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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Tournament, by Alfred Lord Tennyson
+
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
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+Title: The Last Tournament
+
+Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson
+
+Release Date: March, 2005  [EBook #7782]
+[This file was first posted on May 16, 2003]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: US-ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LAST TOURNAMENT ***
+
+
+
+
+Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+THE LAST TOURNAMENT
+
+BY
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L.,
+
+POET-LAUREATE
+
+AUTHOR'S EDITION
+
+FROM ADVANCE SHEETS
+
+This poem forms one of the "Idyls of the King." Its place
+is between "Pelleas" and "Guinevere."
+
+BY ALFRED TENNYSON,
+
+POET LAUREATE
+
+   Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods
+ Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
+ At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
+ Danced like a wither'd 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
+ Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air
+ Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree
+ Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' 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 unscarr'd 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 honor 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 ye 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
+ Arm'd for a day of glory before the King.
+
+   But on the hither side of that loud morn
+ Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd
+ From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose
+ Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off,
+ And one with shatter'd 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 marr'd Heaven's image in thee thus?"
+
+   Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth,
+ Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump
+ Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd 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 call'd upon thy name as one
+ That doest right by gentle and by churl,
+ Maim'd me and maul'd, 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 turn'd 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,
+ Hurl'd 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, thro' 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
+ Enchair'd to-morrow, 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 answer'd, "It is well:
+ Yet better if the King abide, and leave
+ The leading of his younger knights to me.
+ Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well."
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+   Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him,
+ And while they stood without the doors, the King
+ Turn'd 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 fall'n from reverence--
+ Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights
+ Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
+ Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd,
+ 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 turn'd
+ North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen,
+ Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
+ Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd.
+ 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 call'd
+ 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 shriek'd, 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, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair.
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+   He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
+ Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen
+ White-robed in honor of the stainless child,
+ And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank
+ Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
+ He lookt but once, and veil'd 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 crack'd,
+ And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole,
+ Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
+ The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar
+ An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
+ But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest,
+ And armor'd 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 return'd,
+ 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 yearn'd to shake
+ The burthen off his heart in one full shock
+ With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript
+ And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
+ Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those,
+ That ware their ladies' colors on the casque,
+ Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
+ And there with gibes and nickering mockeries
+ Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven chests! 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?
+ Let 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 bow'd 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."
+ Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, 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 dame
+ Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient saints,
+ Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
+ Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
+ The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year,
+ Would make the world as blank as wintertide.
+ Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's
+ And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity
+ With all the kindlier colors of the field."
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+   So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast
+ Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
+ Liken'd 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 colors, 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 wither'd leaf before the hall.
+ Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"
+ Wheel'd 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
+ Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook;
+ But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
+ Then being ask'd, "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 ye can 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 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 crabb'd and sour: but lean me down,
+ Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears,
+ And hearken if my music be not true.
+
+   "'Free love--free field--we love but while we may:
+ The woods are hush'd, 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 found 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 whomsoever came--
+ The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
+
+   "In honor 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: honor 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 wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world
+ Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.
+ The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
+ Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd--
+ 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
+ Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd
+ 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 answer'd, "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 play'd 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 shrill'd,
+ "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 thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues
+ And solitary passes of the wood
+ Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse 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 walk'd, 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, return'd;
+ But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,
+ Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.
+
+   So on for all that day from lawn to lawn
+ Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length
+ A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs
+ Furze-cramm'd, 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 snatch'd 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 smooth
+ 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 call'd 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 return'd.
+ The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes
+ Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid
+ His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.
+
+   He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany
+ Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,
+ And show'd 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."
+ Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then
+ A whimpering of the spirit of the child,
+ Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet.
+
+   He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears
+ Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,
+ And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,
+ The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh
+ Glared on a huge machicolated tower
+ That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd
+ 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 dishonor 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 armor sallying, howl'd 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 deign'd not use of word or sword,
+ But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd 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, while the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd
+ And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n;
+ 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
+ Thro' open doors, and swording right and left
+ Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd
+ The tables over and the wines, and slew
+ Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,
+ And all the pavement stream'd with massacre:
+ Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower,
+ Which half that autumn night, like the live North,
+ Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor,
+ Made all above it, and a hundred meres
+ About it, as the water Moab saw
+ Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd
+ 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 return'd,
+ 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,
+ Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man
+ Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought--
+ "What an she hate me now? I would not this.
+ What an 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 favor changed and love thee not"--
+ Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse
+ Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard
+ The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds
+ Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd
+ 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,
+ Flush'd, 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 flutter'd me at first: not he:
+ Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark,
+ But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls
+ Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n 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 wrong'd who is not ev'n his own,
+ But save for dread of thee had beaten me,
+ Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark?
+ What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
+ Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus!
+ But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went
+ To-day for three days' hunting--as he said--
+ And so returns belike within an hour.
+ Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him,
+ Because he hates thee even more than fears;
+ Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood
+ Close visor, 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, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love,
+ Drain'd 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 villanously: 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 Lyonesse,
+ Sailing from Ireland."
+
+   Softly laugh'd 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, ev'n 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 thro' 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 answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted!
+ If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings,
+ If here be comfort, and if ours be sin,
+ Crown'd 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
+ Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas,
+ Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd
+ Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
+ Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
+ Fought in her father's battles? wounded there?
+ The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness,
+ And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd
+ 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 answer'd, "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 flash'd 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 hiss'd it: then this crown of towers
+ So shook to such a roar of all the sky,
+ That here in utter dark I swoon'd 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 anger'd 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 utter'd aught so gross
+ Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast?
+ The greater man, the greater courtesy.
+ But thou, thro' 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 thro' their vows
+ The King prevailing made his realm:--I say,
+ Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old,
+ Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair."
+
+   Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down,
+ "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye 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--ev'n to the height--I honor'd him.
+ 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first
+ I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld
+ That victor of the Pagan throned in hall--
+ His hair, a sun that ray'd 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 seem'd 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 thro' that sullying of our Queen--
+ Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence
+ Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?
+ Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep?
+ They fail'd to trace him thro' 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 great world laughs at it.
+ And worldling of the world am I, and know
+ The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour
+ Wooes 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 turn'd away my love for thee
+ To some one thrice as courteous as thyself--
+ For courtesy wins woman all as well
+ As valor 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 hunger'd and half-anger'd--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 will'd;
+ 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 show'd
+ 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 rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck,
+ Claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay
+ Warm kisses in the hollow of her throat,
+ Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd,
+ Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek--
+ "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain.
+
+   That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd,
+ All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,
+ The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw
+ The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet
+ A voice clung sobbing till he question'd 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."
+
+
+
+
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