Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  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.

  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.’

  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,