Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

High over all the yellow autumn-tide,

  Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.

  Then Tristram saying, “Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?”

  Wheel’d round on either heel, Dagonet replied,

  “Belike for lack of wiser company;

  Or being fool, and seeing too much wit

  Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip

  To know myself the wisest knight of all.”

  “Ay, fool,” said Tristram, “but ’t is eating dry

  To dance without a catch, a roundelay

  To dance to.” Then he twangled on his harp,

  And while he twangled little Dagonet stood

  Quiet as any water-sodden log

  Stay’d in the wandering warble of a brook,

  But when the twangling ended, skipt again;

  And being ask’d, “Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?”

  Made answer, “I had liefer twenty years

  Skip to the broken music of my brains

  Than any broken music thou canst make.”

  Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,

  “Good now, what music have I broken, fool?”

  And little Dagonet, skipping, “Arthur, the King’s;

  For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,

  Thou makest broken music with thy bride,

  Her daintier namesake down in Brittany—

  And so thou breakest Arthur’s music too.”

  “Save for that broken music in thy brains,

  Sir Fool,” said Tristram, “I would break thy head.

  Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o’er,

  The life had flown, we sware but by the shell—

  I am but a fool to reason with a fool—

  Come, thou art crabb’d and sour; but lean me down,

  Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses’ ears,

  And harken if my music be not true.

  “ ‘Free love—free field—we love but while we may.

  The woods are hush’d, their music is no more;

  The leaf is dead, the yearning past away.

  New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o’er;

  New life, new love, to suit the newer day;

  New loves are sweet as those that went before.

  Free love—free field—we love but while we may.’

  “Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stock-still. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.”

  But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand:

  “Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday,

  Made to run wine?—but this had run itself

  All out like a long life to a sour end—

  And them that round it sat with golden cups

  To hand the wine to whosoever came—

  The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,

  In honor of poor Innocence the babe,

  Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen

  Lent to the King, and Innocence the King

  Gave for a prize—and one of those white slips

  Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,

  ‘Drink, drink, Sir Fool,’ and thereupon I drank,

  Spat—pish—the cup was gold, the draught was mud.”

  And Tristram: “Was it muddier than thy gibes?

  Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?—

  Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool—

  ‘Fear God: honor the King—his one true knight—

  Sole follower of the vows’—for here be they

  Who knew thee swine enow before I came,

  Smuttier than blasted grain. But when the King

  Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up

  It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;

  Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,

  A naked aught—yet swine I hold thee still,

  For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.”

  And little Dagonet mincing with his feet:

  “Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck

  In lieu of hers, I’ll hold thou hast some touch

  Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.

  Swine? I have wallow’d, I have wash’d—the world

  Is flesh and shadow—I have had my day.

  The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind

  Hath foul’d me—an I wallow’d, then I wash’d—

  I have had my day and my philosophies—

  And thank the Lord I am King Arthur’s fool.

  Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams, and geese

  Troop’d round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm’d

  On such a wire as musically as thou

  Some such fine song—but never a king’s fool.”

  And Tristram, “Then were swine, goats, asses,

  geese

  The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard

  Had such a mastery of his mystery

  That he could harp his wife up out of hell.”

  Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,

  “And whither harp’st thou thine? down! and thyself

  Down! and two more; a helpful harper thou,

  That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star

  We call the Harp of Arthur up in heaven?”

  And Tristram, “Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King

  Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,

  Glorying in each new glory, set his name

  High on all hills and in the signs of heaven.”

  And Dagonet answer’d: “Ay, and when the land

  Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself

  To babble about him, all to show your wit—

  And whether he were king by courtesy,

  Or king by right—and so went harping down

  The black king’s highway, got so far and grew

  So witty that ye play’d at ducks and drakes

  With Arthur’s vows on the great lake of fire.

  Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?”

  “Nay, fool,” said Tristram, “not in open day.”

  And Dagonet: “Nay, nor will; I see it and hear.

  It makes a silent music up in heaven,

  And I and Arthur and the angels hear,

  And then we skip.” “Lo, fool,” he said, “ye talk

  Fool’s treason; is the King thy brother fool?”

  Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill’d:

  “Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!

  Conceits himself as God that he can make

  Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk

  From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs,

  And men from beasts—Long live the king of fools!”

  And down the city Dagonet danced away;

  But thro’ the slowly-mellowing avenues

  And solitary passes of the wood

  Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west.

  Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt

  With ruby-circled neck, but evermore

  Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood

  Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye

  For all that walk’d, or crept, or perch’d, or flew.

  Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,

  Unruffling waters re-collect the shape

  Of one that in them sees himself, return’d;

  But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,

  Or even a fallen feather, vanish’d again.

  So on for all that day from lawn to lawn

  Thro’ many a league-long bower he rode. At length

  A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs,

  Furze-cramm’d and bracken-rooft, the which himself

  Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt

  Against a shower, dark in the golden grove

  Appearing, sent his fancy back to where

  She lived a moon in that low lodge with him
;

  Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King,

  With six or seven, when Tristram was away,

  And snatch’d her thence, yet, dreading worse than

  shame

  Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,

  But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.

  And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt

  So sweet that, halting, in he past and sank

  Down on a drift of foliage random-blown;

  But could not rest for musing how to smooth

  And sleek his marriage over to the queen.

  Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all

  The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.

  But then what folly had sent him overseas

  After she left him lonely here? a name?

  Was it the name of one in Brittany,

  Isolt, the daughter of the King? “Isolt

  Of the White Hands” they call’d her: the sweet name

  Allured him first, and then the maid herself,

  Who served him well with those white hands of hers,

  And loved him well, until himself had thought

  He loved her also, wedded easily,

  But left her all as easily, and return’d.

  The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes

  Had drawn him home—what marvel? then he laid

  His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream’d.

  He seem’d to pace the strand of Brittany

  Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,

  And show’d them both the ruby-chain, and both

  Began to struggle for it, till his queen

  Graspt it so hard that all her hand was red.

  Then cried the Breton, “Look, her hand is red!

  These be no rubies, this is frozen blood,

  And melts within her hand—her hand is hot

  With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look,

  Is all as cool and white as any flower.”

  Follow’d a rush of eagle’s wings, and then

  A whimpering of the spirit of the child,

  Because the twain had spoil’d her carcanet.

  He dream’d: but Arthur with a hundred spears

  Rode far, till o’er the illimitable reed,

  And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,

  The wide-wing’d sunset of the misty marsh

  Glared on a huge machicolated tower

  That stood with open doors, whereout was roll’d

  A roar of riot, as from men secure

  Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease

  Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.

  “Lo there,” said one of Arthur’s youth, for there

  High on a grim dead tree before the tower,

  A goodly brother of the Table Round

  Swung by the neck; and on the boughs a shield

  Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,

  And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights

  At that dishonor done the gilded spur,

  Till each would clash the shield and blow the horn,

  But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode.

  Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,

  That sent the face of all the marsh aloft

  An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud

  Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all,

  Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,

  In blood-red armor sallying, howl’d to the King:

  “The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!—

  Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted king

  Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world—

  The woman-worshipper? Yea, God’s curse, and I!

  Slain was the brother of my paramour

  By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine

  And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too,

  Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell

  And stings itself to everlasting death,

  To hang whatever knight of thine I fought

  And tumbled. Art thou king?—Look to thy life!”

  He ended. Arthur knew the voice; the face

  Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name

  Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.

  And Arthur deign’d not use of word or sword,

  But let the drunkard, as he stretch’d from horse

  To strike him, overbalancing his bulk,

  Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp

  Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave,

  Heard in dead night along that table-shore,

  Drops flat, and after the great waters break

  Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves,

  Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,

  From less and less to nothing; thus he fell

  Head-heavy. Then the knights, who watch’d him,

  roar’d

  And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen,

  There trampled out his face from being known,

  And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves;

  Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang

  Thro’ open doors, and swording right and left

  Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl’d

  The tables over and the wines, and slew

  Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,

  And all the pavement stream’d with massacre.

  Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower,

  Which half that autumn night, like the live North,

  Red-pulsing up thro’ Alioth and Alcor,

  Made all above it, and a hundred meres

  About it, as the water Moab saw

  Come round by the east, and out beyond them flush’d

  The long low dune and lazy-plunging sea.

  So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.

  Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream

  Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return’d,

  Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs,

  He whistled his good war-horse left to graze

  Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him,

  And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,

  Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross,

  Stay’d him. “Why weep ye?” “Lord,” she said,

  “my man

  Hath left me or is dead;” whereon he thought—

  “What, if she hate me now? I would not this.

  What, if she love me still? I would not that.

  I know not what I would”—but said to her,

  “Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return,

  He find thy favor changed and love thee not”—

  Then pressing day by day thro’ Lyonnesse

  Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard

  The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds

  Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain’d

  Tintagil, half in sea and high on land,

  A crown of towers.

  Down in a casement sat,

  A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair

  And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.

  And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind

  The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,

  Flush’d, started, met him at the doors, and there

  Belted his body with her white embrace,

  Crying aloud: “Not Mark—not Mark, my soul!

  The footstep flutter’d me at first—not he!

  Catlike thro’ his own castle steals my Mark.

  But warrior-wise thou stridest thro’ his halls

  Who hates thee, as I him—even to the death.

  My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark

  Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.”

  To whom Sir Tristram smiling, “I am here;

  Let be thy Mark, seeing
he is not thine.”

  And drawing somewhat backward she replied:

  “Can he be wrong’d who is not even his own,

  But save for dread of thee had beaten me,

  Scratch’d, bitten, blinded, marr’d me somehow—

  Mark?

  What rights are his that dare not strike for them?

  Not lift a hand—not, tho’ he found me thus!

  But harken! have ye met him? hence he went

  To-day for three days’ hunting—as he said—

  And so returns belike within an hour.

  Mark’s way, my soul!—but eat not thou with Mark,

  Because he hates thee even more than fears,

  Nor drink; and when thou passest any wood

  Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush

  Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.

  My God, the measure of my hate for Mark

  Is as the measure of my love for thee!”

  So, pluck’d one way by hate and one by love,

  Drain’d of her force, again she sat, and spake

  To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying:

  “O hunter, and O blower of the horn,

  Harper, and thou hast been a rover too,

  For, ere I mated with my shambling king,

  Ye twain had fallen out about the bride

  Of one—his name is out of me—the prize,

  If prize she were—what marvel?—She could see—

  Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks

  To wreck thee villainously—but, O Sir Knight,

  What dame or damsel have ye kneel’d to last?”

  And Tristram, “Last to my Queen Paramount,

  Here now to my queen paramount of love

  And loveliness—ay, lovelier than when first

  Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse,

  Sailing from Ireland.”

  Softly laugh’d Isolt:

  “Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen

  My dole of beauty trebled?” and he said:

  “Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine,

  And thine is more to me—soft, gracious, kind—

  Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips