Dedication

These to His Memory—since he held them dear,
Per­chance as find­ing there un­con­sciously
Some im­age of him­self—I ded­ic­ate,
I ded­ic­ate, I con­sec­rate with tears—
These Idylls.

And in­deed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king’s ideal knight,
“Who rev­er­enced his con­science as his king;
Whose glory was, re­dress­ing hu­man wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her—”
Her—over all whose realms to their last isle,
Com­mingled with the gloom of im­min­ent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like ec­lipse,
Dark­en­ing the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
We know him now: all nar­row jeal­ousies
Are si­lent; and we see him as he moved,
How mod­est, kindly, all-ac­com­plished, wise,
With what sub­lime re­pres­sion of him­self,
And in what lim­its, and how ten­derly;
Not sway­ing to this fac­tion or to that;
Not mak­ing his high place the law­less perch
Of winged am­bi­tions, nor a vant­age-ground
For pleas­ure; but through all this tract of years
Wear­ing the white flower of a blame­less life,
Be­fore a thou­sand peer­ing lit­tle­nesses,
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
And black­ens every blot: for where is he,
Who dares fore­shadow for an only son
A love­lier life, a more un­stained, than his?
Or how should Eng­land dream­ing of his sons
Hope more for these than some in­her­it­ance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
La­bor­i­ous for her people and her poor—
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day—
Far-sighted sum­moner of War and Waste
To fruit­ful strifes and rival­ries of peace—
Sweet nature gil­ded by the gra­cious gleam
Of let­ters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in­deed,
Bey­ond all titles, and a house­hold name,
Here­after, through all times, Al­bert the Good.

Break not, O wo­man’s-heart, but still en­dure;
Break not, for thou art Royal, but en­dure,
Re­mem­ber­ing all the beauty of that star
Which shone so close be­side Thee that ye made
One light to­gether, but has past and leaves
The Crown a lonely splend­our.

May all love,
His love, un­seen but felt, o’er­shadow Thee,
The love of all Thy sons en­com­pass Thee,
The love of all Thy daugh­ters cher­ish Thee,
The love of all Thy people com­fort Thee,
Till God’s love set Thee at his side again!

Idylls of the King

The Coming of Arthur

Leodo­gran, the King of Cameliard,
Had one fair daugh­ter, and none other child;
And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth,
Guinev­ere, and in her his one de­light.

For many a petty king ere Ar­thur came
Ruled in this isle, and ever wa­ging war
Each upon other, wasted all the land;
And still from time to time the hea­then host
Swarmed over­seas, and har­ried what was left.
And so there grew great tracts of wil­der­ness,
Wherein the beast was ever more and more,
But man was less and less, till Ar­thur came.
For first Aurelius lived and fought and died,
And after him King Uther fought and died,
But either failed to make the king­dom one.
And after these King Ar­thur for a space,
And through the puis­sance of his Table Round,
Drew all their petty prince­doms un­der him.
Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned.

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste,
Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein,
And none or few to scare or chase the beast;
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear
Came night and day, and rooted in the fields,
And wal­lowed in the gar­dens of the King.
And ever and anon the wolf would steal
The chil­dren and de­vour, but now and then,
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat
To hu­man suck­lings; and the chil­dren, housed
In her foul den, there at their meat would growl,
And mock their foster mother on four feet,
Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men,
Worse than the wolves. And King Leodo­gran
Groaned for the Ro­man le­gions here again,
And Caesar’s eagle: then his brother king,
Urien, as­sailed him: last a hea­then horde,
Red­den­ing the sun with smoke and earth with blood,
And on the spike that split the mother’s heart
Spit­ting the child, brake on him, till, amazed,
He knew not whither he should turn for aid.

But—for he heard of Ar­thur newly crowned,
Though not without an up­roar made by those
Who cried, “He is not Uther’s son”—the King
Sent to him, say­ing, “Arise, and help us thou!
For here between the man and beast we die.”

And Ar­thur yet had done no deed of arms,
But heard the call, and came: and Guinev­ere
Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass;
But since he neither wore on helm or shield
The golden sym­bol of his king­li­hood,
But rode a simple knight among his knights,
And many of these in richer arms than he,
She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw,
One among many, though his face was bare.
But Ar­thur, look­ing down­ward as he past,
Felt the light of her eyes into his life
Smite on the sud­den, yet rode on, and pitched
His tents be­side the forest. Then he drave
The hea­then; after, slew the beast, and felled
The forest, let­ting in the sun, and made
Broad path­ways for the hunter and the knight
And so re­turned.

For while he lingered there,
A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
Flashed forth and into war: for most of these,
Col­leaguing with a score of petty kings,
Made head against him, cry­ing, “Who is he
That he should rule us? who hath proven him
King Uther’s son? for lo! we look at him,
And find nor face nor bear­ing, limbs nor voice,
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.
This is the son of Gor­lois, not the King;
This is the son of An­ton, not the King.”

And Ar­thur, passing thence to battle, felt
Trav­ail, and throes and ag­on­ies of the life,
Desir­ing to be joined with Guinev­ere;
And think­ing as he rode, “Her father said
That there between the man and beast they die.
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts
Up to my throne, and side by side with me?
What hap­pi­ness to reign a lonely king,
Vext—O ye stars that shud­der over me,
O earth that sound­est hol­low un­der me,
Vext with waste dreams? for sav­ing I be joined
To her that is the fairest un­der heaven,
I seem as noth­ing in the mighty world,
And can­not will my will, nor work my work
Wholly, nor make my­self in mine own realm
Victor and lord. But were I joined with her,
Then might we live to­gether as one life,
And reign­ing with one will in everything
Have power on this dark land to lighten it,
And power on this dead world to make it live.”

There­after—as he speaks who tells the tale—
When Ar­thur reached a field-of-battle bright
With pitched pa­vil­ions of his foe, the world
Was all so clear about him, that he saw
The smal­lest rock far on the faintest hill,
And even in high day the morn­ing star.
So when the King had set his ban­ner broad,
At once from either side, with trum­pet-blast,
And shouts, and clari­ons shrill­ing unto blood,
The long-lanced battle let their horses run.
And now the Barons and the kings pre­vailed,
And now the King, as here and there that war
Went sway­ing; but the Powers who walk the world
Made light­nings and great thun­ders over him,
And dazed all eyes, till Ar­thur by main might,
And migh­tier of his hands with every blow,
And lead­ing all his knight­hood threw the kings
Cara­dos, Urien, Cradlem­ont of Wales,
Claudias, and Clari­ance of Northum­ber­land,
The King Brand­agoras of Latangor,
With An­guis­ant of Erin, Mor­ganore,
And Lot of Orkney. Then, be­fore a voice
As dread­ful as the shout of one who sees
To one who sins, and deems him­self alone
And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake
Fly­ing, and Ar­thur called to stay the brands
That hacked among the fly­ers, “Ho! they yield!”
So like a painted battle the war stood
Si­lenced, the liv­ing quiet as the dead,
And in the heart of Ar­thur joy was lord.
He laughed upon his war­rior whom he loved
And hon­oured most. “Thou dost not doubt me King,
So well thine arm hath wrought for me today.”
“Sir and my liege,” he cried, “the fire of God
Des­cends upon thee in the battle-field:
I know thee for my King!” Whereat the two,
For each had war­ded either in the fight,
Sware on the field of death a death­less love.
And Ar­thur said, “Man’s word is God in man:
Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.”

Then quickly from the foughten field he sent
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Be­divere,
His new-made knights, to King Leodo­gran,
Say­ing, “If I in aught have served thee well,
Give me thy daugh­ter Guinev­ere to wife.”

Whom when he heard, Leodo­gran in heart
De­bat­ing—“How should I that am a king,
However much he holp me at my need,
Give my one daugh­ter sav­ing to a king,
And a king’s son?”—lif­ted his voice, and called
A hoary man, his cham­ber­lain, to whom
He trus­ted all things, and of him re­quired
His coun­sel: “Know­est thou aught of Ar­thur’s birth?”

Then spake the hoary cham­ber­lain and said,
“Sir King, there be but two old men that know:
And each is twice as old as I; and one
Is Mer­lin, the wise man that ever served
King Uther through his ma­gic art; and one
Is Mer­lin’s mas­ter (so they call him) Bleys,
Who taught him ma­gic, but the scholar ran
Be­fore the mas­ter, and so far, that Bleys,
Laid ma­gic by, and sat him down, and wrote
All things and what­so­ever Mer­lin did
In one great an­nal-book, where after-years
Will learn the secret of our Ar­thur’s birth.”

To whom the King Leodo­gran replied,
“O friend, had I been holpen half as well
By this King Ar­thur as by thee today,
Then beast and man had had their share of me:
But sum­mon here be­fore us yet once more
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Be­divere.”

Then, when they came be­fore him, the King said,
“I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl,
And reason in the chase: but where­fore now
Do these your lords stir up the heat of war,
Some call­ing Ar­thur born of Gor­lois,
Oth­ers of An­ton? Tell me, ye yourselves,
Hold ye this Ar­thur for King Uther’s son?”

And Ulfius and Brastias answered, “Ay.”
Then Be­divere, the first of all his knights
Knighted by Ar­thur at his crown­ing, spake—
For bold in heart and act and word was he,
Whenever slander breathed against the King—

“Sir, there be many ru­mours on this head:
For there be those who hate him in their hearts,
Call him base­born, and since his ways are sweet,
And theirs are bes­tial, hold him less than man:
And there be those who deem him more than man,
And dream he dropt from heaven: but my be­lief
In all this mat­ter—so ye care to learn—
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther’s time
The prince and war­rior Gor­lois, he that held
Tinta­gil castle by the Cornish sea,
Was wed­ded with a win­some wife, Ygerne:
And daugh­ters had she borne him—one whereof,
Lot’s wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bel­li­cent,
Hath ever like a loyal sis­ter cleaved
To Ar­thur—but a son she had not borne.
And Uther cast upon her eyes of love:
But she, a stain­less wife to Gor­lois,
So loathed the bright dis­hon­our of his love,
That Gor­lois and King Uther went to war:
And over­thrown was Gor­lois and slain.
Then Uther in his wrath and heat be­sieged
Ygerne within Tinta­gil, where her men,
See­ing the mighty swarm about their walls,
Left her and fled, and Uther entered in,
And there was none to call to but him­self.
So, com­passed by the power of the King,
En­forced was she to wed him in her tears,
And with a shame­ful swift­ness: af­ter­ward,
Not many moons, King Uther died him­self,
Moan­ing and wail­ing for an heir to rule
After him, lest the realm should go to wrack.
And that same night, the night of the new year,
By reason of the bit­ter­ness and grief
That vext his mother, all be­fore his time
Was Ar­thur born, and all as soon as born
De­livered at a secret postern-gate
To Mer­lin, to be holden far apart
Until his hour should come; be­cause the lords
Of that fierce day were as the lords of this,
Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child
Piece­meal among them, had they known; for each
But sought to rule for his own self and hand,
And many hated Uther for the sake
Of Gor­lois. Where­fore Mer­lin took the child,
And gave him to Sir An­ton, an old knight
And an­cient friend of Uther; and his wife
Nursed the young prince, and reared him with her own;
And no man knew. And ever since the lords
Have foughten like wild beasts among them­selves,
So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now,
This year, when Mer­lin (for his hour had come)
Brought Ar­thur forth, and set him in the hall,
Pro­claim­ing, ‘Here is Uther’s heir, your king,’
A hun­dred voices cried, ‘Away with him!
No king of ours! a son of Gor­lois he,
Or else the child of An­ton, and no king,
Or else base­born.’ Yet Mer­lin through his craft,
And while the people clam­oured for a king,
Had Ar­thur crowned; but after, the great lords
Ban­ded, and so brake out in open war.”

Then while the King de­bated with him­self
If Ar­thur were the child of shame­ful­ness,
Or born the son of Gor­lois, after death,
Or Uther’s son, and born be­fore his time,
Or whether there were truth in any­thing
Said by these three, there came to Cameliard,
With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons,
Lot’s wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bel­li­cent;
Whom as he could, not as he would, the King
Made feast for, say­ing, as they sat at meat,

“A doubt­ful throne is ice on sum­mer seas.
Ye come from Ar­thur’s court. Victor his men
Re­port him! Yea, but ye—think ye this king—
So many those that hate him, and so strong,
So few his knights, how­ever brave they be—
Hath body enow to hold his foe­men down?”

“O King,” she cried, “and I will tell thee: few,
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him;
For I was near him when the sav­age yells
Of Uther’s peer­age died, and Ar­thur sat
Crowned on the dais, and his war­ri­ors cried,
‘Be thou the king, and we will work thy will
Who love thee.’ Then the King in low deep tones,
And simple words of great au­thor­ity,
Bound them by so strait vows to his own self,
That when they rose, knighted from kneel­ing, some
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,
Some flushed, and oth­ers dazed, as one who wakes
Half-blinded at the com­ing of a light.

“But when he spake and cheered his Table Round
With large, di­vine, and com­fort­able words,
Bey­ond my tongue to tell thee—I be­held
From eye to eye through all their Order flash
A mo­ment­ary like­ness of the King:
And ere it left their faces, through the cross
And those around it and the Cru­ci­fied,
Down from the case­ment over Ar­thur, smote
Flame-col­our, vert and azure, in three rays,
One fall­ing upon each of three fair queens,
Who stood in si­lence near his throne, the friends
Of Ar­thur, gaz­ing on him, tall, with bright
Sweet faces, who will help him at his need.

“And there I saw mage Mer­lin, whose vast wit
And hun­dred win­ters are but as the hands
Of loyal vas­sals toil­ing for their liege.

“And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,
Who knows a subtler ma­gic than his own—
Clothed in white sam­ite, mys­tic, won­der­ful.
She gave the King his huge cross-hil­ted sword,
Whereby to drive the hea­then out: a mist
Of in­cense curled about her, and her face
Wellnigh was hid­den in the min­ster gloom;
But there was heard among the holy hymns
A voice as of the wa­ters, for she dwells
Down in a deep; calm, what­so­ever storms
May shake the world, and when the sur­face rolls,
Hath power to walk the wa­ters like our Lord.

“There like­wise I be­held Ex­calibur
Be­fore him at his crown­ing borne, the sword
That rose from out the bosom of the lake,
And Ar­thur rowed across and took it—rich
With jew­els, elfin Urim, on the hilt,
Bewil­der­ing heart and eye—the blade so bright
That men are blinded by it—on one side,
Graven in the old­est tongue of all this world,
‘Take me,’ but turn the blade and ye shall see,
And writ­ten in the speech ye speak your­self,
‘Cast me away!’ And sad was Ar­thur’s face
Tak­ing it, but old Mer­lin coun­selled him,
‘Take thou and strike! the time to cast away
Is yet far-off.’ So this great brand the king
Took, and by this will beat his foe­men down.”

Thereat Leodo­gran re­joiced, but thought
To sift his doubt­ings to the last, and asked,
Fix­ing full eyes of ques­tion on her face,
“The swal­low and the swift are near akin,
But thou art closer to this noble prince,
Be­ing his own dear sis­ter;” and she said,
“Daughter of Gor­lois and Ygerne am I;”
“And there­fore Ar­thur’s sis­ter?” asked the King.
She answered, “These be secret things,” and signed
To those two sons to pass, and let them be.
And Gawain went, and break­ing into song
Sprang out, and fol­lowed by his fly­ing hair
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw:
But Modred laid his ear be­side the doors,
And there half-heard; the same that af­ter­ward
Struck for the throne, and strik­ing found his doom.

And then the Queen made an­swer, “What know I?
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,
And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark
Was Gor­lois, yea and dark was Uther too,
Wellnigh to black­ness; but this King is fair
Bey­ond the race of Bri­tons and of men.
Moreover, al­ways in my mind I hear
A cry from out the dawn­ing of my life,
A mother weep­ing, and I hear her say,
‘O that ye had some brother, pretty one,
To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.’ ”

“Ay,” said the King, “and hear ye such a cry?
But when did Ar­thur chance upon thee first?”

“O King!” she cried, “and I will tell thee true:
He found me first when yet a little maid:
Beaten I had been for a little fault
Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran
And flung my­self down on a bank of heath,
And hated this fair world and all therein,
And wept, and wished that I were dead; and he—
I know not whether of him­self he came,
Or brought by Mer­lin, who, they say, can walk
Un­seen at pleas­ure—he was at my side,
And spake sweet words, and com­for­ted my heart,
And dried my tears, be­ing a child with me.
And many a time he came, and ever­more
As I grew greater grew with me; and sad
At times he seemed, and sad with him was I,
Stern too at times, and then I loved him not,
But sweet again, and then I loved him well.
And now of late I see him less and less,
But those first days had golden hours for me,
For then I surely thought he would be king.

“But let me tell thee now an­other tale:
For Bleys, our Mer­lin’s mas­ter, as they say,
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me,
To hear him speak be­fore he left his life.
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage;
And when I entered told me that him­self
And Mer­lin ever served about the King,
Uther, be­fore he died; and on the night
When Uther in Tinta­gil past away
Moan­ing and wail­ing for an heir, the two
Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe,
Then from the castle gate­way by the chasm
Des­cend­ing through the dis­mal night—a night
In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost—
Be­held, so high upon the dreary deeps
It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof
A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern
Bright with a shin­ing people on the decks,
And gone as soon as seen. And then the two
Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall,
Wave after wave, each migh­tier than the last,
Till last, a ninth one, gath­er­ing half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roar­ing, and all the wave was in a flame:
And down the wave and in the flame was borne
A na­ked babe, and rode to Mer­lin’s feet,
Who sto­opt and caught the babe, and cried ‘The King!
Here is an heir for Uther!’ And the fringe
Of that great breaker, sweep­ing up the strand,
Lashed at the wiz­ard as he spake the word,
And all at once all round him rose in fire,
So that the child and he were clothed in fire.
And presently there­after fol­lowed calm,
Free sky and stars: ‘And this the same child,’ he said,
‘Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace
Till this were told.’ And say­ing this the seer
Went through the strait and dread­ful pass of death,
Not ever to be ques­tioned any more
Save on the fur­ther side; but when I met
Mer­lin, and asked him if these things were truth—
The shin­ing dragon and the na­ked child
Des­cend­ing in the glory of the seas—
He laughed as is his wont, and answered me
In rid­dling triplets of old time, and said:

“ ‘Rain, rain, and sun! a rain­bow in the sky!
A young man will be wiser by and by;
An old man’s wit may wander ere he die.
Rain, rain, and sun! a rain­bow on the lea!
And truth is this to me, and that to thee;
And truth or clothed or na­ked let it be.
Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blos­som blows:
Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.’

“So Mer­lin rid­dling angered me; but thou
Fear not to give this King thy only child,
Guinev­ere: so great bards of him will sing
Here­after; and dark say­ings from of old
Ranging and ringing through the minds of men,
And echoed by old folk be­side their fires
For com­fort after their wage-work is done,
Speak of the King; and Mer­lin in our time
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn
Though men may wound him that he will not die,
But pass, again to come; and then or now
Ut­terly smite the hea­then un­der­foot,
Till these and all men hail him for their king.”

She spake and King Leodo­gran re­joiced,
But mus­ing, “Shall I an­swer yea or nay?”
Doubted, and drowsed, nod­ded and slept, and saw,
Dream­ing, a slope of land that ever grew,
Field after field, up to a height, the peak
Haze-hid­den, and thereon a phantom king,
Now loom­ing, and now lost; and on the slope
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,
Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,
In drifts of smoke be­fore a rolling wind,
Streamed to the peak, and mingled with the haze
And made it thicker; while the phantom king
Sent out at times a voice; and here or there
Stood one who poin­ted to­ward the voice, the rest
Slew on and burnt, cry­ing, “No king of ours,
No son of Uther, and no king of ours;”
Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze
Des­cen­ded, and the solid earth be­came
As noth­ing, but the King stood out in heaven,
Crowned. And Leodo­gran awoke, and sent
Ulfius, and Brastias and Be­divere,
Back to the court of Ar­thur an­swer­ing yea.

Then Ar­thur charged his war­rior whom he loved
And hon­oured most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth
And bring the Queen;—and watched him from the gates:
And Lancelot past away among the flowers,
(For then was lat­ter April) and re­turned
Among the flowers, in May, with Guinev­ere.
To whom ar­rived, by Dubric the high saint,
Chief of the church in Bri­tain, and be­fore
The stateli­est of her al­tar-shrines, the King
That morn was mar­ried, while in stain­less white,
The fair be­gin­ners of a no­bler time,
And glory­ing in their vows and him, his knights
Stood around him, and re­joicing in his joy.
Far shone the fields of May through open door,
The sac­red al­tar blos­somed white with May,
The Sun of May des­cen­ded on their King,
They gazed on all earth’s beauty in their Queen,
Rolled in­cense, and there past along the hymns
A voice as of the wa­ters, while the two
Sware at the shrine of Christ a death­less love:
And Ar­thur said, “Be­hold, thy doom is mine.
Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!”
To whom the Queen replied with droop­ing eyes,
“King and my lord, I love thee to the death!”
And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake,
“Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world
Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee,
And all this Order of thy Table Round
Ful­fil the bound­less pur­pose of their King!”

So Dubric said; but when they left the shrine
Great Lords from Rome be­fore the portal stood,
In scorn­ful still­ness gaz­ing as they past;
Then while they paced a city all on fire
With sun and cloth of gold, the trum­pets blew,
And Ar­thur’s knight­hood sang be­fore the King:—

“Blow, trum­pet, for the world is white with May;
Blow trum­pet, the long night hath rolled away!
Blow through the liv­ing world—‘Let the King reign.’

“Shall Rome or Hea­then rule in Ar­thur’s realm?
Flash brand and lance, fall battle­axe upon helm,
Fall battle­axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.

“Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard
That God hath told the King a secret word.
Fall battle­axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.

“Blow trum­pet! he will lift us from the dust.
Blow trum­pet! live the strength and die the lust!
Clang battle­axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

“Strike for the King and die! and if thou di­est,
The King is King, and ever wills the highest.
Clang battle­axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

“Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!
Blow, for our Sun is migh­tier day by day!
Clang battle­axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

“The King will fol­low Christ, and we the King
In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.
Fall battle­axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.”

So sang the knight­hood, mov­ing to their hall.
There at the ban­quet those great Lords from Rome,
The slowly-fad­ing mis­tress of the world,
Strode in, and claimed their trib­ute as of yore.
But Ar­thur spake, “Be­hold, for these have sworn
To wage my wars, and wor­ship me their King;
The old or­der chan­geth, yield­ing place to new;
And we that fight for our fair father Christ,
See­ing that ye be grown too weak and old
To drive the hea­then from your Ro­man wall,
No trib­ute will we pay:” so those great lords
Drew back in wrath, and Ar­thur strove with Rome.

And Ar­thur and his knight­hood for a space
Were all one will, and through that strength the King
Drew in the petty prince­doms un­der him,
Fought, and in twelve great battles over­came
The hea­then hordes, and made a realm and reigned.

Gareth and Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bel­li­cent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a shower­ful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shaf­ted Pine
Lost foot­ing, fell, and so was whirled away.
“How he went down,” said Gareth, “as a false knight
Or evil king be­fore my lance if lance
Were mine to use—O sense­less catar­act,
Bear­ing all down in thy pre­cip­it­ancy—
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is liv­ing blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker’s, and not know­est, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother’s hall
Linger with va­cil­lat­ing obed­i­ence,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to—
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were bet­ter; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one con­tinu­ous prayer,
Until she let me fly dis­caged to sweep
In ever-higher­ing eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Ar­thur, work­ing out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the sum­mer­time,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of wor­thier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
‘Thou hast half pre­vailed against me,’ said so—he—
Though Modred bit­ing his thin lips was mute,
For he is al­way sul­len: what care I?”

And Gareth went, and hov­er­ing round her chair
Asked, “Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?” She laughed,
“Thou art but a wild-goose to ques­tion it.”
“Then, mother, an ye love the child,” he said,
“Be­ing a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child’s story.” “Yea, my well-be­loved,
An ’twere but of the goose and golden eggs.”

And Gareth answered her with kind­ling eyes,
“Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Al­most bey­ond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glit­ters gil­ded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunt­ing round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who of­ten saw
The splend­our spark­ling from aloft, and thought
‘An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,
Then were I wealth­ier than a leash of kings.’
But ever when he reached a hand to climb,
One, that had loved him from his child­hood, caught
And stayed him, ‘Climb not lest thou break thy neck,
I charge thee by my love,’ and so the boy,
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,
But brake his very heart in pin­ing for it,
And past away.”

To whom the mother said,
“True love, sweet son, had risked him­self and climbed,
And handed down the golden treas­ure to him.”

And Gareth answered her with kind­ling eyes,
“Gold? said I gold?—ay then, why he, or she,
Or who­soe’er it was, or half the world
Had ven­tured—had the thing I spake of been
Mere gold—but this was all of that true steel,
Whereof they forged the brand Ex­calibur,
And light­nings played about it in the storm,
And all the little fowl were flur­ried at it,
And there were cries and clash­ings in the nest,
That sent him from his senses: let me go.”

Then Bel­li­cent be­moaned her­self and said,
“Hast thou no pity upon my loneli­ness?
Lo, where thy father Lot be­side the hearth
Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!
Forever 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 forever.”

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 forever—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
Forever; 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 forever.”

And Lancelot said,
“Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
To the King’s best wish. O dam­sel, be you wise
To call him shamed, who is but over­thrown?
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
Victor from van­quished is­sues at the last,
And over­thrower from be­ing over­thrown.
With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
Thy man­hood through that wear­ied lance of thine.
Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,
And when re­viled, hast answered gra­ciously,
And makest merry when over­thrown. Prince, Knight
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!”

And then when turn­ing to Lynette he told
The tale of Gareth, petu­lantly she said,
“Ay well—ay well—for worse than be­ing fooled
Of oth­ers, is to fool one’s self. A cave,
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
And for­age for the horse, and flint for fire.
But all about it flies a hon­ey­suckle.
Seek, till we find.” And when they sought and found,
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
“Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
As any mother? Ay, but such a one
As all day long hath rated at her child,
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep—
Good lord, how sweetly smells the hon­ey­suckle
In the hushed night, as if the world were one
Of ut­ter peace, and love, and gen­tle­ness!
O Lancelot, Lancelot”—and she clapt her hands—
“Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
Who doubts thee vic­tor? so will my knight-knave
Miss the full flower of this ac­com­plish­ment.”

Said Lancelot, “Perad­ven­ture he, you name,
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
Change his for mine, and take my char­ger, fresh,
Not to be spurred, lov­ing the battle as well
As he that rides him.” “Lancelot-like,” she said,
“Cour­teous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.”

And Gareth, waken­ing, fiercely clutched the shield;
“Ramp ye lance-splin­ter­ing lions, on whom all spears
Are rot­ten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
Yea, ramp and roar at leav­ing of your lord!—
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
Streams vir­tue—fire—through one that will not shame
Even the shadow of Lancelot un­der shield.
Hence: let us go.”

Si­lent the si­lent field
They tra­versed. Ar­thur’s harp though sum­mer-wan,
In counter mo­tion to the clouds, al­lured
The glance of Gareth dream­ing on his liege.
A star shot: “Lo,” said Gareth, “the foe falls!”
An owl who­opt: “Hark the vic­tor peal­ing there!”
Sud­denly she that rode upon his left
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, cry­ing,
“Yield, yield him this again: ’tis he must fight:
I curse the tongue that all through yes­ter­day
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
To lend thee horse and shield: won­ders ye have done;
Mir­acles ye can­not: here is glory enow
In hav­ing flung the three: I see thee maimed,
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.”

“And where­fore, dam­sel? tell me all ye know.
You can­not scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
Brute bulk of limb, or bound­less sav­agery
Ap­pal me from the quest.”

“Nay, Prince,” she cried,
“God wot, I never looked upon the face,
See­ing he never rides abroad by day;
But watched him have I like a phantom pass
Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
Al­ways he made his mouth­piece of a page
Who came and went, and still re­por­ted him
As clos­ing in him­self the strength of ten,
And when his an­ger tare him, mas­sac­ring
Man, wo­man, lad and girl—yea, the soft babe!
Some hold that he hath swal­lowed in­fant flesh,
Mon­ster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
The quest is Lancelot’s: give him back the shield.”

Said Gareth laugh­ing, “An he fight for this,
Be­like he wins it as the bet­ter man:
Thus—and not else!”

But Lancelot on him urged
All the de­vis­ings of their chiv­alry
When one might meet a migh­tier than him­self;
How best to man­age horse, lance, sword and shield,
And so fill up the gap where force might fail
With skill and fine­ness. In­stant were his words.

Then Gareth, “Here be rules. I know but one—
To dash against mine en­emy and win.
Yet have I seen thee vic­tor in the joust,
And seen thy way.” “Heaven help thee,” sighed Lynette.

Then for a space, and un­der cloud that grew
To thun­der-gloom palling all stars, they rode
In con­verse till she made her pal­frey halt,
Lif­ted an arm, and softly whispered, “There.”
And all the three were si­lent see­ing, pitched
Beside the Castle Per­il­ous on flat field,
A huge pa­vil­ion like a moun­tain peak
Sun­der the gloom­ing crim­son on the marge,
Black, with black ban­ner, and a long black horn
Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
And so, be­fore the two could hinder him,
Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.
Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon
Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
Whereon were hol­low tramp­lings up and down
And muffled voices heard, and shad­ows past;
Till high above him, circled with her maids,
The Lady Ly­onors at a win­dow stood,
Beau­ti­ful among lights, and wav­ing to him
White hands, and cour­tesy; but when the Prince
Three times had blown—after long hush—at last—
The huge pa­vil­ion slowly yiel­ded up,
Through those black fold­ings, that which housed therein.
High on a night­black horse, in night­black arms,
With white breast-bone, and bar­ren ribs of Death,
And crowned with flesh­less laughter—some ten steps—
In the half-light—through the dim dawn—ad­vanced
The mon­ster, and then paused, and spake no word.

But Gareth spake and all in­dig­nantly,
“Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
But must, to make the ter­ror of thee more,
Trick thy­self out in ghastly imager­ies
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
Less dull than thou, will hide with mant­ling flowers
As if for pity?” But he spake no word;
Which set the hor­ror higher: a maiden swooned;
The Lady Ly­onors wrung her hands and wept,
As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;
Sir Gareth’s head prickled be­neath his helm;
And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt
Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.

At once Sir Lancelot’s char­ger fiercely neighed,
And Death’s dark war-horse bounded for­ward with him.
Then those that did not blink the ter­ror, saw
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
Then with a stronger buf­fet he clove the helm
As throughly as the skull; and out from this
Is­sued the bright face of a bloom­ing boy
Fresh as a flower new-born, and cry­ing, “Knight,
Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
To make a hor­ror all about the house,
And stay the world from Lady Ly­onors.
They never dreamed the passes would be past.”
Answered Sir Gareth gra­ciously to one
Not many a moon his younger, “My fair child,
What mad­ness made thee chal­lenge the chief knight
Of Ar­thur’s hall?” “Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King’s friend,
They hoped to slay him some­where on the stream,
They never dreamed the passes could be past.”

Then sprang the hap­pier day from un­der­ground;
And Lady Ly­onors and her house, with dance
And revel and song, made merry over Death,
As be­ing after all their fool­ish fears
And hor­rors only proven a bloom­ing boy.
So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.

And he that told the tale in older times
Says that Sir Gareth wed­ded Ly­onors,
But he, that told it later, says Lynette.

The Marriage of Geraint

The brave Geraint, a knight of Ar­thur’s court,
A trib­u­tary prince of Devon, one
Of that great Order of the Table Round,
Had mar­ried Enid, Yniol’s only child,
And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.
And as the light of Heaven var­ies, now
At sun­rise, now at sun­set, now by night
With moon and trem­bling stars, so loved Geraint
To make her beauty vary day by day,
In crim­sons and in purples and in gems.
And Enid, but to please her hus­band’s eye,
Who first had found and loved her in a state
Of broken for­tunes, daily fron­ted him
In some fresh splend­our; and the Queen her­self,
Grate­ful to Prince Geraint for ser­vice done,
Loved her, and of­ten with her own white hands
Ar­rayed and decked her, as the love­li­est,
Next after her own self, in all the court.
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart
Adored her, as the stateli­est and the best
And love­li­est of all wo­men upon earth.
And see­ing them so tender and so close,
Long in their com­mon love re­joiced Geraint.
But when a ru­mour rose about the Queen,
Touch­ing her guilty love for Lancelot,
Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard
The world’s loud whis­per break­ing into storm,
Not less Geraint be­lieved it; and there fell
A hor­ror on him, lest his gentle wife,
Through that great ten­der­ness for Guinev­ere,
Had suffered, or should suf­fer any taint
In nature: where­fore go­ing to the King,
He made this pre­text, that his prince­dom lay
Close on the bor­ders of a ter­rit­ory,
Wherein were ban­dit earls, and caitiff knights,
As­sas­sins, and all fly­ers from the hand
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law:
And there­fore, till the King him­self should please
To cleanse this com­mon sewer of all his realm,
He craved a fair per­mis­sion to de­part,
And there de­fend his marches; and the King
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,
Al­low­ing it, the Prince and Enid rode,
And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores
Of Severn, and they past to their own land;
Where, think­ing, that if ever yet was wife
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,
He com­passed her with sweet ob­serv­ances
And wor­ship, never leav­ing her, and grew
For­get­ful of his prom­ise to the King,
For­get­ful of the fal­con and the hunt,
For­get­ful of the tilt and tour­na­ment,
For­get­ful of his glory and his name,
For­get­ful of his prince­dom and its cares.
And this for­get­ful­ness was hate­ful to her.
And by and by the people, when they met
In twos and threes, or fuller com­pan­ies,
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him
As of a prince whose man­hood was all gone,
And mol­ten down in mere uxori­ous­ness.
And this she gathered from the people’s eyes:
This too the wo­men who at­tired her head,
To please her, dwell­ing on his bound­less love,
Told Enid, and they saddened her the more:
And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,
But could not out of bash­ful del­ic­acy;
While he that watched her sad­den, was the more
Sus­pi­cious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a sum­mer morn
(They sleep­ing each by either) the new sun
Beat through the blind­less case­ment of the room,
And heated the strong war­rior in his dreams;
Who, mov­ing, cast the cov­er­let aside,
And bared the knot­ted column of his throat,
The massive square of his heroic breast,
And arms on which the stand­ing muscle sloped,
As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone,
Run­ning too vehe­mently to break upon it.
And Enid woke and sat be­side the couch,
Ad­mir­ing him, and thought within her­self,
Was ever man so grandly made as he?
Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk
And ac­cus­a­tion of uxori­ous­ness
Across her mind, and bow­ing over him,
Low to her own heart piteously she said:

“O noble breast and all-puis­sant arms,
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men
Re­proach you, say­ing all your force is gone?
I am the cause, be­cause I dare not speak
And tell him what I think and what they say.
And yet I hate that he should linger here;
I can­not love my lord and not his name.
Far liefer had I gird his har­ness on him,
And ride with him to battle and stand by,
And watch his might­ful hand strik­ing great blows
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.
Far bet­ter were I laid in the dark earth,
Not hear­ing any more his noble voice,
Not to be fol­ded more in these dear arms,
And darkened from the high light in his eyes,
Than that my lord through me should suf­fer shame.
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
And maybe pierced to death be­fore mine eyes,
And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
And how men slur him, say­ing all his force
Is melted into mere ef­fem­in­acy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife.”

Half in­wardly, half aud­ibly she spoke,
And the strong pas­sion in her made her weep
True tears upon his broad and na­ked breast,
And these awoke him, and by great mis­chance
He heard but frag­ments of her later words,
And that she feared she was not a true wife.
And then he thought, “In spite of all my care,
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
She is not faith­ful to me, and I see her
Weep­ing for some gay knight in Ar­thur’s hall.”
Then though he loved and rev­er­enced her too much
To dream she could be guilty of foul act,
Right through his man­ful breast dar­ted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miser­able.
At this he hurled his huge limbs out of bed,
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,
“My char­ger and her pal­frey;” then to her,
“I will ride forth into the wil­der­ness;
For though it seems my spurs are yet to win,
I have not fallen so low as some would wish.
And thou, put on thy worst and mean­est dress
And ride with me.” And Enid asked, amazed,
“If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.”
But he, “I charge thee, ask not, but obey.”
Then she be­thought her of a faded silk,
A faded mantle and a faded veil,
And mov­ing to­ward a ce­darn cab­inet,
Wherein she kept them fol­ded rev­er­ently
With sprigs of sum­mer laid between the folds,
She took them, and ar­rayed her­self therein,
Re­mem­ber­ing when first he came on her
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
And all her fool­ish fears about the dress,
And all his jour­ney to her, as him­self
Had told her, and their com­ing to the court.

For Ar­thur on the Whit­sun­tide be­fore
Held court at old Caer­leon upon Usk.
There on a day, he sit­ting high in hall,
Be­fore him came a for­ester of Dean,
Wet from the woods, with no­tice of a hart
Taller than all his fel­lows, milky-white,
First seen that day: these things he told the King.
Then the good King gave or­der to let blow
His horns for hunt­ing on the mor­row morn.
And when the King pe­ti­tioned for his leave
To see the hunt, al­lowed it eas­ily.
So with the morn­ing all the court were gone.
But Guinev­ere lay late into the morn,
Lost in sweet dreams, and dream­ing of her love
For Lancelot, and for­get­ful of the hunt;
But rose at last, a single maiden with her,
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gained the wood;
There, on a little knoll be­side it, stayed
Wait­ing to hear the hounds; but heard in­stead
A sud­den sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
Late also, wear­ing neither hunt­ing-dress
Nor weapon, save a golden-hil­ted brand,
Came quickly flash­ing through the shal­low ford
Be­hind them, and so gal­loped up the knoll.
A purple scarf, at either end whereof
There swung an apple of the purest gold,
Swayed round about him, as he gal­loped up
To join them, glan­cing like a dragon-fly
In sum­mer suit and silks of hol­i­day.
Low bowed the trib­u­tary Prince, and she,
Sweet and statelily, and with all grace
Of wo­man­hood and queen­hood, answered him:
“Late, late, Sir Prince,” she said, “later than we!”
“Yea, noble Queen,” he answered, “and so late
That I but come like you to see the hunt,
Not join it.” “There­fore wait with me,” she said;
“For on this little knoll, if any­where,
There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
Here of­ten they break cov­ert at our feet.”

And while they listened for the dis­tant hunt,
And chiefly for the bay­ing of Cavall,
King Ar­thur’s hound of deep­est mouth, there rode
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
Whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight
Had vi­zor up, and showed a youth­ful face,
Im­per­i­ous, and of haught­i­est lin­ea­ments.
And Guinev­ere, not mind­ful of his face
In the King’s hall, de­sired his name, and sent
Her maiden to de­mand it of the dwarf;
Who be­ing vi­cious, old and ir­rit­able,
And doub­ling all his mas­ter’s vice of pride,
Made an­swer sharply that she should not know.
“Then will I ask it of him­self,” she said.
“Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,” cried the dwarf;
“Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;”
And when she put her horse to­ward the knight,
Struck at her with his whip, and she re­turned
Indig­nant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
Ex­claim­ing, “Surely I will learn the name,”
Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him,
Who answered as be­fore; and when the Prince
Had put his horse in mo­tion to­ward the knight,
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
The Prince’s blood spirted upon the scarf,
Dye­ing it; and his quick, in­stinct­ive hand
Caught at the hilt, as to ab­ol­ish him:
But he, from his ex­ceed­ing man­ful­ness
And pure no­bil­ity of tem­pera­ment,
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, re­frained
From even a word, and so re­turn­ing said:

“I will avenge this in­sult, noble Queen,
Done in your maiden’s per­son to your­self:
And I will track this ver­min to their earths:
For though I ride un­armed, I do not doubt
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
On loan, or else for pledge; and, be­ing found,
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
And on the third day will again be here,
So that I be not fallen in fight. Farewell.”

“Farewell, fair Prince,” answered the stately Queen.
“Be pros­per­ous in this jour­ney, as in all;
And may you light on all things that you love,
And live to wed with her whom first you love:
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
And I, were she the daugh­ter of a king,
Yea, though she were a beg­gar from the hedge,
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.”

And Prince Geraint, now think­ing that he heard
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
A little vext at los­ing of the hunt,
A little at the vile oc­ca­sion, rode,
By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade
And val­ley, with fixt eye fol­low­ing the three.
At last they is­sued from the world of wood,
And climbed upon a fair and even ridge,
And showed them­selves against the sky, and sank.
And thither there came Geraint, and un­der­neath
Be­held the long street of a little town
In a long val­ley, on one side whereof,
White from the ma­son’s hand, a fort­ress rose;
And on one side a castle in de­cay,
Bey­ond a bridge that spanned a dry rav­ine:
And out of town and val­ley came a noise
As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed
Brawl­ing, or like a clam­our of the rooks
At dis­tance, ere they settle for the night.

And on­ward to the fort­ress rode the three,
And entered, and were lost be­hind the walls.
“So,” thought Geraint, “I have tracked him to his earth.”
And down the long street rid­ing wear­ily,
Found every hostel full, and every­where
Was ham­mer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
And bust­ling whistle of the youth who scoured
His mas­ter’s ar­mour; and of such a one
He asked, “What means the tu­mult in the town?”
Who told him, scour­ing still, “The spar­row-hawk!”
Then rid­ing close be­hind an an­cient churl,
Who, smit­ten by the dusty slop­ing beam,
Went sweat­ing un­der­neath a sack of corn,
Asked yet once more what meant the hub­bub here?
Who answered gruffly, “Ugh! the spar­row-hawk.”
Then rid­ing fur­ther past an ar­mourer’s,
Who, with back turned, and bowed above his work,
Sat riv­et­ing a hel­met on his knee,
He put the self-same query, but the man
Not turn­ing round, nor look­ing at him, said:
“Friend, he that la­bours for the spar­row-hawk
Has little time for idle ques­tion­ers.”
Whereat Geraint flashed into sud­den spleen:
“A thou­sand pips eat up your spar­row-hawk!
Tits, wrens, and all winged noth­ings peck him dead!
Ye think the rus­tic cackle of your bourg
The mur­mur of the world! What is it to me?
O wretched set of spar­rows, one and all,
Who pipe of noth­ing but of spar­row-hawks!
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
Where can I get me har­bour­age for the night?
And arms, arms, arms to fight my en­emy? Speak!”
Whereat the ar­mourer turn­ing all amazed
And see­ing one so gay in purple silks,
Came for­ward with the hel­met yet in hand
And answered, “Par­don me, O stranger knight;
We hold a tour­ney here to­mor­row morn,
And there is scantly time for half the work.
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.
Har­bour­age? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge
Yon­der.” He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleen­ful yet,
Across the bridge that spanned the dry rav­ine.
There mus­ing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
(His dress a suit of frayed mag­ni­fi­cence,
Once fit for feasts of ce­re­mony) and said:
“Whither, fair son?” to whom Geraint replied,
“O friend, I seek a har­bour­age for the night.”
Then Yniol, “Enter there­fore and par­take
The slender en­ter­tain­ment of a house
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.”
“Thanks, ven­er­able friend,” replied Geraint;
“So that ye do not serve me spar­row-hawks
For sup­per, I will enter, I will eat
With all the pas­sion of a twelve hours’ fast.”
Then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,
And answered, “Graver cause than yours is mine
To curse this hedgerow thief, the spar­row-hawk:
But in, go in; for save your­self de­sire it,
We will not touch upon him even in jest.”

Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
His char­ger tramp­ling many a prickly star
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
He looked and saw that all was ru­in­ous.
Here stood a shattered arch­way plumed with fern;
And here had fallen a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wild­ing flowers:
And high above a piece of tur­ret stair,
Worn by the feet that now were si­lent, wound
Bare to the sun, and mon­strous ivy-stems
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,
And sucked the join­ing of the stones, and looked
A knot, be­neath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

Yniol Shows Prince Geraint His Ruined Castle

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.

Enid and the Count­ess

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.

Edyrn With His Lady and Dwarf Jour­ney to Ar­thur’s Court

But when the third day from the hunt­ing-morn
Made a low splend­our in the world, and wings
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay
With her fair head in the dim-yel­low light,
Among the dan­cing shad­ows of the birds,
Woke and be­thought her of her prom­ise given
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint—
So bent he seemed on go­ing the third day,
He would not leave her, till her prom­ise given—
To ride with him this morn­ing to the court,
And there be made known to the stately Queen,
And there be wed­ded with all ce­re­mony.
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,
And thought it never yet had looked so mean.
For as a leaf in mid-Novem­ber is
To what it is in mid-Octo­ber, seemed
The dress that now she looked on to the dress
She looked on ere the com­ing of Geraint.
And still she looked, and still the ter­ror grew
Of that strange bright and dread­ful thing, a court,
All star­ing at her in her faded silk:
And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

“This noble prince who won our earl­dom back,
So splen­did in his acts and his at­tire,
Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis­credit him!
Would he could tarry with us here awhile,
But be­ing so be­holden to the Prince,
It were but little grace in any of us,
Bent as he seemed on go­ing this third day,
To seek a second fa­vour at his hands.
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,
My­self would work eye dim, and fin­ger lame,
Far liefer than so much dis­credit him.”

And Enid fell in long­ing for a dress
All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift
Of her good mother, given her on the night
Be­fore her birth­day, three sad years ago,
That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house,
And scattered all they had to all the winds:
For while the mother showed it, and the two
Were turn­ing and ad­mir­ing it, the work
To both ap­peared so costly, rose a cry
That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled
With little save the jew­els they had on,
Which be­ing sold and sold had bought them bread:
And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight,
And placed them in this ruin; and she wished
The Prince had found her in her an­cient home;
Then let her fancy flit across the past,
And roam the goodly places that she knew;
And last be­thought her how she used to watch,
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;
And one was patched and blurred and lustre­less
Among his burn­ished brethren of the pool;
And half asleep she made com­par­ison
Of that and these to her own faded self
And the gay court, and fell asleep again;
And dreamt her­self was such a faded form
Among her burn­ished sis­ters of the pool;
But this was in the garden of a king;
And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew
That all was bright; that all about were birds
Of sunny plume in gil­ded trel­lis-work;
That all the turf was rich in plots that looked
Each like a gar­net or a tur­kis in it;
And lords and ladies of the high court went
In sil­ver tis­sue talk­ing things of state;
And chil­dren of the King in cloth of gold
Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks;
And while she thought “They will not see me,” came
A stately queen whose name was Guinev­ere,
And all the chil­dren in their cloth of gold
Ran to her, cry­ing, “If we have fish at all
Let them be gold; and charge the garden­ers now
To pick the faded creature from the pool,
And cast it on the mixen that it die.”
And there­withal one came and seized on her,
And Enid star­ted wak­ing, with her heart
All over­shad­owed by the fool­ish dream,
And lo! it was her mother grasp­ing her
To get her well awake; and in her hand
A suit of bright ap­parel, which she laid
Flat on the couch, and spoke ex­ult­ingly:

“See here, my child, how fresh the col­ours look,
How fast they hold like col­ours of a shell
That keeps the wear and pol­ish of the wave.
Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow:
Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.”

And Enid looked, but all con­fused at first,
Could scarce di­vide it from her fool­ish dream:
Then sud­denly she knew it and re­joiced,
And answered, “Yea, I know it; your good gift,
So sadly lost on that un­happy night;
Your own good gift!” “Yea, surely,” said the dame,
“And gladly given again this happy morn.
For when the jousts were ended yes­ter­day,
Went Yniol through the town, and every­where
He found the sack and plun­der of our house
All scattered through the houses of the town;
And gave com­mand that all which once was ours
Should now be ours again: and yes­ter-eve,
While ye were talk­ing sweetly with your Prince,
Came one with this and laid it in my hand,
For love or fear, or seek­ing fa­vour of us,
Be­cause we have our earl­dom back again.
And yes­ter-eve I would not tell you of it,
But kept it for a sweet sur­prise at morn.
Yea, truly is it not a sweet sur­prise?
For I my­self un­will­ingly have worn
My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,
And how­so­ever pa­tient, Yniol his.
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,
With store of rich ap­parel, sump­tu­ous fare,
And page, and maid, and squire, and sen­eschal,
And pas­time both of hawk and hound, and all
That ap­per­tains to noble main­ten­ance.
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;
But since our for­tune swerved from sun to shade,
And all through that young traitor, cruel need
Con­strained us, but a bet­ter time has come;
So clothe your­self in this, that bet­ter fits
Our men­ded for­tunes and a Prince’s bride:
For though ye won the prize of fairest fair,
And though I heard him call you fairest fair,
Let never maiden think, how­ever fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old.
And should some great court-lady say, the Prince
Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge,
And like a mad­man brought her to the court,
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince
To whom we are be­holden; but I know,
That when my dear child is set forth at her best,
That neither court nor coun­try, though they sought
Through all the provinces like those of old
That lighted on Queen Es­ther, has her match.”

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;
And Enid listened bright­en­ing as she lay;
Then, as the white and glit­ter­ing star of morn
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,
And left her maiden couch, and robed her­self,
Helped by the mother’s care­ful hand and eye,
Without a mir­ror, in the gor­geous gown;
Who, after, turned her daugh­ter round, and said,
She never yet had seen her half so fair;
And called her like that maiden in the tale,
Whom Gwy­dion made by glam­our out of flowers
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,
Flur, for whose love the Ro­man Caesar first
In­vaded Bri­tain, “But we beat him back,
As this great Prince in­vaded us, and we,
Not beat him back, but wel­comed him with joy
And I can scarcely ride with you to court,
For old am I, and rough the ways and wild;
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream
I see my prin­cess as I see her now,
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.”

But while the wo­men thus re­joiced, Geraint
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and called
For Enid, and when Yniol made re­port
Of that good mother mak­ing Enid gay
In such ap­parel as might well be­seem
His prin­cess, or in­deed the stately Queen,
He answered: “Earl, en­treat her by my love,
Al­beit I give no reason but my wish,
That she ride with me in her faded silk.”
Yniol with that hard mes­sage went; it fell
Like flaws in sum­mer lay­ing lusty corn:
For Enid, all abashed she knew not why,
Dared not to glance at her good mother’s face,
But si­lently, in all obed­i­ence,
Her mother si­lent too, nor help­ing her,
Laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift,
And robed them in her an­cient suit again,
And so des­cen­ded. Never man re­joiced
More than Geraint to greet her thus at­tired;
And glan­cing all at once as keenly at her
As care­ful robins eye the delver’s toil,
Made her cheek burn and either eye­lid fall,
But res­ted with her sweet face sat­is­fied;
Then see­ing cloud upon the mother’s brow,
Her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said,

“O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved
At thy new son, for my pe­ti­tion to her.
When late I left Caer­leon, our great Queen,
In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,
Made prom­ise, that whatever bride I brought,
Her­self would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.
There­after, when I reached this ruined hall,
Be­hold­ing one so bright in dark es­tate,
I vowed that could I gain her, our fair Queen,
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst
Sun­like from cloud—and like­wise thought per­haps,
That ser­vice done so gra­ciously would bind
The two to­gether; fain I would the two
Should love each other: how can Enid find
A no­bler friend? Another thought was mine;
I came among you here so sud­denly,
That though her gentle pres­ence at the lists
Might well have served for proof that I was loved,
I doubted whether daugh­ter’s ten­der­ness,
Or easy nature, might not let it­self
Be moul­ded by your wishes for her weal;
Or whether some false sense in her own self
Of my con­trast­ing bright­ness, over­bore
Her fancy dwell­ing in this dusky hall;
And such a sense might make her long for court
And all its per­il­ous glor­ies: and I thought,
That could I some­way prove such force in her
Linked with such love for me, that at a word
(No reason given her) she could cast aside
A splend­our dear to wo­men, new to her,
And there­fore dearer; or if not so new,
Yet there­fore ten­fold dearer by the power
Of in­ter­mit­ted us­age; then I felt
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,
Fixt on her faith. Now, there­fore, I do rest,
A prophet cer­tain of my proph­ecy,
That never shadow of mis­trust can cross
Between us. Grant me par­don for my thoughts:
And for my strange pe­ti­tion I will make
Amends here­after by some gaudy-day,
When your fair child shall wear your costly gift
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees,
Who knows? an­other gift of the high God,
Which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.”

He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears,
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,
And claspt and kissed her, and they rode away.

Now thrice that morn­ing Guinev­ere had climbed
The gi­ant tower, from whose high crest, they say,
Men saw the goodly hills of Somer­set,
And white sails fly­ing on the yel­low sea;
But not to goodly hill or yel­low sea
Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;
And then des­cend­ing met them at the gates,
Em­braced her with all wel­come as a friend,
And did her hon­our as the Prince’s bride,
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun;
And all that week was old Caer­leon gay,
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,
They twain were wed­ded with all ce­re­mony.

And this was on the last year’s Whit­sun­tide.
But Enid ever kept the faded silk,
Re­mem­ber­ing how first he came on her,
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
And all her fool­ish fears about the dress,
And all his jour­ney to­ward her, as him­self
Had told her, and their com­ing to the court.

And now this morn­ing when he said to her,
“Put on your worst and mean­est dress,” she found
And took it, and ar­rayed her­self therein.

Geraint and Enid

O pur­blind race of miser­able men,
How many among us at this very hour
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
By tak­ing true for false, or false for true;
Here, through the feeble twi­light of this world
Grop­ing, how many, un­til we pass and reach
That other, where we see as we are seen!

So fared it with Geraint, who is­su­ing forth
That morn­ing, when they both had got to horse,
Per­haps be­cause he loved her pas­sion­ately,
And felt that tem­pest brood­ing round his heart,
Which, if he spoke at all, would break per­force
Upon a head so dear in thun­der, said:
“Not at my side. I charge thee ride be­fore,
Ever a good way on be­fore; and this
I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
Whatever hap­pens, not to speak to me,
No, not a word!” and Enid was aghast;
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,
When cry­ing out, “Ef­fem­in­ate as I am,
I will not fight my way with gil­ded arms,
All shall be iron;” he loosed a mighty purse,
Hung at his belt, and hurled it to­ward the squire.
So the last sight that Enid had of home
Was all the marble threshold flash­ing, strown
With gold and scattered coin­age, and the squire
Chaf­ing his shoulder: then he cried again,
“To the wilds!” and Enid lead­ing down the tracks
Through which he bad her lead him on, they past
The marches, and by ban­dit-haunted holds,
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,
And wil­der­nesses, per­il­ous paths, they rode:
Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon:
A stranger meet­ing them had surely thought
They rode so slowly and they looked so pale,
That each had suffered some ex­ceed­ing wrong.
For he was ever say­ing to him­self,
“O I that wasted time to tend upon her,
To com­pass her with sweet ob­serv­ances,
To dress her beau­ti­fully and keep her true”—
And there he broke the sen­tence in his heart
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue
May break it, when his pas­sion mas­ters him.
And she was ever pray­ing the sweet heav­ens
To save her dear lord whole from any wound.
And ever in her mind she cast about
For that un­noticed fail­ing in her­self,
Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
Till the great plover’s hu­man whistle amazed
Her heart, and glan­cing round the waste she feared
In ever waver­ing brake an am­bus­cade.
Then thought again, “If there be such in me,
I might amend it by the grace of Heaven,
If he would only speak and tell me of it.”

But when the fourth part of the day was gone,
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights
On horse­back, wholly armed, be­hind a rock
In shadow, wait­ing for them, caitiffs all;
And heard one cry­ing to his fel­low, “Look,
Here comes a lag­gard hanging down his head,
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound;
Come, we will slay him and will have his horse
And ar­mour, and his dam­sel shall be ours.”

Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said:
“I will go back a little to my lord,
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk;
For, be he wroth even to slay­ing me,
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die,
Than that my lord should suf­fer loss or shame.”

Then she went back some paces of re­turn,
Met his full frown tim­idly firm, and said;
“My lord, I saw three ban­dits by the rock
Wait­ing to fall on you, and heard them boast
That they would slay you, and pos­sess your horse
And ar­mour, and your dam­sel should be theirs.”

He made a wrath­ful an­swer: “Did I wish
Your warn­ing or your si­lence? one com­mand
I laid upon you, not to speak to me,
And thus ye keep it! Well then, look—for now,
Whether ye wish me vic­tory or de­feat,
Long for my life, or hun­ger for my death,
Your­self shall see my vigour is not lost.”

Then Enid waited pale and sor­row­ful,
And down upon him bare the ban­dit three.
And at the mid­most char­ging, Prince Geraint
Drave the long spear a cu­bit through his breast
And out bey­ond; and then against his brace
Of com­rades, each of whom had broken on him
A lance that splintered like an icicle,
Swung from his brand a windy buf­fet out
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain
Or slew them, and dis­mount­ing like a man
That skins the wild beast after slay­ing him,
Stript from the three dead wolves of wo­man born
The three gay suits of ar­mour which they wore,
And let the bod­ies lie, but bound the suits
Of ar­mour on their horses, each on each,
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
To­gether, and said to her, “Drive them on
Be­fore you;” and she drove them through the waste.

He fol­lowed nearer; ruth began to work
Against his an­ger in him, while he watched
The be­ing he loved best in all the world,
With dif­fi­culty in mild obed­i­ence
Driv­ing them on: he fain had spoken to her,
And loosed in words of sud­den fire the wrath
And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within;
But ever­more it seemed an easier thing
At once without re­morse to strike her dead,
Than to cry “Halt,” and to her own bright face
Ac­cuse her of the least im­mod­esty:
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
That she could speak whom his own ear had heard
Call her­self false: and suf­fer­ing thus he made
Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time
Than at Caer­leon the full-tided Usk,
Be­fore he turn to fall sea­ward again,
Pauses, did Enid, keep­ing watch, be­hold
In the first shal­low shade of a deep wood,
Be­fore a gloom of stub­born-shaf­ted oaks,
Three other horse­men wait­ing, wholly armed,
Whereof one seemed far lar­ger than her lord,
And shook her pulses, cry­ing, “Look, a prize!
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.”
“Nay,” said the second, “yon­der comes a knight.”
The third, “A craven; how he hangs his head.”
The gi­ant answered mer­rily, “Yea, but one?
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.”

And Enid pondered in her heart and said,
“I will abide the com­ing of my lord,
And I will tell him all their vil­lainy.
My lord is weary with the fight be­fore,
And they will fall upon him un­awares.
I needs must dis­obey him for his good;
How should I dare obey him to his harm?
Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it,
I save a life dearer to me than mine.”

And she abode his com­ing, and said to him
With timid firm­ness, “Have I leave to speak?”
He said, “Ye take it, speak­ing,” and she spoke.

“There lurk three vil­lains yon­der in the wood,
And each of them is wholly armed, and one
Is lar­ger-limbed than you are, and they say
That they will fall upon you while ye pass.”

To which he flung a wrath­ful an­swer back:
“And if there were an hun­dred in the wood,
And every man were lar­ger-limbed than I,
And all at once should sally out upon me,
I swear it would not ruffle me so much
As you that not obey me. Stand aside,
And if I fall, cleave to the bet­ter man.”

And Enid stood aside to wait the event,
Not dare to watch the com­bat, only breathe
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.
Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint’s,
A little in the late en­counter strained,
Struck through the bulky ban­dit’s corse­let home,
And then brake short, and down his en­emy rolled,
And there lay still; as he that tells the tale
Saw once a great piece of a promon­tory,
That had a sap­ling grow­ing on it, slide
From the long shore-cliff’s windy walls to the beach,
And there lie still, and yet the sap­ling grew:
So lay the man trans­fixt. His craven pair
Of com­rades mak­ing slowlier at the Prince,
When now they saw their bul­wark fallen, stood;
On whom the vic­tor, to con­found them more,
Spurred with his ter­rible war-cry; for as one,
That listens near a tor­rent moun­tain-brook,
All through the crash of the near catar­act hears
The drum­ming thun­der of the huger fall
At dis­tance, were the sol­diers wont to hear
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
And foe­men scared, like that false pair who turned
Fly­ing, but, over­taken, died the death
Them­selves had wrought on many an in­no­cent.

Geraint Charges the Ban­dits

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.”

Geraint and Enid in the Meadow

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.

The Flight of the Boon Com­pan­ions of Earl Limours

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.

Enid Tends Geraint

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:

Geraint Slays Earl Doorm

“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.

Geraint and Enid Ride Away

And never yet, since high in Paradise
O’er the four rivers the first roses blew,
Came purer pleas­ure unto mor­tal kind
Than lived through her, who in that per­il­ous hour
Put hand to hand be­neath her hus­band’s heart,
And felt him hers again: she did not weep,
But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
Be­fore the use­ful trouble of the rain:
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes
As not to see be­fore them on the path,
Right in the gate­way of the ban­dit hold,
A knight of Ar­thur’s court, who laid his lance
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him.
Then, fear­ing for his hurt and loss of blood,
She, with her mind all full of what had chanced,
Shrieked to the stranger “Slay not a dead man!”
“The voice of Enid,” said the knight; but she,
Be­hold­ing it was Edyrn son of Nudd,
Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again,
“O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.”
And Edyrn mov­ing frankly for­ward spake:
“My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love;
I took you for a ban­dit knight of Doorm;
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him,
Who love you, Prince, with some­thing of the love
Where­with we love the Heaven that chastens us.
For once, when I was up so high in pride
That I was halfway down the slope to Hell,
By over­throw­ing me you threw me higher.
Now, made a knight of Ar­thur’s Table Round,
And since I knew this Earl, when I my­self
Was half a ban­dit in my law­less hour,
I come the mouth­piece of our King to Doorm
(The King is close be­hind me) bid­ding him
Dis­band him­self, and scat­ter all his powers,
Sub­mit, and hear the judg­ment of the King.”

“He hears the judg­ment of the King of kings,”
Cried the wan Prince; “and lo, the powers of Doorm
Are scattered,” and he poin­ted to the field,
Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,
Were men and wo­men star­ing and aghast,
While some yet fled; and then he plain­lier told
How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.
But when the knight be­sought him, “Fol­low me,
Prince, to the camp, and in the King’s own ear
Speak what has chanced; ye surely have en­dured
Strange chances here alone;” that other flushed,
And hung his head, and hal­ted in reply,
Fear­ing the mild face of the blame­less King,
And after mad­ness ac­ted ques­tion asked:
Till Edyrn cry­ing, “If ye will not go
To Ar­thur, then will Ar­thur come to you,”
“Enough,” he said, “I fol­low,” and they went.
But Enid in their go­ing had two fears,
One from the ban­dit scattered in the field,
And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,
When Edyrn reined his char­ger at her side,
She shrank a little. In a hol­low land,
From which old fires have broken, men may fear
Fresh fire and ruin. He, per­ceiv­ing, said:

“Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.
Your­self were first the blame­less cause to make
My nature’s pride­ful sparkle in the blood
Break into furi­ous flame; be­ing re­pulsed
By Yniol and your­self, I schemed and wrought
Until I over­turned him; then set up
(With one main pur­pose ever at my heart)
My haughty jousts, and took a para­mour;
Did her mock-hon­our as the fairest fair,
And, top­pling over all ant­ag­on­ism,
So waxed in pride, that I be­lieved my­self
Un­con­quer­able, for I was wellnigh mad:
And, but for my main pur­pose in these jousts,
I should have slain your father, seized your­self.
I lived in hope that some­time you would come
To these my lists with him whom best you loved;
And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes
The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,
Be­hold me over­turn and trample on him.
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,
I should not less have killed him. And so you came—
But once you came—and with your own true eyes
Be­held the man you loved (I speak as one
Speaks of a ser­vice done him) over­throw
My proud self, and my pur­pose three years old,
And set his foot upon me, and give me life.
There was I broken down; there was I saved:
Though thence I rode all-shamed, hat­ing the life
He gave me, mean­ing to be rid of it.
And all the pen­ance the Queen laid upon me
Was but to rest awhile within her court;
Where first as sul­len as a beast new-caged,
And wait­ing to be treated like a wolf,
Be­cause I knew my deeds were known, I found,
In­stead of scorn­ful pity or pure scorn,
Such fine re­serve and noble reti­cence,
Man­ners so kind, yet stately, such a grace
Of tenderest cour­tesy, that I began
To glance be­hind me at my former life,
And find that it had been the wolf’s in­deed:
And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,
Sub­dued me some­what to that gen­tle­ness,
Which, when it weds with man­hood, makes a man.
And you were of­ten there about the Queen,
But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;
Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,
But kept my­self aloof till I was changed;
And fear not, cousin; I am changed in­deed.”

He spoke, and Enid eas­ily be­lieved,
Like simple noble natures, cred­u­lous
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,
There most in those who most have done them ill.
And when they reached the camp the King him­self
Ad­vanced to greet them, and be­hold­ing her
Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held
In con­verse for a little, and re­turned,
And, gravely smil­ing, lif­ted her from horse,
And kissed her with all pure­ness, brother-like,
And showed an empty tent al­lot­ted her,
And glan­cing for a minute, till he saw her
Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said:

“Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave
To move to your own land, and there de­fend
Your marches, I was pricked with some re­proof,
As one that let foul wrong stag­nate and be,
By hav­ing looked too much through alien eyes,
And wrought too long with del­eg­ated hands,
Not used mine own: but now be­hold me come
To cleanse this com­mon sewer of all my realm,
With Edyrn and with oth­ers: have ye looked
At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?
This work of his is great and won­der­ful.
His very face with change of heart is changed.
The world will not be­lieve a man re­pents:
And this wise world of ours is mainly right.
Full sel­dom doth a man re­pent, or use
Both grace and will to pick the vi­cious quitch
Of blood and cus­tom wholly out of him,
And make all clean, and plant him­self afresh.
Edyrn has done it, weed­ing all his heart
As I will weed this land be­fore I go.
I, there­fore, made him of our Table Round,
Not rashly, but have proved him every­way
One of our noblest, our most val­or­ous,
San­est and most obed­i­ent: and in­deed
This work of Edyrn wrought upon him­self
After a life of vi­ol­ence, seems to me
A thou­sand-fold more great and won­der­ful
Than if some knight of mine, risk­ing his life,
My sub­ject with my sub­jects un­der him,
Should make an on­slaught single on a realm
Of rob­bers, though he slew them one by one,
And were him­self nigh wounded to the death.”

So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt
His work was neither great nor won­der­ful,
And past to Enid’s tent; and thither came
The King’s own leech to look into his hurt;
And Enid ten­ded on him there; and there
Her con­stant mo­tion round him, and the breath
Of her sweet tend­ance hov­er­ing over him,
Filled all the gen­ial courses of his blood
With deeper and with ever deeper love,
As the south-west that blow­ing Bala lake
Fills all the sac­red Dee. So past the days.

But while Geraint lay heal­ing of his hurt,
The blame­less King went forth and cast his eyes
On each of all whom Uther left in charge
Long since, to guard the justice of the King:
He looked and found them want­ing; and as now
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills
To keep him bright and clean as here­to­fore,
He rooted out the sloth­ful of­ficer
Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,
And in their chairs set up a stronger race
With hearts and hands, and sent a thou­sand men
To till the wastes, and mov­ing every­where
Cleared the dark places and let in the law,
And broke the ban­dit holds and cleansed the land.

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past
With Ar­thur to Caer­leon upon Usk.
There the great Queen once more em­braced her friend,
And clothed her in ap­parel like the day.
And though Geraint could never take again
That com­fort from their con­verse which he took
Be­fore the Queen’s fair name was breathed upon,
He res­ted well con­tent that all was well.
Thence after tar­ry­ing for a space they rode,
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores
Of Severn, and they past to their own land.
And there he kept the justice of the King
So vig­or­ously yet mildly, that all hearts
Ap­plauded, and the spite­ful whis­per died:
And be­ing ever fore­most in the chase,
And vic­tor at the tilt and tour­na­ment,
They called him the great Prince and man of men.
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call
Enid the Fair, a grate­ful people named
Enid the Good; and in their halls arose
The cry of chil­dren, En­ids and Geraints
Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more,
But res­ted in her fealty, till he crowned
A happy life with a fair death, and fell
Against the hea­then of the North­ern Sea
In battle, fight­ing for the blame­less King.

Balin and Balan

Pel­lam the King, who held and lost with Lot
In that first war, and had his realm re­stored
But rendered trib­u­tary, failed of late
To send his trib­ute; where­fore Ar­thur called
His treas­urer, one of many years, and spake,
“Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,
Lest we should set one truer on his throne.
Man’s word is God in man.”

His Baron said
“We go but harken: there be two strange knights
Who sit near Cam­elot at a foun­tain-side,
A mile be­neath the forest, chal­len­ging
And over­throw­ing every knight who comes.
Wilt thou I un­der­take them as we pass,
And send them to thee?”

Ar­thur laughed upon him.
“Old friend, too old to be so young, de­part,
Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,
Until they find a lustier than them­selves.”

So these de­par­ted. Early, one fair dawn,
The light-winged spirit of his youth re­turned
On Ar­thur’s heart; he armed him­self and went,
So com­ing to the foun­tain-side be­held
Balin and Balan sit­ting statue­like,
Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,
From un­der­neath a plume of lady-fern,
Sang, and the sand danced at the bot­tom of it.
And on the right of Balin Balin’s horse
Was fast be­side an alder, on the left
Of Balan Balan’s near a pop­lartree.
“Fair Sirs,” said Ar­thur, “where­fore sit ye here?”
Balin and Balan answered “For the sake
Of glory; we be migh­tier men than all
In Ar­thur’s court; that also have we proved;
For what­so­ever knight against us came
Or I or he have eas­ily over­thrown.”
“I too,” said Ar­thur, “am of Ar­thur’s hall,
But rather proven in his Paynim wars
Than fam­ous jousts; but see, or proven or not,
Whether me like­wise ye can over­throw.”
And Ar­thur lightly smote the brethren down,
And lightly so re­turned, and no man knew.

Then Balin rose, and Balan, and be­side
The car­olling wa­ter set them­selves again,
And spake no word un­til the shadow turned;
When from the fringe of cop­pice round them burst
A spangled pur­suivant, and cry­ing “Sirs,
Rise, fol­low! ye be sent for by the King,”
They fol­lowed; whom when Ar­thur see­ing asked
“Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?”
Balin the still­ness of a minute broke
Say­ing “An un­melodi­ous name to thee,
Balin, ‘the Sav­age’—that ad­di­tion thine—
My brother and my bet­ter, this man here,
Balan. I smote upon the na­ked skull
A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand
Was gaunt­leted, half slew him; for I heard
He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath
Sent me a three-years’ ex­ile from thine eyes.
I have not lived my life de­light­somely:
For I that did that vi­ol­ence to thy thrall,
Had of­ten wrought some fury on my­self,
Sav­ing for Balan: those three king­less years
Have past—were worm­wood-bit­ter to me. King,
Me­thought that if we sat be­side the well,
And hurled to ground what knight so­ever spurred
Against us, thou would’st take me gladlier back,
And make, as ten-times wor­thier to be thine
Than twenty Bal­ins, Balan knight. I have said.
Not so—not all. A man of thine today
Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?”
Said Ar­thur “Thou hast ever spoken truth;
Thy too fierce man­hood would not let thee lie.
Rise, my true knight. As chil­dren learn, be thou
Wiser for fall­ing! walk with me, and move
To mu­sic with thine Order and the King.
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands
Vacant, but thou re­take it, mine again!”

There­after, when Sir Balin entered hall,
The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven
With joy that blazed it­self in wood­land wealth
Of leaf, and gay­est gar­land­age of flowers,
Along the walls and down the board; they sat,
And cup clashed cup; they drank and someone sang,
Sweet-voiced, a song of wel­come, whereupon
Their com­mon shout in chorus, mount­ing, made
Those ban­ners of twelve battles over­head
Stir, as they stirred of old, when Ar­thur’s host
Pro­claimed him Victor, and the day was won.

Then Balan ad­ded to their Order lived
A wealth­ier life than here­to­fore with these
And Balin, till their em­bas­sage re­turned.

“Sir King,” they brought re­port, “we hardly found,
So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pel­lam, once
A Christ­less foe of thine as ever dashed
Horse against horse; but see­ing that thy realm
Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things;
And finds him­self des­cen­ded from the Saint
Arimath­aean Joseph; him who first
Brought the great faith to Bri­tain over seas;
He boasts his life as purer than thine own;
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat;
Hath pushed aside his faith­ful wife, nor lets
Or dame or dam­sel enter at his gates
Lest he should be pol­luted. This gray King
Showed us a shrine wherein were won­ders—yea—
Rich arks with price­less bones of mar­tyr­dom,
Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,
And there­withal (for thus he told us) brought
By holy Joseph thither, that same spear
Where­with the Ro­man pierced the side of Christ.
He much amazed us; after, when we sought
The trib­ute, answered ‘I have quite fore­gone
All mat­ters of this world: Gar­lon, mine heir,
Of him de­mand it,’ which this Gar­lon gave
With much ado, rail­ing at thine and thee.

“But when we left, in those deep woods we found
A knight of thine spear-stricken from be­hind,
Dead, whom we bur­ied; more than one of us
Cried out on Gar­lon, but a wood­man there
Re­por­ted of some de­mon in the woods
Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues
From all his fel­lows, lived alone, and came
To learn black ma­gic, and to hate his kind
With such a hate, that when he died, his soul
Be­came a Fiend, which, as the man in life
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence,
Strikes from be­hind. This wood­man showed the cave
From which he sal­lies, and wherein he dwelt.
We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.”

Then Ar­thur, “Let who goes be­fore me, see
He do not fall be­hind me: foully slain
And vil­lain­ously! who will hunt for me
This de­mon of the woods?” Said Balan, “I!”
So claimed the quest and rode away, but first,
Em­bra­cing Balin, “Good my brother, hear!
Let not thy moods pre­vail, when I am gone
Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends,
Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside,
Dreams rul­ing when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream
That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thy­self.
Wit­ness their flowery wel­come. Bound are they
To speak no evil. Truly save for fears,
My fears for thee, so rich a fel­low­ship
Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them,
Be one in­deed: con­sider them, and all
Their bear­ing in their com­mon bond of love,
No more of hatred than in Heaven it­self,
No more of jeal­ousy than in Paradise.”

So Balan warned, and went; Balin re­mained:
Who—for but three brief moons had glanced away
From be­ing knighted till he smote the thrall,
And faded from the pres­ence into years
Of ex­ile—now would strict­lier set him­self
To learn what Ar­thur meant by cour­tesy,
Man­hood, and knight­hood; where­fore hovered round
Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile
In passing, and a trans­it­ory word
Make knight or churl or child or dam­sel seem
From be­ing smiled at hap­pier in them­selves—
Sighed, as a boy lame-born be­neath a height,
That glooms his val­ley, sighs to see the peak
Sun-flushed, or touch at night the north­ern star;
For one from out his vil­lage lately climed
And brought re­port of azure lands and fair,
Far seen to left and right; and he him­self
Hath hardly scaled with help a hun­dred feet
Up from the base: so Balin mar­vel­ling oft
How far bey­ond him Lancelot seemed to move,
Groaned, and at times would mut­ter, “These be gifts,
Born with the blood, not learn­able, di­vine,
Bey­ond my reach. Well had I foughten—well—
In those fierce wars, struck hard—and had I crowned
With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew—
So—bet­ter!—But this wor­ship of the Queen,
That hon­our too wherein she holds him—this,
This was the sun­shine that hath given the man
A growth, a name that branches o’er the rest,
And strength against all odds, and what the King
So prizes—over­prizes—gen­tle­ness.
Her like­wise would I wor­ship an I might.
I never can be close with her, as he
That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King
To let me bear some token of his Queen
Whereon to gaze, re­mem­ber­ing her—for­get
My heats and vi­ol­ences? live afresh?
What, if the Queen dis­dained to grant it! nay
Be­ing so stately-gentle, would she make
My dark­ness black­ness? and with how sweet grace
She greeted my re­turn! Bold will I be—
Some goodly cog­niz­ance of Guinev­ere,
In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield,
Langued gules, and toothed with grin­ning sav­agery.”

And Ar­thur, when Sir Balin sought him, said
“What wilt thou bear?” Balin was bold, and asked
To bear her own crown-royal upon shield,
Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King,
Who answered “Thou shalt put the crown to use.
The crown is but the shadow of the King,
And this a shadow’s shadow, let him have it,
So this will help him of his vi­ol­ences!”
“No shadow,” said Sir Balin, “O my Queen,
But light to me! no shadow, O my King,
But golden earn­est of a gentler life!”

So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights
Ap­proved him, and the Queen, and all the world
Made mu­sic, and he felt his be­ing move
In mu­sic with his Order, and the King.

The night­in­gale, full-toned in middle May,
Hath ever and anon a note so thin
It seems an­other voice in other groves;
Thus, after some quick burst of sud­den wrath,
The mu­sic in him seemed to change, and grow
Faint and far-off.

And once he saw the thrall
His pas­sion half had gaunt­leted to death,
That causer of his ban­ish­ment and shame,
Smile at him, as he deemed, pre­sump­tu­ously:
His arm half rose to strike again, but fell:
The memory of that cog­niz­ance on shield
Weighted it down, but in him­self he moaned:

“Too high this mount of Cam­elot for me:
These high-set cour­tes­ies are not for me.
Shall I not rather prove the worse for these?
Fier­ier and stormier from re­strain­ing, break
Into some mad­ness even be­fore the Queen?”

Thus, as a hearth lit in a moun­tain home,
And glan­cing on the win­dow, when the gloom
Of twi­light deep­ens round it, seems a flame
That rages in the wood­land far be­low,
So when his moods were darkened, court and King
And all the kindly warmth of Ar­thur’s hall
Shad­owed an angry dis­tance: yet he strove
To learn the graces of their Table, fought
Hard with him­self, and seemed at length in peace.

Then chanced, one morn­ing, that Sir Balin sat
Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall.
A walk of roses ran from door to door;
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower:
And down that range of roses the great Queen
Came with slow steps, the morn­ing on her face;
And all in shadow from the counter door
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once,
As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced
The long white walk of lilies to­ward the bower.
Fol­lowed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her “Prince,
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen,
As pass without good mor­row to thy Queen?”
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth,
“Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.”
“Yea so,” she said, “but so to pass me by—
So loyal scarce is loyal to thy­self,
Whom all men rate the king of cour­tesy.
Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.”

Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers
“Yea—for a dream. Last night me­thought I saw
That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand
In yon­der shrine. All round her prest the dark,
And all the light upon her sil­ver face
Flowed from the spir­itual lily that she held.
Lo! these her em­blems drew mine eyes—away:
For see, how per­fect-pure! As light a flush
As hardly tints the blos­som of the quince
Would mar their charm of stain­less maid­en­hood.”

“Sweeter to me,” she said, “this garden rose
Deep-hued and many-fol­ded! sweeter still
The wild-wood hy­acinth and the bloom of May.
Prince, we have rid­den be­fore among the flowers
In those fair days—not all as cool as these,
Though sea­son-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?
Our noble King will send thee his own leech—
Sick? or for any mat­ter angered at me?”

Then Lancelot lif­ted his large eyes; they dwelt
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue
Changed at his gaze: so turn­ing side by side
They past, and Balin star­ted from his bower.

“Queen? sub­ject? but I see not what I see.
Dam­sel and lover? hear not what I hear.
My father hath be­got­ten me in his wrath.
I suf­fer from the things be­fore me, know,
Learn noth­ing; am not worthy to be knight;
A churl, a clown!” and in him gloom on gloom
Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield,
Nor stayed to crave per­mis­sion of the King,
But, mad for strange ad­ven­ture, dashed away.

He took the self­same track as Balan, saw
The foun­tain where they sat to­gether, sighed
“Was I not bet­ter there with him?” and rode
The sky­less woods, but un­der open blue
Came on the hoar­head wood­man at a bough
Wear­ily hew­ing. “Churl, thine axe!” he cried,
Des­cen­ded, and dis­join­ted it at a blow:
To whom the wood­man uttered won­der­ingly
“Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods
If arm of flesh could lay him.” Balin cried
“Him, or the viler devil who plays his part,
To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.”
“Nay,” said the churl, “our devil is a truth,
I saw the flash of him but yes­tereven.
And some do say that our Sir Gar­lon too
Hath learned black ma­gic, and to ride un­seen.
Look to the cave.” But Balin answered him
“Old fa­bler, these be fan­cies of the churl,
Look to thy wood­craft,” and so leav­ing him,
Now with slack rein and care­less of him­self,
Now with dug spur and rav­ing at him­self,
Now with dro­opt brow down the long glades he rode;
So marked not on his right a cav­ern-chasm
Yawn over dark­ness, where, nor far within,
The whole day died, but, dy­ing, gleamed on rocks
Roof-pen­dent, sharp; and oth­ers from the floor,
Tusk­like, arising, made that mouth of night
Where­out the De­mon is­sued up from Hell.
He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all
Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within,
Past east­ward from the fall­ing sun. At once
He felt the hol­low-beaten mosses thud
And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear,
Shot from be­hind him, ran along the ground.
Side­ways he star­ted from the path, and saw,
With poin­ted lance as if to pierce, a shape,
A light of ar­mour by him flash, and pass
And van­ish in the woods; and fol­lowed this,
But all so blind in rage that un­awares
He burst his lance against a forest bough,
Dis­horsed him­self, and rose again, and fled
Far, till the castle of a King, the hall
Of Pel­lam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped
With stream­ing grass, ap­peared, low-built but strong;
The ru­in­ous don­jon as a knoll of moss,
The bat­tle­ment over­topt with ivytods,
A home of bats, in every tower an owl.
Then spake the men of Pel­lam cry­ing “Lord,
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?”
Said Balin “For the fairest and the best
Of ladies liv­ing gave me this to bear.”
So stalled his horse, and strode across the court,
But found the greet­ings both of knight and King
Faint in the low dark hall of ban­quet: leaves
Laid their green faces flat against the panes,
Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without
Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within,
Till when at feast Sir Gar­lon like­wise asked
“Why wear ye that crown-royal?” Balin said
“The Queen we wor­ship, Lancelot, I, and all,
As fairest, best and purest, gran­ted me
To bear it!” Such a sound (for Ar­thur’s knights
Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes
The white swan-mother, sit­ting, when she hears
A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds,
Made Gar­lon, hiss­ing; then he sourly smiled.
“Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best,
Best, purest? thou from Ar­thur’s hall, and yet
So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these
So far be­sot­ted that they fail to see
This fair wife-wor­ship cloaks a secret shame?
Truly, ye men of Ar­thur be but babes.”

A gob­let on the board by Balin, bossed
With holy Joseph’s le­gend, on his right
Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea
And ship and sail and an­gels blow­ing on it:
And one was rough with wat­tling, and the walls
Of that low church he built at Gla­ston­bury.
This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl,
Through memory of that token on the shield
Relaxed his hold: “I will be gentle,” he thought,
“And passing gentle,” caught his hand away,
Then fiercely to Sir Gar­lon “Eyes have I
That saw today the shadow of a spear,
Shot from be­hind me, run along the ground;
Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws
From homage to the best and purest, might,
Name, man­hood, and a grace, but scantly thine,
Who, sit­ting in thine own hall, canst en­dure
To mouth so huge a foul­ness—to thy guest,
Me, me of Ar­thur’s Table. Felon talk!
Let be! no more!”

But not the less by night
The scorn of Gar­lon, pois­on­ing all his rest,
Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves
Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs
Whined in the wood. He rose, des­cen­ded, met
The scorner in the castle court, and fain,
For hate and loath­ing, would have past him by;
But when Sir Gar­lon uttered mock­ing-wise;
“What, wear ye still that same crown-scan­dal­ous?”
His coun­ten­ance blackened, and his fore­head veins
Bloated, and branched; and tear­ing out of sheath
The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery “Ha!
So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,”
Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew
Splin­ter­ing in six, and clinkt upon the stones.
Then Gar­lon, reel­ing slowly back­ward, fell,
And Balin by the ban­neret of his helm
Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry
Soun­ded across the court, and—men-at-arms,
A score with poin­ted lances, mak­ing at him—
He dashed the pum­mel at the fore­most face,
Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet
Wings through a glim­mer­ing gal­lery, till he marked
The portal of King Pel­lam’s chapel wide
And in­ward to the wall; he stept be­hind;
Thence in a mo­ment heard them pass like wolves
Howl­ing; but while he stared about the shrine,
In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints,
Be­held be­fore a golden al­tar lie
The longest lance his eyes had ever seen,
Point-painted red; and seiz­ing thereupon
Pushed through an open case­ment down, leaned on it,
Leapt in a semi­circle, and lit on earth;
Then hand at ear, and hark­en­ing from what side
The blind­fold rum­mage bur­ied in the walls
Might echo, ran the counter path, and found
His char­ger, moun­ted on him and away.
An ar­row whizzed to the right, one to the left,
One over­head; and Pel­lam’s feeble cry
“Stay, stay him! he de­fileth heav­enly things
With earthly uses”—made him quickly dive
Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile
Of dense and open, till his goodly horse,
Arising wear­ily at a fallen oak,
Stumbled head­long, and cast him face to ground.

Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad,
Knight­like, to find his char­ger yet un­lamed,
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck,
Stared at the price­less cog­niz­ance, and thought
“I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me,
Thee will I bear no more,” high on a branch
Hung it, and turned aside into the woods,
And there in gloom cast him­self all along,
Moan­ing “My vi­ol­ences, my vi­ol­ences!”

But now the whole­some mu­sic of the wood
Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark,
A dam­sel-er­rant, warb­ling, as she rode
The wood­land al­leys, Vivien, with her Squire.

“The fire of Heaven has killed the bar­ren cold,
And kindled all the plain and all the wold.
The new leaf ever pushes off the old.
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

“Old priest, who mumble wor­ship in your quire—
Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world’s de­sire,
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire!
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

“The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways.
The way­side blos­soms open to the blaze.
The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

“The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good,
And starve not thou this fire within thy blood,
But fol­low Vivien through the fiery flood!
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!”

Then turn­ing to her Squire: “This fire of Heaven,
This old sun-wor­ship, boy, will rise again,
And beat the cross to earth, and break the King
And all his Table.”

Then they reached a glade,
Where un­der one long lane of cloud­less air
Be­fore an­other wood, the royal crown
Sparkled, and sway­ing upon a rest­less elm
Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire;
Amazed were these; “Lo there,” she cried—“a crown—
Borne by some high lord-prince of Ar­thur’s hall,
And there a horse! the rider? where is he?
See, yon­der lies one dead within the wood.
Not dead; he stirs!—but sleep­ing. I will speak.
Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest,
Not, doubt­less, all un­earned by noble deeds.
But bounden art thou, if from Ar­thur’s hall,
To help the weak. Be­hold, I fly from shame,
A lust­ful King, who sought to win my love
Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode,
Hath suffered mis­ad­ven­ture, and my squire
Hath in him small de­fence; but thou, Sir Prince,
Wilt surely guide me to the war­rior King,
Ar­thur the blame­less, pure as any maid,
To get me shel­ter for my maid­en­hood.
I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield,
And by the great Queen’s name, arise and hence.”

And Balin rose, “Thither no more! nor Prince
Nor knight am I, but one that hath de­famed
The cog­niz­ance she gave me: here I dwell
Sav­age among the sav­age woods, here die—
Die: let the wolves’ black maws en­sep­ulchre
Their brother beast, whose an­ger was his lord.
O me, that such a name as Guinev­ere’s,
Which our high Lancelot hath so lif­ted up,
And been thereby up­lif­ted, should through me,
My vi­ol­ence, and my vil­lainy, come to shame.”

Thereat she sud­denly laughed and shrill, anon
Sighed all as sud­denly. Said Balin to her
“Is this thy cour­tesy—to mock me, ha?
Hence, for I will not with thee.” Again she sighed
“Par­don, sweet lord! we maid­ens of­ten laugh
When sick at heart, when rather we should weep.
I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest,
And now full loth am I to break thy dream,
But thou art man, and canst abide a truth,
Though bit­ter. Hither, boy—and mark me well.
Dost thou re­mem­ber at Caer­leon once—
A year ago—nay, then I love thee not—
Ay, thou re­memberest well—one sum­mer dawn—
By the great tower—Caer­leon upon Usk—
Nay, truly we were hid­den: this fair lord,
The flower of all their vestal knight­hood, knelt
In amor­ous homage—knelt—what else?—O ay
Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair
And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress
Had wandered from her own King’s golden head,
And lost it­self in dark­ness, till she cried—
I thought the great tower would crash down on both—
‘Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips,
Thou art my King.’ This lad, whose light­est word
Is mere white truth in simple na­ked­ness,
Saw them em­brace: he red­dens, can­not speak,
So bash­ful, he! but all the maiden Saints,
The death­less mother-maid­en­hood of Heaven,
Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me!
Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would’st,
Do these more shame than these have done them­selves.”

She lied with ease; but hor­ror-stricken he,
Re­mem­ber­ing that dark bower at Cam­elot,
Breathed in a dis­mal whis­per: “It is truth.”

Sun­nily she smiled: “And even in this lone wood,
Sweet lord, ye do right well to whis­per this.
Fools prate, and per­ish trait­ors. Woods have tongues,
As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me,
And we will speak at first ex­ceed­ing low.
Meet is it the good King be not de­ceived.
See now, I set thee high on vant­age ground,
From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.”

She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,
He ground his teeth to­gether, sprang with a yell,
Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield,
Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown,
Stampt all into de­face­ment, hurled it from him
Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,
The told-of, and the teller.

That weird yell,
Un­earth­lier than all shriek of bird or beast,
Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurk­ing there
(His quest was un­ac­com­plished) heard and thought
“The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!”
Then near­ing “Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,
And tramples on the goodly shield to show
His loath­ing of our Order and the Queen.
My quest, me­seems, is here. Or devil or man
Guard thou thine head.” Sir Balin spake not word,
But snatched a sud­den buck­ler from the Squire,
And vaul­ted on his horse, and so they crashed
In on­set, and King Pel­lam’s holy spear,
Re­puted to be red with sin­less blood,
Red­ded at once with sin­ful, for the point
Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked
The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin’s horse
Was wear­ied to the death, and, when they clashed,
Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man
In­ward, and either fell, and swooned away.

Then to her Squire muttered the dam­sel: “Fools!
This fel­low hath wrought some foul­ness with his Queen:
Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved
And thus foamed over at a rival name:
But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,
Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down—
Who never saw­est Caer­leon upon Usk—
And yet hast of­ten pleaded for my love—
See what I see, be thou where I have been,
Or else Sir Chick—dis­mount and loose their casques
I fain would know what man­ner of men they be.”
And when the Squire had loosed them, “Goodly!—look!
They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,
And butt each other here, like brain­less bulls,
Dead for one heifer!”

Then the gentle Squire
“I hold them happy, so they died for love:
And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog,
I too could die, as now I live, for thee.”

“Live on, Sir Boy,” she cried. “I bet­ter prize
The liv­ing dog than the dead lion: away!
I can­not brook to gaze upon the dead.”
Then leapt her pal­frey o’er the fallen oak,
And bound­ing for­ward “Leave them to the wolves.”

But when their fore­heads felt the cool­ing air,
Balin first woke, and see­ing that true face,
Fa­mil­iar up from cradle-time, so wan,
Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay,
And on his dy­ing brother cast him­self
Dy­ing; and he lif­ted faint eyes; he felt
One near him; all at once they found the world,
Star­ing wild-wide; then with a child­like wail
And draw­ing down the dim dis­astrous brow
That o’er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake;

“O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died
To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.
Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why
Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?”

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,
All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again.

“Brother, I dwelt a day in Pel­lam’s hall:
This Gar­lon mocked me, but I heeded not.
And one said ‘Eat in peace! a liar is he,
And hates thee for the trib­ute!’ this good knight
Told me, that twice a wan­ton dam­sel came,
And sought for Gar­lon at the castle-gates,
Whom Pel­lam drove away with holy heat.
I well be­lieve this dam­sel, and the one
Who stood be­side thee even now, the same.
‘She dwells among the woods,’ he said, ‘and meets
And dal­lies with him in the Mouth of Hell.’
Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.
Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen.’ ”

“O brother,” answered Balin, “woe is me!
My mad­ness all thy life has been thy doom,
Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now
The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.

Good­night! for we shall never bid again
Good­mor­row—Dark my doom was here, and dark
It will be there. I see thee now no more.
I would not mine again should darken thine,
Good­night, true brother.

Balan answered low
“Good­night, true brother here! good­mor­row there!
We two were born to­gether, and we die
To­gether by one doom:” and while he spoke
Closed his death-drows­ing eyes, and slept the sleep
With Balin, either locked in either’s arm.

Merlin and Vivien

A storm was com­ing, but the winds were still,
And in the wild woods of Bro­celi­ande,
Be­fore an oak, so hol­low, huge and old
It looked a tower of ivied ma­son­work,
At Mer­lin’s feet the wily Vivien lay.

Vivien and Mer­lin Re­pose

For he that al­ways bare in bit­ter grudge
The slights of Ar­thur and his Table, Mark
The Cornish King, had heard a wan­der­ing voice,
A min­strel of Caer­lon by strong storm
Blown into shel­ter at Tinta­gil, say
That out of na­ked knight­like pur­ity
Sir Lancelot wor­shipt no un­mar­ried girl
But the great Queen her­self, fought in her name,
Sware by her—vows like theirs, that high in heaven
Love most, but neither marry, nor are given
In mar­riage, an­gels of our Lord’s re­port.

He ceased, and then—for Vivien sweetly said
(She sat be­side the ban­quet nearest Mark),
“And is the fair ex­ample fol­lowed, Sir,
In Ar­thur’s house­hold?”—answered in­no­cently:

“Ay, by some few—ay, truly—youths that hold
It more be­seems the per­fect vir­gin knight
To wor­ship wo­man as true wife bey­ond
All hopes of gain­ing, than as maiden girl.
They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.
So pas­sion­ate for an ut­ter pur­ity
Bey­ond the limit of their bond, are these,
For Ar­thur bound them not to single­ness.
Brave hearts and clean! and yet—God guide them—young.”

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup
Straight at the speaker, but for­bore: he rose
To leave the hall, and, Vivien fol­low­ing him,
Turned to her: “Here are snakes within the grass;
And you me­thinks, O Vivien, save ye fear
The monk­ish man­hood, and the mask of pure
Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.”

And Vivien answered, smil­ing scorn­fully,
“Why fear? be­cause that fostered at thy court
I sa­vour of thy—vir­tues? fear them? no.
As Love, if Love is per­fect, casts out fear,
So Hate, if Hate is per­fect, casts out fear.
My father died in battle against the King,
My mother on his corpse in open field;
She bore me there, for born from death was I
Among the dead and sown upon the wind—
And then on thee! and shown the truth be­times,
That old true filth, and bot­tom of the well
Where Truth is hid­den. Gra­cious les­sons thine
And max­ims of the mud! ‘This Ar­thur pure!
Great Nature through the flesh her­self hath made
Gives him the lie! There is no be­ing pure,
My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?’—
If I were Ar­thur, I would have thy blood.
Thy bless­ing, stain­less King! I bring thee back,
When I have fer­reted out their bur­row­ings,
The hearts of all this Order in mine hand—
Ay—so that fate and craft and folly close,
Per­chance, one curl of Ar­thur’s golden beard.
To me this nar­row grizzled fork of thine
Is cleaner-fash­ioned—Well, I loved thee first,
That warps the wit.”

Loud laughed the grace­less Mark,
But Vivien, into Cam­elot steal­ing, lodged
Low in the city, and on a festal day
When Guinev­ere was cross­ing the great hall
Cast her­self down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed.

“Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought?
Rise!” and the dam­sel bid­den rise arose
And stood with fol­ded hands and down­ward eyes
Of glan­cing corner, and all meekly said,
“None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid!
My father died in battle for thy King,
My mother on his corpse—in open field,
The sad sea-sound­ing wastes of Lyon­nesse—
Poor wretch—no friend!—and now by Mark the King
For that small charm of fea­ture mine, pur­sued—
If any such be mine—I fly to thee.
Save, save me thou—Wo­man of wo­men—thine
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power,
Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven’s own white
Earth-an­gel, stain­less bride of stain­less King—
Help, for he fol­lows! take me to thy­self!
O yield me shel­ter for mine in­no­cency
Among thy maid­ens!”

Here her slow sweet eyes
Fear-trem­u­lous, but humbly hope­ful, rose
Fixt on her hearer’s, while the Queen who stood
All glit­ter­ing like May sun­shine on May leaves
In green and gold, and plumed with green replied,
“Peace, child! of over­praise and over­blame
We choose the last. Our noble Ar­thur, him
Ye scarce can over­praise, will hear and know.
Nay—we be­lieve all evil of thy Mark—
Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour
We ride a-hawk­ing with Sir Lancelot.
He hath given us a fair fal­con which he trained;
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.”

She past; and Vivien mur­mured after “Go!
I bide the while.” Then through the portal-arch
Peer­ing askance, and mut­ter­ing broken-wise,
As one that la­bours with an evil dream,
Be­held the Queen and Lancelot get to horse.

“Is that the Lancelot? goodly—ay, but gaunt:
Cour­teous—amends for gaunt­ness—takes her hand—
That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been
A cling­ing kiss—how hand lingers in hand!
Let go at last!—they ride away—to hawk
For wa­ter­fowl. Roy­aller game is mine.
For such a su­per­sen­sual sen­sual bond
As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth—
Touch flax with flame—a glance will serve—the li­ars!
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke
Thy hole by night to let the bound­less deep
Down upon far-off cit­ies while they dance—
Or dream—of thee they dreamed not—nor of me
These—ay, but each of either: ride, and dream
The mor­tal dream that never yet was mine—
Ride, ride and dream un­til ye wake—to me!
Then, nar­row court and lub­ber King, farewell!
For Lancelot will be gra­cious to the rat,
And our wise Queen, if know­ing that I know,
Will hate, loathe, fear—but hon­our me the more.”

Yet while they rode to­gether down the plain,
Their talk was all of train­ing, terms of art,
Diet and seel­ing, jesses, leash and lure.
“She is too noble” he said “to check at pies,
Nor will she rake: there is no base­ness in her.”
Here when the Queen de­man­ded as by chance
“Know ye the stranger wo­man?” “Let her be,”
Said Lancelot and un­hooded cast­ing off
The goodly fal­con free; she towered; her bells,
Tone un­der tone, shrilled; and they lif­ted up
Their eager faces, won­der­ing at the strength,
Bold­ness and royal knight­hood of the bird
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time
As once—of old—among the flowers—they rode.

But Vivien half-for­got­ten of the Queen
Among her dam­sels broid­er­ing sat, heard, watched
And whispered: through the peace­ful court she crept
And whispered: then as Ar­thur in the highest
Leavened the world, so Vivien in the low­est,
Ar­riv­ing at a time of golden rest,
And sow­ing one ill hint from ear to ear,
While all the hea­then lay at Ar­thur’s feet,
And no quest came, but all was joust and play,
Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be.

There­after as an en­emy that has left
Death in the liv­ing wa­ters, and with­drawn,
The wily Vivien stole from Ar­thur’s court.

She hated all the knights, and heard in thought
Their lav­ish com­ment when her name was named.
For once, when Ar­thur walk­ing all alone,
Vext at a ru­mour is­sued from her­self
Of some cor­rup­tion crept among his knights,
Had met her, Vivien, be­ing greeted fair,
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood
With rev­er­ent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice,
And fluttered ad­or­a­tion, and at last
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more
Than who should prize him most; at which the King
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by:
But one had watched, and had not held his peace:
It made the laughter of an af­ter­noon
That Vivien should at­tempt the blame­less King.
And after that, she set her­self to gain
Him, the most fam­ous man of all those times,
Mer­lin, who knew the range of all their arts,
Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls,
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heav­ens;
The people called him Wiz­ard; whom at first
She played about with slight and sprightly talk,
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points
Of slander, glan­cing here and graz­ing there;
And yield­ing to his kind­lier moods, the Seer
Would watch her at her petu­lance, and play,
Even when they seemed un­love­able, and laugh
As those that watch a kit­ten; thus he grew
Tol­er­ant of what he half dis­dained, and she,
Per­ceiv­ing that she was but half dis­dained,
Began to break her sports with graver fits,
Turn red or pale, would of­ten when they met
Sigh fully, or all-si­lent gaze upon him
With such a fixt de­vo­tion, that the old man,
Though doubt­ful, felt the flat­tery, and at times
Would flat­ter his own wish in age for love,
And half be­lieve her true: for thus at times
He wavered; but that other clung to him,
Fixt in her will, and so the sea­sons went.

Then fell on Mer­lin a great mel­an­choly;
He walked with dreams and dark­ness, and he found
A doom that ever poised it­self to fall,
An ever-moan­ing battle in the mist,
World-war of dy­ing flesh against the life,
Death in all life and ly­ing in all love,
The mean­est hav­ing power upon the highest,
And the high pur­pose broken by the worm.

So leav­ing Ar­thur’s court he gained the beach;
There found a little boat, and stept into it;
And Vivien fol­lowed, but he marked her not.
She took the helm and he the sail; the boat
Drave with a sud­den wind across the deeps,
And touch­ing Bre­ton sands, they dis­em­barked.
And then she fol­lowed Mer­lin all the way,
Even to the wild woods of Bro­celi­ande.
For Mer­lin once had told her of a charm,
The which if any wrought on any­one
With woven paces and with wav­ing arms,
The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie
Closed in the four walls of a hol­low tower,
From which was no es­cape for ever­more;
And none could find that man for ever­more,
Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm
Com­ing and go­ing, and he lay as dead
And lost to life and use and name and fame.
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm
Upon the great En­chanter of the Time,
As fancy­ing that her glory would be great
Ac­cord­ing to his great­ness whom she quenched.

Vivien and Mer­lin Disem­bark

Vivien and Mer­lin Enter the Woods

There lay she all her length and kissed his feet,
As if in deep­est rev­er­ence and in love.
A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe
Of sam­ite without price, that more ex­prest
Than hid her, clung about her lis­some limbs,
In col­our like the satin-shin­ing palm
On sal­lows in the windy gleams of March:
And while she kissed them, cry­ing, “Trample me,
Dear feet, that I have fol­lowed through the world,
And I will pay you wor­ship; tread me down
And I will kiss you for it;” he was mute:
So dark a fore­thought rolled about his brain,
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave
The blind wave feel­ing round his long sea-hall
In si­lence: where­fore, when she lif­ted up
A face of sad ap­peal, and spake and said,
“O Mer­lin, do ye love me?” and again,
“O Mer­lin, do ye love me?” and once more,
“Great Master, do ye love me?” he was mute.
And lis­some Vivien, hold­ing by his heel,
Writhed to­ward him, slided up his knee and sat,
Be­hind his ankle twined her hol­low feet
To­gether, curved an arm about his neck,
Clung like a snake; and let­ting her left hand
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf,
Made with her right a comb of pearl to part
The lists of such a board as youth gone out
Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said,
Not look­ing at her, “Who are wise in love
Love most, say least,” and Vivien answered quick,
“I saw the little elf-god eye­less once
In Ar­thur’s ar­ras hall at Cam­elot:
But neither eyes nor tongue—O stu­pid child!
Yet you are wise who say it; let me think
Si­lence is wis­dom: I am si­lent then,
And ask no kiss;” then adding all at once,
“And lo, I clothe my­self with wis­dom,” drew
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard
Across her neck and bosom to her knee,
And called her­self a gil­ded sum­mer fly
Caught in a great old tyr­ant spider’s web,
Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood
Without one word. So Vivien called her­self,
But rather seemed a lovely bale­ful star
Veiled in gray va­pour; till he sadly smiled:
“To what re­quest for what strange boon,” he said,
“Are these your pretty tricks and fool­er­ies,
O Vivien, the pre­amble? yet my thanks,
For these have broken up my mel­an­choly.”

And Vivien answered smil­ing sau­cily,
“What, O my Master, have ye found your voice?
I bid the stranger wel­come. Thanks at last!
But yes­ter­day you never opened lip,
Ex­cept in­deed to drink: no cup had we:
In mine own lady palms I culled the spring
That gathered trick­ling drop­wise from the cleft,
And made a pretty cup of both my hands
And offered you it kneel­ing: then you drank
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word;
O no more thanks than might a goat have given
With no more sign of rev­er­ence than a beard.
And when we hal­ted at that other well,
And I was faint to swoon­ing, and you lay
Foot-gilt with all the blos­som-dust of those
Deep mead­ows we had tra­versed, did you know
That Vivien bathed your feet be­fore her own?
And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood
And all this morn­ing when I fondled you:
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange—
How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise,
But such a si­lence is more wise than kind.”

And Mer­lin locked his hand in hers and said:
“O did ye never lie upon the shore,
And watch the curled white of the com­ing wave
Glassed in the slip­pery sand be­fore it breaks?
Even such a wave, but not so pleas­ur­able,
Dark in the glass of some pres­age­ful mood,
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall.
And then I rose and fled from Ar­thur’s court
To break the mood. You fol­lowed me un­asked;
And when I looked, and saw you fol­low­ing me still,
My mind in­volved your­self the nearest thing
In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth?
You seemed that wave about to break upon me
And sweep me from my hold upon the world,
My use and name and fame. Your par­don, child.
Your pretty sports have brightened all again.
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice,
Once for wrong done you by con­fu­sion, next
For thanks it seems till now neg­lected, last
For these your dainty gam­bols: where­fore ask;
And take this boon so strange and not so strange.”

And Vivien answered smil­ing mourn­fully:
“O not so strange as my long ask­ing it,
Not yet so strange as you your­self are strange,
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours.
I ever feared ye were not wholly mine;
And see, your­self have owned ye did me wrong.
The people call you prophet: let it be:
But not of those that can ex­pound them­selves.
Take Vivien for ex­pounder; she will call
That three-days-long pres­age­ful gloom of yours
No pres­age, but the same mis­trust­ful mood
That makes you seem less noble than your­self,
Whenever I have asked this very boon,
Now asked again: for see you not, dear love,
That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed
Your fancy when ye saw me fol­low­ing you,
Must make me fear still more you are not mine,
Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine,
And make me wish still more to learn this charm
Of woven paces and of wav­ing hands,
As proof of trust. O Mer­lin, teach it me.
The charm so taught will charm us both to rest.
For, grant me some slight power upon your fate,
I, feel­ing that you felt me worthy trust,
Should rest and let you rest, know­ing you mine.
And there­fore be as great as ye are named,
Not muffled round with selfish reti­cence.
How hard you look and how deny­ingly!
O, if you think this wicked­ness in me,
That I should prove it on you un­awares,
That makes me passing wrath­ful; then our bond
Had best be loosed forever: 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.”

The Knights Pur­sue the Hart with Golden Horns

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.”

Mer­lin Paints the Young Knight’s Shield

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.”

The Sea Fight

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.”

The En­chanter and His Book

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 someone 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!”

The Knights Carouse

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.

Vivien En­closes Mer­lin in the Tree

Then, in one mo­ment, she put forth the charm
Of woven paces and of wav­ing hands,
And in the hol­low oak he lay as dead,
And lost to life and use and name and fame.

Then cry­ing “I have made his glory mine,”
And shriek­ing out “O fool!” the har­lot leapt
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed
Be­hind her, and the forest echoed “fool.”

Lancelot and Elaine

Elaine the fair, Elaine the love­able,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her cham­ber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sac­red shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morn­ing’s earli­est ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fear­ing rust or soil­ure fash­ioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blaz­oned on the shield
In their own tinct, and ad­ded, of her wit,
A bor­der fantasy of branch and flower,
And yel­low-throated nest­ling in the nest.
Nor res­ted thus con­tent, but day by day,
Leav­ing her house­hold and good father, climbed
That east­ern tower, and en­ter­ing barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the na­ked shield,
Now guessed a hid­den mean­ing in his arms,
Now made a pretty his­tory to her­self
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Con­jec­tur­ing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caer­leon; this at Cam­elot:
And ah God’s mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
Broke the strong lance, and rolled his en­emy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great dia­mond in the dia­mond jousts,
Which Ar­thur had or­dained, and by that name
Had named them, since a dia­mond was the prize.

For Ar­thur, long be­fore they crowned him King,
Rov­ing the track­less realms of Lyon­nesse,
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
A hor­ror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like its own mists to all the moun­tain side:
For here two broth­ers, one a king, had met
And fought to­gether; but their names were lost;
And each had slain his brother at a blow;
And down they fell and made the glen ab­horred:
And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
And lichened into col­our with the crags:
And he, that once was king, had on a crown
Of dia­monds, one in front, and four aside.
And Ar­thur came, and la­bour­ing up the pass,
All in a misty moon­shine, un­awares
Had trod­den that crowned skel­eton, and the skull
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown
Rolled into light, and turn­ing on its rims
Fled like a glit­ter­ing rivu­let to the tarn:
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,
And set it on his head, and in his heart
Heard mur­murs, “Lo, thou like­wise shalt be King.”

King Ar­thur Dis­cov­er­ing the Ske­l­et­ons of the Broth­ers

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.”

Lancelot Ap­proach­ing the Castle of Astolat

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 someone 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 forever,” 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.

The Body of Elaine on Its Way to King Ar­thur’s Palace

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.