Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair

  And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress

  Had wandered from her own King’s golden head,

  And lost itself in darkness, till she cried —

  I thought the great tower would crash down on both —

  “Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips,

  Thou art my King.” This lad, whose lightest word

  Is mere white truth in simple nakedness,

  Saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak,

  So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints,

  The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven,

  Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me!

  Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would’st,

  Do these more shame than these have done themselves.’

  She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he,

  Remembering that dark bower at Camelot,

  Breathed in a dismal whisper ‘It is truth.’

  Sunnily she smiled ‘And even in this lone wood,

  Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this.

  Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues,

  As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me,

  And we will speak at first exceeding low.

  Meet is it the good King be not deceived.

  See now, I set thee high on vantage ground,

  From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like

  Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.’

  She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,

  He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell,

  Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield,

  Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown,

  Stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him

  Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,

  The told-of, and the teller.

  That weird yell,

  Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast,

  Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurking there

  (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought

  ‘The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!’

  Then nearing ‘Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,

  And tramples on the goodly shield to show

  His loathing of our Order and the Queen.

  My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man

  Guard thou thine head.’ Sir Balin spake not word,

  But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire,

  And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed

  In onset, and King Pellam’s holy spear,

  Reputed to be red with sinless blood,

  Redded at once with sinful, for the point

  Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked

  The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin’s horse

  Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed,

  Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man

  Inward, and either fell, and swooned away.

  Then to her Squire muttered the damsel ‘Fools!

  This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen:

  Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved

  And thus foamed over at a rival name:

  But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,

  Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down —

  Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk —

  And yet hast often pleaded for my love —

  See what I see, be thou where I have been,

  Or else Sir Chick — dismount and loose their casques

  I fain would know what manner of men they be.’

  And when the Squire had loosed them, ‘Goodly! — look!

  They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,

  And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,

  Dead for one heifer!

  Then the gentle Squire

  ‘I hold them happy, so they died for love:

  And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog,

  I too could die, as now I live, for thee.’

  ‘Live on, Sir Boy,’ she cried. ‘I better prize

  The living dog than the dead lion: away!

  I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.’

  Then leapt her palfrey o’er the fallen oak,

  And bounding forward ‘Leave them to the wolves.’

  But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,

  Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,

  Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan,

  Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay,

  And on his dying brother cast himself

  Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt

  One near him; all at once they found the world,

  Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail

  And drawing down the dim disastrous brow

  That o’er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake;

  ‘O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died

  To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.

  Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why

  Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?’

  Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,

  All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again.

  ‘Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam’s hall:

  This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not.

  And one said “Eat in peace! a liar is he,

  And hates thee for the tribute!” this good knight

  Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,

  And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,

  Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.

  I well believe this damsel, and the one

  Who stood beside thee even now, the same.

  “She dwells among the woods” he said “and meets

  And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell.”

  Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.

  Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen.”

  ‘O brother’ answered Balin ‘woe is me!

  My madness all thy life has been thy doom,

  Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now

  The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.

  Goodnight! for we shall never bid again

  Goodmorrow — Dark my doom was here, and dark

  It will be there. I see thee now no more.

  I would not mine again should darken thine,

  Goodnight, true brother.

  Balan answered low

  ‘Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there!

  We two were born together, and we die

  Together by one doom:’ and while he spoke

  Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep

  With Balin, either locked in either’s arm.

  Merlin and Vivien

  1857

  A STORM was coming, but the winds were still,

  And in the wild woods of Broceliande,

  Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old

  It looked a tower of ivied masonwork,

  At Merlin’s feet the wily Vivien lay.

  For he that always bare in bitter grudge

  The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark

  The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,

  A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm

  Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say

  That out of naked knightlike purity

  Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl

  But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,

  Sware by her — vows like theirs, that high in heaven

  Love most, but neither marry, nor are given

  In marriage, angels of our Lord’s report.

  He ceased, and then — for Vivien sweetly said

  (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),

  ‘And is the fair example followed, Sir,

  In Arthur’s
household?’ — answered innocently:

  ‘Ay, by some few — ay, truly — youths that hold

  It more beseems the perfect virgin knight

  To worship woman as true wife beyond

  All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.

  They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.

  So passionate for an utter purity

  Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,

  For Arthur bound them not to singleness.

  Brave hearts and clean! and yet — God guide them — young.’

  Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup

  Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose

  To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,

  Turned to her: ‘Here are snakes within the grass;

  And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear

  The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure

  Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.’

  And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully,

  ‘Why fear? because that fostered at thy court

  I savour of thy — virtues? fear them? no.

  As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear,

  So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear.

  My father died in battle against the King,

  My mother on his corpse in open field;

  She bore me there, for born from death was I

  Among the dead and sown upon the wind —

  And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes,

  That old true filth, and bottom of the well

  Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine

  And maxims of the mud! “This Arthur pure!

  Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made

  Gives him the lie! There is no being pure,

  My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?” —

  If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood.

  Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back,

  When I have ferreted out their burrowings,

  The hearts of all this Order in mine hand —

  Ay — so that fate and craft and folly close,

  Perchance, one curl of Arthur’s golden beard.

  To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine

  Is cleaner-fashioned — Well, I loved thee first,

  That warps the wit.’

  Loud laughed the graceless Mark,

  But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged

  Low in the city, and on a festal day

  When Guinevere was crossing the great hall

  Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed.

  ‘Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought?

  Rise!’ and the damsel bidden rise arose

  And stood with folded hands and downward eyes

  Of glancing corner, and all meekly said,

  ‘None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid!

  My father died in battle for thy King,

  My mother on his corpse — in open field,

  The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse —

  Poor wretch — no friend! — and now by Mark the King

  For that small charm of feature mine, pursued —

  If any such be mine — I fly to thee.

  Save, save me thou — Woman of women — thine

  The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power,

  Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven’s own white

  Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King —

  Help, for he follows! take me to thyself!

  O yield me shelter for mine innocency

  Among thy maidens!

  Here her slow sweet eyes

  Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose

  Fixt on her hearer’s, while the Queen who stood

  All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves

  In green and gold, and plumed with green replied,

  ‘Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame

  We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him

  Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know.

  Nay — we believe all evil of thy Mark —

  Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour

  We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot.

  He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained;

  We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.’

  She past; and Vivien murmured after ‘Go!

  I bide the while.’ Then through the portal-arch

  Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise,

  As one that labours with an evil dream,

  Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse.

  ‘Is that the Lancelot? goodly — ay, but gaunt:

  Courteous — amends for gauntness — takes her hand —

  That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been

  A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in hand!

  Let go at last! — they ride away — to hawk

  For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine.

  For such a supersensual sensual bond

  As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth —

  Touch flax with flame — a glance will serve — the liars!

  Ah little rat that borest in the dyke

  Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep

  Down upon far-off cities while they dance —

  Or dream — of thee they dreamed not — nor of me

  These — ay, but each of either: ride, and dream

  The mortal dream that never yet was mine —

  Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — to me!

  Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell!

  For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat,

  And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know,

  Will hate, loathe, fear — but honour me the more.’

  Yet while they rode together down the plain,

  Their talk was all of training, terms of art,

  Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure.

  ‘She is too noble’ he said ‘to check at pies,

  Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.’

  Here when the Queen demanded as by chance

  ‘Know ye the stranger woman?’ ‘Let her be,’

  Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off

  The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells,

  Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up

  Their eager faces, wondering at the strength,

  Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird

  Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time

  As once — of old — among the flowers — they rode.

  But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen

  Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched

  And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept

  And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest

  Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest,

  Arriving at a time of golden rest,

  And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear,

  While all the heathen lay at Arthur’s feet,

  And no quest came, but all was joust and play,

  Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be.

  Thereafter as an enemy that has left

  Death in the living waters, and withdrawn,

  The wily Vivien stole from Arthur’s court.

  She hated all the knights, and heard in thought

  Their lavish comment when her name was named.

  For once, when Arthur walking all alone,

  Vext at a rumour issued from herself

  Of some corruption crept among his knights,

  Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair,

  Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood

  With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice,

  And fluttered adoration, and at last

  With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more

  Than who should prize him most; at which the King


  Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by:

  But one had watched, and had not held his peace:

  It made the laughter of an afternoon

  That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.

  And after that, she set herself to gain

  Him, the most famous man of all those times,

  Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts,

  Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls,

  Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens;

  The people called him Wizard; whom at first

  She played about with slight and sprightly talk,

  And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points

  Of slander, glancing here and grazing there;

  And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer

  Would watch her at her petulance, and play,

  Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh

  As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew

  Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she,

  Perceiving that she was but half disdained,

  Began to break her sports with graver fits,

  Turn red or pale, would often when they met

  Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him

  With such a fixt devotion, that the old man,

  Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times

  Would flatter his own wish in age for love,

  And half believe her true: for thus at times

  He wavered; but that other clung to him,

  Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.

  Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy;

  He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found

  A doom that ever poised itself to fall,

  An ever-moaning battle in the mist,

  World-war of dying flesh against the life,

  Death in all life and lying in all love,

  The meanest having power upon the highest,

  And the high purpose broken by the worm.

  So leaving Arthur’s court he gained the beach;

  There found a little boat, and stept into it;

  And Vivien followed, but he marked her not.

  She took the helm and he the sail; the boat

  Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps,

  And touching Breton sands, they disembarked.

  And then she followed Merlin all the way,

  Even to the wild woods of Broceliande.

  For Merlin once had told her of a charm,

  The which if any wrought on anyone

  With woven paces and with waving arms,

  The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie

  Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower,

  From which was no escape for evermore;

  And none could find that man for evermore,

  Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm

  Coming and going, and he lay as dead