Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  So that he went sore wounded from the field.

  Yet good news too; for goodly hopes are mine

  That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart.

  He wore, against his wont, upon his helm

  A sleeve of scarlet, broider’d with great pearls,

  Some gentle maiden’s gift.”

  “Yea, lord,” she said,

  “Thy hopes are mine,” and saying that, she choked,

  And sharply turn’d about to hide her face,

  Past to her chamber, and there flung herself

  Down on the great King’s couch, and writhed

  upon it,

  And clench’d her fingers till they bit the palm,

  And shriek’d out “Traitor!” to the unhearing wall,

  Then flash’d into wild tears, and rose again,

  And moved about her palace, proud and pale.

  Gawain the while thro’ all the region round

  Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,

  Touch’d at all points except the poplar grove,

  And came at last, tho’ late, to Astolat;

  Whom glittering in enamell’d arms the maid

  Glanced at, and cried, “What news from Camelot,

  lord?

  What of the knight with the red sleeve?” “He won.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “But parted from the jousts

  Hurt in the side;” whereat she caught her breath.

  Thro’ her own side she felt the sharp lance go.

  Thereon she smote her hand; well-nigh she swoon’d.

  And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came

  The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the prince

  Reported who he was, and on what quest

  Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find

  The victor, but had ridden a random round

  To seek him, and had wearied of the search.

  To whom the Lord of Astolat: “Bide with us,

  And ride no more at random, noble prince!

  Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;

  This will he send or come for. Furthermore

  Our son is with him; we shall hear anon,

  Needs must we hear.” To this the courteous prince

  Accorded with his wonted courtesy,

  Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,

  And stay’d; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine;

  Where could be found face daintier? then her shape

  From forehead down to foot, perfect—again

  From foot to forehead exquisitely turn’d:

  “Well—if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!”

  And oft they met among the garden yews,

  And there he set himself to play upon her

  With sallying wit, free flashes from a height

  Above her, graces of the court, and songs,

  Sighs, and low smiles, and golden eloquence

  And amorous adulation, till the maid

  Rebell’d against it, saying to him: “Prince,

  O loyal nephew of our noble King,

  Why ask you not to see the shield he left,

  Whence you might learn his name? Why slight

  your King,

  And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove

  No surer than our falcon yesterday,

  Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went

  To all the winds?” “Nay, by mine head,” said he,

  “I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,

  O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;

  But an ye will it let me see the shield.”

  And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw

  Sir Lancelot’s azure lions, crown’d with gold,

  Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock’d:

  “Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!”

  “And right was I,” she answer’d merrily, “I,

  Who dream’d my knight the greatest knight of all.”

  “And if I dream’d,” said Gawain, “that you love

  This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!

  Speak therefore; shall I waste myself in vain?”

  Full simple was her answer: “What know I?

  My brethren have been all my fellowship;

  And I, when often they have talk’d of love,

  Wish’d it had been my mother, for they talk’d,

  Meseem’d, of what they knew not; so myself—

  I know not if I know what true love is,

  But if I know, then, if I love not him,

  I know there is none other I can love.”

  “Yea, by God’s death,” said he, “ye love him well,

  But would not, knew ye what all others know,

  And whom he loves.” “So be it,” cried Elaine,

  And lifted her fair face and moved away;

  But he pursued her, calling, “Stay a little!

  One golden minute’s grace! he wore your sleeve.

  Would he break faith with one I may not name?

  Must our true man change like a leaf at last?

  Nay—like enow. Why then, far be it from me

  To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!

  And, damsel, for I deem you know full well

  Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave

  My quest with you; the diamond also—here!

  For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;

  And if he love, it will be sweet to have it

  From your own hand; and whether he love or not,

  A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well

  A thousand times!—a thousand times farewell!

  Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two

  May meet at court hereafter! there, I think,

  So ye will learn the courtesies of the court,

  We two shall know each other.”

  Then he gave,

  And slightly kiss’d the hand to which he gave,

  The diamond, and all wearied of the quest

  Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went

  A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

  Thence to the court he past; there told the King

  What the King knew, “Sir Lancelot is the knight.”

  And added, “Sire, my liege, so much I learnt,

  But fail’d to find him, tho’ I rode all round

  The region; but I lighted on the maid

  Whose sleeve he wore. She loves him; and to her,

  Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,

  I gave the diamond. She will render it;

  For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.”

  The seldom-frowning King frown’d, and replied,

  “Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more

  On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget

  Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.”

  He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe,

  For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,

  Linger’d that other, staring after him;

  Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz’d abroad

  About the maid of Astolat, and her love.

  All ears were prick’d at once, all tongues were

  loosed:

  “The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,

  Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.”

  Some read the King’s face, some the Queen’s, and

  all

  Had marvel what the maid might be, but most

  Predoom’d her as unworthy. One old dame

  Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.

  She, that had heard the noise of it before,

  But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop’d so low,

  Marr’d her friend’s aim with pale tranquillity.

  So ran the tale like fire about the court,

  Fire in dry stubble a nine-days’ wonder flared;

  Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice

&
nbsp; Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,

  And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid

  Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat

  With lips severely placid, felt the knot

  Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen

  Crush’d the wild passion out against the floor

  Beneath the banquet, where the meats became

  As wormwood and she hated all who pledged.

  But far away the maid in Astolat,

  Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept

  The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart,

  Crept to her father, while he mused alone,

  Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said:

  “Father, you call me wilful, and the fault

  Is yours who let me have my will, and now,

  Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?”

  “Nay,” said he, “surely.” “Wherefore, let me hence,”

  She answer’d, “and find out our dear Lavaine.”

  “Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine.

  Bide,” answer’d he: “we needs must hear anon

  Of him, and of that other.” “Ay,” she said,

  “And of that other, for I needs must hence

  And find that other, wheresoe’er he be,

  And with mine own hand give his diamond to him,

  Lest I be found as faithless in the quest

  As yon proud prince who left the quest to me.

  Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams

  Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,

  Death-pale, for the lack of gentle maiden’s aid.

  The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound,

  My father, to be sweet and serviceable

  To noble knights in sickness, as ye know,

  When these have worn their tokens. Let me hence,

  I pray you.” Then her father nodding said:

  “Ay, ay, the diamond. Wit ye well, my child,

  Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole,

  Being our greatest. Yea, and you must give it—

  And sure I think this fruit is hung too high

  For any mouth to gape for save a queen’s—

  Nay, I mean nothing; so then, get you gone,

  Being so very wilful you must go.”

  Lightly, her suit allow’d, she slipt away,

  And while she made her ready for her ride

  Her father’s latest word humm’d in her ear,

  “Being so very wilful you must go.”

  And changed itself and echo’d in her heart,

  “Being so very wilful you must die.”

  But she was happy enough and shook it off,

  As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us;

  And in her heart she answer’d it and said,

  “What matter, so I help him back to life?”

  Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide

  Rode o’er the long backs of the bushless downs

  To Camelot, and before the city-gates

  Came on her brother with a happy face

  Making a roan horse caper and curvet

  For pleasure all about a field of flowers;

  Whom when she saw, “Lavaine,” she cried, “Lavaine,

  How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?” He amazed,

  “Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot!

  How know ye my lord’s name is Lancelot?”

  But when the maid had told him all her tale,

  Then turn’d Sir Torre, and being in his moods

  Left them, and under the strange-statued gate,

  Where Arthur’s wars were render’d mystically,

  Past up the still rich city to his kin,

  His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot;

  And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove

  Led to the caves. There first she saw the casque

  Of Lancelot on the wall; her scarlet sleeve,

  Tho’ carved and cut, and half the pearls away,

  Stream’d from it still; and in her heart she laugh’d,

  Because he had not loosed it from his helm,

  But meant once more perchance to tourney in it.

  And when they gain’d the cell wherein he slept,

  His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands

  Lay naked on the wolf-skin, and a dream

  Of dragging down his enemy made them move.

  Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,

  Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,

  Utter’d a little tender dolorous cry.

  The sound not wonted in a place so still

  Woke the sick knight, and while he roll’d his eyes

  Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying,

  “Your prize the diamond sent you by the King.”

  His eyes glisten’d; she fancied, “Is it for me?”

  And when the maid had told him all the tale

  Of king and prince, the diamond sent, the quest

  Assign’d to her not worthy of it, she knelt

  Full lowly by the corners of his bed,

  And laid the diamond in his open hand.

  Her face was near, and as we kiss the child

  That does the task assign’d, he kiss’d her face.

  At once she slipt like water to the floor.

  “Alas,” he said, “your ride hath wearied you.

  Rest must you have.” “No rest for me,” she said;

  “Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.”

  What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,

  Yet larger thro’ his leanness, dwelt upon her,

  Till all her heart’s sad secret blazed itself

  In the heart’s colors on her simple face;

  And Lancelot look’d and was perplext in mind,

  And being weak in body said no more,

  But did not love the color; woman’s love,

  Save one, he not regarded, and so turn’d

  Sighing, and feign’d a sleep until he slept.

  Then rose Elaine and glided thro’ the fields,

  And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates

  Far up the dim rich city to her kin;

  There bode the night, but woke with dawn, and past

  Down thro’ the dim rich city to the fields,

  Thence to the cave. So day by day she past

  In either twilight ghost-like to and fro

  Gliding, and every day she tended him,

  And likewise many a night; and Lancelot

  Would, tho’ he call’d his wound a little hurt

  Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times

  Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem

  Uncourteous, even he. But the meek maid

  Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him

  Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,

  Milder than any mother to a sick child,

  And never woman yet, since man’s first fall,

  Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love

  Upbore her; till the hermit, skill’d in all

  The simples and the science of that time,

  Told him that her fine care had saved his life.

  And the sick man forgot her simple blush,

  Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,

  Would listen for her coming and regret

  Her parting step, and held her tenderly,

  And loved her with all love except the love

  Of man and woman when they love their best,

  Closest and sweetest, and had died the death

  In any knightly fashion for her sake.

  And peradventure had he seen her first

  She might have made this and that other world

  Another world for the sick man; but now

  The shackles of an old love straiten’d him,

  His honor rooted in dishonor stood,

  And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
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br />   Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made

  Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.

  These, as but born of sickness, could not live;

  For when the blood ran lustier in him again,

  Full often the bright image of one face,

  Making a treacherous quiet in his heart,

  Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.

  Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace

  Beam’d on his fancy, spoke, he answer’d not,

  Or short and coldly, and she knew right well

  What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant

  She knew not, and the sorrow dimm’d her sight,

  And drave her ere her time across the fields

  Far into the rich city, where alone

  She murmur’d, “Vain, in vain! it cannot be.

  He will not love me. How then? must I die?”

  Then as a little helpless innocent bird,

  That has but one plain passage of few notes,

  Will sing the simple passage o’er and o’er

  For all an April morning, till the ear

  Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid

  Went half the night repeating, “Must I die?”

  And now to right she turn’d, and now to left,

  And found no ease in turning or in rest;

  And “Him or death,” she mutter’d, “death or him,”

  Again and like a burthen, “Him or death.”

  But when Sir Lancelot’s deadly hurt was whole,

  To Astolat returning rode the three.

  There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self

  In that wherein she deem’d she look’d her best,

  She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought,

  “If I be loved, these are my festal robes,

  If not, the victim’s flowers before he fall.”

  And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid

  That she should ask some goodly gift of him

  For her own self or hers: “and do not shun

  To speak the wish most near to your true heart:

  Such service have ye done me that I make

  My will of yours, and prince and lord am I

  In mine own land, and what I will I can.”

  Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,

  But like a ghost without the power to speak.

  And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,

  And bode among them yet a little space

  Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced

  He found her in among the garden yews,

  And said, “Delay no longer, speak your wish,