Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

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Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 8

by Alfred Tennyson


  With broken wings, torn raiment, and loose hair,

  For help and shelter to the hermit’s cave.

  “Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,

  Who comes behind?”

  For one—delay’d at first

  Thro’ helping back the dislocated Kay

  To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,

  The damsel’s headlong error thro’ the wood—

  Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops—

  His blue shield-lions cover’d—softly drew

  Behind the twain, and when he saw the star

  Gleam, on Sir Gareth’s turning to him, cried,

  “Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.”

  And Gareth crying prick’d against the cry;

  But when they closed—in a moment—at one touch

  Of that skill’d spear, the wonder of the world—

  Went sliding down so easily, and fell,

  That when he found the grass within his hands

  He laugh’d. The laughter jarr’d upon Lynette.

  Harshly she ask’d him, “Shamed and overthrown,

  And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,

  Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?”

  “Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son

  Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,

  And victor of the bridges and the ford,

  And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom

  I know not, all thro’ mere unhappiness—

  Device and sorcery and unhappiness—

  Out, sword; we are thrown!” And Lancelot

  answer’d: “Prince,

  O Gareth—thro’ the mere unhappiness

  Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,

  Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole

  As on the day when Arthur knighted him.”

  Then Gareth: “Thou—Lancelot!—thine the hand

  That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast

  Thy brethren of thee make—which could not

  chance—

  Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,

  Shamed had I been, and sad—O Lancelot—thou!”

  Whereat the maiden, petulant: “Lancelot,

  Why came ye not, when call’d? and wherefore now

  Come ye, not call’d? I gloried in my knave,

  Who being still rebuked would answer still

  Courteous as any knight—but now, if knight,

  The marvel dies, and leaves me fool’d and trick’d,

  And only wondering wherefore play’d upon;

  And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn’d.

  Where should be truth if not in Arthur’s hall,

  In Arthur’s presence? Knight, knave, prince and

  fool,

  I hate thee and forever.”

  And Lancelot said:

  “Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou

  To the King’s best wish. O damsel, be you wise,

  To call him shamed who is but overthrown?

  Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.

  Victor from vanquish’d issues at the last,

  And overthrower from being overthrown.

  With sword we have not striven, and thy good horse

  And thou art weary; yet not less I felt

  Thy manhood thro’ that wearied lance of thine.

  Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,

  And thou hast wreak’d his justice on his foes,

  And when reviled hast answer’d graciously,

  And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, knight,

  Hail, knight and prince, and of our Table Round!”

  And then when turning to Lynette he told

  The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said:

  “Ay, well—ay, well—for worse than being fool’d

  Of others, is to fool one’s self. A cave,

  Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks

  And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.

  But all about it flies a honeysuckle.

  Seek, till we find.” And when they sought and

  found,

  Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life

  Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed:

  “Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast

  thou.

  Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him

  As any mother? Ay, but such a one

  As all day long hath rated at her child,

  And vext his day, but blesses him asleep—

  Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle

  In the hush’d night, as if the world were one

  Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!

  O Lancelot, Lancelot,” and she clapt her hands—

  “Full merry am I to find my goodly knave

  Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,

  Else yon black felon had not let me pass,

  To bring thee back to do the battle with him.

  Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;

  Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave

  Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.”

  Said Lancelot: “Peradventure he you name

  May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,

  Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,

  Not to be spurr’d, loving the battle as well

  As he that rides him.” “Lancelot-like,” she said,

  “Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.”

  And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch’d the

  shield:

  “Ramp, ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all

  spears

  Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!

  Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!—

  Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.

  O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these

  Streams virtue—fire—thro’ one that will not shame

  Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.

  Hence; let us go.”

  Silent the silent field

  They traversed. Arthur’s Harp tho’ summer-wan,

  In counter motion to the clouds, allured

  The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.

  A star shot: “Lo,” said Gareth, “the foe falls!”

  An owl whoopt: “Hark the victor pealing there!”

  Suddenly she that rode upon his left

  Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying:

  “Yield, yield him this again; ’t is he must fight:

  I curse the tongue that all thro’ yesterday

  Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now

  To lend thee horse and shield. Wonders ye have

  done,

  Miracles ye cannot. Here is glory enow

  In having flung the three. I see thee maim’d,

  Mangled; I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.”

  “And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.

  You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,

  Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery

  Appal me from the quest.”

  “Nay, prince,” she cried,

  “God wot, I never look’d upon the face,

  Seeing he never rides abroad by day,

  But watch’d him have I like a phantom pass

  Chilling the night; nor have I heard the voice.

  Always he made his mouthpiece of a page

  Who came and went, and still reported him

  As closing in himself the strength of ten,

  And when his anger tare him, massacring

  Man, woman, lad, and girl—yea, the soft babe!

  Some hold that he hath swallow’d infant flesh,

  Monster! O prince, I went for Lancelot first,

  The quest is Lancelot’s; give him back the shield.”

  Said Gareth laughing, “An
he fight for this,

  Belike he wins it as the better man;

  Thus—and not else!”

  But Lancelot on him urged

  All the devisings of their chivalry

  When one might meet a mightier than himself;

  How best to manage horse, lance, sword, and shield,

  And so fill up the gap where force might fail

  With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.

  Then Gareth: “Here be rules. I know but one—

  To dash against mine enemy and to win.

  Yet have I watch’d thee victor in the joust,

  And seen thy way.” “Heaven help thee!” sigh’d

  Lynette.

  Then for a space, and under cloud that grew

  To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode

  In converse till she made her palfrey halt,

  Lifted an arm, and softly whisper’d, “There.”

  And all the three were silent seeing, pitch’d

  Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,

  A huge pavilion like a mountain peak

  Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,

  Black, with black banner, and a long black horn

  Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,

  And so, before the two could hinder him,

  Sent all his heart and breath thro’ all the horn.

  Echo’d the walls; a light twinkled; anon

  Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;

  Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down

  And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;

  Till high above him, circled with her maids,

  The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,

  Beautiful among lights, and waving to him

  White hands and courtesy. But when the prince

  Three times had blown—after long hush—at last—

  The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,

  Thro’ those black foldings, that which housed

  therein.

  High on a night-black horse, in night-black arms,

  With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,

  And crown’d with fleshless laughter—some ten

  steps—

  In the half-light—thro’ the dim dawn—advanced

  The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.

  But Gareth spake and all indignantly:

  “Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,

  Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,

  But must, to make the terror of thee more,

  Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries

  Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,

  Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers

  As if for pity?” But he spake no word;

  Which set the horror higher. A maiden swoon’d;

  The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,

  As doom’d to be the bride of Night and Death;

  Sir Gareth’s head prickled beneath his helm;

  And even Sir Lancelot thro’ his warm blood felt

  Ice strike, and all that mark’d him were aghast.

  At once Sir Lancelot’s charger fiercely neigh’d,

  And Death’s dark war-horse bounded forward

  with him.

  Then those that did not blink the terror saw

  That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.

  But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.

  Half fell to right and half to left and lay.

  Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm

  As throughly as the skull; and out from this

  Issued the bright face of a blooming boy

  Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, “Knight,

  Slay me not; my three brethren bade me do it,

  To make a horror all about the house,

  And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.

  They never dream’d the passes would be past.”

  Answer’d Sir Gareth graciously to one

  Not many a moon his younger, “My fair child,

  What madness made thee challenge the chief knight

  Of Arthur’s hall?” “Fair Sir, they bade me do it.

  They hate the King and Lancelot, the King’s friend;

  They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,

  They never dream’d the passes could be past.”

  Then sprang the happier day from underground;

  And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance

  And revel and song, made merry over Death,

  As being after all their foolish fears

  And horrors only proven a blooming boy.

  So large mirth lived, and Gareth won the quest.

  And he that told the tale in older times

  Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,

  But he that told it later says Lynette.

  THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT

  THE brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur’s court,

  A tributary prince of Devon, one

  Of that great Order of the Table Round,

  Had married Enid, Yniol’s only child,

  And loved her as he loved the light of heaven.

  And as the light of heaven varies, now

  At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night

  With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint

  To make her beauty vary day by day,

  In crimsons and in purples and in gems.

  And Enid, but to please her husband’s eye,

  Who first had found and loved her in a state

  Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him

  In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself,

  Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,

  Loved her, and often with her own white hands

  Array’d and deck’d her, as the loveliest,

  Next after her own self, in all the court.

  And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart

  Adored her, as the stateliest and the best

  And loveliest of all women upon earth.

  And seeing them so tender and so close,

  Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.

  But when a rumor rose about the Queen,

  Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,

  Tho’ yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard

  The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm,

  Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell

  A horror on him lest his gentle wife,

  Thro’ that great tenderness for Guinevere,

  Had suffer’d or should suffer any taint

  In nature. Wherefore, going to the King,

  He made this pretext, that his princedom lay

  Close on the borders of a territory

  Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,

  Assassins, and all flyers from the hand

  Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law;

  And therefore, till the King himself should please

  To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,

  He craved a fair permission to depart,

  And there defend his marches. And the King

  Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,

  Allowing it, the prince and Enid rode,

  And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores

  Of Severn, and they past to their own land;

  Where, thinking that, if ever yet was wife

  True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,

  He compass’d her with sweet observances

  And worship, never leaving her, and grew

  Forgetful of his promise to the King,

  Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt,

  Forgetful of the tilt and tournament,

  Forgetful of his glory and his name,

  Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.

  And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.

  And by and by the people, when they
met

  In twos and threes, or fuller companies,

  Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him

  As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,

  And molten down in mere uxoriousness.

  And this she gather’d from the people’s eyes;

  This too the women who attired her head,

  To please her, dwelling on his boundless love,

  Told Enid, and they sadden’d her the more;

  And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,

  But could not out of bashful delicacy,

  While he, that watch’d her sadden, was the more

  Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

  At last, it chanced that on a summer morn—

  They sleeping each by either—the new sun

  Beat thro’ the blindless casement of the room,

  And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;

  Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside,

  And bared the knotted column of his throat,

  The massive square of his heroic breast,

  And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,

  As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone,

  Running too vehemently to break upon it.

  And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,

  Admiring him, and thought within herself,

  Was ever man so grandly made as he?

  Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk

  And accusation of uxoriousness

  Across her mind, and bowing over him,

  Low to her own heart piteously she said:

  “O noble breast and all-puissant arms,

  Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men

  Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

  I am the cause, because I dare not speak

  And tell him what I think and what they say.

  And yet I hate that he should linger here;

  I cannot love my lord and not his name.

  Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,

  And ride with him to battle and stand by,

  And watch his mightful hand striking great blows

  At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

  Far better were I laid in the dark earth,

  Not hearing any more his noble voice,

  Not to be folded more in these dear arms,

  And darken’d from the high light in his eyes,

 

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