Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  “Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.”

  “Yea, so,” she said, “but so to pass me by—

  So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself,

  Whom all men rate the king of courtesy.

  Let be; ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.”

  Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers:

  “Yea—for a dream. Last night methought I saw

  That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand

  In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark,

  And all the light upon her silver face

  Flow’d from the spiritual lily that she held.

  Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes—away;

  For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush

  As hardly tints the blossom of the quince

  Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.”

  “Sweeter to me,” she said, “this garden rose

  Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still

  The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May!

  Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers

  In those fair days—not all as cool as these,

  Tho’ season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?

  Our noble King will send thee his own leech—

  Sick? or for any matter anger’d at me?”

  Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt

  Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall. Her hue

  Changed at his gaze; so turning side by side

  They past, and Balin started from his bower.

  “Queen? subject? but I see not what I see.

  Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear.

  My father hath begotten me in his wrath.

  I suffer from the things before me, know,

  Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight—

  A churl, a clown!” and in him gloom on gloom

  Deepen’d; he sharply caught his lance and shield,

  Nor stay’d to crave permission of the King,

  But mad for strange adventure, dash’d away.

  He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw

  The fountain where they sat together, sigh’d,

  “Was I not better there with him?” and rode

  The skyless woods, but under open blue

  Came on the hoar-head woodman at a bough

  Wearily hewing. “Churl, thine axe!” he cried,

  Descended, and disjointed it at a blow;

  To whom the woodman utter’d wonderingly,

  “Lord, thou couldst lay the devil of these woods

  If arm of flesh could lay him!” Balin cried,

  “Him, or the viler devil who plays his part;

  To lay that devil would lay the devil in me.”

  “Nay,” said the churl, “our devil is a truth,

  I saw the flash of him but yester-even.

  And some do say that our Sir Garlon too

  Hath learn’d black magic, and to ride unseen.

  Look to the cave.” But Balin answer’d him,

  “Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl;

  Look to thy woodcraft,” and so leaving him,

  Now with slack rein and careless of himself,

  Now with dug spur and raving at himself,

  Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode;

  So mark’d not on his right a cavern-chasm

  Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within,

  The whole day died, but, dying, gleam’d on rocks

  Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor,

  Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night

  Whereout the demon issued up from hell.

  He mark’d not this, but, blind and deaf to all

  Save that chain’d rage which ever yelpt within,

  Past eastward from the falling sun. At once

  He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud

  And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear,

  Shot from behind him, ran along the ground.

  Sideways he started from the path, and saw,

  With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape,

  A light of armor by him flash, and pass

  And vanish in the woods; and follow’d this,

  But all so blind in rage that unawares

  He burst his lance against a forest bough,

  Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled

  Far, till the castle of a king, the hall

  Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped

  With streaming grass, appear’d, low-built but strong;

  The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss,

  The battlement overtopt with ivy-tods.

  A home of bats, in every tower an owl.

  Then spake the men of Pellam crying, “Lord,

  Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?”

  Said Balin, “For the fairest and the best

  Of ladies living gave me this to bear.”

  So stall’d his horse, and strode across the court,

  But found the greetings both of knight and king

  Faint in the low dark hall of banquet. Leaves

  Laid their green faces flat against the panes,

  Sprays grated, and the canker’d boughs without

  Whined in the wood; for all was hush’d within,

  Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise ask’d,

  “Why wear ye that crown-royal?” Balin said,

  “The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all,

  As fairest, best, and purest, granted me

  To bear it!” Such a sound—for Arthur’s knights

  Were hated strangers in the hall—as makes

  The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears

  A strange knee rustle thro’ her secret reeds,

  Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled:

  “Fairest I grant her—I have seen; but best,

  Best, purest? thou from Arthur’s hall, and yet

  So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these

  So far besotted that they fail to see

  This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame?

  Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.”

  A goblet on the board by Balin, boss’d

  With holy Joseph’s legend, on his right

  Stood, all of massiest bronze. One side had sea

  And ship and sail and angels blowing on it;

  And one was rough with wattling, and the walls

  Of that low church he built at Glastonbury.

  This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl,

  Thro’ memory of that token on the shield

  Relax’d his hold. “I will be gentle,” he thought,

  “And passing gentle;” caught his hand away,

  Then fiercely to Sir Garlon: “Eyes have I

  That saw to-day the shadow of a spear,

  Shot from behind me, run along the ground;

  Eyes too that long have watch’d how Lancelot draws

  From homage to the best and purest, might,

  Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine

  Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure

  To mouth so huge a foulness—to thy guest,

  Me, me of Arthur’s Table. Felon talk!

  Let be! no more!”

  But not the less by night

  The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest,

  Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim thro’

  leaves

  Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs

  Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met

  The scorner in the castle court, and fain,

  For hate and loathing, would have past him by;

  But when Sir Garlon utter’d mocking-wise,

  “What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?”

  His countenance blacken’d, and his forehead veins

  Bloated and branch’d; and tearing out of sheath

  The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery, �
�Ha!

  So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,”

  Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew

  Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones.

  Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell,

  And Balin by the banneret of his helm

  Dragg’d him, and struck, but from the castle a cry

  Sounded across the court, and—men-at-arms,

  A score with pointed lances, making at him—

  He dash’d the pummel at the foremost face,

  Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet

  Wings thro’ a glimmering gallery, till he mark’d

  The portal of King Pellam’s chapel wide

  And inward to the wall; he stept behind;

  Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves

  Howling; but while he stared about the shrine,

  In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints,

  Beheld before a golden altar lie

  The longest lance his eyes had ever seen,

  Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon

  Push’d thro’ an open casement down, lean’d on it,

  Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth;

  Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side

  The blindfold rummage buried in the walls

  Might echo, ran the counter path, and found

  His charger, mounted on him and away.

  An arrow whizz’d to the right, one to the left,

  One overhead; and Pellam’s feeble cry,

  “Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things

  With earthly uses!” made him quickly dive

  Beneath the boughs, and race thro’ many a mile

  Of dense and open, till his goodly horse,

  Arising wearily at a fallen oak,

  Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground.

  Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad,

  Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed,

  Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck,

  Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought,

  “I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me,

  Thee will I bear no more,” high on a branch

  Hung it, and turn’d aside into the woods,

  And there in gloom cast himself all along,

  Moaning, “My violences, my violences!”

  But now the wholesome music of the wood

  Was dumb’d by one from out the hall of Mark,

  A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode

  The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her squire.

  “The fire of heaven has kill’d the barren cold,

  And kindled all the plain and all the wold.

  The new leaf ever pushes off the old.

  The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell.

  “Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire—

  Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world’s desire,

  Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire!

  The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell.

  “The fire of heaven is on the dusty ways.

  The wayside blossoms open to the blaze.

  The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.

  The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell.

  “The fire of heaven is lord of all things good,

  And starve not thou this fire within thy blood,

  But follow Vivien thro’ the fiery flood!

  The fire of heaven is not the flame of hell!”

  Then turning to her squire, “This fire of heaven,

  This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again,

  And beat the Cross to earth, and break the King

  And all his Table.”

  Then they reach’d a glade,

  Where under one long lane of cloudless air

  Before another wood, the royal crown

  Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm

  Drew the vague glance of Vivien and her squire.

  Amazed were these; “Lo there,” she cried—“a crown—

  Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur’s hall,

  And there a horse! the rider? where is he?

  See, yonder lies one dead within the wood.

  Not dead; he stirs!—but sleeping. I will speak.

  Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest,

  Not, doubtless, all unearn’d by noble deeds.

  But bounden art thou, if from Arthur’s hall,

  To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame,

  A lustful king, who sought to win my love

  Thro’ evil ways. The knight with whom I rode

  Hath suffer’d misadventure, and my squire

  Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince,

  Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King,

  Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid,

  To get me shelter for my maidenhood.

  I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield,

  And by the great Queen’s name, arise and hence.”

  And Balin rose: “Thither no more! nor prince

  Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed

  The cognizance she gave me. Here I dwell

  Savage among the savage woods, here die—

  Die—let the wolves’ black maws ensepulchre

  Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord!

  O me, that such a name as Guinevere’s,

  Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up,

  And been thereby uplifted, should thro’ me,

  My violence, and my villainy, come to shame!”

  Thereat she suddenly laugh’d and shrill, anon

  Sigh’d all as suddenly. Said Balin to her:

  “Is this thy courtesy—to mock me, ha?

  Hence, for I will not with thee.” Again she sigh’d:

  “Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh

  When sick at heart, when rather we should weep.

  I knew thee wrong’d. I brake upon thy rest,

  And now full loth am I to break thy dream,

  But thou art man, and canst abide a truth,

  Tho’ bitter. Hither, boy—and mark me well.

  Dost thou remember at Caerleon once—

  A year ago—nay, then I love thee not—

  Ay, thou rememberest well—one summer dawn—

  By the great tower—Caerleon upon Usk—

  Nay, truly we were hidden—this fair lord,

  The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt

  In amorous homage—knelt—what else?—O, ay,

  Knelt, and drew down from out his nightblack hair

  And mumbled that white hand whose ring’d caress

  Had wander’d from her own King’s golden head,

  And lost itself in darkness, till she cried—

  I thought the great tower would crash down on both—

  ‘Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips,

  Thou art my King.’ This lad, whose lightest word

  Is mere white truth in simple nakedness,

  Saw them embrace; he reddens, cannot speak,

  So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints,

  The deathless mother-maidenhood of heaven,

  Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me!

  Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou wouldst,

  Do these more shame than these have done

  themselves.”

  She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he,

  Remembering that dark bower at Camelot,

  Breathed in a dismal whisper, “It is truth.”

  Sunnily she smiled: “And even in this lone wood,

  Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this.

  Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues,

  As walls have ears; but thou shalt go with me,

  And we will speak at first exceeding low.

  Meet is it the good King be not deceived.

  See now, I set thee hig
h on vantage ground,

  From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like

  Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.”

  She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,

  He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell,

  Tore from the branch and cast on earth the shield,

  Drove his mail’d heel athwart the royal crown,

  Stampt all into defacement, hurl’d it from him

  Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,

  The told-of, and the teller.

  That weird yell,

  Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast,

  Thrill’d thro’ the woods; and Balan lurking there—

  His quest was unaccomplish’d—heard and thought

  “The scream of that wood-devil I came to quell!”

  Then nearing: “Lo! he hath slain some brother

  knight,

  And tramples on the goodly shield to show

  His loathing of our Order and the Queen.

  My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man,

  Guard thou thine head.” Sir Balan spake not a word,

  But snatch’d a sudden buckler from the squire,

  And vaulted on his horse, and so they crash’d

  In onset, and King Pellam’s holy spear,

  Reputed to be red with sinless blood,

  Redden’d at once with sinful, for the point

  Across the maiden shield of Balan prick’d

  The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin’s horse

  Was wearied to the death, and, when they clash’d,

  Rolling back upon Balin, crush’d the man

  Inward, and either fell and swoon’d away.

  Then to her squire mutter’d the damsel: “Fools!

  This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his

  Queen;

  Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved

  And thus foam’d over at a rival name.

  But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,

  Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down—

  Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk—

  And yet hast often pleaded for my love—

  See what I see, be thou where I have been,

  Or else, Sir Chick—dismount and loose their casques;

  I fain would know what manner of men they be.”

  And when the squire had loosed them, “Goodly!—