Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  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

  1857

  Gustave Doré’s illustration of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King”, 1868.

  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,