Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  ‘He hears the judgment of the King of kings,’

  Cried the wan Prince; ‘and lo, the powers of Doorm

  Are scattered,’ and he pointed to the field,

  Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,

  Were men and women staring and aghast,

  While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told

  How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.

  But when the knight besought him, ‘Follow me,

  Prince, to the camp, and in the King’s own ear

  Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured

  Strange chances here alone;’ that other flushed,

  And hung his head, and halted in reply,

  Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,

  And after madness acted question asked:

  Till Edyrn crying, ‘If ye will not go

  To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,’

  ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘I follow,’ and they went.

  But Enid in their going had two fears,

  One from the bandit scattered in the field,

  And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,

  When Edyrn reined his charger at her side,

  She shrank a little. In a hollow land,

  From which old fires have broken, men may fear

  Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said:

  ‘Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause

  To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.

  Yourself were first the blameless cause to make

  My nature’s prideful sparkle in the blood

  Break into furious flame; being repulsed

  By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought

  Until I overturned him; then set up

  (With one main purpose ever at my heart)

  My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;

  Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair,

  And, toppling over all antagonism,

  So waxed in pride, that I believed myself

  Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad:

  And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,

  I should have slain your father, seized yourself.

  I lived in hope that sometime you would come

  To these my lists with him whom best you loved;

  And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes

  The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,

  Behold me overturn and trample on him.

  Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,

  I should not less have killed him. And so you came, —

  But once you came, — and with your own true eyes

  Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one

  Speaks of a service done him) overthrow

  My proud self, and my purpose three years old,

  And set his foot upon me, and give me life.

  There was I broken down; there was I saved:

  Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life

  He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.

  And all the penance the Queen laid upon me

  Was but to rest awhile within her court;

  Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,

  And waiting to be treated like a wolf,

  Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,

  Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,

  Such fine reserve and noble reticence,

  Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace

  Of tenderest courtesy, that I began

  To glance behind me at my former life,

  And find that it had been the wolf’s indeed:

  And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,

  Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,

  Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,

  Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.

  And you were often there about the Queen,

  But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;

  Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,

  But kept myself aloof till I was changed;

  And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.’

  He spoke, and Enid easily believed,

  Like simple noble natures, credulous

  Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,

  There most in those who most have done them ill.

  And when they reached the camp the King himself

  Advanced to greet them, and beholding her

  Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,

  But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held

  In converse for a little, and returned,

  And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,

  And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like,

  And showed an empty tent allotted her,

  And glancing for a minute, till he saw her

  Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said:

  ‘Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave

  To move to your own land, and there defend

  Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof,

  As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,

  By having looked too much through alien eyes,

  And wrought too long with delegated hands,

  Not used mine own: but now behold me come

  To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,

  With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked

  At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?

  This work of his is great and wonderful.

  His very face with change of heart is changed.

  The world will not believe a man repents:

  And this wise world of ours is mainly right.

  Full seldom doth a man repent, or use

  Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch

  Of blood and custom wholly out of him,

  And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.

  Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart

  As I will weed this land before I go.

  I, therefore, made him of our Table Round,

  Not rashly, but have proved him everyway

  One of our noblest, our most valorous,

  Sanest and most obedient: and indeed

  This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself

  After a life of violence, seems to me

  A thousand-fold more great and wonderful

  Than if some knight of mine, risking his life,

  My subject with my subjects under him,

  Should make an onslaught single on a realm

  Of robbers, though he slew them one by one,

  And were himself nigh wounded to the death.’

  So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt

  His work was neither great nor wonderful,

  And past to Enid’s tent; and thither came

  The King’s own leech to look into his hurt;

  And Enid tended on him there; and there

  Her constant motion round him, and the breath

  Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,

  Filled all the genial courses of his blood

  With deeper and with ever deeper love,

  As the south-west that blowing Bala lake

  Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.

  But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,

  The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes

  On each of all whom Uther left in charge

  Long since, to guard the justice of the King:

  He looked and found them wanting; and as now

  Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills

  To keep him bright and clean as heretofore,

  He rooted out the slothful officer

  Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,

  And in their chairs set up a stronger race

  With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men

  To till the wastes, and moving everywhere

  Cleared the dark places and let in the
law,

  And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.

  Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past

  With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.

  There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,

  And clothed her in apparel like the day.

  And though Geraint could never take again

  That comfort from their converse which he took

  Before the Queen’s fair name was breathed upon,

  He rested well content that all was well.

  Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,

  And fifty knights rode with them to the shores

  Of Severn, and they past to their own land.

  And there he kept the justice of the King

  So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts

  Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died:

  And being ever foremost in the chase,

  And victor at the tilt and tournament,

  They called him the great Prince and man of men.

  But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call

  Enid the Fair, a grateful people named

  Enid the Good; and in their halls arose

  The cry of children, Enids and Geraints

  Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more,

  But rested in her fealty, till he crowned

  A happy life with a fair death, and fell

  Against the heathen of the Northern Sea

  In battle, fighting for the blameless King.

  Balin and Balan

  1885

  PELLAM the King, who held and lost with Lot

  In that first war, and had his realm restored

  But rendered tributary, failed of late

  To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called

  His treasurer, one of many years, and spake,

  ‘Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,

  Lest we should set one truer on his throne.

  Man’s word is God in man.’

  His Baron said

  ‘We go but harken: there be two strange knights

  Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side,

  A mile beneath the forest, challenging

  And overthrowing every knight who comes.

  Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass,

  And send them to thee?’

  Arthur laughed upon him.

  ‘Old friend, too old to be so young, depart,

  Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,

  Until they find a lustier than themselves.’

  So these departed. Early, one fair dawn,

  The light-winged spirit of his youth returned

  On Arthur’s heart; he armed himself and went,

  So coming to the fountain-side beheld

  Balin and Balan sitting statuelike,

  Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,

  From underneath a plume of lady-fern,

  Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it.

  And on the right of Balin Balin’s horse

  Was fast beside an alder, on the left

  Of Balan Balan’s near a poplartree.

  ‘Fair Sirs,’ said Arthur, ‘wherefore sit ye here?’

  Balin and Balan answered ‘For the sake

  Of glory; we be mightier men than all

  In Arthur’s court; that also have we proved;

  For whatsoever knight against us came

  Or I or he have easily overthrown.’

  ‘I too,’ said Arthur, ‘am of Arthur’s hall,

  But rather proven in his Paynim wars

  Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not,

  Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.’

  And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down,

  And lightly so returned, and no man knew.

  Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside

  The carolling water set themselves again,

  And spake no word until the shadow turned;

  When from the fringe of coppice round them burst

  A spangled pursuivant, and crying ‘Sirs,

  Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,’

  They followed; whom when Arthur seeing asked

  ‘Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?’

  Balin the stillness of a minute broke

  Saying ‘An unmelodious name to thee,

  Balin, “the Savage” — that addition thine —

  My brother and my better, this man here,

  Balan. I smote upon the naked skull

  A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand

  Was gauntleted, half slew him; for I heard

  He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath

  Sent me a three-years’ exile from thine eyes.

  I have not lived my life delightsomely:

  For I that did that violence to thy thrall,

  Had often wrought some fury on myself,

  Saving for Balan: those three kingless years

  Have past — were wormwood-bitter to me. King,

  Methought that if we sat beside the well,

  And hurled to ground what knight soever spurred

  Against us, thou would’st take me gladlier back,

  And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine

  Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said.

  Not so — not all. A man of thine today

  Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?’

  Said Arthur ‘Thou hast ever spoken truth;

  Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie.

  Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou

  Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move

  To music with thine Order and the King.

  Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands

  Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!’

  Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall,

  The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven

  With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth

  Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers,

  Along the walls and down the board; they sat,

  And cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang,

  Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon

  Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made

  Those banners of twelve battles overhead

  Stir, as they stirred of old, when Arthur’s host

  Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won.

  Then Balan added to their Order lived

  A wealthier life than heretofore with these

  And Balin, till their embassage returned.

  ‘Sir King’ they brought report ‘we hardly found,

  So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall

  Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once

  A Christless foe of thine as ever dashed

  Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm

  Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King

  Took, as in rival heat, to holy things;

  And finds himself descended from the Saint

  Arimathaean Joseph; him who first

  Brought the great faith to Britain over seas;

  He boasts his life as purer than thine own;

  Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat;

  Hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets

  Or dame or damsel enter at his gates

  Lest he should be polluted. This gray King

  Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders — yea —

  Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,

  Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,

  And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought

  By holy Joseph thither, that same spear

  Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.

  He much amazed us; after, when we sought

  The tribute, answered “I have quite foregone

  All matters of this world: Garlon, mine heir,

  Of him demand it,” which this
Garlon gave

  With much ado, railing at thine and thee.

  ‘But when we left, in those deep woods we found

  A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind,

  Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us

  Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there

  Reported of some demon in the woods

  Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues

  From all his fellows, lived alone, and came

  To learn black magic, and to hate his kind

  With such a hate, that when he died, his soul

  Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life

  Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence,

  Strikes from behind. This woodman showed the cave

  From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt.

  We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.’

  Then Arthur, ‘Let who goes before me, see

  He do not fall behind me: foully slain

  And villainously! who will hunt for me

  This demon of the woods?’ Said Balan, ‘I’!

  So claimed the quest and rode away, but first,

  Embracing Balin, ‘Good my brother, hear!

  Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone

  Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends,

  Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside,

  Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream

  That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself.

  Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they

  To speak no evil. Truly save for fears,

  My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship

  Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them,

  Be one indeed: consider them, and all

  Their bearing in their common bond of love,

  No more of hatred than in Heaven itself,

  No more of jealousy than in Paradise.’

  So Balan warned, and went; Balin remained:

  Who — for but three brief moons had glanced away

  From being knighted till he smote the thrall,

  And faded from the presence into years

  Of exile — now would strictlier set himself

  To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy,

  Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round

  Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile

  In passing, and a transitory word

  Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem

  From being smiled at happier in themselves —

  Sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height,

  That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak

  Sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star;

  For one from out his village lately climed

  And brought report of azure lands and fair,

  Far seen to left and right; and he himself

  Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet

  Up from the base: so Balin marvelling oft