Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  How far beyond him Lancelot seemed to move,

  Groaned, and at times would mutter, ‘These be gifts,

  Born with the blood, not learnable, divine,

  Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten — well —

  In those fierce wars, struck hard — and had I crowned

  With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew —

  So — better! — But this worship of the Queen,

  That honour too wherein she holds him — this,

  This was the sunshine that hath given the man

  A growth, a name that branches o’er the rest,

  And strength against all odds, and what the King

  So prizes — overprizes — gentleness.

  Her likewise would I worship an I might.

  I never can be close with her, as he

  That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King

  To let me bear some token of his Queen

  Whereon to gaze, remembering her — forget

  My heats and violences? live afresh?

  What, if the Queen disdained to grant it! nay

  Being so stately-gentle, would she make

  My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace

  She greeted my return! Bold will I be —

  Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere,

  In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield,

  Langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.’

  And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said

  ‘What wilt thou bear?’ Balin was bold, and asked

  To bear her own crown-royal upon shield,

  Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King,

  Who answered ‘Thou shalt put the crown to use.

  The crown is but the shadow of the King,

  And this a shadow’s shadow, let him have it,

  So this will help him of his violences!’

  ‘No shadow’ said Sir Balin ‘O my Queen,

  But light to me! no shadow, O my King,

  But golden earnest of a gentler life!’

  So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights

  Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world

  Made music, and he felt his being move

  In music with his Order, and the King.

  The nightingale, full-toned in middle May,

  Hath ever and anon a note so thin

  It seems another voice in other groves;

  Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath,

  The music in him seemed to change, and grow

  Faint and far-off.

  And once he saw the thrall

  His passion half had gauntleted to death,

  That causer of his banishment and shame,

  Smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously:

  His arm half rose to strike again, but fell:

  The memory of that cognizance on shield

  Weighted it down, but in himself he moaned:

  ‘Too high this mount of Camelot for me:

  These high-set courtesies are not for me.

  Shall I not rather prove the worse for these?

  Fierier and stormier from restraining, break

  Into some madness even before the Queen?’

  Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home,

  And glancing on the window, when the gloom

  Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame

  That rages in the woodland far below,

  So when his moods were darkened, court and King

  And all the kindly warmth of Arthur’s hall

  Shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove

  To learn the graces of their Table, fought

  Hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace.

  Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat

  Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall.

  A walk of roses ran from door to door;

  A walk of lilies crost it to the bower:

  And down that range of roses the great Queen

  Came with slow steps, the morning on her face;

  And all in shadow from the counter door

  Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once,

  As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced

  The long white walk of lilies toward the bower.

  Followed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her ‘Prince,

  Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen,

  As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?’

  To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth,

  ‘Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.’

  ‘Yea so’ she said ‘but so to pass me by —

  So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself,

  Whom all men rate the king of courtesy.

  Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.’

  Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers

  ‘Yea — for a dream. Last night methought I saw

  That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand

  In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark,

  And all the light upon her silver face

  Flowed from the spiritual lily that she held.

  Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes — away:

  For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush

  As hardly tints the blossom of the quince

  Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.’

  ‘Sweeter to me’ she said ‘this garden rose

  Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still

  The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May.

  Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers

  In those fair days — not all as cool as these,

  Though season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?

  Our noble King will send thee his own leech —

  Sick? or for any matter angered at me?’

  Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt

  Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue

  Changed at his gaze: so turning side by side

  They past, and Balin started from his bower.

  ‘Queen? subject? but I see not what I see.

  Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear.

  My father hath begotten me in his wrath.

  I suffer from the things before me, know,

  Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight;

  A churl, a clown!’ and in him gloom on gloom

  Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield,

  Nor stayed to crave permission of the King,

  But, mad for strange adventure, dashed away.

  He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw

  The fountain where they sat together, sighed

  ‘Was I not better there with him?’ and rode

  The skyless woods, but under open blue

  Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough

  Wearily hewing. ‘Churl, thine axe!’ he cried,

  Descended, and disjointed it at a blow:

  To whom the woodman uttered wonderingly

  ‘Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods

  If arm of flesh could lay him.’ Balin cried

  ‘Him, or the viler devil who plays his part,

  To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.’

  ‘Nay’ said the churl, ‘our devil is a truth,

  I saw the flash of him but yestereven.

  And some do say that our Sir Garlon too

  Hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen.

  Look to the cave.’ But Balin answered him

  ‘Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl,

  Look to thy woodcraft,’ and so leaving him,

  Now with slack rein and careless of himself,

  Now with dug spur and raving at himself,

  Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode;

  So marked not on his right a cavern-chasm

  Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within,

  The whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks

&n
bsp; Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor,

  Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night

  Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell.

  He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all

  Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within,

  Past eastward from the falling sun. At once

  He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud

  And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear,

  Shot from behind him, ran along the ground.

  Sideways he started from the path, and saw,

  With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape,

  A light of armour by him flash, and pass

  And vanish in the woods; and followed this,

  But all so blind in rage that unawares

  He burst his lance against a forest bough,

  Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled

  Far, till the castle of a King, the hall

  Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped

  With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong;

  The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss,

  The battlement overtopt with ivytods,

  A home of bats, in every tower an owl.

  Then spake the men of Pellam crying ‘Lord,

  Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?’

  Said Balin ‘For the fairest and the best

  Of ladies living gave me this to bear.’

  So stalled his horse, and strode across the court,

  But found the greetings both of knight and King

  Faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves

  Laid their green faces flat against the panes,

  Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without

  Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within,

  Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise asked

  ‘Why wear ye that crown-royal?’ Balin said

  ‘The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all,

  As fairest, best and purest, granted me

  To bear it!’ Such a sound (for Arthur’s knights

  Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes

  The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears

  A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds,

  Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled.

  ‘Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best,

  Best, purest? thou from Arthur’s hall, and yet

  So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these

  So far besotted that they fail to see

  This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame?

  Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.’

  A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed

  With holy Joseph’s legend, on his right

  Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea

  And ship and sail and angels blowing on it:

  And one was rough with wattling, and the walls

  Of that low church he built at Glastonbury.

  This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl,

  Through memory of that token on the shield

  Relaxed his hold: ‘I will be gentle’ he thought

  ‘And passing gentle’ caught his hand away,

  Then fiercely to Sir Garlon ‘Eyes have I

  That saw today the shadow of a spear,

  Shot from behind me, run along the ground;

  Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws

  From homage to the best and purest, might,

  Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine,

  Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure

  To mouth so huge a foulness — to thy guest,

  Me, me of Arthur’s Table. Felon talk!

  Let be! no more!’

  But not the less by night

  The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest,

  Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves

  Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs

  Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met

  The scorner in the castle court, and fain,

  For hate and loathing, would have past him by;

  But when Sir Garlon uttered mocking-wise;

  ‘What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?’

  His countenance blackened, and his forehead veins

  Bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath

  The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery ‘Ha!

  So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,’

  Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew

  Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones.

  Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell,

  And Balin by the banneret of his helm

  Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry

  Sounded across the court, and — men-at-arms,

  A score with pointed lances, making at him —

  He dashed the pummel at the foremost face,

  Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet

  Wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked

  The portal of King Pellam’s chapel wide

  And inward to the wall; he stept behind;

  Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves

  Howling; but while he stared about the shrine,

  In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints,

  Beheld before a golden altar lie

  The longest lance his eyes had ever seen,

  Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon

  Pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it,

  Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth;

  Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side

  The blindfold rummage buried in the walls

  Might echo, ran the counter path, and found

  His charger, mounted on him and away.

  An arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left,

  One overhead; and Pellam’s feeble cry

  ‘Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things

  With earthly uses’ — made him quickly dive

  Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile

  Of dense and open, till his goodly horse,

  Arising wearily at a fallen oak,

  Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground.

  Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad,

  Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed,

  Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck,

  Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought

  ‘I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me,

  Thee will I bear no more,’ high on a branch

  Hung it, and turned aside into the woods,

  And there in gloom cast himself all along,

  Moaning ‘My violences, my violences!’

  But now the wholesome music of the wood

  Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark,

  A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode

  The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire.

  ‘The fire of Heaven has killed the barren cold,

  And kindled all the plain and all the wold.

  The new leaf ever pushes off the old.

  The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

  ‘Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire —

  Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world’s desire,

  Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire!

  The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

  ‘The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways.

  The wayside blossoms open to the blaze.

  The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.

  The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

  ‘The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good,

  And starve not thou this fire within thy blood,

  But follow Vivien through the fiery flood!

  The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!’

  Then turning to her Squire ‘This f
ire of Heaven,

  This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again,

  And beat the cross to earth, and break the King

  And all his Table.’

  Then they reached a glade,

  Where under one long lane of cloudless air

  Before another wood, the royal crown

  Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm

  Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire;

  Amazed were these; ‘Lo there’ she cried—’a crown —

  Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur’s hall,

  And there a horse! the rider? where is he?

  See, yonder lies one dead within the wood.

  Not dead; he stirs! — but sleeping. I will speak.

  Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest,

  Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds.

  But bounden art thou, if from Arthur’s hall,

  To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame,

  A lustful King, who sought to win my love

  Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode,

  Hath suffered misadventure, and my squire

  Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince,

  Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King,

  Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid,

  To get me shelter for my maidenhood.

  I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield,

  And by the great Queen’s name, arise and hence.’

  And Balin rose, ‘Thither no more! nor Prince

  Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed

  The cognizance she gave me: here I dwell

  Savage among the savage woods, here die —

  Die: let the wolves’ black maws ensepulchre

  Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord.

  O me, that such a name as Guinevere’s,

  Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up,

  And been thereby uplifted, should through me,

  My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.’

  Thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon

  Sighed all as suddenly. Said Balin to her

  ‘Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, ha?

  Hence, for I will not with thee.’ Again she sighed

  ‘Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh

  When sick at heart, when rather we should weep.

  I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest,

  And now full loth am I to break thy dream,

  But thou art man, and canst abide a truth,

  Though bitter. Hither, boy — and mark me well.

  Dost thou remember at Caerleon once —

  A year ago — nay, then I love thee not —

  Ay, thou rememberest well — one summer dawn —

  By the great tower — Caerleon upon Usk —

  Nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord,

  The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt

  In amorous homage — knelt — what else? — O ay