Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  look!

  They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,

  And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,

  Dead for one heifer!”

  Then the gentle squire:

  “I hold them happy, so they died for love;

  And, Vivien, tho’ ye beat me like your dog,

  I too could die, as now I live, for thee.”

  “Live on, Sir Boy,” she cried; “I better prize

  The living dog than the dead lion. Away!

  I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.”

  Then leapt her palfrey o’er the fallen oak,

  And bounding forward, “Leave them to the wolves.”

  But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,

  Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,

  Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan,

  Crawl’d slowly with low moans to where he lay,

  And on his dying brother cast himself

  Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt

  One near him; all at once they found the world,

  Staring wild-wide, then with a childlike wail,

  And drawing down the dim disastrous brow

  That o’er him hung, he kiss’d it, moan’d, and spake:

  “O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died

  To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.

  Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why

  Trampled ye thus on that which bare the crown?”

  Then Balin told him brokenly and in gasps

  All that had chanced, and Balan moan’d again:

  “Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam’s hall;

  This Garlon mock’d me, but I heeded not.

  And one said, ‘Eat in peace! a liar is he,

  And hates thee for the tribute!’ This good knight

  Told me that twice a wanton damsel came,

  And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,

  Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.

  I well believe this damsel, and the one

  Who stood beside thee even now, the same.

  ‘She dwells among the woods,’ he said, ‘and meets

  And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell.’

  Foul are their lives, foul are their lips; they lied.

  Pure as our own true mother is our Queen.”

  “O brother,” answer’d Balin, “woe is me!

  My madness all thy life has been thy doom,

  Thy curse, and darken’d all thy day; and now

  The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.

  Good night! for we shall never bid again

  Good morrow—Dark my doom was here, and dark

  It will be there. I see thee now no more.

  I would not mine again should darken thine;

  Good night, true brother.”

  Balan answer’d low,

  “Good night, true brother, here! good morrow

  there!

  We two were born together, and we die

  Together by one doom:” and while he spoke

  Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep

  620 With Balin, either lock’d in either’s arm.

  MERLIN AND VIVIEN

  A STORM was coming, but the winds were still,

  And in the wild woods of Broceliande,

  Before an oak, so hollow, huge, and old

  It look’d a tower of ivied masonwork,

  At Merlin’s feet the wily Vivien lay.

  For he that always bare in bitter grudge

  The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark

  The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,

  A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm

  Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say

  That out of naked knight-like purity

  Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl,

  But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,

  Sware by her—vows like theirs that high in heaven

  Love most, but neither marry nor are given

  In marriage, angels of our Lord’s report.

  He ceased, and then—for Vivien sweetly said—

  She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark,—

  “And is the fair example follow’d, sir,

  In Arthur’s household?”—answer’d innocently:—

  “Ay, by some few—ay, truly—youths that hold

  It more beseems the perfect virgin knight

  To worship woman as true wife beyond

  All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.

  They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.

  So passionate for an utter purity

  Beyond the limit of their bond are these,

  For Arthur bound them not to singleness.

  Brave hearts and clean! and yet—God guide

  them!—young.”

  Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup

  Straight at the speaker, but forbore. He rose

  To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,

  Turn’d to her: “Here are snakes within the grass;

  And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear

  The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure

  Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.”

  And Vivien answer’d, smiling scornfully:

  “Why fear? because that foster’d at thy court

  I savor of thy—virtues? fear them? no,

  As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear,

  So hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

  My father died in battle against the King,

  My mother on his corpse in open field;

  She bore me there, for born from death was I

  Among the dead and sown upon the wind—

  And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes,

  That old true filth, and bottom of the well,

  Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine,

  And maxims of the mud! ‘This Arthur pure!

  Great Nature thro’ the flesh herself hath made

  Gives him the lie! There is no being pure,

  My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?’—

  If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood.

  Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back,

  When I have ferreted out their burrowings,

  The hearts of all this Order in mine hand—

  Ay—so that fate and craft and folly close,

  Perchance, one curl of Arthur’s golden beard.

  To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine

  Is cleaner-fashion’d—Well, I loved thee first;

  That warps the wit.”

  Loud laugh’d the graceless Mark.

  But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged

  Low in the city, and on a festal day

  When Guinevere was crossing the great hall

  Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wail’d.

  “Why kneel ye there? What evil have ye wrought?

  Rise!” and the damsel bidden rise arose

  And stood with folded hands and downward eyes

  Of glancing corner and all meekly said:

  “None wrought, but suffer’d much, an orphan maid!

  My father died in battle for thy King,

  My mother on his corpse—in open field,

  The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse—

  Poor wretch—no friend!—and now by Mark the King,

  For that small charm of feature mine, pursued—

  If any such be mine—I fly to thee.

  Save, save me thou! Woman of women—thine

  The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power,

  Be thine the balm of pity, O heaven’s own white

  Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King—

  Help, for he follows! take me to thyself!

  O yield me shelter for mine innocency

  Among thy maidens!”

  Here her slow sweet eyes

 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose

  Fixt on her hearer’s, while the Queen who stood

  All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves

  In green and gold, and plumed with green, replied:

  “Peace, child! of overpraise and over-blame

  We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him

  Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know.

  Nay—we believe all evil of thy Mark—

  Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour

  We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot.

  He hath given us a fair falcon which he train’d;

  We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.”

  She past; and Vivien murmur’d after, “Go!

  I bide the while.” Then thro’ the portal-arch

  Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise,

  As one that labors with an evil dream,

  Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse.

  “Is that the Lancelot? goodly—ay, but gaunt;

  Courteous—amends for gauntness—takes her hand—

  That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been

  A clinging kiss—how hand lingers in hand!

  Let go at last!—they ride away—to hawk

  For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine.

  For such a supersensual sensual bond

  As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth—

  Touch flax with flame—a glance will serve—the liars!

  Ah little rat that borest in the dyke

  Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep

  Down upon far-off cities while they dance—

  Or dream—of thee they dream’d not—nor of me

  These—ay, but each of either; ride, and dream

  The mortal dream that never yet was mine—

  Ride, ride and dream until ye wake—to me!

  Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell!

  For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat,

  And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know,

  Will hate, loathe, fear—but honor me the more.”

  Yet while they rode together down the plain,

  Their talk was all of training, terms of art,

  Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure.

  “She is too noble,” he said, “to check at pies,

  Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.”

  Here when the Queen demanded as by chance,

  “Know ye the stranger woman?” “Let her be,”

  Said Lancelot, and unhooded casting off

  The goodly falcon free; she tower’d; her bells,

  Tone under tone, shrill’d; and they lifted up

  Their eager faces, wondering at the strength,

  Boldness, and royal knighthood of the bird,

  Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time

  As once—of old—among the flowers—they rode.

  But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen

  Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watch’d,

  And whisper’d. Thro’ the peaceful court she crept

  And whisper’d; then, as Arthur in the highest

  Leaven’d the world, so Vivien in the lowest,

  Arriving at a time of golden rest,

  And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear,

  While all the heathen lay at Arthur’s feet,

  And no quest came, but all was joust and play,

  Leaven’d his hall. They heard and let her be.

  Thereafter, as an enemy that has left

  Death in the living waters and withdrawn,

  The wily Vivien stole from Arthur’s court.

  She hated all the knights, and heard in thought

  Their lavish comment when her name was named.

  For once, when Arthur walking all alone,

  Vext at a rumor issued from herself

  Of some corruption crept among his knights,

  Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair,

  Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood

  With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice,

  And flutter’d adoration, and at last

  With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more

  Than who should prize him most; at which the King

  Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by.

  But one had watch’d, and had not held his peace;

  It made the laughter of an afternoon

  That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.

  And after that, she set herself to gain

  Him, the most famous man of all those times,

  Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts,

  Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls,

  Was also bard, and knew the starry heavens;

  The people call’d him wizard; whom at first

  She play’d about with slight and sprightly talk,

  And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom’d points

  Of slander, glancing here and grazing there;

  And yielding to his kindlier moods, the seer

  Would watch her at her petulance and play,

  Even when they seem’d unlovable, and laugh

  As those that watch a kitten. Thus he grew

  Tolerant of what he half disdain’d, and she,

  Perceiving that she was but half disdain’d,

  Began to break her sports with graver fits,

  Turn red or pale, would often when they met

  Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him

  With such a fixt devotion that the old man,

  Tho’ doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times

  Would flatter his own wish in age for love,

  And half believe her true; for thus at times

  He waver’d, but that other clung to him,

  Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.

  Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy;

  He walk’d with dreams and darkness, and he found

  A doom that ever poised itself to fall,

  An ever-moaning battle in the mist,

  World-war of dying flesh against the life,

  Death in all life and lying in all love,

  The meanest having power upon the highest,

  And the high purpose broken by the worm.

  So leaving Arthur’s court he gain’d the beach,

  There found a little boat and stept into it;

  And Vivien follow’d but he mark’d her not.

  She took the helm and he the sail; the boat

  Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps,

  And, touching Breton sands, they disembark’d.

  And then she follow’d Merlin all the way,

  Even to the wild woods of Broceliande.

  For Merlin once had told her of a charm,

  The which if any wrought on any one

  With woven paces and with waving arms,

  The man so wrought on ever seem’d to lie

  Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower,

  From which was no escape for evermore;

  And none could find that man for evermore,

  Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm

  Coming and going, and he lay as dead

  And lost to life and use and name and fame.

  And Vivien ever sought to work the charm

  Upon the great enchanter of the time,

  As fancying that her glory would be great

  According to his greatness whom she quench’d.

  There lay she all her length and kiss’d his feet,

  As if in deepest reverence and in love.

  A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe

  Of samite without price, that more exprest

  Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs,

  In color like the satin-shining palm

  On sallows in the windy gleams of March.

  And while she kiss’d them, crying, “Trample me,

  Dear feet, that I have f
ollowed thro’ the world,

  And I will pay you worship; tread me down

  And I will kiss you for it;” he was mute.

  So dark a forethought roll’d about his brain,

  As on a dull day in an ocean cave

  The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall

  In silence; wherefore, when she lifted up

  A face of sad appeal, and spake and said,

  “O Merlin, do ye love me?” and again,

  “O Merlin, do ye love me?” and once more,

  “Great Master, do ye love me?” he was mute.

  And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel,

  Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat,

  Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet

  Together, curved an arm about his neck,

  Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand

  Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf,

  Made with her right a comb of pearl to part

  The lists of such a beard as youth gone out

  Had left in ashes. Then he spoke and said,

  Not looking at her, “Who are wise in love

  Love most, say least,” and Vivien answer’d quick:

  “I saw the little elf-god eyeless once

  In Arthur’s arras hall at Camelot;

  But neither eyes nor tongue—O stupid child!

  Yet you are wise who say it; let me think

  Silence is wisdom. I am silent then,

  And ask no kiss;” then adding all at once,

  “And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,” drew

  The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard

  Across her neck and bosom to her knee,

  And call’d herself a gilded summer fly

  Caught in a great old tyrant spider’s web,

  Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood

  Without one word. So Vivien call’d herself,

  But rather seem’d a lovely baleful star

  Veil’d in gray vapor; till he sadly smiled:

  “To what request for what strange boon,” he said,

  “Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries,

  O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks,

  For these have broken up my melancholy.”

  And Vivien answer’d smiling saucily: