Than that my lord thro’ me should suffer shame.
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,
Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes,
And yet not dare to tell him what I think,
And how men slur him, saying all his force
Is melted into mere effeminacy?
O me, I fear that I am no true wife!”
Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,
And the strong passion in her made her weep
True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
And these awoke him, and by great mischance
He heard but fragments of her later words,
And that she fear’d she was not a true wife.
And then he thought, “In spite of all my care,
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
She is not faithful to me, and I see her
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.”
Then, tho’ he loved and reverenced her too much
To dream she could be guilty of foul act,
Right thro’ his manful breast darted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
At this he hurl’d his huge limbs out of bed,
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,
“My charger and her palfrey;” then to her,
“I will ride forth into the wilderness,
For, tho’ it seems my spurs are yet to win,
I have not fallen so low as some would wish.
And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress
And ride with me.” And Enid ask’d, amazed,
“If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.”
But he, “I charge thee, ask not, but obey.”
Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
A faded mantle and a faded veil,
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
Wherein she kept them folded reverently
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds,
She took them, and array’d herself therein,
Remembering when first he came on her
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
And all her foolish fears about the dress,
And all his journey to her, as himself
Had told her, and their coming to the court.
For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
Before him came a forester of Dean,
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,
First seen that day; these things he told the King.
Then the good King gave order to let blow
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn,
And when the Queen petition’d for his leave
To see the hunt, allow’d it easily.
So with the morning all the court were gone.
But Guinevere lay late into the morn,
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt,
But rose at last, a single maiden with her,
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain’d the wood;
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay’d
Waiting to hear the hounds, but heard instead
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
Nor weapon save a golden-hilted brand,
Came quickly flashing thro’ the shallow ford
Behind them, and so gallop’d up the knoll.
A purple scarf, at either end whereof
There swung an apple of the purest gold,
Sway’d round about him, as he gallop’d up
To join them, glancing like a dragonfly
In summer suit and silks of holiday.
Low bow’d the tributary prince, and she,
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer’d him:
“Late, late, Sir Prince,” she said, “later than we!”
“Yea, noble Queen,” he answer’d, “and so late
That I but come like you to see the hunt,
Not join it.” “Therefore wait with me,” she said;
“For on this little knoll, if anywhere,
There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
Here often they break covert at our feet.”
And while they listen’d for the distant hunt,
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall,
King Arthur’s hound of deepest mouth, there rode
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
Whereof the dwarf lagg’d latest, and the knight
Had vizor up, and show’d a youthful face,
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments.
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face
In the King’s hall, desired his name, and sent
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf,
Who being vicious, old, and irritable,
And doubling all his master’s vice of pride,
Made answer sharply that she should not know.
“Then will I ask it of himself,” she said.
“Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,” cried the dwarf;
“Thou art not worthy even to speak of him;”
And when she put her horse toward the knight,
Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d
Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
Exclaiming, “Surely I will learn the name,”
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask’d it of him,
Who answer’d as before; and when the prince
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
The prince’s blood spirted upon the scarf,
Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him:
But he, from his exceeding manfulness
And pure nobility of temperament,
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain’d
From even a word, and so returning said:
“I will avenge this insult, noble Queen,
Done in your maiden’s person to yourself,
And I will track this vermin to their earths;
For tho’ I ride unarm’d, I do not doubt
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
And on the third day will again be here,
So that I be not fallen in fight. Farewell.”
“Farewell, fair prince,” answer’d the stately
Queen.
“Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;
And may you light on all things that you love,
And live to wed with her whom first you love.
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
And I, were she the daughter of a king,
Yea, tho’ she were a beggar from the hedge,
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.”
And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
A little vext at losing of the hunt,
A little at the vile occasion, rode,
By ups and downs, thro’ many a grassy glade
And valley, with fixt eye following the three.
At last they issued from the world of wood,
And climb’d upon a fair and even ridge,
And show’d themselves against the sky, and sank.
And thither came Geraint, and underneath
Beheld the long street of a little town
In a long valley, on one side whereof,
White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose;
And on one side a castle in decay,
Beyond a bridge that spann’d a dry ravine.
And out of town and valley came a noise
As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks
At distance, ere they settle for the night.
And onward to the fortress rode the three,
And enter’d, and were lost behind the walls.
“So,” thought Geraint, “I have track’d him to his
earth.”
And down the long street riding wearily,
Found every hostel full, and everywhere
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
And bustling whistle of the youth who scour’d
His master’s armor; and of such a one
He ask’d, “What means the tumult in the town?”
Who told him, scouring still, “The sparrow-hawk!”
Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,
Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here?
Who answer’d gruffly, “Ugh! the sparrow-hawk!”
Then riding further past an armorer’s,
Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d above his work,
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
He put the selfsame query, but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:
“Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk
Has little time for idle questioners.”
Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen:
“A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead!
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
The murmur of the world! What is it to me?
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad,
Where can I get me harborage for the night?
And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!”
Whereat the armorer turning all amazed
And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
And answer’d: “Pardon me, O stranger knight;
We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,
And there is scantly time for half the work.
Arms? truth! I know not; all are wanted here.
Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,
It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge
Yonder.” He spoke and fell to work again.
Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
Across the bridge that spann’d the dry ravine.
There musing sat the hoary-headed earl—
His dress a suit of fray’d magnificence,
Once fit for feasts of ceremony—and said:
“Whither, fair son?” to whom Geraint replied,
“O friend, I seek a harborage for the night.”
Then Yniol, “Enter therefore and partake
The slender entertainment of a house
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door’d.”
“Thanks, venerable friend,” replied Geraint;
“So that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks
For supper, I will enter, I will eat
With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast.”
Then sigh’d and smiled the hoary-headed earl,
And answer’d, “Graver cause than yours is mine
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk.
But in, go in; for save yourself desire it,
We will not touch upon him even in jest.”
Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
His charger trampling many a prickly star
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
He look’d and saw that all was ruinous.
Here stood a shatter’d archway plumed with fern;
And here had fallen a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers;
And high above a piece of turret stair,
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,
And suck’d the joining of the stones, and look’d
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.
And while he waited in the castle court,
The voice of Enid, Yniol’s daughter, rang
Clear thro’ the open casement of the hall,
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle,
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
That sings so delicately clear, and make
Conjecture of the plumage and the form,
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint,
And made him like a man abroad at morn
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemm’d with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend,
Or it may be the labor of his hands,
To think or say, “There is the nightingale:”
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
“Here, by God’s grace, is the one voice for me.”
It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:
“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
“Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate.
“Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.”
“Hark, by the bird’s song ye may learn the nest,”
Said Yniol; “enter quickly.” Entering then,
Right o’er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
The dusky-rafter’d many-cobweb’d hall,
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,
“Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me.”
But none spake word except the hoary earl:
“Enid, the good knight’s horse stands in the court;
Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;
And we will make us merry as we may.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.”
He spake; the prince, as Enid past him, fain
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught
His purple scarf, and held, and said, “Forbear!
Rest! the good house, tho’ ruin’d, O my son,
Endures not that her guest should serve himself.”
And reverencing the custom of the house
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.
So Enid took his charger to the stall,
And after went her way across the bridge,
And reach’d the town, and whi
le the prince and earl
Yet spoke together, came again with one,
A youth that, following with a costrel, bore
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,
And, in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.
And then, because their hall must also serve
For kitchen, boil’d the flesh, and spread the board,
And stood behind, and waited on the three.
And, seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
Geraint had longing in him evermore
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb
That crost the trencher as she laid it down.
But after all had eaten, then Geraint,
For now the wine made summer in his veins,
Let his eye rove in following, or rest
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work,
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;
Then suddenly addrest the hoary earl:
“Fair host and earl, I pray your courtesy;
This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.
His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it;
For if he be the knight whom late I saw
Ride into that new fortress by your town,
White from the mason’s hand, then have I sworn
From his own lips to have it—I am Geraint
Of Devon—for this morning when the Queen
Sent her own maiden to demand the name,
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,
Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d
Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore
That I would track this caitiff to his hold,
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.
And all unarm’d I rode, and thought to find
Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg
For the great wave that echoes round the world.
They would not hear me speak; but if ye know
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn
That I will break his pride and learn his name,
Avenging this great insult done the Queen.”
Then cried Earl Yniol: “Art thou he indeed,
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men
For noble deeds? and truly I, when first
Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 9