Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  And there is scantly time for half the work.

  Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.

  Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,

  It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge

  Yonder.’ He spoke and fell to work again.

  Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,

  Across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine.

  There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,

  (His dress a suit of frayed magnificence,

  Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said:

  ‘Whither, fair son?’ to whom Geraint replied,

  ‘O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.’

  Then Yniol, ‘Enter therefore and partake

  The slender entertainment of a house

  Once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.’

  ‘Thanks, venerable friend,’ replied Geraint;

  ‘So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks

  For supper, I will enter, I will eat

  With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast.’

  Then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,

  And answered, ‘Graver cause than yours is mine

  To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk:

  But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,

  We will not touch upon him even in jest.’

  Then rode Geraint into the castle court,

  His charger trampling many a prickly star

  Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.

  He looked and saw that all was ruinous.

  Here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern;

  And here had fallen a great part of a tower,

  Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,

  And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:

  And high above a piece of turret stair,

  Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound

  Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems

  Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,

  And sucked the joining of the stones, and looked

  A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

  And while he waited in the castle court,

  The voice of Enid, Yniol’s daughter, rang

  Clear through the open casement of the hall,

  Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,

  Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,

  Moves him to think what kind of bird it is

  That sings so delicately clear, and make

  Conjecture of the plumage and the form;

  So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;

  And made him like a man abroad at morn

  When first the liquid note beloved of men

  Comes flying over many a windy wave

  To Britain, and in April suddenly

  Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,

  And he suspends his converse with a friend,

  Or it may be the labour of his hands,

  To think or say, ‘There is the nightingale;’

  So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,

  ‘Here, by God’s grace, is the one voice for me.’

  It chanced the song that Enid sang was one

  Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

  ‘Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

  Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;

  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

  ‘Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

  With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

  ‘Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

  Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

  For man is man and master of his fate.

  ‘Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

  Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

  Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.’

  ‘Hark, by the bird’s song ye may learn the nest,’

  Said Yniol; ‘enter quickly.’ Entering then,

  Right o’er a mount of newly-fallen stones,

  The dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall,

  He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;

  And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,

  That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,

  Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,

  Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,

  ‘Here by God’s rood is the one maid for me.’

  But none spake word except the hoary Earl:

  ‘Enid, the good knight’s horse stands in the court;

  Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then

  Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;

  And we will make us merry as we may.

  Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.’

  He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain

  To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught

  His purple scarf, and held, and said, ‘Forbear!

  Rest! the good house, though ruined, O my son,

  Endures not that her guest should serve himself.’

  And reverencing the custom of the house

  Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

  So Enid took his charger to the stall;

  And after went her way across the bridge,

  And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl

  Yet spoke together, came again with one,

  A youth, that following with a costrel bore

  The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.

  And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,

  And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.

  And then, because their hall must also serve

  For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board,

  And stood behind, and waited on the three.

  And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,

  Geraint had longing in him evermore

  To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb,

  That crost the trencher as she laid it down:

  But after all had eaten, then Geraint,

  For now the wine made summer in his veins,

  Let his eye rove in following, or rest

  On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work,

  Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;

  Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:

  ‘Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy;

  This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.

  His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it:

  For if he be the knight whom late I saw

  Ride into that new fortress by your town,

  White from the mason’s hand, then have I sworn

  From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint

  Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen

  Sent her own maiden to demand the name,

  His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,

  Struck at her with his whip, and she returned

  Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore

  That I would track this caitiff to his hold,

  And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.

  And all unarmed I rode, and thought to find

  Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;

  They take the rustic murmur of their bourg

  For the great wave that echoes round the world;

  They would not hear me speak: but if ye know

  Where I can light on arms, or if yourself

  Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn

  That I will break his pride and learn his name,

  Avenging this great insult done the Queen.’

  Then cried Earl Yniol, ‘Art thou he indeed,

  Geraint, a name far-sounded among men

  For noble deeds? and truly I, when first

  I saw you moving by me
on the bridge,

  Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state

  And presence might have guessed you one of those

  That eat in Arthur’s hall in Camelot.

  Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;

  For this dear child hath often heard me praise

  Your feats of arms, and often when I paused

  Hath asked again, and ever loved to hear;

  So grateful is the noise of noble deeds

  To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:

  O never yet had woman such a pair

  Of suitors as this maiden: first Limours,

  A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,

  Drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead

  I know not, but he past to the wild land.

  The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,

  My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name

  Slip from my lips if I can help it — he,

  When that I knew him fierce and turbulent

  Refused her to him, then his pride awoke;

  And since the proud man often is the mean,

  He sowed a slander in the common ear,

  Affirming that his father left him gold,

  And in my charge, which was not rendered to him;

  Bribed with large promises the men who served

  About my person, the more easily

  Because my means were somewhat broken into

  Through open doors and hospitality;

  Raised my own town against me in the night

  Before my Enid’s birthday, sacked my house;

  From mine own earldom foully ousted me;

  Built that new fort to overawe my friends,

  For truly there are those who love me yet;

  And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,

  Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,

  But that his pride too much despises me:

  And I myself sometimes despise myself;

  For I have let men be, and have their way;

  Am much too gentle, have not used my power:

  Nor know I whether I be very base

  Or very manful, whether very wise

  Or very foolish; only this I know,

  That whatsoever evil happen to me,

  I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,

  But can endure it all most patiently.’

  ‘Well said, true heart,’ replied Geraint, ‘but arms,

  That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight

  In next day’s tourney I may break his pride.’

  And Yniol answered, ‘Arms, indeed, but old

  And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,

  Are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine.

  But in this tournament can no man tilt,

  Except the lady he loves best be there.

  Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground,

  And over these is placed a silver wand,

  And over that a golden sparrow-hawk,

  The prize of beauty for the fairest there.

  And this, what knight soever be in field

  Lays claim to for the lady at his side,

  And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,

  Who being apt at arms and big of bone

  Has ever won it for the lady with him,

  And toppling over all antagonism

  Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.’

  But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.’

  To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,

  Leaning a little toward him, ‘Thy leave!

  Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,

  For this dear child, because I never saw,

  Though having seen all beauties of our time,

  Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.

  And if I fall her name will yet remain

  Untarnished as before; but if I live,

  So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,

  As I will make her truly my true wife.’

  Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart

  Danced in his bosom, seeing better days,

  And looking round he saw not Enid there,

  (Who hearing her own name had stolen away)

  But that old dame, to whom full tenderly

  And folding all her hand in his he said,

  ‘Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,

  And best by her that bore her understood.

  Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest

  Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.’

  So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she

  With frequent smile and nod departing found,

  Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl;

  Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then

  On either shining shoulder laid a hand,

  And kept her off and gazed upon her face,

  And told them all their converse in the hall,

  Proving her heart: but never light and shade

  Coursed one another more on open ground

  Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale

  Across the face of Enid hearing her;

  While slowly falling as a scale that falls,

  When weight is added only grain by grain,

  Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;

  Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,

  Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;

  So moving without answer to her rest

  She found no rest, and ever failed to draw

  The quiet night into her blood, but lay

  Contemplating her own unworthiness;

  And when the pale and bloodless east began

  To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised

  Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved

  Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,

  And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

  And thither came the twain, and when Geraint

  Beheld her first in field, awaiting him,

  He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,

  Himself beyond the rest pushing could move

  The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms

  Were on his princely person, but through these

  Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights

  And ladies came, and by and by the town

  Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists.

  And there they fixt the forks into the ground,

  And over these they placed the silver wand,

  And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.

  Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown,

  Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed,

  ‘Advance and take, as fairest of the fair,

  What I these two years past have won for thee,

  The prize of beauty.’ Loudly spake the Prince,

  ‘Forbear: there is a worthier,’ and the knight

  With some surprise and thrice as much disdain

  Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face

  Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule,

  So burnt he was with passion, crying out,

  ‘Do battle for it then,’ no more; and thrice

  They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears.

  Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each

  So often and with such blows, that all the crowd

  Wondered, and now and then from distant walls

  There came a clapping as of phantom hands.

  So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still

  The dew of their great labour, and the blood

  Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force.

  But either’s force was matched till Yniol’s cry,

  ‘Remember that great insult done the Queen,’

  Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft,

  And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone,

  An
d felled him, and set foot upon his breast,

  And said, ‘Thy name?’ To whom the fallen man

  Made answer, groaning, ‘Edyrn, son of Nudd!

  Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.

  My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.’

  ‘Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,’ replied Geraint,

  ‘These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.

  First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf,

  Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and coming there,

  Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,

  And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,

  Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.

  These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.’

  And Edyrn answered, ‘These things will I do,

  For I have never yet been overthrown,

  And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride

  Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!’

  And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,

  And there the Queen forgave him easily.

  And being young, he changed and came to loathe

  His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself

  Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last

  In the great battle fighting for the King.

  But when the third day from the hunting-morn

  Made a low splendour in the world, and wings

  Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay

  With her fair head in the dim-yellow light,

  Among the dancing shadows of the birds,

  Woke and bethought her of her promise given

  No later than last eve to Prince Geraint —

  So bent he seemed on going the third day,

  He would not leave her, till her promise given —

  To ride with him this morning to the court,

  And there be made known to the stately Queen,

  And there be wedded with all ceremony.

  At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,

  And thought it never yet had looked so mean.

  For as a leaf in mid-November is

  To what it is in mid-October, seemed

  The dress that now she looked on to the dress

  She looked on ere the coming of Geraint.

  And still she looked, and still the terror grew

  Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,

  All staring at her in her faded silk:

  And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

  ‘This noble prince who won our earldom back,

  So splendid in his acts and his attire,

  Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!

  Would he could tarry with us here awhile,

  But being so beholden to the Prince,

  It were but little grace in any of us,

  Bent as he seemed on going this third day,

  To seek a second favour at his hands.

  Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,