diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:22 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:22 -0700 |
| commit | 529a9a906bd9441ef41ec076a37e1f3e050ff05a (patch) | |
| tree | a63da4d4df3b95c3d7a1e4bc41e21a072056bfaf | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 610-0.txt | 11581 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 610-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 191940 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 610-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 195409 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 610-h/610-h.htm | 11804 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/610.txt | 11591 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/610.zip | bin | 0 -> 191241 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/idyll10.txt | 11510 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/idyll10.zip | bin | 0 -> 200998 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/idyll10a.txt | 11486 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/idyll10a.zip | bin | 0 -> 186495 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/idyll10z.zip | bin | 0 -> 186521 bytes |
14 files changed, 57988 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/610-0.txt b/610-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e5cdeb --- /dev/null +++ b/610-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11581 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Idylls of the King + +Author: Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +Release Date: August, 1996 [eBook #610] +[Most recently updated: December 2, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Ng E-Ching and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING *** + + + + + Idylls of the King + + _Flos Regum Arthurus_ (Joseph of Exeter) + + In Twelve Books + + By Alfred, Lord Tennyson + + +Contents + + Dedication + The Coming of Arthur + 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 beard 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 THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + diff --git a/610-0.zip b/610-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f133a89 --- /dev/null +++ b/610-0.zip diff --git a/610-h.zip b/610-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..78b3a95 --- /dev/null +++ b/610-h.zip diff --git a/610-h/610-h.htm b/610-h/610-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0242c3b --- /dev/null +++ b/610-h/610-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11804 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Idylls of the King</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Alfred, Lord Tennyson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August, 1996 [eBook #610]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 2, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Ng E-Ching and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING ***</div> + +<h1>Idylls of the King</h1> + +<h4><i>Flos Regum Arthurus</i> (Joseph of Exeter)</h4> + +<h3>In Twelve Books</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Alfred, Lord Tennyson</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001">Dedication</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">The Coming of Arthur</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">Gareth and Lynette</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">The Marriage of Geraint</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">Geraint and Enid</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">Balin and Balan</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">Merlin and Vivien</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">Lancelot and Elaine</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">The Holy Grail</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">Pelleas and Ettarre</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">The Last Tournament</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">Guinevere</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">The Passing of Arthur</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">To the Queen</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001"></a> +Dedication</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0002"></a> +The Coming of Arthur</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003"></a> +Gareth and Lynette</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004"></a> +The Marriage of Geraint</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005"></a> +Geraint and Enid</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006"></a> +Balin and Balan</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007"></a> +Merlin and Vivien</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 beard 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.” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008"></a> +Lancelot and Elaine</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009"></a> +The Holy Grail</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010"></a> +Pelleas and Ettarre</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011"></a> +The Last Tournament</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012"></a> +Guinevere</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013"></a> +The Passing of Arthur</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014"></a> +To the Queen</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + + </body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f22e870 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #610 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/610) diff --git a/old/610.txt b/old/610.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b8b861 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/610.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11591 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Idylls of the King, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Idylls of the King + +Author: Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +Posting Date: August 4, 2008 [EBook #610] +Release Date: August, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** 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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE KING *** + +***** This file should be named 610.txt or 610.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/610/ + +Produced by Ng E-Ching. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/610.zip b/old/610.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0786d25 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/610.zip diff --git a/old/idyll10.txt b/old/idyll10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..37cc9b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/idyll10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11510 @@ +**Project Gutenberg's Etext of Idylls of the King by Tennyson** + +#1 in our series by Tennyson + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Idylls of the King + +Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +August, 1996 [Etext #610] + + +**Project Gutenberg's Etext of Idylls of the King by Tennyson** +*****This file should be named idyll10.txt or idyll10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, idyll11.txt. +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, idyll10a.txt. + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month: or 400 more Etexts in 1996 for a total of 800. +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach 80 billion Etexts. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/BU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (BU = Benedictine +University). (Subscriptions to our paper newsletter go to BU.) + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Benedictine University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Benedictine + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Benedictine University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + + + + +Contents + + +Idylls of the King +IN TWELVE BOOKS + +FLOS REGUM ARTHURUS (JOSEPH OF EXETER) + +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 Csar'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 Gorlos, 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 +Cardos, 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 Gorlos, +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 Gorlos, 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 Gorlos, +So loathed the bright dishonour of his love, +That Gorlos and King Uther went to war: +And overthrown was Gorlos 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 Gorlos. 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 Gorlos 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 Gorlos, 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 das, 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 Gorlos 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 Gorlos, 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 felty. + +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 cursd 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, armd 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, +'Blessd 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 Csar 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 ever 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 falty, 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 +Arimathan 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 Caerlon 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 cursd 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 fre st,' 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 blessd land of Aromat-- +After the day of darkness, when the dead +Went wandering o'er Moriah--the good saint +Arimathan 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, blessd 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 das-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, +Blessd 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 rangd 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 Micha l 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 Gorlos: +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 armd 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 armd 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 armd 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 armd 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 blessd 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 se st, 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 f alty, 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 armd 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 das-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 se st--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 sacred, 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 etext of Idylls of the King + diff --git a/old/idyll10.zip b/old/idyll10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..57b9720 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/idyll10.zip diff --git a/old/idyll10a.txt b/old/idyll10a.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a255f12 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/idyll10a.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11486 @@ +**Project Gutenberg's Etext of Idylls of the King by Tennyson** +#1 in our series by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Idylls of the King + +by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +August, 1996 [Etext #610] +[Most recently updated: August 8, 2003] + + +**Project Gutenberg's Etext of Idylls of the King by Tennyson** +****This file should be named idyll10a.txt or idyll10a.zip*** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, idyll11a.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, idyll10b.txt + + +Typed by Ng E-Ching, Singapore <e-ching@geocities.com> + + +We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance +of the official release dates, for time for better editing. + + +Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an +up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes +in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has +a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a +look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a +new copy has at least one byte more or less. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take +to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text +files per month: or 400 more Etexts in 1996 for a total of 800. +If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the +total should reach 80 billion Etexts. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext +Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion] +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001 +should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it +will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001. + + +We need your donations more than ever! + + +All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are +tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- +Mellon University). + +For these and other matters, please mail to: + +Project Gutenberg +P. O. Box 2782 +Champaign, IL 61825 + +When all other email fails try our Executive Director: +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +We would prefer to send you this information by email +(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). + +****** +If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please +FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives: +[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type] + +ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu +login: anonymous +password: your@login +cd etext/etext90 through /etext96 +or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information] +dir [to see files] +get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] +GET INDEX?00.GUT +for a list of books +and +GET NEW GUT for general information +and +MGET GUT* for newsletters. + +**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** +(Three Pages) + + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- +tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor +Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at +Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other +things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext +under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this +etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, +officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost +and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or +indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: +[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, +or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- + cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the etext (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the + net profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +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 ever 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 Caerlon 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 Etext of Idylls of the King by Tennyson + diff --git a/old/idyll10a.zip b/old/idyll10a.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ecb1d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/idyll10a.zip diff --git a/old/idyll10z.zip b/old/idyll10z.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..69937ca --- /dev/null +++ b/old/idyll10z.zip |