Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

“Man, is he man at all?” methought, when first

  I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld

  That victor of the Pagan throned in hall —

  His hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow

  Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes,

  The golden beard that clothed his lips with light —

  Moreover, that weird legend of his birth,

  With Merlin’s mystic babble about his end

  Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool

  Shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man,

  But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware,

  Being amazed: but this went by — The vows!

  O ay — the wholesome madness of an hour —

  They served their use, their time; for every knight

  Believed himself a greater than himself,

  And every follower eyed him as a God;

  Till he, being lifted up beyond himself,

  Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done,

  And so the realm was made; but then their vows —

  First mainly through that sullying of our Queen —

  Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence

  Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?

  Dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep?

  They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood

  Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord

  To bind them by inviolable vows,

  Which flesh and blood perforce would violate:

  For feel this arm of mine — the tide within

  Red with free chase and heather-scented air,

  Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure

  As any maiden child? lock up my tongue

  From uttering freely what I freely hear?

  Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it.

  And worldling of the world am I, and know

  The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour

  Woos his own end; we are not angels here

  Nor shall be: vows — I am woodman of the woods,

  And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale

  Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may;

  And therefore is my love so large for thee,

  Seeing it is not bounded save by love.’

  Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said,

  ‘Good: an I turned away my love for thee

  To some one thrice as courteous as thyself —

  For courtesy wins woman all as well

  As valour may, but he that closes both

  Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller indeed,

  Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I loved

  This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back

  Thine own small saw, “We love but while we may,”

  Well then, what answer?’

  He that while she spake,

  Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with,

  The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch

  The warm white apple of her throat, replied,

  ‘Press this a little closer, sweet, until —

  Come, I am hungered and half-angered — meat,

  Wine, wine — and I will love thee to the death,

  And out beyond into the dream to come.’

  So then, when both were brought to full accord,

  She rose, and set before him all he willed;

  And after these had comforted the blood

  With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts —

  Now talking of their woodland paradise,

  The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns;

  Now mocking at the much ungainliness,

  And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark —

  Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:

  ‘Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bend the brier!

  A star in heaven, a star within the mere!

  Ay, ay, O ay — a star was my desire,

  And one was far apart, and one was near:

  Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that bow the grass!

  And one was water and one star was fire,

  And one will ever shine and one will pass.

  Ay, ay, O ay — the winds that move the mere.’

  Then in the light’s last glimmer Tristram showed

  And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried,

  ‘The collar of some Order, which our King

  Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul,

  For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.’

  ‘Not so, my Queen,’ he said, ‘but the red fruit

  Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven,

  And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize,

  And hither brought by Tristram for his last

  Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.’

  He spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck,

  Claspt it, and cried, ‘Thine Order, O my Queen!’

  But, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat,

  Out of the dark, just as the lips had touched,

  Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek —

  ‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him through the brain.

  That night came Arthur home, and while he climbed,

  All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,

  The stairway to the hall, and looked and saw

  The great Queen’s bower was dark, — about his feet

  A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it,

  ‘What art thou?’ and the voice about his feet

  Sent up an answer, sobbing, ‘I am thy fool,

  And I shall never make thee smile again.’

  Guinevere

  1859

  QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat

  There in the holy house at Almesbury

  Weeping, none with her save a little maid,

  A novice: one low light betwixt them burned

  Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad,

  Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,

  The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,

  Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

  For hither had she fled, her cause of flight

  Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast

  Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,

  Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this

  He chilled the popular praises of the King

  With silent smiles of slow disparagement;

  And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse,

  Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought

  To make disruption in the Table Round

  Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds

  Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims

  Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot.

  For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,

  Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may,

  Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned,

  That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,

  Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall

  To spy some secret scandal if he might,

  And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best

  Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court

  The wiliest and the worst; and more than this

  He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by

  Spied where he couched, and as the gardener’s hand

  Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,

  So from the high wall and the flowering grove

  Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel,

  And cast him as a worm upon the way;

  But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust,

  He, reverencing king’s blood in a bad man,

  Made such excuses as he might, and these

  Full knightly without scorn; for in those days

  No knight of Arthur’s noblest dealt in scorn;

/>   But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him

  By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall,

  Scorn was allowed as part of his defect,

  And he was answered softly by the King

  And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp

  To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice

  Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went:

  But, ever after, the small violence done

  Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart,

  As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long

  A little bitter pool about a stone

  On the bare coast.

  But when Sir Lancelot told

  This matter to the Queen, at first she laughed

  Lightly, to think of Modred’s dusty fall,

  Then shuddered, as the village wife who cries

  ‘I shudder, some one steps across my grave;’

  Then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed

  She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast,

  Would track her guilt until he found, and hers

  Would be for evermore a name of scorn.

  Henceforward rarely could she front in hall,

  Or elsewhere, Modred’s narrow foxy face,

  Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye:

  Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul,

  To help it from the death that cannot die,

  And save it even in extremes, began

  To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours,

  Beside the placid breathings of the King,

  In the dead night, grim faces came and went

  Before her, or a vague spiritual fear —

  Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors,

  Heard by the watcher in a haunted house,

  That keeps the rust of murder on the walls —

  Held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed

  An awful dream; for then she seemed to stand

  On some vast plain before a setting sun,

  And from the sun there swiftly made at her

  A ghastly something, and its shadow flew

  Before it, till it touched her, and she turned —

  When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet,

  And blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it

  Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke.

  And all this trouble did not pass but grew;

  Till even the clear face of the guileless King,

  And trustful courtesies of household life,

  Became her bane; and at the last she said,

  ‘O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land,

  For if thou tarry we shall meet again,

  And if we meet again, some evil chance

  Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze

  Before the people, and our lord the King.’

  And Lancelot ever promised, but remained,

  And still they met and met. Again she said,

  ‘O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.’

  And then they were agreed upon a night

  (When the good King should not be there) to meet

  And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard.

  She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met

  And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye,

  Low on the border of her couch they sat

  Stammering and staring. It was their last hour,

  A madness of farewells. And Modred brought

  His creatures to the basement of the tower

  For testimony; and crying with full voice

  ‘Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,’ aroused

  Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike

  Leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell

  Stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off,

  And all was still: then she, ‘The end is come,

  And I am shamed for ever;’ and he said,

  ‘Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise,

  And fly to my strong castle overseas:

  There will I hide thee, till my life shall end,

  There hold thee with my life against the world.’

  She answered, ‘Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so?

  Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells.

  Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself!

  Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou

  Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly,

  For I will draw me into sanctuary,

  And bide my doom.’ So Lancelot got her horse,

  Set her thereon, and mounted on his own,

  And then they rode to the divided way,

  There kissed, and parted weeping: for he past,

  Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen,

  Back to his land; but she to Almesbury

  Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald,

  And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald

  Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan:

  And in herself she moaned ‘Too late, too late!’

  Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn,

  A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high,

  Croaked, and she thought, ‘He spies a field of death;

  For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea,

  Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court,

  Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.’

  And when she came to Almesbury she spake

  There to the nuns, and said, ‘Mine enemies

  Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,

  Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask

  Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time

  To tell you:’ and her beauty, grace and power,

  Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared

  To ask it.

  So the stately Queen abode

  For many a week, unknown, among the nuns;

  Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought,

  Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift,

  But communed only with the little maid,

  Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness

  Which often lured her from herself; but now,

  This night, a rumour wildly blown about

  Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm,

  And leagued him with the heathen, while the King

  Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought,

  ‘With what a hate the people and the King

  Must hate me,’ and bowed down upon her hands

  Silent, until the little maid, who brooked

  No silence, brake it, uttering, ‘Late! so late!

  What hour, I wonder, now?’ and when she drew

  No answer, by and by began to hum

  An air the nuns had taught her; ‘Late, so late!’

  Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said,

  ‘O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing,

  Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.’

  Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.

  ‘Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!

  Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

  Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

  ‘No light had we: for that we do repent;

  And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.

  Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

  ‘No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!

  O let us in, that we may find the light!

  Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.

  ‘Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?

  O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet!

  No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.’

  So sang the novice, while full passionately,

  Her head upon her hands, remembering

  Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen.

  Then said the little
novice prattling to her,

  ‘O pray you, noble lady, weep no more;

  But let my words, the words of one so small,

  Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,

  And if I do not there is penance given —

  Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow

  From evil done; right sure am I of that,

  Who see your tender grace and stateliness.

  But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King’s,

  And weighing find them less; for gone is he

  To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there,

  Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen;

  And Modred whom he left in charge of all,

  The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King’s grief

  For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm,

  Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours.

  For me, I thank the saints, I am not great.

  For if there ever come a grief to me

  I cry my cry in silence, and have done.

  None knows it, and my tears have brought me good:

  But even were the griefs of little ones

  As great as those of great ones, yet this grief

  Is added to the griefs the great must bear,

  That howsoever much they may desire

  Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud:

  As even here they talk at Almesbury

  About the good King and his wicked Queen,

  And were I such a King with such a Queen,

  Well might I wish to veil her wickedness,

  But were I such a King, it could not be.’

  Then to her own sad heart muttered the Queen,

  ‘Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?’

  But openly she answered, ‘Must not I,

  If this false traitor have displaced his lord,

  Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?’

  ‘Yea,’ said the maid, ‘this is all woman’s grief,

  That she is woman, whose disloyal life

  Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round

  Which good King Arthur founded, years ago,

  With signs and miracles and wonders, there

  At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.’

  Then thought the Queen within herself again,

  ‘Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?’

  But openly she spake and said to her,

  ‘O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls,

  What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round,

  Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs

  And simple miracles of thy nunnery?’

  To whom the little novice garrulously,

  ‘Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs

  And wonders ere the coming of the Queen.

  So said my father, and himself was knight

  Of the great Table — at the founding of it;

  And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said