Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came

  With Modred hither in the summertime,

  Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.

  Modred for want of worthier was the judge.

  Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,

  “Thou hast half prevailed against me,” said so — he —

  Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,

  For he is alway sullen: what care I?’

  And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair

  Asked, ‘Mother, though ye count me still the child,

  Sweet mother, do ye love the child?’ She laughed,

  ‘Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.’

  ‘Then, mother, an ye love the child,’ he said,

  ‘Being a goose and rather tame than wild,

  Hear the child’s story.’ ‘Yea, my well-beloved,

  An ‘twere but of the goose and golden eggs.’

  And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,

  ‘Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine

  Was finer gold than any goose can lay;

  For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid

  Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm

  As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.

  And there was ever haunting round the palm

  A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

  The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought

  “An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,

  Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings.”

  But ever when he reached a hand to climb,

  One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught

  And stayed him, “Climb not lest thou break thy neck,

  I charge thee by my love,” and so the boy,

  Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,

  But brake his very heart in pining for it,

  And past away.’

  To whom the mother said,

  ‘True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,

  And handed down the golden treasure to him.’

  And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,

  ‘Gold?’ said I gold? — ay then, why he, or she,

  Or whosoe’er it was, or half the world

  Had ventured — had the thing I spake of been

  Mere gold — but this was all of that true steel,

  Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,

  And lightnings played about it in the storm,

  And all the little fowl were flurried at it,

  And there were cries and clashings in the nest,

  That sent him from his senses: let me go.’

  Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,

  ‘Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?

  Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth

  Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!

  For ever since when traitor to the King

  He fought against him in the Barons’ war,

  And Arthur gave him back his territory,

  His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there

  A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,

  No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.

  And both thy brethren are in Arthur’s hall,

  Albeit neither loved with that full love

  I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:

  Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,

  And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,

  Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang

  Of wrenched or broken limb — an often chance

  In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,

  Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer

  By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;

  So make thy manhood mightier day by day;

  Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out

  Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace

  Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,

  Till falling into Lot’s forgetfulness

  I know not thee, myself, nor anything.

  Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.’

  Then Gareth, ‘An ye hold me yet for child,

  Hear yet once more the story of the child.

  For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.

  The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,

  Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King

  Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed —

  But to be won by force — and many men

  Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.

  And these were the conditions of the King:

  That save he won the first by force, he needs

  Must wed that other, whom no man desired,

  A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,

  That evermore she longed to hide herself,

  Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye —

  Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of her.

  And one — they called her Fame; and one, — O Mother,

  How can ye keep me tethered to you — Shame.

  Man am I grown, a man’s work must I do.

  Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,

  Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King —

  Else, wherefore born?’

  To whom the mother said

  ‘Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,

  Or will not deem him, wholly proven King —

  Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,

  When I was frequent with him in my youth,

  And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him

  No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,

  Of closest kin to me: yet — wilt thou leave

  Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,

  Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?

  Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth

  Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.’

  And Gareth answered quickly, ‘Not an hour,

  So that ye yield me — I will walk through fire,

  Mother, to gain it — your full leave to go.

  Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome

  From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed

  The Idolaters, and made the people free?

  Who should be King save him who makes us free?’

  So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain

  To break him from the intent to which he grew,

  Found her son’s will unwaveringly one,

  She answered craftily, ‘Will ye walk through fire?

  Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.

  Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,

  Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,

  Of thine obedience and thy love to me,

  Thy mother, — I demand.

  And Gareth cried,

  ‘A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.

  Nay — quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!’

  But slowly spake the mother looking at him,

  ‘Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur’s hall,

  And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks

  Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,

  And those that hand the dish across the bar.

  Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.

  And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.’

  For so the Queen believed that when her son

  Beheld his only way to glory lead

  Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,

  Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud

  To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,

  Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.

  Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,

  ‘The thrall in person may be free in soul,

  And I shall see the jousts. Thy so
n am I,

  And since thou art my mother, must obey.

  I therefore yield me freely to thy will;

  For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself

  To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;

  Nor tell my name to any — no, not the King.’

  Gareth awhile lingered. The mother’s eye

  Full of the wistful fear that he would go,

  And turning toward him wheresoe’er he turned,

  Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,

  When wakened by the wind which with full voice

  Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,

  He rose, and out of slumber calling two

  That still had tended on him from his birth,

  Before the wakeful mother heard him, went.

  The three were clad like tillers of the soil.

  Southward they set their faces. The birds made

  Melody on branch, and melody in mid air.

  The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,

  And the live green had kindled into flowers,

  For it was past the time of Easterday.

  So, when their feet were planted on the plain

  That broadened toward the base of Camelot,

  Far off they saw the silver-misty morn

  Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,

  That rose between the forest and the field.

  At times the summit of the high city flashed;

  At times the spires and turrets half-way down

  Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone

  Only, that opened on the field below:

  Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared.

  Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,

  One crying, ‘Let us go no further, lord.

  Here is a city of Enchanters, built

  By fairy Kings.’ The second echoed him,

  ‘Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home

  To Northward, that this King is not the King,

  But only changeling out of Fairyland,

  Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery

  And Merlin’s glamour.’ Then the first again,

  ‘Lord, there is no such city anywhere,

  But all a vision.’

  Gareth answered them

  With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow

  In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,

  To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;

  So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.

  And there was no gate like it under heaven.

  For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined

  And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,

  The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress

  Wept from her sides as water flowing away;

  But like the cross her great and goodly arms

  Stretched under the cornice and upheld:

  And drops of water fell from either hand;

  And down from one a sword was hung, from one

  A censer, either worn with wind and storm;

  And o’er her breast floated the sacred fish;

  And in the space to left of her, and right,

  Were Arthur’s wars in weird devices done,

  New things and old co-twisted, as if Time

  Were nothing, so inveterately, that men

  Were giddy gazing there; and over all

  High on the top were those three Queens, the friends

  Of Arthur, who should help him at his need.

  Then those with Gareth for so long a space

  Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed

  The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings

  Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called

  To Gareth, ‘Lord, the gateway is alive.’

  And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes

  So long, that even to him they seemed to move.

  Out of the city a blast of music pealed.

  Back from the gate started the three, to whom

  From out thereunder came an ancient man,

  Long-bearded, saying, ‘Who be ye, my sons?’

  Then Gareth, ‘We be tillers of the soil,

  Who leaving share in furrow come to see

  The glories of our King: but these, my men,

  (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)

  Doubt if the King be King at all, or come

  From Fairyland; and whether this be built

  By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;

  Or whether there be any city at all,

  Or all a vision: and this music now

  Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.’

  Then that old Seer made answer playing on him

  And saying, ‘Son, I have seen the good ship sail

  Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,

  And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:

  And here is truth; but an it please thee not,

  Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.

  For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King

  And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;

  They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft

  Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,

  And built it to the music of their harps.

  And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,

  For there is nothing in it as it seems

  Saving the King; though some there be that hold

  The King a shadow, and the city real:

  Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass

  Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become

  A thrall to his enchantments, for the King

  Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame

  A man should not be bound by, yet the which

  No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,

  Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide

  Without, among the cattle of the field.

  For an ye heard a music, like enow

  They are building still, seeing the city is built

  To music, therefore never built at all,

  And therefore built for ever.’

  Gareth spake

  Angered, ‘Old master, reverence thine own beard

  That looks as white as utter truth, and seems

  Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!

  Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been

  To thee fair-spoken?’

  But the Seer replied,

  ‘Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?

  “Confusion, and illusion, and relation,

  Elusion, and occasion, and evasion”?

  I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,

  And all that see thee, for thou art not who

  Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.

  And now thou goest up to mock the King,

  Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.’

  Unmockingly the mocker ending here

  Turned to the right, and past along the plain;

  Whom Gareth looking after said, ‘My men,

  Our one white lie sits like a little ghost

  Here on the threshold of our enterprise.

  Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:

  Well, we will make amends.’

  With all good cheer

  He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain

  Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces

  And stately, rich in emblem and the work

  Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;

  Which Merlin’s hand, the Mage at Arthur’s court,

  Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere

  At Arthur’s ordinance, tipt with lessening peak

  And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.

  And ever and anon a knight would pass

  Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms

  Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth’s e
ar.

  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.’