Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled

  And covered; and this Quest was not for me.”

  ‘So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left

  The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain — nay,

  Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words, —

  A reckless and irreverent knight was he,

  Now boldened by the silence of his King, —

  Well, I will tell thee: “O King, my liege,” he said,

  “Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine?

  When have I stinted stroke in foughten field?

  But as for thine, my good friend Percivale,

  Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad,

  Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least.

  But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear,

  I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat,

  And thrice as blind as any noonday owl,

  To holy virgins in their ecstasies,

  Henceforward.”

  ‘“Deafer,” said the blameless King,

  “Gawain, and blinder unto holy things

  Hope not to make thyself by idle vows,

  Being too blind to have desire to see.

  But if indeed there came a sign from heaven,

  Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale,

  For these have seen according to their sight.

  For every fiery prophet in old times,

  And all the sacred madness of the bard,

  When God made music through them, could but speak

  His music by the framework and the chord;

  And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth.

  ‘“Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet

  Could all of true and noble in knight and man

  Twine round one sin, whatever it might be,

  With such a closeness, but apart there grew,

  Save that he were the swine thou spakest of,

  Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness;

  Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower.

  ‘“And spake I not too truly, O my knights?

  Was I too dark a prophet when I said

  To those who went upon the Holy Quest,

  That most of them would follow wandering fires,

  Lost in the quagmire? — lost to me and gone,

  And left me gazing at a barren board,

  And a lean Order — scarce returned a tithe —

  And out of those to whom the vision came

  My greatest hardly will believe he saw;

  Another hath beheld it afar off,

  And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,

  Cares but to pass into the silent life.

  And one hath had the vision face to face,

  And now his chair desires him here in vain,

  However they may crown him otherwhere.

  ‘“And some among you held, that if the King

  Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow:

  Not easily, seeing that the King must guard

  That which he rules, and is but as the hind

  To whom a space of land is given to plow.

  Who may not wander from the allotted field

  Before his work be done; but, being done,

  Let visions of the night or of the day

  Come, as they will; and many a time they come,

  Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,

  This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,

  This air that smites his forehead is not air

  But vision — yea, his very hand and foot —

  In moments when he feels he cannot die,

  And knows himself no vision to himself,

  Nor the high God a vision, nor that One

  Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen.”

  ‘So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.’

  Pelleas and Ettarre

  1869

  KING ARTHUR made new knights to fill the gap

  Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat

  In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors

  Were softly sundered, and through these a youth,

  Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields

  Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

  ‘Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King,

  All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.’

  Such was his cry: for having heard the King

  Had let proclaim a tournament — the prize

  A golden circlet and a knightly sword,

  Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won

  The golden circlet, for himself the sword:

  And there were those who knew him near the King,

  And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.

  And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles —

  But lately come to his inheritance,

  And lord of many a barren isle was he —

  Riding at noon, a day or twain before,

  Across the forest called of Dean, to find

  Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun

  Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled

  Almost to falling from his horse; but saw

  Near him a mound of even-sloping side,

  Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew,

  And here and there great hollies under them;

  But for a mile all round was open space,

  And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew

  To that dim day, then binding his good horse

  To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay

  At random looking over the brown earth

  Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove,

  It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without

  Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,

  So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.

  Then o’er it crost the dimness of a cloud

  Floating, and once the shadow of a bird

  Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed.

  And since he loved all maidens, but no maid

  In special, half-awake he whispered, ‘Where?

  O where? I love thee, though I know thee not.

  For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere,

  And I will make thee with my spear and sword

  As famous — O my Queen, my Guinevere,

  For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.’

  Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk

  And laughter at the limit of the wood,

  And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw,

  Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed

  A vision hovering on a sea of fire,

  Damsels in divers colours like the cloud

  Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them

  On horses, and the horses richly trapt

  Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood:

  And all the damsels talked confusedly,

  And one was pointing this way, and one that,

  Because the way was lost.

  And Pelleas rose,

  And loosed his horse, and led him to the light.

  There she that seemed the chief among them said,

  ‘In happy time behold our pilot-star!

  Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride,

  Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights

  There at Caerleon, but have lost our way:

  To right? to left? straight forward? back again?

  Which? tell us quickly.’

  Pelleas gazing thought,

  ‘Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?’

  For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom

  A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens,

  And round her limbs, mature in womanhood;

  And slender was her hand and small her shape;

  And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn,

  She might have seemed a toy to trifle with,

  And
pass and care no more. But while he gazed

  The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy,

  As though it were the beauty of her soul:

  For as the base man, judging of the good,

  Puts his own baseness in him by default

  Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend

  All the young beauty of his own soul to hers,

  Believing her; and when she spake to him,

  Stammered, and could not make her a reply.

  For out of the waste islands had he come,

  Where saving his own sisters he had known

  Scarce any but the women of his isles,

  Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls,

  Makers of nets, and living from the sea.

  Then with a slow smile turned the lady round

  And looked upon her people; and as when

  A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn,

  The circle widens till it lip the marge,

  Spread the slow smile through all her company.

  Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled,

  Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre,

  And she was a great lady in her land.

  Again she said, ‘O wild and of the woods,

  Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech?

  Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face,

  Lacking a tongue?’

  ‘O damsel,’ answered he,

  ‘I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom

  Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave

  Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I

  Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?’

  ‘Lead then,’ she said; and through the woods they went.

  And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes,

  His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe,

  His broken utterances and bashfulness,

  Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart

  She muttered, ‘I have lighted on a fool,

  Raw, yet so stale!’ But since her mind was bent

  On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name

  And title, ‘Queen of Beauty,’ in the lists

  Cried — and beholding him so strong, she thought

  That peradventure he will fight for me,

  And win the circlet: therefore flattered him,

  Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed

  His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights

  And all her damsels too were gracious to him,

  For she was a great lady.

  And when they reached

  Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she,

  Taking his hand, ‘O the strong hand,’ she said,

  ‘See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me,

  And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas,

  That I may love thee?’

  Then his helpless heart

  Leapt, and he cried, ‘Ay! wilt thou if I win?’

  ‘Ay, that will I,’ she answered, and she laughed,

  And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her;

  Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers,

  Till all her ladies laughed along with her.

  ‘O happy world,’ thought Pelleas, ‘all, meseems,

  Are happy; I the happiest of them all.’

  Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood,

  And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves;

  Then being on the morrow knighted, sware

  To love one only. And as he came away,

  The men who met him rounded on their heels

  And wondered after him, because his face

  Shone like the countenance of a priest of old

  Against the flame about a sacrifice

  Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he.

  Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights

  From the four winds came in: and each one sat,

  Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea,

  Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes

  His neighbour’s make and might: and Pelleas looked

  Noble among the noble, for he dreamed

  His lady loved him, and he knew himself

  Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight

  Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more

  Than all the ranged reasons of the world.

  Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts,

  And this was called ‘The Tournament of Youth:’

  For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld

  His older and his mightier from the lists,

  That Pelleas might obtain his lady’s love,

  According to her promise, and remain

  Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts

  Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk

  Holden: the gilded parapets were crowned

  With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes

  Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew.

  There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field

  With honour: so by that strong hand of his

  The sword and golden circlet were achieved.

  Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat

  Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye

  Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance,

  And there before the people crowned herself:

  So for the last time she was gracious to him.

  Then at Caerleon for a space — her look

  Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight —

  Lingered Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop,

  Said Guinevere, ‘We marvel at thee much,

  O damsel, wearing this unsunny face

  To him who won thee glory!’ And she said,

  ‘Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower,

  My Queen, he had not won.’ Whereat the Queen,

  As one whose foot is bitten by an ant,

  Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way.

  But after, when her damsels, and herself,

  And those three knights all set their faces home,

  Sir Pelleas followed. She that saw him cried,

  ‘Damsels — and yet I should be shamed to say it —

  I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back

  Among yourselves. Would rather that we had

  Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way,

  Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride

  And jest with: take him to you, keep him off,

  And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will,

  Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep,

  Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.

  Nay, should ye try him with a merry one

  To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us,

  Small matter! let him.’ This her damsels heard,

  And mindful of her small and cruel hand,

  They, closing round him through the journey home,

  Acted her hest, and always from her side

  Restrained him with all manner of device,

  So that he could not come to speech with her.

  And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge,

  Down rang the grate of iron through the groove,

  And he was left alone in open field.

  ‘These be the ways of ladies,’ Pelleas thought,

  ‘To those who love them, trials of our faith.

  Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost,

  For loyal to the uttermost am I.’

  So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought

  A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose

  With morning every day, and, moist or dry,

  Full-armed upon his charger all day long

  Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him.

  And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath.

  Then calling her three knights, she charged them, ‘Out!
r />   And drive him from the walls.’ And out they came

  But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed

  Against him one by one; and these returned,

  But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.

  Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once,

  A week beyond, while walking on the walls

  With her three knights, she pointed downward, ‘Look,

  He haunts me — I cannot breathe — besieges me;

  Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes,

  And drive him from my walls.’ And down they went,

  And Pelleas overthrew them one by one;

  And from the tower above him cried Ettarre,

  ‘Bind him, and bring him in.’

  He heard her voice;

  Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown

  Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew

  Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.

  Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight

  Of her rich beauty made him at one glance

  More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.

  Yet with good cheer he spake, ‘Behold me, Lady,

  A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will;

  And if thou keep me in thy donjon here,

  Content am I so that I see thy face

  But once a day: for I have sworn my vows,

  And thou hast given thy promise, and I know

  That all these pains are trials of my faith,

  And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained

  And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length

  Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.’

  Then she began to rail so bitterly,

  With all her damsels, he was stricken mute;

  But when she mocked his vows and the great King,

  Lighted on words: ‘For pity of thine own self,

  Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?’

  ‘Thou fool,’ she said, ‘I never heard his voice

  But longed to break away. Unbind him now,

  And thrust him out of doors; for save he be

  Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones,

  He will return no more.’ And those, her three,

  Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.

  And after this, a week beyond, again

  She called them, saying, ‘There he watches yet,

  There like a dog before his master’s door!

  Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye?

  Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace,

  Affronted with his fulsome innocence?

  Are ye but creatures of the board and bed,

  No men to strike? Fall on him all at once,

  And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail,

  Give ye the slave mine order to be bound,

  Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in:

  It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.’