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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:22 -0700 |
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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. 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