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