Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  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.

  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.

  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:

  A
nd 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:

  ‘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.

  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.’