Idylls of the King

by Alfred Tennyson

  So often and with such blows, that all the crowd

  565 Wonder’d, and now and then from distant walls

  There came a clapping as of phantom hands.

  So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still

  The dew of their great labour, and the blood

  Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain’d their force.

  570 But either’s force was match’d till Yniol’s cry,

  ‘Remember that great insult done the Queen,’

  Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft,

  And crack’d the helmet thro’, and bit the bone,

  And fell’d him, and set foot upon his breast,

  575 And said, ‘Thy name?’ To whom the fallen man

  Made answer, groaning, ‘Edyrn, son of Nudd!

  Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.

  My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.’

  ‘Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,’ replied Geraint,

  580 ‘These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.

  First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf,

  Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and coming there,

  Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,

  And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,

  585 Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.

  These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.’

  And Edyrn answer’d, ‘These things will I do,

  For I have never yet been overthrown,

  And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride

  590 Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!’

  And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,

  And there the Queen forgave him easily.

  And being young, he changed and came to loathe

  His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself

  595 Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last

  In the great battle fighting for the King.

  But when the third day from the hunting-morn

  Made a low splendour in the world, and wings

  Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay

  600 With her fair head in the dim-yellow light,

  Among the dancing shadows of the birds,

  Woke and bethought her of her promise given

  No later than last eve to Prince Geraint –

  So bent he seem’d on going the third day,

  605 He would not leave her, till her promise given –

  To ride with him this morning to the court,

  And there be made known to the stately Queen,

  And there be wedded with all ceremony.

  At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,

  610 And thought it never yet had look’d so mean,

  For as a leaf in mid-November is

  To what it was in mid-October, seem’d

  The dress that now she look’d on to the dress

  She look’d on ere the coming of Geraint.

  615 And still she look’d, and still the terror grew

  Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,

  All staring at her in her faded silk:

  And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

  ‘This noble prince who won our earldom back,

  620 So splendid in his acts and his attire,

  Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!

  Would he could tarry with us here awhile,

  But being so beholden to the Prince,

  It were but little grace in any of us,

  625 Bent as he seem’d on going this third day,

  To seek a second favour at his hands.

  Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,

  Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame,

  Far liefer than so much discredit him.’

  630 And Enid fell in longing for a dress

  All branch’d and flower’d with gold, a costly gift

  Of her good mother, given her on the night

  Before her birthday, three sad years ago,

  That night of fire, when Edyrn sack’d their house,

  635 And scatter’d all they had to all the winds:

  For while the mother show’d it, and the two

  Were turning and admiring it, the work

  To both appear’d so costly, rose a cry

  That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled

  640 With little save the jewels they had on,

  Which being sold and sold had bought them bread:

  And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight,

  And placed them in this ruin; and she wish’d

  The Prince had found her in her ancient home;

  645 Then let her fancy flit across the past,

  And roam the goodly places that she knew;

  And last bethought her how she used to watch,

  Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;

  And one was patch’d and blurr’d and lustreless

  650 Among his burnish’d brethren of the pool;

  And half asleep she made comparison

  Of that and these to her own faded self

  And the gay court, and fell asleep again;

  And dreamt herself was such a faded form

  655 Among her burnish’d sisters of the pool;

  But this was in the garden of a king;

  And tho’ she lay dark in the pool, she knew

  That all was bright; that all about were birds

  Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work;

  660 That all the turf was rich in plots that look’d

  Each like a garment or a turkis in it;

  And lords and ladies of the high court went

  In silver tissue talking things of state;

  And children of the King in cloth of gold

  665 Glanced at the doors or gambol’d down the walks;

  And while she thought ‘They will not see me,’ came

  A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,

  And all the children in their cloth of gold

  Ran to her, crying, ‘If we have fish at all

  670 Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now

  To pick the faded creature from the pool,

  And cast it on the mixen that it die.’

  And therewithal one came and seized on her,

  And Enid started waking, with her heart

  675 All overshadow’d by the foolish dream,

  And lo! it was her mother grasping her

  To get her well awake; and in her hand

  A suit of bright apparel, which she laid

  Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

  680 ‘See here, my child, how fresh the colours look,

  How fast they hold, like colours of a shell

  That keeps the wear and polish of the wave.

  Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow:

  Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.’

  685 And Enid look’d, but all confused at first,

  Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream:

  Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced,

  And answer’d, ‘Yea, I know it; your good gift,

  So sadly lost on that unhappy night;

  690 Your own good gift!’ ‘Yea, surely,’ said the dame,

  ‘And gladly given again this happy morn.

  For when the jousts were ended yesterday,

  Went Yniol thro’ the town, and everywhere

  He found the sack and plunder of our house

  695 All scatter’d thro’ the houses of the town;

  And gave command that all which once was ours

  Should now be ours again: and yester-eve,

  While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince,

  Came one-with this and laid it in my hand,

  700 For love or fear, or seeking favour of us,

  Because we have our earldom back again.

  And yester-eve I would not tell you of it,

  But kept it for a swee
t surprise at morn.

  Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?

  705 For I myself unwillingly have worn

  My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,

  And howsoever patient, Yniol his.

  Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,

  With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,

  710 And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,

  And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all

  That appertains to noble maintenance.

  Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;

  But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade,

  715 And all thro’ that young traitor, cruel need

  Constrain’d us, but a better time has come;

  So clothe yourself in this, that better fits

  Our mended fortunes and a Prince’s bride:

  For tho’ ye won the prize of fairest fair,

  720 And tho’ I heard him call you fairest fair,

  Let never maiden think, however fair,

  She is not fairer in new clothes than old.

  And should some great court-lady say, the Prince

  Hath pick’d a ragged-robin from the hedge,

  725 And like a madman brought her to the court,

  Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince

  To whom we are beholden; but I know,

  When my dear child is set forth at her best,

  That neither court nor country, tho’ they sought

  730 Thro’ all the provinces like those of old

  That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.’

  Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;

  And Enid listen’d brightening as she lay;

  Then, as the white and glittering star of morn

  735 Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by

  Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,

  And left her maiden couch, and robed herself,

  Help’d by the mother’s careful hand and eye,

  Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown;

  740 Who, after, turn’d her daughter round, and said,

  She never yet had seen her half so fair;

  And call’d her like that maiden in the tale,

  Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers,

  And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,

  745 Flur, for whose love the Roman Cæsar first

  Invaded Britain, ‘But we beat him back,

  As this great Prince invaded us, and we,

  Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy.

  And I can scarcely ride with you to court,

  750 For old am I, and rough the ways and wild;

  But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream

  I see my princess as I see her now,

  Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.’

  But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint

  755 Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call’d

  For Enid, and when Yniol made report

  Of that good mother making Enid gay

  In such apparel as might well beseem

  His princess, or indeed the stately Queen,

  760 He answer’d: ‘Earl, entreat her by my love,

  Albeit I give no reason but my wish,

  That she ride with me in her faded silk.’

  Yniol with that hard message went; it fell

  Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn:

  765 For Enid, all abash’d she knew not why,

  Dared not to glance at her good mother’s face,

  But silently, in all obedience,

  Her mother silent too, nor helping her,

  Laid from her limbs the costly-broider’d gift,

  770 And robed them in her ancient suit again,

  And so descended. Never man rejoiced

  More than Geraint to greet her thus attired;

  And glancing all at once as keenly at her

  As careful robins eye the delver’s toil,

  775 Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall,

  But rested with her sweet face satisfied;

  Then seeing cloud upon the mother’s brow,

  Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said,

  ‘O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved

  780 At thy new son, for my petition to her.

  When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen,

  In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,

  Made promise, that whatever bride I brought,

  Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.

  785 Thereafter, when I reach’d this ruin’d hall,

  Beholding one so bright in dark estate,

  I vow’d that could I gain her, our fair Queen,

  No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst

  Sunlike from cloud – and likewise thought perhaps,

  790 That service done so graciously would bind

  The two together; fain I would the two

  Should love each other: how can Enid find

  A nobler friend? Another thought was mine;

  I came among you here so suddenly,

  795 That tho’ her gentle presence at the lists

  Might well have served for proof that I was loved,

  I doubted whether daughter’s tenderness,

  Or easy nature, might not let itself

  Be moulded by your wishes for her weal;

  800 Or whether some false sense in her own self

  Of my contrasting brightness, overbore

  Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall;

  And such a sense might make her long for court

  And all its perilous glories: and I thought,

  805 That could I someway prove such force in her

  Link’d with such love for me, that at a word

  (No reason given her) she could cast aside

  A splendour dear to women, new to her,

  And therefore dearer; or if not so new,

  810 Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power

  Of intermitted usage; then I felt

  That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,

  Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest,

  A prophet certain of my prophecy,

  815 That never shadow of mistrust can cross

  Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts:

  And for my strange petition I will make

  Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,

  When your fair child shall wear your costly gift

  820 Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees,

  Who knows? another gift of the high God,

  Which, maybe, shall have learn’d to lisp you thanks.’

  He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears,

  Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,

  825 And claspt and kiss’d her, and they rode away.

  Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb’d

  The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,

  Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,

  And white sails flying on the yellow sea;

  830 But not to goodly hill or yellow sea

  Look’d the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,

  By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;

  And then descending met them at the gates,

  Embraced her with all welcome as a friend,

  835 And did her honour as the Prince’s bride,

  And clothed her for her bridals like the sun;

  And all that week was old Caerleon gay,

  For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,

  They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

  840 And this was on the last year’s Whitsuntide.

  But Enid ever kept the faded silk,

  Remembering how first he came on her,

  Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,

  And all her foolish fears about the dress,

  845 And all his journey toward her,
as himself

  Had told her, and their coming to the court.

  And now this morning when he said to her,

  ‘Put on your worst and meanest dress,’ she found

  And took it, and array’d herself therein.

  Geraint and Enid

  O purblind race of miserable men,

  How many among us at this very hour

  Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,

  By taking true for false, or false for true;

  5 Here, thro’ the feeble twilight of this world

  Groping, how many, until we pass and reach

  That other, where we see as we are seen!

  So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth

  That morning, when they both had got to horse,

  10 Perhaps because he loved her passionately,

  And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,

  Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce

  Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:

  ‘Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,

  15 Ever a good way on before; and this

  I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,

  Whatever happens, not to speak to me,

  No, not a word!’ and Enid was aghast;

  And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,

  20 When crying out, ‘Effeminate as I am,

  I will not fight my way with gilded arms,

  All shall be iron;’ he loosed a mighty purse,

  Hung at his belt, and hurl’d it toward the squire.

  So the last sight that Enid had of home

  25 Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown

  With gold and scatter’d coinage, and the squire

  Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again,

  ‘To the wilds!’ and Enid leading down the tracks

  Thro’ which he bad her lead him on, they past

  30 The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,

  Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,

  And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:

  Round was their pace at first, but slacken’d soon:

  A stranger meeting them had surely thought

  35 They rode so slowly and they look’d so pale,

  That each had suffer’d some exceeding wrong.

  For he was ever saying to himself,

  ‘O I that wasted time to tend upon her,

  To compass her with sweet observances,

  40 To dress her beautifully and keep her true’ –

  And there he broke the sentence in his heart

  Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue

  May break it, when his passion masters him.

  And she was ever praying the sweet heavens

  45 To save her dear lord whole from any wound.