan had past for evermore,
- The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
- Amazed him, and he groaned, 'The King is gone.'
- And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
- 'From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'
- Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb
- The last hard footstep of that iron crag;
- Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried,
- 'He passes to be King among the dead,
- And after healing of his grievous wound
- He comes again; but--if he come no more--
- O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,
- Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed
- On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
- They stood before his throne in silence, friends
- Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?'
- Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint
- As from beyond the limit of the world,
- Like the last echo born of a great cry,
- Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
- Around a king returning from his wars.
- Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
- Even to the highest he could climb, and saw,
- Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
- Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
- Down that long water opening on the deep
- Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
- From less to less and vanish into light.
- And the new sun rose bringing the new year.
- To the Queen
- O loyal to the royal in thyself,
- And loyal to thy land, as this to thee--
- Bear witness, that rememberable day,
- When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince
- Who scarce had plucked his flickering life again
- From halfway down the shadow of the grave,
- Past with thee through thy people and their love,
- And London rolled one tide of joy through all
- Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man
- And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry,
- The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime--
- Thunderless lightnings striking under sea
- From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm,
- And that true North, whereof we lately heard
- A strain to shame us 'keep you to yourselves;
- So loyal is too costly! friends--your love
- Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.'
- Is this the tone of empire? here the faith
- That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice
- And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont
- Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven?
- What shock has fooled her since, that she should speak
- So feebly? wealthier--wealthier--hour by hour!
- The voice of Britain, or a sinking land,
- Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas?
- There rang her voice, when the full city pealed
- Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown
- Are loyal to their own far sons, who love
- Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes
- For ever-broadening England, and her throne
- In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle,
- That knows not her own greatness: if she knows
- And dreads it we are fallen. --But thou, my Queen,
- Not for itself, but through thy living love
- For one to whom I made it o'er his grave
- Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale,
- New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul,
- Ideal manhood closed in real man,
- Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost,
- Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,
- And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him
- Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one
- Touched by the adulterous finger of a time
- That hovered between war and wantonness,
- And crownings and dethronements: take withal
- Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven
- Will blow the tempest in the distance back
- From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark,
- Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,
- Waverings of every vane with every wind,
- And wordy trucklings to the transient hour,
- And fierce or careless looseners of the faith,
- And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,
- Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold,
- Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice,
- Or Art with poisonous honey stolen from France,
- And that which knows, but careful for itself,
- And that which knows not, ruling that which knows
- To its own harm: the goal of this great world
- Lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown
- And crowned Republic's crowning common-sense,
- That saved her many times, not fail--their fears
- Are morning shadows huger than the shapes
- That cast them, not those gloomier which forego
- The darkness of that battle in the West,
- Where all of high and holy dies away.
- End of Project Gutenberg's Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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