Merlin, with the tame wolf that was his servant beside him, was standing by the White Tower on the morning of that Midsummer Day. And Vivien was upon the tower, singing to her colored birds and looking out over the sea.
Vivien, who played with her colored birds, had still the look of a child in her face. Her hair was no longer in tangles; it was softer than it was once, and it fell softly over her shoulders. Her eyes, for all the child's look that was in her face, were as if they had seen many things come and change and pass.
Like a King, or like one who had been always near a King, was Merlin the Enchanter. He smiled, and his smile was calm and royal. But one might have said that his eyes were strangely close to each other and that his lips were strangely red.
His beard was long and gray. He wore a white robe with a belt of green leaves around it, and a chaplet of oak leaves was on his head. Vivien was dressed in green, with a golden belt clasped around her, and with green leaves in her soft hair.
So they were standing by and on the tower, Merlin, Vivien, and Merlin's tame wolf, when the tokens that were from the Atlantes came. Merlin laid his hand upon the wolf, and the wolf gave the howl that was the signal for Eean and Bird-of-Gold to come on the Island of the White Tower. The Enchanter saw them ride their horses into the water. And then another token came to him-the token that one magician sends to another, a Bird of Foam it was, and Zabulun sent it.
Deep were the waters, but great-hearted were the horses of King Manus, the white horse and the red horse, and with Eean and Bird-of-Gold astride them they swam to the Island of the White Tower. They came to the sloping shore, and the riders helped the horses up to the hard ground. The white and the red horse stood shivering from their plunge into the ocean. Afterward they threw themselves on the grass and lay as still as if they were dead.
Not to the horses, but out to the sea did Eean and Bird-of-Gold look. The black horse with Zabulun astride him was swimming now. Swiftly to the White Tower where they saw Merlin stand they went.
"O Merlin," Eean cried, "to you we have come to save us from the Enchanter who has pursued us from one end of the world to the other."
"From whom have you come, you who have sent such tokens?" said Merlin.
"From Hermes Trismegistus in his secret cell. And Hermes told us to say to you that we have heard from him the answer to the riddle that the Sphinx asks, and that we crossed the desert to come to you, answering the Sphinx."
"Who is the Magician who pursues you?"
"Zabulun, once a Prince in Babylon, O Merlin."
"Is it he who pursues you?--Zabulun! I shall have a welcome for Zabulun."
"Save us, O Merlin, from Zabulun," Bird-of-Gold cried.
Vivien came down from the tower. "It is Zabulun who comes to our island in chase of these two, my Vivien," Merlin said. "Now you shall see me match my power with Zabulun's."
"A match between magicians, how entertaining it will be!" cried Vivien, clapping her hands.
"O lady, if Zabulun is not baffled it will be death or separation for us," said Bird-of-Gold to her.
"Merlin will baffle him--you will find that Merlin will baffle him," said Vivien. "You see, he has done nothing to impress me for an age."
Now Merlin had sent the tame wolf that was his servant upon an errand, and the wolf at this moment returned leading nine men who wore white robes and who had chaplets of oak leaves upon their brows. These were the nine prime bards of the Isle of Britain who had come to the Island of the White Tower with Merlin, their chief.
They stood as he told them, four on one side and five on the other, with the Enchanter of the Isle of Britain between them. Merlin told Eean to stand with the four bards. He touched them with his staff, and the row of bards and Eean with them became all as, alike as ten peas in a pea pod. And Merlin went to Bird-of-Gold and touched her also, and she became like the lady Vivien exactly.
Now the black horse that bore Zabulun came to the sloping bank of the Island of the White Tower, and Zabulun sprang off his back and drew the black horse up on the bank. The horse breathed mightily, and then like the others lay down on the grass.
With great and sure strides Zabulun came to the White Tower where Merlin stood. "Hail, Merlin," he cried in a loud voice.
"Hail, Zabulun."
"You know of an apprentice of mine who has come to your island."
"Find him, O mighty magician."
Zabulun looked and saw the ten men who looked exactly alike, and the two women whom one could not tell one from the other. He turned to Merlin then and he said, "What a simple trick you would play upon me! Nine bards you have, and there are ten before us. One of them is Eean, the boy apprenticed to me."
"Then you will take him, Zabulun."
It is certain that Merlin did not think that Zabulun would do what he did now. He changed himself into a hound. Running among the ten that were there he sniffed at them. By the smell of the horse he had ridden he would find Eean.
But as he ran among them Merlin touched each of the nine bards and Eean with them with his staff. They all became pigeons and flew up into the air. One had a feather awry. This was Eean on whom Zabulun had laid a paw just as he was being transformed.
Instantly Zabulun changed himself into a hawk and strove to rise above the flock of pigeons. As he did he saw the one that had a feather awry. Over him he came.
Then Eean, seeing the hawk above him, dropped instantly to the earth. The others flew down with him, crowding around to hide the ruffled feather. They came before the door of Merlin's house. They flew in and lighted down on the floor while the hawk came sweeping up to the doorway.
Merlin touched the pigeons with his staff and again transformed them. They became ten rings of gold that lay upon the floor. As the hawk flew in and perched on a chair to fix his eyes upon them, the rings of gold rolled into the fire.
Then Zabulun transformed himself into a tongs and went hunting through the fire for the rings. He picked up one ring and flung it out on the floor, he picked up another ring and flung it out on the floor, and so on, until the ten rings were out of the fire. Merlin touched the rings with his staff, and they were transformed into ten grains of corn. Upon these ten grains Vivien and Bird-of-Gold threw handful after handful of grains of corn.
But now Zabulun changed himself into a cock with strong legs and wide claws and a hungry beak. With his claws he scratched through the heap of grain. With his beak he picked the grains up. Vivien and Bird-of-Gold kept throwing on the floor handful after handful of corn to cover the ten grains that were Eean and the nine bards.
But the beak of the cock went so fiercely and so hungrily among them that only a few grains more than the ten were left upon the floor when Vivien and Bird-of-Gold found out they had no more handfuls to fling. Then it seemed as if the cock with his sharp eye would soon pick out the grain that was Eean.
Then with his staff Merlin touched nine of the grains, leaving one untouched. The one he left untouched was Eean. The nine were changed into weasels, and they faced the cock fiercely. Then was Zabulun startled. Instead of picking at the grain that was Eean he fluttered up from the ground and went out of the door of the house.
Merlin touched the grain that was left and Eean stood up. Bird-of-Gold clapped her hands for joy on seeing him again. But Eean ran out of the door of the house after the cock that was Zabulun the Enchanter. He snatched up a strong staff as he ran.
Zabulun had changed back into his own form. But now Eean had no fear of him. He ran toward him. And Zabulun took up a staff that was lying there and made to defend himself.
Then began the battle between Eean and Zabulun. Eean struck at Zabulun, and Zabulun struck at Eean, and each defended himself with the staff that he had. They fought their way across the island, from one side to the other. They fought until their staves were broken and until they were covered with bruises. Then they threw away their staves and gripped one another. All around the island they wrestled. Strong were the hands of Zabulun. Eean felt his own hands were strong upon Zabulun, and yet he could not throw him. Soon Eean lost sense of everything except two gripping and rocking figures.
They wrestled their way across the island, down to the shore where they had landed and where the three horses of King Manus were lying. They wrestled until the sea water came over their feet. Again things became clear to Eean. He knew that if he could overthrow the Enchanter he would win his freedom.
He fastened upon Zabulun a grip that seemed to be stronger than his own life. He heaved with a power that seemed to bring up his last breath. He bent Zabulun over. He brought him down, his head in the water. He flung himself upon the prone Enchanter.
"What would you have of me?" Zabuiun said at last.
"Release. Say you have no more mastership of me."
"I say it. I have no more mastership of you. You have release from me."
"I let you rise."
Then Eean took his grip off Zabulun. The Enchanter rose up and took himself out of the water.
So Zabulun was defeated, and so release was given to Eean, the Boy Apprenticed to the Enchanter. Zabulun mounted the black horse that was. King Manus's and had him swim the water. He rode across the plain and over one mountain and another mountain until he came to the castle of King Manus. There he left the horse to neigh for his grooms.
What became of Zabulun afterward is not written in the book that is the History of the Enchanters. Some say that from that Midsummer's Day he ceased to be named with the great Enchanters. The powers he had gained, they say, shrank from him. Afterward a famous juggler appeared in the world. He used to go into the halls of Kings on festival nights and do marvelous feats with balls and rings and knives, and play music on all manner of instruments, going from King's castle to King's castle. That juggler, they say--but they may be mistaken--was Zabulun, once Prince of Babylon, and once master of the Inaccessible Island.
Eean and Bird-of-Gold went within the White Tower and conversed from noon to dusk with Merlin and the lady Vivien. Before that Midsummer's Day had passed into darkness, they mounted the white steed and the red steed and had them swim across the waters. When they came to the farther shore they let the horses stand for a while. Then mounting them again they rode over the mountains and across the plains and came again to the castle of King Manus.
THE RETURN OF KING MANUS'S HORSES
Again Manus, King of the Western Island, sat in his supper hall. The torches were in their sconces, the candles were lighted on the table, the hearth fire was blazing on the hearth, and his lords once again sat to the right and the left of him. But this time they sat without laughter and without high words.
The harper and the storyteller were at the table too, but they neither made music nor told stories. They had tried, both, that evening, but no one had listened to them. Outside, the iron door of the stable gaped wide, and the grooms and horse-boys and watchers stood idly around or went quarreling among themselves. It was very difficult, as you may imagine, for the harper to play upon his harp when he would hear the King say into his wine cup, "O, Raven, my black horse, where art thou now?" And it was equally difficult for the storyteller to get on with his tale when he would see the King looking at him with unseeing eyes and hear him say, "O, my white and my red horses, what would I not give if I saw you back in my courtyard again?"
So you can imagine the silence that was upon the supper board that once resounded with conversation and storytelling, with music and pledges of the wine cup. "O, Raven, my black horse, where art thou now?" said the King once again; and then, "What would I not give to have my white and my red horse in the courtyard again?" And these were all the words that King Manus could be got to say.
And then, suddenly, a loud neigh was heard outside. Straightway King Manus ran out of the supper hall. The lords, the minstrel, and the storyteller, the stewards, servers, and attendants, ran with him. And when they came as far as the wide door of the castle they ran into the grooms and the horse-boys who were running from the stable. All ran together. And there, in the middle of the courtyard, without a rider upon his back, was Raven, the King's black horse.
They brought him into his stall in the stable, and they combed him and they groomed him. They gave him the red wheat and the white barley to eat and the clear spring water to drink. King Manus could hardly be prevailed upon to leave Raven's stall and come back into the supper hall. But at length they got him back into his seat, and then the supper board resounded with pledges of the wine cup as the King and his lords drank to each other merrily.
Again there was neighing in the courtyard, this time a double neighing. Straightway the King ran out, and all who were near ran with him. They ran into the grooms and the horse-boys who were running from the stable. There in the courtyard were the white horse and the red horse. They were not unmounted, however, for Eean and Bird-of-Gold were upon them.
This time King Manus grew into such glee that he swore by the open hand of his father that he would make a duke of every lord who was with him that night. There were great rejoicings. Some tossed their torches so high that they frightened the owls out of the cornices on the castle. The grooms brought the white horse and the red horse into their stalls in the stable, and they fed them with red wheat and white barley and gave them the clear spring water to drink.
Then they went to carry Eean and Bird-of-Gold into the supper hall. They were not to be found for a while, for Anluan, Eean's father, had led them away. He was seen to weep over Eean, and to take the hands of Bird-of-Gold and kiss her while he called her daughter. And to Anluan King Manus gave the privilege of bringing them to the supper board.
The King put Eean into the storyteller's seat, but he had Bird-of-Gold sit beside him on his left hand. The feast began all over again and went on from egg to apple. And when wine had been drunk King Manus called- upon Eean to tell the story of his journey to Merlin's Island and the full tale of how he had defeated Zabulun the Enchanter.
When all was told the King gave presents to Eean and Bird-of-Gold and he swore that for a year and a day he would have them live with him in his castle. "And," said he, "this girl, Bird-of-Gold, has been very loving and faithful to you as you have been to her, and for a further benefit to you I shall have the old blind sage come down from his attic in the castle and marry you here and now." Eean and Bird-of-Gold took each other's hands as he said this, and the old blind sage was brought down from his attic chamber, and he married Bird-of-Gold and Eean by the rays of the rising sun.
For a year and,a day they lived in King Manus's royal castle. Now Eean had learned so much of the arts and crafts and mysteries that belong to an Enchanter that he was able to do great works for the King. Castles he built that gave security, and bridges that brought people together, and mills that ground for the people abundance of corn. He had become so strong and so sure of himself since his encounter with Zabulun that all he set out to perform he did well. And his wife, Bird-of-Gold, loved him so much that her thought never went back to the country she had come from. Always, they say, she kept a flock of white ducks; perhaps they reminded her of the thousand ducks that was the fortune she brought into Babylon.
But the storyteller must not forget to tell you about the question that Eean asked Merlin the Enchanter on King Manus's behalf. It was about a game of chess that King Manus had been playing with his brother-in-law, King Connal, for half their lifetimes without either having victory in sight. Moreover, they had inherited the game from their fathers, and it was now being played for fifty years. Merlin told Eean what the moves should be, and the day after he came to the castle, Eean took the chess board and showed them to the King. With that instruction he played. The game of chess was finished three days afterward, and great fame and honor came to King Manus.
THE NEW SANGREAL
by
ROSE TERRY COOKE
Thy body and Thy blood! Give me the Quest!
Lord, I am faint and tired; my soul is sick
Of all the falseness, all the little aims,
The weary vanities, the gasping joys,
The slow procession of this satiate world!
Dear Lord, I burn for Thee! Give me Thy Quest!
Down through the old reverberating time,
I see Thy knights in wonderful array
Go out to victory, like the solemn stars
Fighting in courses, with their conquering swords,
Their sad, fixed lips of purity and strength,
Their living glory, their majestic death.
Give me Thy Quest! Show me the Sangreal, Lord!"
He lay upon a mountain's rocky crest,
So high, that all the glittering, misty world,
All summer's splendid tempests, lay below,
And sudden lightnings quivered at his feet;
So still, not any sound of silentness
Expressed the silence, nor the pallid sun
Burned on his eyelids; all alone and still,
Save for the prayer that struggled from his lips,
Broken with eager stress. Then he arose.
But always, down the hoary mountain-side,
Through whispering forests, by soft-rippled streams,
In clattering streets, or the great city's roar,
Still from his never sated soul went up,
"Give me Thy Quest! Show me the Sangreal, Lord!"
Through all the land there poured a trumpet's clang,
And when its silvery anger smote the air,
Men sprang to arms from every true man's home,
And followed to the field. He followed, too, --
All the mad blood of manhood in his veins,
All the fierce instincts of a warring race
Kindled like flame in every tingling limb,
And raging in his soul on fire with war.
He heard a thousand voices call him on:
Lips hot with anguish, shrieking their despair
From swamps and forests and the still bayous
That hide the wanderer, nor bewray his lair;
From fields and marshes where the tropic sun
Scorches a million laborers scourged to work;
From homes that are not homes; from mother-hearts
Torn from the infants lingering at their breasts;
From parted lovers, and from shuddering wives;
From men grown mad with whips and tyranny;
From all a country groaning in its chains.
Nor sleep, nor dream beguiled him any more;
He leaped to manhood in one torrid hour,
And armed, and sped to battle. Now no more
He cried or prayed, -- "Show me the Sangreal, Lord!"
So in the front of deadly strife he stood;
The glorious thunder of the roaring guns,
The restless hurricane of screaming shells,
The quick, sharp singing of the rifle-balls,
The sudden clash of sabres, and the beat
Of rapid horse-hoofs galloping at charge,
Made a great chorus to his valorous soul,
The dreadful music of a grappling world,
That hurried him to fight. He turned the tide,
But fell upon its turning. Over him
Fluttered the starry flag, and fluttered on,
While he lay helpless on the trampled sward,
His hot life running scarlet from its source,
And all his soul in sudden quiet spent,
As still as on the silent mountain-top;
So still that from his quick-remembering heart
Burst that old cry, -- "Show me the Sangreal, Lord!"
Then a bright mist descended over him,
And in its central glory stood a shape,
Wounded, yet smiling. With His bleeding hands
Stretched toward that bleeding side, His eyes divine
Like a new dawn, thus softly spake the Lord: --
"The blood poured out for brothers is my blood;
The flesh for brothers broken is my flesh;
No more in golden chalices I dwell,
No longer in a vision, angel-borne:
Here is the Sangreal, here the Holy Quest.
Thy prayer is heard, thy soul is satisfied:
Come, my belovèd! I am come for thee.
As first I broke the bread and poured the wine,
So have I broken thee and poured thy life,
So do I bless thee and give thanks for thee
So do I bear thee in my wounded hands."
Smiling, He stooped, and kissed the tortured brow,
And over all its anguish stole a smile;
The blood-sealed lips unclosed; the dying breath
Sighed, like the rain-sound in a summer wind,
Sobbing, but sweet, -- "I see the Sangreal, Lord!"
Tom Thumb
by
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
In the days of King Arthur, Merlin, the most learned enchanter of his time, was on a journey; and being very weary, stopped one day at the cottage of an honest ploughman to ask for refreshment. The ploughman's wife, with great civility, immediately brought him some milk in a wooden bowl, and some brown bread on a wooden platter. Merlin could not help observing, that although everything within the cottage was particularly neat and clean, and in good order, the ploughman and his wife had the most sorrowful air imaginable: so he questioned them on the cause of their melancholy, and learned that they were very miserable because they had no children. The poor woman declared, with tears in her eyes, that she should be the happiest creature in the world, if she had a son, although he were no bigger than his father's thumb. Merlin was much amused with the notion of a boy no bigger than a man's thumb, and as soon as he returned home, he sent for the queen of the fairies (with whom he was very intimate), and related to her the desire of the ploughman and his wife to have a son the size of his father's thumb. She liked the plan exceedingly, and declared their wish should be speedily granted. Accordingly, the ploughman's wife had a son, who in a few minutes grew as tall as his father's thumb. The queen of the fairies came in at the window as the mother was sitting up in bed admiring the child. Her majesty kissed the infant, and, giving it the name of Tom Thumb, immediately summoned several fairies from Fairyland, to clothe her new little favourite:--
"An oak-leaf hat he had for his crown,
His shirt it was by spiders spun:
With doublet wove of thistledown,
His trousers up with points were done;
His stockings, of apple-rind, they tie
With eye-lash pluck'd from his mother's eye:
His shoes were made of a mouse's skin,
Nicely tann'd with hair within."
Tom was never any bigger than his father's thumb, which was not a large thumb neither; but as he grew older, he became very cunning, for which his mother did not sufficiently correct him: and by this ill quality he was often brought into difficulties. For instance, when he had learned to play with other boys for cherry-stones, and had lost all his own, he used to creep into the boys' bags, fill his pockets, and come out again to play. But one day as he was getting out a bag of cherry-stones, the boy to whom it belonged chanced to see him.
"Ah, ha, my little Tom Thumb!" said he, "have I caught you at your bad tricks at last? Now I will reward you for thieving." Then drawing the string tight round his neck, and shaking the bag, the cherry-stones bruised Tom's legs, thighs, and body sadly; which made him beg to be let out, and promise never to be guilty of such things any more.
Shortly afterwards, Tom's mother was making a batter-pudding, and that he might see how she mixed it, he climbed on the edge of the bowl; but his foot happened to slip, he fell over head and ears into the batter, and his mother, not observing him, stirred him into the pudding, and popped him into the pot to boil. The hot water made Tom kick and struggle; and his mother, seeing the pudding jump up and down in such a furious manner, thought it was bewitched; and a tinker coming by just at the time, she quickly gave him the pudding; he put it into his budget, and walked on.
As soon as Tom could get the batter out of his mouth, he began to cry aloud, which so frightened the poor tinker, that he flung the pudding over the hedge, and ran away from it as fast as he could. The pudding being broken to pieces by the fall, Tom was released, and walked home to his mother, who gave him a kiss and put him to bed.
Tom Thumb's mother once took him with her when she went to milk the cow; and it being a very windy day, she tied him with a needleful of thread to a thistle, that he might not be blown away. The cow, liking his oak-leaf hat, took him and the thistle up at one mouthful. While the cow chewed the thistle, Tom, terrified at her great teeth, which seemed ready to crush him to pieces, roared, "Mother, mother!" as loud as he could bawl.
"Where are you, Tommy, my dear Tommy?" said the mother.
"Here, mother, here in the red cow's mouth."
The mother began to cry and wring her hands; but the cow, surprised at such odd noises in her throat, opened her mouth and let him drop out. His mother clapped him into her apron, and ran home with him. Tom's father made him a whip of a barley straw to drive the cattle with, and being one day in the field he slipped into a deep furrow. A raven flying over picked him up with a grain of corn, and flew with him to the top of a giant's castle by the seaside, where he left him; and old Grumbo, the giant, coming soon after to walk upon his terrace, swallowed Tom like a pill, clothes and all. Tom presently made the giant very uncomfortable, and he threw him up into the sea. A great fish then swallowed him. This fish was soon after caught, and sent as a present to King Arthur. When it was cut open, everybody was delighted with little Tom Thumb. The king made him his dwarf; he was the favourite of the whole court; and, by his merry pranks, often amused the queen and the knights of the Round Table. The king, when he rode on horseback, frequently took Tom in his hand; and if a shower of rain came on, he used to creep into the king's waistcoat-pocket, and sleep till the rain was over. The king also sometimes questioned Tom concerning his parents; and when Tom informed his majesty they were very poor people, the king led him into his treasury, and told him he should pay his friends a visit, and take with him as much money as he could carry. Tom procured a little purse, and putting a threepenny piece into it, with much labour and difficulty got it upon his back; and, after travelling two days and nights, arrived at his father's house. His mother met him at the door, almost tired to death, having in forty-eight hours travelled almost half a mile with a huge silver threepence upon his back. Both his parents were glad to see him, especially when he had brought such an amazing sum of money with him. They placed him in a walnut-shell by the fireside, and feasted him for three days upon a hazelnut, which made him sick, for a whole nut usually served him for a month. Tom got well, but could not travel because it had rained: therefore his mother took him in her hand, and with one puff blew him into King Arthur's court; where Tom entertained the king, queen, and nobility at tilts and tournaments, at which he exerted himself so much that he brought on a fit of sickness, and his life was despaired of. At this juncture the queen of the fairies came in a chariot, drawn by flying mice, placed Tom by her side, and drove through the air, without stopping till they arrived at her palace; when, after restoring him to health and permitting him to enjoy all the gay diversions of Fairyland, she commanded a fair wind, and, placing Tom before it, blew him straight to the court of King Arthur. But just as Tom should have alighted in the courtyard of the palace, the cook happened to pass along with the king's great bowl of furmenty (King Arthur loved furmenty), and poor Tom Thumb fell plump into the middle of it, and splashed the hot furmenty into the cook's eyes. Down went the bowl.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Tom.
"Murder! murder!" bellowed the cook; and away poured the king's nice furmenty into the kennel.
The cook was a red-faced, cross fellow, and swore to the king that Tom had done it out of mere mischief; so he was taken up, tried, and sentenced to be beheaded. Tom hearing this dreadful sentence, and seeing a miller stand by with his mouth wide open, he took a good spring, and jumped down the miller's throat, unperceived by all, even by the miller himself.
Tom being lost, the court broke up, and away went the miller to his mill. But Tom did not leave him long at rest; he began to roll and tumble about, so that the miller thought himself bewitched, and sent for a doctor. When the doctor came, Tom began to dance and sing; the doctor was as much frightened as the miller, and sent in great haste for five more doctors and twenty learned men. While all these were debating upon the affair, the miller (for they were very tedious) happened to yawn, and Tom, taking the opportunity, made another jump, and alighted on his feet in the middle of the table. The miller, provoked to be thus tormented by such a little creature, fell into a great passion, caught hold of Tom, and threw him out of the window into the river. A large salmon swimming by snapped him up in a minute. The salmon was soon caught and sold in the market to a steward of a lord. The lord, thinking it an uncommon fine fish, made a present of it to the king, who ordered it to be dressed immediately. When the cook cut open the salmon, he found poor Tom, and ran with him directly to the king; but the king, being busy with state affairs, desired that he might be brought another day. The cook resolving to keep him safely this time, as he had so lately given him the slip, clapped him into a mouse-trap, and left him to amuse himself by peeping through the wires for a whole week; when the king sent for him, he forgave him for throwing down the furmenty, ordered him new clothes, and knighted him:--
"His shirt was made of butterflies' wings,
His boots were made of chicken skins;
His coat and breeches were made with pride:
A tailor's needle hung by his side;
A mouse for a horse he used to ride."
Thus dressed and mounted, he rode a-hunting with the king and nobility, who all laughed heartily at Tom and his fine prancing steed. As they rode by a farmhouse one day, a cat jumped from behind the door, seized the mouse and little Tom, and began to devour the mouse; however, Tom boldly drew his sword and attacked the cat, who then let him fall. The king and his nobles, seeing Tom falling, went to his assistance, and one of the lords caught him in his hat; but poor Tom was sadly scratched, and his clothes were torn by the claws of the cat. In this condition he was carried home, when a bed of down was made for him in a little ivory cabinet. The queen of the fairies came and took him again to Fairyland, where she kept him for some years; and then, dressing him in bright green, sent him flying once more through the air to the earth, in the days of King Thunstone. The people flocked far and near to look at him; and the king, before whom he was carried, asked him who he was, whence he came, and where he lived? Tom answered:--
"My name is Tom Thumb,
From the Fairies I come;
When King Arthur shone,
This court was my home.
In me he delighted,
By him I was knighted;
Did you never hear of
Sir Thomas Thumb?"
The king was so charmed with this address, that he ordered a little chair to be made, in order that Tom might sit on his table, and also a palace of gold a span high, with a door an inch wide, for little Tom to live in. He also gave him a coach drawn by six small mice. This made the queen angry, because she had not a new coach too: therefore, resolving to ruin Tom, she complained to the king that he had behaved very insolently to her. The king sent for him in a rage. Tom, to escape his fury, crept into an empty snail-shell, and there lay till he was almost starved; when, peeping out of the hole, he saw a fine butterfly settle on the ground: he now ventured out, and, getting astride, the butterfly took wing, and mounted into the air with little Tom on his back. Away he flew from field to field, from tree to tree, till at last he flew to the king's court. The king, queen, and nobles, all strove to catch the butterfly, but could not. At length poor Tom, having neither bridle nor saddle, slipped from his seat, and fell into a watering-pot, where he was found almost drowned. The queen vowed he should be guillotined; but while the guillotine was getting ready, he was secured once more in a mouse-trap; when the cat, seeing something stir, and supposing it to be a mouse, patted the trap about till she broke it, and set Tom at liberty. Soon afterwards a spider, taking him for a fly, made at him. Tom drew his sword and fought valiantly, but the spider's poisonous breath overcame him:--
"He fell dead on the ground where late he had stood,
And the spider suck'd up the last drop of his blood."
King Thunstone and his whole court went into mourning for little Tom Thumb. They buried him under a rosebush, and raised a nice white marble monument over his grave, with the following epitaph:--
"Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur's knight,
Who died by a spider's cruel bite.
He was well known in Arthur's court,
Where he afforded gallant sport;
He rode at tilt and tournament,
And on a mouse a-hunting went;
Alive he fill'd the court with mirth,
His death to sorrow soon gave birth.
Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head,
And cry, 'Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.'"
EXCALIBUR: AN ARTHURIAN DRAMA
by
RALPH ADAMS CRAM
Excalibur is the introductory drama of a contemplated trilogy founded on the Arthurian legends as the perfect embodiment of the spirit and impulse of that great Christian epoch we call Mediævalism. The attempt is again made - however inadequately - to do for the epic of our own race, and in a form adapted to dramatic presentation, a small measure of that which Richard Wagner achieved in an allied art for the Teutonic legends.
Excalibur was completed, and in its present form, in the year 1893. Since then no other than verbal changes have been made. This is said for the reason that during the last fifteen years several new dramatic versions of the Arthurian epic have appeared, and the correspondences between them and the present attempt must of necessity be somewhat marked. In every case, however, these are due to the nature of the subject and the compulsion of established and indestructible ideas.
-- THE AUTHOR
Arthur Pendragon : afterwards King of England.
Vassals of England:
Uriens , King of Gore,
Nentres , King of Garlot,
Leodegrance , King of Cameliard,
Duke Lucas of the Southfolk,
Duke Brastias of Estsex,
Rience , King of North Wales,
English Knights.:
Sir Launcelot du Lake,
Sir Tor,
Sir Pelleas,
Sir Ector,
Sir Breuse saunce Pité,
The Archbishop of Canterbury.
Sir Kay , the Seneschal.
Merlin.
Morgan le Fay , Queen of Gore.
Guenever , Daughter of King Leodegrance.
Dame Columbe , Wife to Sir Kay.
Ettard.
Ysed.
Nimue.
Roman Ambassadors, Barons, Knights, Esquires, Citizens, Priests, Monks, Heralds, Pages, and Lake Girls.
Scene , England and Wales.
Excalibur
Prologue
The curtains open on impenetrable darkness.
Merlin ( invisible ).
Pendragon passes; now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne.
A kingdom passes; now a kingdom's king
Shall raise a kingdom for the King of kings.
( Merlin's figure becomes faintly visible, poised in mid-air. )
Morgan le Fay, rise from the riven rock,
Rise through the waters of the Magic Mere,
Merlin, thy master, calls.
The night is done.
I hear the trumpets of the trampling day,
I see the glimmer of the torch of dawn
Dance like the northern fires along the sky.
The curse is lifted, England wakes again.
Angelic Voices ( above ).
Night passes,
the darkness breaks:
see how the curse
is wafted away!
Down from Heaven,
a beam of light,
Sinks the smile of the Lord.
England, awake!
Rouse to the cry!
Day is at dawn for the land
for God is aweary of wrath.
Merlin.
Hark! how the marshalled choristers of God
Proclaim the dawn that burgeons on the world.
Now falls thy kingdom, Morgan, all awrack,
For Uther dies, and England waits a king.
The rune is written: "Now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne."
Whereby God's kingdom grows in England.
Rise,
Morgan le Fay! Pendragon passes. Rise!
Pendragon passes, and the night is done.
Morgan le Fay ( below, invisible ).
Pendragon passes, but the darkness holds,
And England sleeps: her dawn shall never come
The while I rule the Magic Mere. The day
Is not for her until I loose my hand;
Until the sunken sea and all the gods
That dwell therein, shall fail and fall away,
Dissolving as the mist that meets the sun.
Merlin.
The sun, the sun! Look where the flaunting host
Of blazing minions mounts the steep of Heaven.
Morgan, thy reign is ended!
Morgan.
At whose word?
Merlin.
The word of God, and here I give it thee.
What time King Uther lived, His hand was stayed,
While England paid the grievous penalty
Of evil done, and thou wast given leave
To scourge us with the curse of paynim gods.
Pendragon passes and the ban is raised;
Pendragon's seed is lord.
Morgan.
Is lord not yet!
Deep in the Magic Mere I hold the Sword:
Take it, magician, if ye have the hand,
Pendragon wins no worship if ye fail.
Merlin.
While Uther lived, the Sword was in thy hold;
Pendragon passes, and the Sword is won.
Morgan.
Thou liest, Merlin, for the Sword is lost!
Merlin.
Thou liest, Morgan, for within my hand
I hold the proof.
Morgan.
The proof?
Merlin.
Excalibur!
( Merlin is illuminated with a dazzling radiance. Four shafts of light shoot upward, downward, and to either hand, as he draws Excalibur, brandishing it aloft in the light. )
Morgan.
Here to me, all ye dwellers in the mere!
Excalibur is won! Cry treason, cry
Unto the uttermost and deepest depth,
Unto the farthest bounds of all the world,
"Excalibur is won!" Black treason stalks
Stark in the sunken sea: your bootless blades
Rust in their scabbards, hingeless hang the doors
That closed my Castle Terrabil, the walls
I reared to ward Excalibur are cleft
In sunder hopelessly. The Sword returns!
Voices.
Queen Morgan calls! Who reft the sleeping Sword
From out our holding? Treason!
Morgan.
All is lost,
And we ourselves hurled from our high dominion
Unless ye win him back. Gain me the Sword!
All hangs on this, the night is broken else.
( Dark phantoms dash across the light, assailing Merlin , who rests motionless. A tumult of cries and of low thunder. )
Merlin.
Pendragon passes, and Excalibur
Is for Pendragon's seed. Morgan le Fay,
The sun is bursting from the black abyssm;
Give thee good night, the day breaks on the land.
Morgan.
Spirits of darkness from the Magic Mere,
Win me the Sword!
Voices.
Excalibur is lost,
Our hands are helpless: mighty Merlin conquers.
Morgan.
Win me the Sword!
Voices.
Excalibur is lost;
Woe to the people of the Magic Mere!
Woe to thee, Morgan, crownless queen,
Woe!
Woe!
( The spirits vanish downward. Morgan's voice is heard afar off. )
Morgan.
Hold the Sword, Merlin, guard it with thy craft:
The day is breaking, but the day will die:
Night follows close. The rune is written. Hear!
"Pendragon passes. Now Pendragon's seed
Shall slay Pendragon for Pendragon's lust.
A kingdom passes, now a kingdom's king
Shall lose a kingdom to the lord of hell."
Merlin.
Not while Excalibur is in his hand.
Morgan.
Morgan le Fay shall gain Excalibur.
Merlin.
Not while gray Merlin guards Pendragon's seed.
Morgan.
Gray Merlin passes, and the night befalls.
Magician, guard thyself! the Sword returns.
Merlin.
So runs the rune, but God shall gain the day!
Excalibur is won, and England's dawn
Is breaking: cry adown the winds, "All hail,
Arthur Pendragon, King of England, hail!"
Build thou God's city in the wilderness,
Trample the paynim underneath thy feet
And raise the Cross above a thirsty land.
All hail, Pendragon, servant of the Lord!
Angelic Voices ( above. )
Hail, Pendragon,
Lord of the Sword!
Crowned of England
saviour and king.
Come forth, thou servant of God,
for the dawn is white on the world,
and Christ shall arm thee to-day
The Sword is won,
hell is confounded,
back from England
cowers the curse.
The Sword Excalibur comes;
follows fast the Kingdom of God!
Merlin.
So answers Heaven and hell is dumb. The bell
Sounds for the day; go then, Excalibur,
Hold in the heavy rock until the king,
Great England's king, shall gain thee for his own.
So do I send thee, Sword of Avalon,
Down to the waiting world. Pendragon comes!
( He brandishes Excalibur thrice, then hurls it downward: the light vanishes. )
Act I
SCENE I. London. The cloisters of St. Paul's. In the midst of the garth is a great runic cross, in the base of which the Sword is buried to the hilt. Merlin is standing beside it. Without is heard the chanting of the Miserere.
Enter: the funeral procession of Uther Pendragon , the body of the king borne in the midst upon a bier. Before walk many monks, priests, and acolytes. Following comes the Archbishop of Canterbury , attended, and behind him King Nentres, King Uriens, Duke Lucas, Duke Brastias, Sir Launcelot, Sir Breuse, and other Knights and Barons.
Men's Voices.
Benigne fac Domine in bona voluntate tua Sion,
Ut aedificentur muri Jerusalem.
Merlin.
Pendragon passes, now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne.
Men's Voices.
Justificeris Domine in sermonibus tuis,
Ut vincas cum judicaris.
( The procession crosses the front of the stage: as the bier comes in the centre it is set down and the Archbishop raises his crosier and speaks. )
Archbishop.
Lords of the realm and gentlemen at arms,
From all the farthest borders of the land
I summoned ye to answer, under pain
Of ban and interdict of Holy Church.
Uther is dead, and 'gainst his heritage
The ravening kings are leagued. In jeopardy
Lies England, kingless, prey to whoso comes.
Pendragon dies, and dies the last of them
That ruled England by the grace of God.
The House is fallen, and there is no heir.
Nor law nor custom meets this woful plight
Wherein we sink: yet needs must that a king
Rule over us, lest England be disrupt
And parcelled out in shameful vassalage.
To-day is Easter: on this blessed morning
Lord Jesu rose, wherefore of His great mercy
Perchance this day He may give certain sign
Who by His will shall reign. The love of God
Passeth our wisdom. For a miracle
Fall on your knees, besiege the King of kings
With lusty prayer.
Sir Launcelot.
Dear God, a miracle!
Omnes.
O Jesu, hear us!
Archbishop.
By thy Mother's love,
Lord Jesu, answer!
Omnes.
For thy Mother's love!
Merlin.
God hears His children, and the word is said.
Archbishop.
Now speak, magician, if thou hast a tongue,
For in thy words is somewhat ominous
Of welfare to Pendragon's kingdom. Speak!
Where is the sign of God?
Merlin.
Beneath the cross.
Gather, ye barons and ye knights at arms,
Gather, ye commons from the farthest fields,
And look upon the mercy of the Lord!
( He mounts the steps of the cross. )
See ye the Sword that grows in living rock,
Thrust to the hilt within the closing stone?
See ye the scripture writ around it? Read!
Read ye the rune, and reading, rise and do.
This very night, ere yet was day conceived,
Whilst grimly darkness gripped the cringing earth,
I heard a Voice that cleft the sombre night,
And thus it spake, and speaking died away.
"Pendragon passes, now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne."
And all the night grew white with leaping light
As down the heavenly glory flashed a star,
A streaming fire that thundered to the earth
Riving the rock. Excalibur is come.
Omnes.
Excalibur is come!
Archbishop.
Now unto God
Be laud and honour, that has shown a sign.
Duke Lucas.
Pendragon's seed shall reign? What word is this?
Pendragon's seed is ended. Uther died
Void of all heir, and helpless of his House;
How then shall reign his seed?
Duke Brastias.
How reign his seed
When barren lies his field? Shame shows her head:
No bastard reigns in England!
Merlin.
Peace, ye fools!
A rune is written 'round the rigid hilt,
The which I gain, and straightly give it thee,
Most holy father. Read! and reading, rest.
Archbishop.
"Whoso shall pull this Sword forth of the stone
Is rightwise king, born of all England."
Merlin.
Hear!
Barons and knights and commons; come, essay!
Hale the steel forth, for England lies enwrapped
Around the blade of great Excalibur.
King Nentres.
By right I claim the Sword. Have I to wife
Queen Igraine's daughter? Then to her, Elaine,
And so to me, comes England!
King Uriens.
Traitor king,
Morgan le Fay is mine! From Queen Igraine
I gain the daughter's dowry. Give me place,
For so to me comes England.
Sir Breuse.
Hold your hand!
How runs the rune? Pendragon's seed shall reign,
And not Duke Cornwall's daughter, gotten first
On Igraine ere she lay with Uther. Hold!
Nor look to gain a kingdom with a wife.
I win the Sword that am King Uther's son.
Duke Brastias.
No bastard reigns in England!
Sir Breuse.
In thy teeth,
Thou damnèd duke, I cast thy scornful word!
Bastard or no, I reign, Pendragon's seed:
Heave up thy sword, for Breuse shall send thee hence!
Duke Brastias.
Have at thee, boaster, that would fain be king!
Archbishop.
Now by authority of Holy Church,
I bid ye cease, else underneath the ban
I cast ye, traitors. Who shall win the Sword
Is rightwise King of England, and none else.
Strike back your swords! What! dare ye hesitate?
Then so I damn ye! -
Good: Now hold your peace!
Merlin, guard thou the Sword: my lords, essay!
King Nentres.
England is mine, and thus, -
What craft is here?
The brand is frozen in the iron rock,
Cursèd magician, by what evil spell -
Merlin.
Give place, King Nentres, England is not thine.
Duke Brastias.
But mine, and so I lightly win the crown, -
Hell and hell's angels hold thee!
Duke Lucas.
For my hand.
Excalibur and England!
Merlin.
Are not thine.
Sir Breuse.
Pendragon's seed shall reign. Said so the rune?
Here to me, Sword! What, firmer than the hills?
By God I'll rive the ground up from the rock,
The rock from nether hell, but thou shalt come.
What demons hold thy blade? Unsheathe thyself!
Know'st thou not me? It is Pendragon's seed
That grips thee! Devils rend ye Merlin -
Archbishop.
Peace!
Fall back, Sir Breuse, the Sword is not for thee.
( Enter: unperceived, Morgan le Fay.)
Sir Breuse.
Now now, but after: Merlin, mark me well,
I seize the Sword and England, maugre thy spell.
King Uriens.
Then ask me for them, fair Sir Breuse, for now
I claim them. Morgan, aid me, that I gain
Thy dowry and a kingdom.
Merlin.
Stand thou back,
Morgan le Fay, thy gods are helpless here.
Morgan.
Wait for the proof! King, grasp Excalibur
And cry: "Here to me from the Magic Mere
Gods of the sunken sea! Queen Morgan calls,
Win her Excalibur!"
Merlin.
The charm is void.
Morgan.
Wait for the proof!
Merlin.
The charm is void, for so
I shield the Sword and England from thy spell.
( He makes over Excalibur the sign of the cross. )
King Uriens.
So now thou'dst prop thy magic with the sign
Of thy Redeemer when the magic fails;
As men deny their Lord to win the cast
And failing, fall on Him for final aid.
So, I defy thee, black blasphemer, so,
I seize my kingdom. From the Magic Mere
Here to me, demons of the sunken sea!
Queen Morgan calls! Win her Excalibur,
Yield me a kingdom!
Omnes.
See, the Sword is fast!
Merlin.
Morgan le Fay, thy magic lacks the prop
Of righteousness. God gives to whom He will
Knowledge of laws, dominion of unseen,
Unfathomed powers that yet are His alone.
Fools mutter "Magic!" cross themselves aghast,
Granting to God no wisdom save their own,
The which to Him is lisping of a babe,
To Him who made the world, and fixed the laws
Of its endurance. Of His sovereign will,
From time to time, that men may have the light
Wherewith to guide their footsteps through the dark,
He grants some glimpsing vision of that Truth
That in His Being, unto us who stand
As His ambassadors; but know ye well
That whoso wields this wisdom without God
Falls to the nethermost hell.
Morgan.
Where thou art summoned
A little while, mayhap, thou dost prevail,
But swell not with conceit and orgulite,
For thou shalt play the fool. The Sword returns!
( Tumult and confusion without. Enter: Sir Kay and Sir Ector , followed by many people in great disorder. )
Sir Kay.
Lord Bishop, barons, noble knights, to arms!
King Lot of Orkney and King Carados,
The King of Scotland and a myriad knights
Beat down the gates of London. Like a flood
They surge against the ramparts, cresting high
A breaking wave of death. The people quail
Cowering, kingless, in a kingless land,
With none to lead them. Who is chosen?
Merlin.
None.
Sir Kay.
Christ help us! for King Lot is at the gates
Claiming the kingdom for Queen Margawse.
Choose!
For God's love, choose!
Sir Launcelot.
Stand not upon the form
While dolorous peril menaces the land.
Beat back the tide of treason! Follow Gore,
Or Nentres, Brastias, or any knight
That dares to lead us.
Duke Brastias.
Follow me afield,
The crown may rest with Uther.
King Nentres.
Follow me!
While Merlin keeps the Sword, I gain the crown.
Duke Lucas.
Is England won upon the field to-day?
Stand by me, lords, for I will lead the fight.
Omnes.
Who heads us, Merlin?
Merlin.
He who hails the Sword:
None other.
Sir Launcelot.
Merlin, art thou leagued with them
That shatter England?
Merlin.
No, Sir Launcelot.
The king shall come.
Sir Launcelot.
Must we abide thy jest
And stand here waiting while the city falls?
I hear the kings hale down the grinding gates,
And traitor knights prick through the screaming streets
To bait us in this trap.
Sir Kay.
Black traitors all,
For God's love choose!
Archbishop.
We may not. He has sent
Excalibur to England, Joseph's Sword
Left long in Avalon, lost ages since,
And held unransomed in the Magic Mere
While Uther lived. Whoso shall draw the Sword
Is rightwise king of England, and none else.
Sir Kay.
So England falls, for Lot is king anon!
Merlin.
So England falls not, for the king shall come.
Sir Kay.
To rule a desert waste!
Archbishop.
God give us aid
As He has given sign. Fall on the Sword,
Barons and knights, who hales him forth is king.
( The Knights cast themselves about the cross, striving for the Sword. Enter, Arthur.)
Merlin.
"Pendragon passes, now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne."
Arthur.
Lords of the realm, King Lot is on the walls!
Our knights fall from him like the mangled dogs
That roll before a foaming boar at bay.
Sound thou the onset, herald; lords, to arms!
Sir Kay.
They may not answer, for there is no king.
Merlin.
Their eyes are blinded, Arthur, by the hilt
Of some fair Sword that holds within the rock
And comes not forth.
Arthur.
Contend they, sir, for that,
While England falls?
Sir Kay.
Aye, boy, while England falls.
Arthur.
What shame is this? Shall men dispute a sword
Nor use their own to save a kingdom? Fools!
Sir Kay, I pray thee leave, these women folk
Have softened into children, that a sword
Should blind them, baffle them. Sir, give me leave,
I am Sir Ector's squire, I lack a sword.
But give me leave and I shall lightly win
Knighthood, and fight beside thee: give me leave!
Sir Kay.
And blessing, boy.
Merlin.
The hour is on the stroke.
Arthur.
Stand back, ye puling sluggards, is your brawn
Grown fat and futile with your wantonness?
The devil makes men women, now may God
Make men of boys, England is fallen else!
Merlin.
"Pendragon passes, now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon on Pendragon's throne!"
( The Knights about the cross fall back. )
Arthur.
Good Jesu, help me! Come, reluctant Sword!
( He hales the Sword forth, and brandishes it in air. )
Omnes.
The Sword is won, and by a beardless boy!
King Nentres.
The Sword is won! Elaine, thy dowry falls.
Morgan.
The Sword is won! Magician, guard thy craft.
Duke Brastias.
The Sword is won! What bastard gains the goal?
Arthur.
The Sword is won, and lightly, by this arm.
Why stare ye all astonied, good my lords?
Is it so hard to hale a biting blade
From rock that grips it with but half a hand?
Your arms are women's arms, that like your hearts
Halt quaking! Holy father, cry them on,
The toy is mine and I can heave it well.
Now let these whining children draw their swords,
Full heavy for their futile hands. A king
Baleful, black-hearted, hammers at our gates.
I call a challenge, shall I fight alone?
The Commons.
Hail to the King of England!
Arthur.
Where's the king,
Save Uther's corpse? Nathless a rotting king
Best leads dead warriors.
The Commons.
Hail to England's king!
Excalibur is won! Lead us to war!
Arthur.
Who wins Excalibur?
Merlin.
Look in thy hand.
Arthur.
What Sword is this?
The Commons.
Excalibur!
Arthur.
Ye lie!
Lie in your teeth: magician, name this Sword.
Merlin.
Excalibur.
Archbishop.
Who art thou?
Arthur.
Arthur.
The Commons.
Hail,
Arthur of England, rightwise king and lord!
Arthur.
Call ye me king?
The Commons.
Aye, King of England.
Sir Breuse.
No!
I challenge thee!
King Nentres.
I challenge thee!
King Uriens.
And I!
The Barons.
King Uther's seed shall reign, no lowborn knave
Propped with the magic of a sorcerer.
The Knights.
A squire for England's king? What shame is this?
Duke Brastias.
No bastard reigns in England!
Arthur.
Hold thy cry,
Thou foul-mouthed carrion crow! My blood is clean
And with this Sword I'll prove it. Fair Sir Kay,
Thou art my father: tell him, ere I cleave
His mocking mouth and feed my hungry blade.
The Commons.
Arthur is king: we'll have none other!
Archbishop.
Peace!
Merlin, thou art the warder of the Sword,
Speak, if thou know'st an answer. Is this he
That reigns in England as Pendragon's son?
Merlin.
Sir Kay, give thou the answer.
Sir Kay.
King and liege,
Upon my knees I swear thee fealty.
Sir Ector.
And I, O King of England.
Arthur.
How, to me
Thou kneelest father, and thou, Ector? Speak!
Why yield ye homage to the youngest born?
Sir Kay.
For that thou art Pendragon's son, and lord.
The Commons.
King Uther's son!
The Barons.
The king's son!
Sir Launcelot.
How is this?
King Uther died, and passed, devoid of heir.
Duke Brastias.
No bastard reigns in England!
Merlin.
Cease your clamour,
While from the misty caverns of the night
I raise a vision that shall wash your eyes
Of cloudy sleep. Arthur is rightwise king,
For by his hand Excalibur is drawn
To carve a nation from the wreck of worlds.
Son to King Uther, got on Queen Igraine
Ere yet the Church had blessed the king's great love,
Arthur Pendragon holds Pendragon's throne.
Duke Brastias.
So now I see two bastards in the field,
Arthur Pendragon, Breuse saunce Pité,
Choose, lords and commons, bastards have the day.
The Commons.
Arthur for England!
The Barons.
We'll no baseborn king!
The Commons.
Arthur for England!
The Knights.
Out upon his name!
Arthur.
Have I no word in this? I win the Sword.
Uther Pendragon was my father. Well,
England is mine. Will any meet my stroke?
Here stand I ready.
Sir Breuse.
If my father's lust
Sowed thine untimely seed in others' fields
Ere yet my day was come, his blood is mine.
"Pendragon's seed shall reign." 'Tis mine or thine,
Brother, I need thy life. Hurl up thy blade!
Archbishop.
Once more I charge ye under pain of ban
Strike home your swords! Merlin, is there no choice?
Merlin.
Aye, between son and bastard; Breuse, thy claim
Is null and void, Arthur is Uther's son.
Sir Breuse.
And I as well.
Merlin.
Born out of wedlock. Hear,
Ye men of England. When the king was hot
With fire of love for Igraine, Cornwall's duke
Lay far afield, and Uther had his will.
But ere befell the crowning of his love
The Duke of Cornwall died upon the field
And Uther knew it not. But when Igraine
Grew great with England's hope and gave him birth
Tintagail stood beleaguered of the gods
That Jesu Christ had prisoned in the Mere,
For well they read the rune that gave them word
How on a day should come Pendragon's seed,
The which would lightly cast them deep in hell
And ranson England. By their subtile hands
Was Igraine reft of Arthur, and the child
Hurled downward to the sea. The friendly waves
Softly received him, bore him to my feet
And laid him scathless in my shielding arms;
So then I lightly gave him to Sir Kay
To rear him as his son. Anon, the king
Wedded Igraine, and she was England's queen,
So Arthur stands, Pendragon's lawful son.
Arthur.
So stand I, men of England, Uther's son,
And rightwise king from sea to crawling sea.
Swear me allegiance! While we parley here
Like old wives chaffering scandal, Orkney's king
Leaguers the walls of London. When the waves
Rack the tough timbers of a sinking ship
And hell gapes wide where howling breakers yawn,
Do men contend who shall be master? On!
I cry you, On! Arthur for England, On!
King Nentres.
Better that England falls than Arthur reigns.
King Uriens.
Merlin, thy magic wins no men to-day.
Sir Breuse.
No bastard brother shall command my sword.
King Nentres.
Give us a true king, Bishop, or we fail.
Sir Kay.
Stand by me, Ector! King, our swords are thine.
Certain Knights.
And mine, and mine! King, marshal us for war.
The Commons.
Arthur for England!
A Citizen.
Bishop, give us word,
That we may arm us from these traitor knaves.
The Barons.
Treason!
King Uriens.
The churls lift hands against our lives!
Thou jester king, hale thou thy nobles home.
Arthur.
Shall I fight Lot alone, ye traitor brood?
Sir Kay.
No, for I fight beside thee!
Sir Ector.
Sir, and I!
Sir Launcelot.
And I, King Arthur: for that thou art king
My soul gives answer. But wert thou the last
Of villains with a barred and blotted shield
I'd fight beside thee, for thou art a man
Amongst black traitors.
The Commons.
Hail to Launcelot!
Merlin.
Now do I know that I must work alone
To save this land and give it back to God.
There was a day when wives gave birth to babes
And nurtured them for heroes: not to rats
That waxed to bloated vermin. Fat with spleen,
Yellow with jealousy, ye barter life,
England and honour for your belching pride.
What would ye have?
The Barons.
A proof, foul Merlin, proof!
Arthur.
And ye shall have it, if the Lord will speak
In otherwise than by a thunderbolt
To hurl ye back to hell, whence came ye forth
To do disworship to your chivalry.
( He kneels before King Uther's bier. )
O thou, that gav'st me life, thou king of men,
My father, hear me! From that awful land
When thou art walking with the saints of God
Hear me and save thy kingdom. Speak to these
Thy liegemen; tell them that I am thy son,
Nor knave nor bastard, but great England's king.
Save thou thy people!
( The dead king lifts his hand, removes the crown from his brow, and with it crowns Arthur.)
Omnes.
Look! Christ Jesu! Look!
Archbishop.
To Thee, O Christ, and to Thee, Lord of Hosts,
Be praise forever!
Merlin.
Are ye satisfied,
That hounded God until He gave ye proof?
Duke Lucas.
It is enough. With all my men at arms
I yield thee, king, liege love and loyalty.
Arthur.
My honour take for guerdon. King of Gore,
Dost thou confess me rightwise overlord?
Morgan.
Deny him, king, and thou shalt wear the crown.
King Uriens.
Shall Gore be vassal to a changeling, crowned
By sorcery with England's coronet?
I solemnly deny thee.
Arthur.
Go thy ways;
Anon I'll meet thee in the reeking field,
And on thy body prove thy treason. Speak,
Nentres of Garlot!
King Nentres.
I have spoken, fool!
Now comes the deed. I join with Scotland's king,
With Gore and Carados. The stolen crown
Falls from thy head ere sunset.
Arthur.
Brastias,
Dost thou deny me?
Duke Brastias.
I am sworn to fight
For England, and I stand beside thee, king,
If that thou art. I tell thee to thy face
If, when the fight is won and England free,
I find thee but a crownèd bastard, then
By God, I'll hurl thee headlong from the throne
And ask no priest to shrive me of my sin!
Arthur.
Well spoken, Brastias: give me thy hand,
And if Pendragon's blood flows not to-day
From out my sundered veins, I give thee leave
To snatch the crown I reached no hand to win.
Garlot and Gore, lightly avoid our sight
Until we meet ye, traitors, in the field.
Now, herald, sound the onset. Knights, to arms!
Arthur for England!
( Flourish of trumpets. The Barons and Knights kneel before Arthur , swearing allegiance. )
Sir Breuse.
But not yet for me.
Queen Morgan, art thou helpless in the blaze
Of Merlin's mockery? Hast thou no spell
To blast this folly?
Morgan.
Wait a little, Breuse;
I know no spell to match with marching time
To wash men's minds of madness. Follow me,
Wait patiently. Thou know'st I love thee, knight,
And I do swear the crown shall clinch thy brow
When Arthur rots.
King Nentres.
My lord of Gore,
Why dally we among these daffish dupes?
The road is open for us. Follow, knights!
We fight with Orkney, Arthur fights alone.
( Exeunt King Nentres, King Uriens, Sir Breuse, and certain of the Knights.)
Merlin.
Bright in the blazing zenith flames the sun
Of England's dawn. King, cry the onset!
Arthur.
Come,
Liegemen of England's crown; for England's king,
And so for England, let your impatient swords
Menace the sun with lightnings; let the horns
In brazen clamour hurl the word abroad
That England's king brooks no disloyalty
Of prince or peasant, while his faithful knights
Die, if God wills, but suffer no disdain
To fall upon their lord who is their land.
War waits us; England watches; God has heard.
( Exeunt Arthur, the Barons, Knights, and Commons, singing the war song. The Archbishop and Monks re-enter the cathedral chanting, "Te Deum laudamus." Merlin remains standing on the steps of the cross, regarding Morgan , who remains by Uther's bier, gazing on him with defiance. )
WAR SONG
Sun, see us,
Wind, hear us,
Earth, feel us hurling on.
God, free us,
Who near us
brings foemen whirling on.
Christ, guide us,
saints, arm us,
Lady Mary, lead us now!
None abide us
hurt or harm us:
King and kindred need us now!
Merlin.
Pendragon passes, now Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne.
A kingdom passes, now a kingdom's king
Shall raise a kingdom for the King of kings.
Curtain.
SCENE II. Carlion. The crown of a low, wooded hill: the royal pavilion in the midst. In front Sir Pelleas , lying wounded, Ettard nursing him. Around are other Knights with Monks dressing their wounds. Sunset: the sound of battle without. Enter at a galop, Sir Tor.
Sir Pelleas.
How goes the fight?
Sir Tor.
As some enormous flood
That thunders down the mountain, rolling on
Inexorable.
Sir Pelleas.
Stay, for God's love, Tor,
And ease my wounds with word of victory.
The king prevails?
Sir Tor.
Thou speakest as a fool!
The boy fights even as St. Michael fought,
And rebel kings fall headlong from his stroke
As fell the devil's angels. Stay me not,
I ride with word for Launcelot.
( Exit )
Sir Pelleas.
Sir Tor!
He goes, and all my wounds burst out afresh.
Ettard, I follow him! Give me my shield!
Ettard.
Nay, sweet, fair knight, bethink thee of thy case,
Thou could'st not lift a sword; see how thine arm
Turns rebel to thine whole, unwounded will.
Abide a little.
Sir Pelleas.
Aye, and house me here
Like any whining churl, the while the fight
Roars loud and lusty, howling in mine ear
To rise and follow. Give me drink! My shield!
Ettard, bring me my shield! If I must die
At least I'll die where steel is biting steel,
Not in a woman's arms.
Ettard.
Thou shalt not die,
For here I hold thee, maugre thy headlong will.
See, dear my lord, thou canst not rive the clasp
Of my two arms, and wouldst thou lead the fight?
Content thyself.
Sir Pelleas.
Out on the scurvy knave
That did me this disworship!
( Enter Duke Lucas, wounded. )
Who is come,
Forspent, and gaping with such grimly wounds?
Sir knight, what word?
Duke Lucas.
The day is well-nigh won,
But for this vile and most felonious wound
I needs must lose the glory of the end.
Certes, the villain that did me this trick
Fell, cleft in halves unto the saddle bow,
But all too late.
Sir Pelleas.
Look thou to him, Ettard,
He falls. Sir monk, come hither: look afield,
Canst thou see ought?
Monk.
Naught, save a whirling storm
Of dust that rolls in dun and sullen clouds
Along the meadows. Think not of the battle
But of thyself: perchance thou art to die.
Art thou assoiled?
Sir Pelleas.
Death lingers not for me,
Do as I bid thee: tell me of the fight.
Monk.
The cloud is broken: towards the sinking sun
A thousand - nay, ten thousand men drive on
Dismayed, disordered.
Sir Pelleas.
Whose the banner? Speak!
Monk.
I mark no banner, but the shields are round.
Sir Pelleas.
St. George, an altar for thee, 'tis the Scots!
What else?
Monk.
The dust is lifted like a fog:
East, north, and south men hurl across the plain,
And on their flanks swords flash as lightning. Ha!
I mark the crest of Garlot.
Sir Pelleas.
Fleeing, monk?
Monk.
Aye, like a champion coursing down the lists,
So fast.
Sir Pelleas.
The king, canst see the king?
Monk.
Not yet.
Hold! by the Mass, the fight is at an end.
A mighty shout comes winging on the wind,
And down the field the dragon-crested knights
Come spurring wonderly.
Sir Pelleas.
God save the king!
Duke Lucas.
What cry is that? Quick, lift me higher, girl!
Who says the fight is won?
Monk.
The king, the king!
The pageant opens, and I see him ride
With whirling sword before the shouting knights;
God save King Arthur!
Sir Pelleas.
Grip me round the waist
And lift me, so, good monk: I see the king!
Omnes.
God save King Arthur!
Hail Pendragon!
Hail!
( Enter: King Arthur, Sir Launcelot, Sir Tor, Sir Ector, Sir Kay, Duke Brastias, and Knights, mounted. )
King Arthur.
So fight the saints for England, and the tide
Of treason that rose darkling on the land
To 'whelm Pendragon's House and heritage,
Is halted, broken, utterly dispersed
In shallow ripples sobbing o'er the fields.
Now soars the Dragon to the shouting sky,
Exalted high, unchallenged, undismayed;
England is free, for God has won the day!
Sir Launcelot.
By thee, King Arthur, for thy royal hand
Struck down the enemies of England's crown
As I thought not to see the like thereof.
Thine was the victory, for since he rode,
The king, thy father, in the latest fight,
And heaved his mighty sword, with palsied arm
Made iron by the grace of England's God,
Such prowess has not been.
Sir Pelleas.
King Arthur, hail!
God save the man that saved a kingdom!
Omnes.
Hail!
God save the king!
King Arthur.
Give me no honour, lords;
What brought I, save the brawn of rugged arms?
If ye would glorify the holy thing
That won the day, look on this awful Sword
That hews untramelled victory, whoe'er
May hap to wield him. Hail Excalibur,
And heap your thanks on Merlin, not on me.
Sir Launcelot.
On thee and Merlin and Excalibur
All England casts the tribute of her praise,
But thou art first for that thou art the king,
And he that climbs to clutch the royal crown
From off thy riven helmet, from this day
Must reckon first on dolorous debate
With every man that backed thee in the field.
Sir Brastias.
And first with me; I want the trick of words,
That am for fighting, not for parliament,
But I confess thee king. My sword is thine;
What Brastias gives he takes not back again.
King Arthur.
As I am king, I pledge Pendragon's name
Thou gainest, Brastias, no cause from me
To ask it ever.
Sir Launcelot.
Come, victorious king.
Avoid thy steed for easing of thy limbs,
The while thou dost refresh thy taxèd strength
With meat and drink: we fight no more to-day.
Rest on thy victory.
King Arthur.
Give me thine hand,
And for a narrow space I'll halt me here
The while my hounds shall harry to their holes
The crownèd wolves of treason. Fair Sir Tor,
Look thou that all the knights and men at arms
Be well disposed. Of thy good grace, Sir Kay,
I pray thee see that all who are on live,
Yet sorely wounded, have such ministry
As fits their case; and thou, Sir Launcelot,
Hold thou by me: I need thy councilment.
( Exeunt all but King Arthur, Sir Launcelot, Duke Lucas, and Monk.)
Duke Lucas.
Death frights me not, now I have seen the sun
Go down upon this wondrous victory.
Lift me, good monk: king, I am sore bested
With searching wounds. I may not see thee fight
Again for England, but if I must die
I die thy vassal.
King Arthur.
'Tis Duke Lucas's voice
That hails me from a mask of sorry wounds!
The sun of victory is in eclipse
If thou art sinking towards a grievous end.
Grip hard upon the hilt of life, my lord,
And thou shalt brandish it against the foe
On many fields ere yet thy day is done.
Duke Lucas.
I fear me, king, my sun is on the rim
Of death's horizon. Let it go: content
Am I to follow, now the field is won.
King Arthur.
That shalt thou not. Good father, guard him well,
And thou shalt be an abbot for thy pains.
Would well my Merlin followed in the field,
For he is skilled in cunning medicine.
Has any seen him?
( Exit Duke Lucas and Monk.)
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, King Arthur, horsed
Upon a frightful steed as black as hell,
That gnashed with foaming teeth and bloody jaws
Against the horses whilst his master fought:
A baleful spectacle.
King Arthur.
Did Merlin fight?
Meseemed his weapons were the fateful stars,
His hauberk fearsome magic.
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, he fought,
And wonderly, for whereso'er he rode
The traitors opened from him in amaze,
Nor could endure the lightning of his eye.
King Arthur.
'Tis very strange: but marvels fall as rain
Each day in England. Tell me, Launcelot,
The while we drink and quench the flame of fight,
Bore I myself as fits Pendragon's son
There in the press of battle?
Sir Launcelot.
Good my lord,
St. Michael in the charge of heavenly hosts
Against the devil fought not in such wise.
King Arthur.
Nay, answer not with any courtier's tongue,
I crave no words of fawning flattery.
Speak as a provèd knight unto a squire
That feutred maiden spear along the lists
And rides victorious. Was is it rightly done?
Pardie! I know not.
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, 'twas bravely done.
And thou hast routed, not alone the foe,
Orkney and Carados, the King of Scots,
The traitor Garlot - God alone can tell
The number of the kings - but more than all
Thou hast o'erthrown the last of them that mocked
Against thy majesty.
King Arthur.
God grant 'tis so,
But flame stamped out oft bursts again anew.
I would the day were ten good years agone
When I did gain the crown.
Sir Launcelot.
Ten years of years
Could fix it no more firmly on thy brow.
Pendragon's blood confirms Pendragon's seed.
King Arthur.
How runs the rune, Sir knight? "Pendragon's seed
Shall slay Pendragon:"
Sir Launcelot.
Nay, "Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne."
King Arthur.
I think me of the other.
Sir Launcelot.
Why, my lord?
King Arthur.
For that the fire of fight within my veins
Is fading, and the dark of coming things
Looms close upon me. Tell me, Launcelot,
Woulds't thou be king?
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, sir, an' thou wert not.
King Arthur.
Take thou the crown!
Sir Launcelot.
What jest is this, King Arthur?
King Arthur.
No jest, good Launcelot, as I do find.
Seven days I've called it mine, and on each day
It waxed a pound in weight. A weary thing,
An irksome, weary thing, a royal crown;
Yet men would sell their souls to feel it cling
Around their brows, and hate it when 'twas won.
( Enter Merlin at back. )
Sir Launcelot.
This sadness likes me not.
King Arthur.
'Tis gone again.
A passing mood begotten of the mist
That blots the future: think no more of it.
My Launcelot, a most untoward thing
Is this that meets me: for a maiden joust
Fierce war with mighty kings, and for the prize
A crown and kingdom.
Merlin.
It is well contrived
To match the marvels that shall follow, king.
Upon the deep foundation thou hast laid
This day, shall rise a fabric such as men
Saw not, nor shall again. Great England's crown
Shall widen in its circuit till it rings
An empire that would blind with sore amaze
High Cæsar thronèd in the crowding walls
Of awful Rome. For such high destiny
Most meet it is the crown come on this wise.
King Arthur.
I give thee greeting, Merlin: knight thou art
And no more wizard, but a man of war,
Therefore, Childe Merlin art thou. Gentle knight,
How like ye warfare? Were the stars unkind
That thou should'st flout them for a naked sword?
Nathless I thank thee, for upon the oath
Of chivalry, I do believe the day
Was won by thee.
Merlin.
Mock me no jest, Sir king,
For years and wisdom cannot curb the hand
That itches for a sword when steel and steel
Are clanging music in the listening ear
No more of that; thou art anointed king
With traitors' blood: the chrism of my lord
Of Canterbury can avail no more.
So now, to horse, and ride for Camelot!
King Arthur.
And let the traitor foxes find their holes,
Nor scourge them for their treason?
Merlin.
Let them be.
Already on their borders press the foe,
And flame and slaughter hotly call them home;
They may not hinder thee. The war is done,
Now statecraft clamours for thee.
King Arthur.
I am fain
To harry them a little - Ha! Sir Tor,
What tidings of the chase?
( Enter Sir Tor.)
Sir Tor.
The sky is clear.
Like fleeting mist before the rising sun,
The foe has melted into little clouds
That, driven by the wind of victory,
Scud aimless, formless, blind with blanching fear.
Shall we pursue?
Merlin.
Bethink thee well, King Arthur.
King Arthur.
Call back the knights, we rest here till the dawn;
To-morrow we will lie at Camelot
And call a Parliament.
( Exit Sir Tor.)
Merlin.
'Tis well resolved.
Thou hast approved thy right to wear the crown,
Upon the field. Prove thou the sceptre thine,
The sword of justice and the golden orb,
As thou shalt prove them in thy Parliament,
And thou art king indeed.
( Enter Sir Kay.)
Sir Kay.
My lord, a vassal
But lately fighting 'gainst thy majesty
Is come, repentant of his evil mood,
To do thee worship.
King Arthur.
We will greet him kindly;
Bring him before us.
Merlin.
King, be on thy guard!
There's more of treason than the bearing arms
Against thee in the field.
King Arthur.
I am the King
Of England, - all of England, - and I hold
No hatred 'gainst a vassal that repents
Of treason, asking pardon.
( Enter King Uriens and Queen Morgan.)
King of Gore,
And thou, our sister, welcome!
Merlin ( aside )
Loathly witch,
I scent thy craft in this! Now Merlin, watch,
For danger climbs the steps of Arthur's throne.
Morgan.
King Arthur, here we yield us to thy grace.
Thou art approvèd king: in vassalage
We humbly kneel and swear liege loyalty.
King Arthur.
Thou art our sister, Morgan, but not king:
So let him speak.
King Uriens.
I do confess the proof
And hail thee King of England.
King Arthur.
On thy knees
Thou shalt swear fealty at Camelot
To-morrow. Seneschal, into thy charge
We give the King of Gore, and Morgan, queen,
And sister unto England.
Merlin.
Guard them shrewdly,
Sir Kay, but look thou to the lady
With double cunning.
Morgan.
So, the sorcerer
Still props the throne! We do confess the king,
But not his master, Merlin.
Merlin.
As thou shalt!
( Enter: Sir Ector and Duke Brastias.)
Sir Ector.
My lord, Sir Ulfius is well returned
From hounding Lot adown the western wind,
And with him bruit of war hard here at hand
By Rience, King of Wales, 'gainst thine ally,
Leodegrance, King of Cameliard.
Sir Launcelot.
How say'st thou, sir?
King Arthur.
Is Rience loose again?
I hate him well, the wolfish King of Wales.
A most felonious, false-hearted knave,
While King Leodegrance held by our House
In hearty friendship. How says Ulfius
Touching the battle, Ector?
Sir Ector.
King Rience
Prevails most wonderly. Leodegrance
Is prisoned in his castle, close beset
By howling hoards of lewd and savage men
That cease not from the siege. The king is lost
If succour comes not swiftly.
Sir Launcelot.
Jesu Christ,
Hold back the hasty sun!
King Arthur.
How say ye, lords?
We are forefoughten, but the peril looms
Close on Leodegrance. Shall we essay
This brave adventure?
Duke Brastias.
Wait until the morrow,
We cannot fight with bodies that cry out
For mercy. March at dawn; Leodegrance
Must hold a little longer.
Sir Launcelot.
Good my lord,
In God's name grant this boon that on my knees
I ask of thee! March for Cameliard
This night, this very hour! Thou knowest not
That all my life is prisoned with the king,
And even now, mayhap, the black Rience
Is bursting through the walls to hale them forth,
Thine ally, and the lady Guenever
That I do love. King Arthur, give no heed
To cautious council, but be moved by me
If thou dost love me.
King Arthur.
Fair Sir Launcelot,
Thy love leaps with my liking. Sound the horns,
And strike the camp as lightly as ye may.
On to Cameliard!
( Trumpet without. Enter many Knights.)
Sir Launcelot.
My life is thine,
King Arthur, ask it of me when ye will.
On to Cameliard!
King Arthur.
My lords, my knights,
My hardy men of England, King Rience,
The which we loath since he doth hate us well
And holds against us, strikes Leodegrance,
Our sworn ally. Around the castle walls
A rabble army all disworshipful
Howls loud for blood and booty. We are knights,
Sworn by our knighthood ever to afford
All aid to them that suffer evil hap.
For high adventure march we forth to-night
Into Cameliard. To-morrow's sun
Shall see us well discharged of our devoir,
And Rience beaten back into his lair.
Let honour stay our hunger, ease our limbs,
Here rest we not. Cry, "Death to King Rience!"
On, for the worship of our chivalry!
( Exeunt, leaving Merlin standing before the pavilion, King Uriens and Queen Morgan at back. The stage is quite dark. )
Merlin ( seating himself beneath the pavilion. ).
All passeth as an ordered pageantry,
And without hinderance the great design
That gathered perfect form within my brain
Takes shape and substance. So I stand with God,
Who did conceive the project of a world
And give it being, in that I may weave
A splendid fabric where the warp and woof
Are little lives that, like a tangled web
Of knotting threads, would break and haul awry
Did I not play the part of destiny.
Morgan.
See where the grim magician sits him down
Upon the throne of his poor puppet king
In guise of majesty. 'Tis well devised;
He is the king!
King Uriens.
And must we bear with this
That hold the throne of right from Queen Igraine,
Nor lift a hand against this trickery?
Morgan.
Thy sword is by thee, strike for England now!
King Uriens.
The king is gone.
Morgan.
The king is in thy reach!
King Uriens.
How mean ye, Merlin?
Morgan.
Hush! he speaks again.
Merlin.
What man is there would crouch beneath a crown
And be the target of a thousand swords,
When he might stand unseen behind the throne
To marshal armies, overthrow estates,
And fashion kingdoms by his sovereign will?
There lies the potency of royalty
Hid in a little word. Prevailing will,
The essence of the Godhead, and the sign
That shows in man the imagery of God.
King Uriens ( aside ).
Shall I not strike him now?
Morgan.
Unless thine arm
Is palsied with thy years. Give me the sword!
King Uriens.
I am no dotard, topling on the brim
Of black eternity.
Morgan.
Then strike thou home!
(Uriens approaches Merlin from the back of the pavilion and lifts his sword to stab him. )
Merlin.
What menace threats me?
( He rises: Uriens strikes him from behind, the sword turning blunted from the stroke. )
Fool! I kill thee not,
For that thou art none other than the tool
Of one that is hell's proxy in the fight
Betwixt us. Morgan, lightly stand thou forth
The while I give thee council.
Morgan.
Mark me, then,
For like a bloodhound nosing down the trail
I follow thee, Sir Merlin, to the end.
Merlin.
With weapon such as this? I would not move
An hand's breath from my course for fear thereof.
Thy wit forsakes thee, Morgan, dost thou think
To cope with Merlin? Marshal in their might
The quaking spirits of the Magic Mere
And hurl them on me, they shall fright me not
Nor let me from my labour. I am he
That God has made His deputy on earth.
I am incarnate will, and I abide
Forever scathless. Thou art futile craft
And this thy tool is blind and senseless force.
Shall either match me that am perfect will
Untrammelled, unconditioned? Get thee gone
And sink thy deep dishonour in the sea,
Nor sally forth to mock me with the jest
Of potent hinderance. I am thy lord,
For I am will and wisdom, and I stand
Unhampered of thine idle enmity
Until my task is ended: until God
Reigns absolute in England, and the day
Of righteousness shall lighten on the land.
My will prevails: content thee with thy doom.
Curtain.
SCENE III. Cameliard. Before the castle of King Leodegrance. Enter: King Rience, mounted, and with him Knights, Men-at-arms, and Bowmen. Before dawn.
King Rience.
Now breaks the day of triumph to our arms!
Too long, my men of Wales, Leodegrance,
Chased like a fox to cover, flouts our might
And holds his haughty castle that uprears
A menace to our kingship. Once again
Assail the dragon's nest, and hale him forth
To die disworshipfully. Sound the horns,
And hurl against the rocky fastness, doomed,
Ere yet the laggard sun lifts on the world,
To fall in ragged splinters round the king
That thinks to halt Rience with stony walls.
This day is mine. Good herald, sound the horns!
( Trumpets. Enter above: King Leodegrance and Knights.)
King Leodegrance.
Hold back thy men, Rience, and give thy tongue
To gentle parley, ere the dreadful shock
Of grimly war distains the breaking day.
Declare thy quarrel, that with savage arms
Thou wagest battle 'gainst my kingdom.
King Rience.
So!
The orgulous monarch turns to mellow speech
When warfare helps him not. Leodegrance,
I fight thee for that I do loathe thy name
All blazonèd with epithets of praise,
For that thou dost revile me for a knave,
For that thou art a vassal to the fool
Uther Pendragon.
King Leodegrance.
Uther lieth dead:
Pendragon dieth never. I am sworn
In loyal friendship to that royal House,
Wherefore I die if God so wills my death,
But never shall forget my knightly oath.
King Rience.
Why then, thou diest, king. Cameliard
I hold in fee before the lifting sun
Hangs in mid-heaven. Archers, bend your bows!
King Leodegrance.
Once more, King Rience, answer my appeal;
What then befalls me if I swing the gates
And yield my castle?
King Rience.
Four flame-branded steeds
To rend thy carcase! This for thee, Sir king,
And for thy squeaking women, each a man,
A stalwart wolf of Wales, to dry their tears
And give them joy before their death to-night.
For me thy scornful daughter, Guenever;
So now, swing wide thy gates!
King Leodegrance.
Thou damnèd cur,
Hell howls to grip thee in its grinning jaws!
An' we must die, we die not by thy hand.
The castle thou dost covet is a tomb
Heaped high with corpses, if ye breach the walls
In black despite of God.
King Rience.
A brave reply,
Thou wintry-pated miscreant. Think well
Before thou holdest longer. Strike a blow
Once more to-day against my majesty
And I will crucify thee on the walls
And shame thy daughter in thy dying eyes!
King Leodegrance.
Bring forth thy legions out of yawning hell
And ring my castle with consuming flame
Until it melts, and pours in blazing streams
Along the screaming meadows. I endure,
And flaunt Pendragon's banner in thy teeth!
King Rience.
See, wolves of Wales, the dragon, drunk with dole,
Crawls fearsomely upon his battlements
Intent to stay my hand. Give me a bow!
By God, I'll nail the dotard to his shield
With this my mighty arm. Give me a bow!
( Trumpets. The ramparts above fill with bowmen. Rience's force bring scaling ladders and mount and fight on the walls. )
King Leodegrance.
God fights with us against unrighteous Wales.
Hurl on them, knights, the day is lost not yet.
King Rience.
Heave up the catapult and breach the walls!
Bring in the ram and split the guarding gates!
One little hour, my wolves, and ye shall lie
With glutted maws, beneath the drowsy shade
Of blooming orchards.
( Enter: King Nentres of Garlot, mounted. )
King Nentres.
Hail, great King Rience!
Nentres of Garlot am I, and I come
To fight with thee if thou wilt league with me
Against the wittol that has filched the crown
Of England, backed by scurvy sorcery.
King Rience.
Marshal your shields along the leaping ram
For cover of the men. So, now essay!
Garlot, I need thee not, but for the hate
I bear Pendragon I will stand with thee.
Back, men, and to't again! How came ye here,
Nentres of Garlot?
King Nentres.
From a grim debate
With traitor knights that back the bastard king.
King Rience.
That did thee hurt? Gramercy for thine aid!
Ha, well sped! Sirrah, to the catapult,
And bid the captain load with blazing brands;
Once more against the gates!
King Nentres.
Nay, King Rience,
The rebels fled along the hiding night
Distraught with dole.
King Rience.
Crave thou no booty, king;
This castle is for me and for my men;
Ye gain no part thereof.
King Nentres.
Nor ask the same.
For guerdon give me aid to overthrow
Pendragon.
King Rience.
Not for guerdon, but for hate.
Thou winnest worship not of me to-day
That standest prating while we toil amain.
Get thee within the fight!
( Enter: A Welch Knight.)
How now, thou fool?
What sears thy face with fear?
A Knight.
My lord, my lord!
The forest turns to grim and armèd knights
Fierce, dragon-crested, raging on our flank
With savage fury!
King Rience.
Damn thee, traitor king!
Is this thy work?
King Nentres.
I swear I knew it not!
God's wounds, it is King Arthur! We are done:
The heavenly host 'gainst him may not prevail.
Save thou thyself, King Rience!
( Exit. )
King Rience.
Turn, my knights!
Give o'er the siege until we stay the fool
That hinders us when our enhungered fangs
Are at the quarry's throat. Come on, my wolves,
And make a mock of England!
( Exeunt, King Rience and the Welsh Knights. Enter, above: King Leodegrance.)
King Leodegrance.
Jesu Christ,
Thy hand is stretched to save! A miracle!
My men, a miracle! Who does God will?
Mine eyes are lightless and I scarce can see.
Tell me, Sir knight, who by the grace of Christ
Has turned the tide of battle?
A Knight.
All is hid
Within a rolling cloud. A myriad men
As they were like a plague of summer gnats
Fall on Rience.
King Leodegrance.
Canst thou not mark their crest?
A Knight.
By all the saints, 'tis England aids us, king!
The dragon flashes through the seething storm,
Pendragon comes!
Omnes.
God save Pendragon's name,
All hail, great England, hail! Pendragon comes!
( Enter: English and Welsh Knights fighting. They pass across the stage. )
King Leodegrance.
Down to the port and swing the labouring gates!
On, for the worship of Cameliard,
And smite the wolves of Wales in open field!
God wins the day, Cameliard is free.
( Exit: from above, King Leodegrance and the Knights. The gates open. Enter: From the castle, many men, who exit shouting, - )
Omnes.
Leodegrance, Pendragon, and set on!
( Enter, mounted: King Arthur and King Rience, fighting. )
King Arthur.
This day wipes out the shame on Uther's name,
Rience, thou diest!
King Rience.
Damn thee, villain!
( Enter, above: Guenever, Ysed, and other women. )
Guenever.
See!
Rience is mastered by a doughty knight.
God save thee, sir, strike down the mocking knave!
King Arthur.
My worship to ye, gentle ladies. King,
Yield thee a recreant!
King Rience.
Not if thou wert God!
Guard thyself!
Guenever.
Sweet Ysed, it is the king
That reigns in Uther's stead, for see, the crown
Clings 'round the Dragon.
Ysed.
Oh, the king is slain!
He falls along his steed!
( Enter: Sir Launcelot. He rushes against Rience. Arthur reels in the saddle. )
Guenever.
God sends him succour.
What favour flutters round the bruisèd helm
Of him that presses hotly on Rience?
My favour! Launcelot, 'tis Launcelot!
(Rience falls .)
Ysed.
He falls, King Rience falls!
King Arthur.
Nay, Launcelot,
Thou dost unkindly by me. I was fain
To win this worship.
Sir Launcelot.
Art thou wounded, king?
King Arthur.
Whole, hardy, and unscathed. 'Twas but a blow
That blotted reason for a little space.
The day is won!
Guenever.
God save thee, gentle king,
Thou hast delivered us! Sir Launcelot,
Look hitherward, dost know me, Launcelot?
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, lady, as I know the favour twined
Around my helm, and I do love thee well.
Guenever.
Hold thou thy station! Follow me, Ysed,
While with the king my father we do come
To lay our woship before England's feet.
( Exeunt. )
King Arthur.
Why now I win a fight and thou a maid!
Give me thy guerdon and I yield thee mine.
How say'st thou, Launcelot?
Sir Launcelot.
My noble king,
Were all the world within thy proffered hand
I'd cast it from me, resting well content
With that I have.
( Enter: from the castle King Leodegrance, Guenever, Ysed, and many Knights and Ladies. Enter from the field: Sir Kay, Sir Ector, Sir Tor, Duke Brastias, and many Knights. King Arthur dismounts. )
Omnes.
God save great England's king!
King Leodegrance.
Where is the servant of the living God
Come down from Heaven to save Cameliard?
Let me behold him.
King Arthur.
King Leodegrance,
Arthur Pendragon is Pendragon still,
And holds by them King Uther loved withal;
Give me thy hand.
King Leodegrance.
Upon my palsied knees
I thank thee, King of England.
King Arthur.
God forfend
That thou shouldst kneel, that art so reverend
And white with years.
King Leodegrance.
My daughter Guenever,
Do homage unto England!
King Arthur.
Lady fair,
My homage unto thee in place thereof,
For, by mine oath of knighthood, fair thou art
And matched by none in all the crowded world;
Wherefore take thou my worship. Launcelot,
I pray thee, come! Sir knight, the crown is thine
Upon condition.
Sir Launcelot.
Sir, I crave it not,
But only this.
( He kneels, kissing Guenever's hand. )
King Arthur.
Why now the sun is gone,
And victory is but a hollow name.
My brother of Cameliard, we two
Will sit forlorn about the patient board
And talk full sadly of the emptiness
Of martial triumph. Who would win a fight
And find the guerdon gained the fame thereof,
While others reap the booty? Come, my lords,
We will within, and while we ease us well,
Drink deep the health of King Leodegrance
And of the flower of women, Guenever.
Curtain.
ACT II
SCENE I. - Camelot. The shore of the Magic Mere, seen close at hand through tall, slim trees. In the midst a silken pavilion open on all sides. Dame Columbe, Guenever, Ysed, and Ettard; Sir Launcelot, Sir Pelleas, Sir Tor, and Sir Kay, lying on the grass.
Columbe.
Sweet damozel, sing me that song again:
Full dolorous it is and wet with tears,
Yet glad withal, as one should weep with joy
Of life that is too sweet with brimming bliss.
Guenever.
Nay, Lady Columbe, pray you let it pass,
A true thing said rings false if said again.
Sang I not true?
Columbe.
Aye, Guenever, in faith
Ye sang me true, and even as my heart
Calls gently when the night is very still.
How think ye, lords?
Sir Kay.
Dame Columbe, prythee say
If still my beard be grizzled, for the maid
Sang me so softly of the sweet, dead days,
When all my blood leaped like a noble stag
Through golden, gleaming forests, that meseemed
Twoscore of years had vanished with her song;
I was a squire again.
Ettard.
As thou art now,
Sir Kay, and shall be ever, for the years
Are not for thee; the silver in thy beard
Turns traitor to the fire within thy blood.
Sir Kay.
Out on the knave that gives me evil name!
Sir beard, I charge thee with high treason -
Columbe.
Hold!
Wreak not thy vengeance on a silly rogue
That deals in futile lies that none believes.
Thy heart, my Kay, gives answer to the lie:
Sir Tor, liked thou the song?
Sir Tor.
As sinners love
The hand that shrives them, makes them clean for God.
Fair lady, while ye sang I saw the wind
Grow bright with angels leaning near to learn
The why men seem to love this paltry world
More than the courts of heaven.
Columbe.
Well said, Sir Tor.
Speak, Pelleas, what saw ye in the song?
Sir Pelleas.
I saw the milky blossoms of the May,
Ripe roses bursting into honeyed bloom,
And every flower that burgeons on the bough
When summer winds are warm with summer love;
And all these melted, as the music moved,
Into one face -
Columbe.
That thou didst call?
Sir Pelleas.
Ettard.
Columbe.
Fair sir, thou speakest as a loyal knight.
Now Launcelot, hast thou no word of praise?
Launcelot.
No word that I may say.
Columbe.
False, craven knight,
Dost yield thee recreant?
Sir Launcelot.
With all my heart.
Columbe.
Then kneel and sue for mercy.
Sir Launcelot.
Guenever,
Unhorsed and vanquished, wounded unto death
Kneeling I crave thy mercy. Give me life,
Nor send me back into the dolorous dark
Whence came I forth to find thee. Let me live
Thy loyal knight, and by Sir Jesu's wounds
I swear to yield true service unto thee,
And stainless worship.
Guenever.
Fair Sir Launcelot,
I pray thee, of thy knighthood, do not kneel.
How should I give thee life, that art so strong
And lusty? Wit ye well, most gentle knight,
Thy life lies not within my holding hands.
Sir Launcelot.
Of thy good grace, I pray thee, reach them forth
Close clasped before my sight. O Guenever,
Within the tender cup of these white hands
That I do worship as the Holy Grail,
Thou holdest that which is too poor a thing
For me to cast beneath thy slender feet,
Yet is it all I have, for 'tis my heart.
Guenever.
And will it break if I unclose my hands
And let it fall?
Sir Launcelot.
Aye, lady, it will break.
Guenever.
I will essay!
Sir Launcelot.
I pray thee!
Guenever.
See, 'tis fallen.
Sir Launcelot.
And it is shattered in such grievous wise
It may not beat again.
Guenever.
Poor, broken heart!
But if I lift it from the couching grass
And nurse and warm it in my heart of hearts, -
Sir Launcelot.
Then like the phoenix from the fawning flame
It will arise, transfigured with new life.
Guenever.
Now wit ye well, I know not what to do.
See how it lies like some soft, wounded bird
Among the primrose buds that nestle close.
Certes, I fain would warm it in my breast,
But I do fear me it would change, mayhap,
Into a serpent.
Sir Launcelot.
Never, by my sword,
And by my faith I owe my knighthood!
( Enter, on the banks of the lake: Morgan le Fay)
Columbe.
See!
Where through the quaking trees Queen Morgan goes,
Ill hap betides us if she lifts her eyes
And looks upon us.
Ysed.
Jesu, mercy! Why?
I do beseech thee, why?
Columbe.
Thou art not wise,
Ysed, in all the lore of Arthur's court,
Else wouldst thou ask not such a foolish thing.
Ysed.
Yet tell me, lady: I am newly come
From out Cameliard.
Columbe.
Queen is she of Gore,
And wife to Uriens, but men say well
One kingdom likes her not, and she has won
By crafty magic and unchristian lore
Dominion over all the paynim gods
That fled from England when Christ Jesu came.
And now beneath the waters of the Mere
In golden caverns, wonderly beseen,
She holds her court.
Sir Pelleas.
Look, how she lifts her head
And gazes on us with her serpent eyes.
Guenever.
Methinks she brings a chill, ungentle wind
From out the hollows of the Magic Mere,
For I am cold, and shrink with creeping dread.
Sir Launcelot.
Look not upon her, she may harm thee not
Whilst I stand ready.
Columbe.
She is gone again,
But I do fear the malice of her eye.
Sir Kay.
One only man in Arthur's kingdom curbs
Her wanton witchcraft, for old Merlin holds
Her hard in leash, in that the craft of God,
Whereby he works, is potent to command
Queen Morgan's damnèd magic.
Sir Tor.
If the king
Were not an headstrong boy that knows not fear,
He would give ear to Merlin, and the witch
Should burn right merrily.
Sir Kay.
See where he comes
In guise full knightly on a royal quest,
The pride of chivalry, great England's king,
Arthur Pendragon, that did overthrow
King Lot of Orkney and King Carados
And all that leagued them 'gainst the high estate
Of Uther's kingdom.
Guenever.
Is it, then, the king?
Full fain am I to look upon his face,
For since I came from far Cameliard
To Camelot, I only hear his name
Go rushing by me as a whispering wind,
Nor ever have I seen him.
Columbe.
Guenever,
The king is hungry for a knightly quest;
For certain is it that the golden crown,
So lightly won, sits restless on his brow;
We may not hold him in the narrow court,
Where gray-beard councillors wag learnèd heads,
Or wanton girls with sleepy, longing eyes
Creep softly 'round him with sweet, subtle words.
Nor dalliance nor statecraft lure him now,
He rides afar afield.
Guenever.
I fear me, then,
He is indeed the thing that all men say,
And so I hold him most unworshipful.
Sir Kay.
What thing is that?
Guenever.
A man without a fault.
Such manners like me not. Give me a man
Content with that, nor greedy for the crown
The blessèd saints achieve when they are dead
And men no longer.
Columbe.
Fie upon thee, girl!
Thy words are peevish, and unmaidenlike
The thought that prompts them.
Guenever.
Thou art thrice mine age,
And that much nearer sainthood, lady mine,
Nathless ye liked my song. Ah, well-a-day!
We maids be nought but bratchets in a leash,
Give you good hunting! Hush, the king, the king!
( Enter: King Arthur, mounted, with him Sir Ector. Guenever stands aside among the trees. )
Omnes.
Hail to the King of England!
King Arthur.
Give ye joy,
Sir knights and ladies fair. How now, Columbe,
Art weary of tall Camelot?
Columbe.
My lord,
The springtime beckoned, and my heart was fain
To leave the courtelage of Camelot
And track the footsteps of the questing king.
King Arthur.
The while he followed where the springtime led,
Was that thy thought? Well, it was even so.
Maid April starts a quickening in the blood
That when the winds of June are on the fields
Is ill gainsaid. Come, Ector, let us rest
And crave refreshment of these gentle folk;
I would be weary were I not a king.
Columbe.
Will ye not drink, my lord? the sun is high,
And heavy hangs the harness of a knight.
Quaff thou this goblet: when thou art assuaged
Then shalt thou tell us of thy latest quest.
King Arthur.
I thank thee, dame, yet have I nought to tell
Save of a Questing Beast I followed far
And won disworship of him in the end.
Sir Kay.
Of thy good grace, King Arthur, tell the tale.
King Arthur.
'Twas in this wise, and ye may laugh at will.
When we had fought King Rience, and had freed
Leodegrance, King of Cameliard
(The which has one most wondrous daughter, hight
The Lady Guenever, more passing fair
Than saw I ever, even in my dreams.)
I rode in quest of some adventure. Noon
Was hot upon us, and I lay me down
Beside a fountain in a drowsy wood,
And if I slept I know not, but anon
Deep thunder rolled and I did see in sooth
The forest filled with griffins, gaunt and grim,
And slimy serpents, slavering as they crawled
On scaly bellies through the cringing grass.
High in the midst of all, as he were king,
I saw a beast beyond all mortal ken,
Huge, humped and horrible, with scaly sides
And twisted talons fierce with rending claws.
Winged was he with the pinions of a bat,
And either side his harsh and horny beak
Blazed baleful eyes that blinked and rolled amain,
While over all I saw as on his helm
The Dragon of our House.
The while I lay
And marvelled on this strange and grizzly thing,
Meseemed the wood grew thick with myriad knights
From all my kingdom. Then the raging Beast
Shrilled wonderly: right so the serpent brood
Hurled on my knights, and in such grievous wise
That in a little none was left on live.
And all the forest darkened as the Beast
Went howling onward. "Now Pendragon's seed
Shall slay Pendragon!" And I saw him not.
Sir Launcelot.
By Holy Rood, a grim, ungentle dream.
King Arthur.
So thought I, but I saw the Beast again.
Columbe.
With thine own waking eyes?
King Arthur.
I saw the Beast.
No word said I unto Sir Ector here
Of that I thought a dream, but on a day,
The while we rode athwart a savage wood,
Sir Ector cried: "Sweet Jesu, be my aid!
What thing is that?" I looked, and lo, the Beast
Came hurling with the sound of many hounds
Adown a forest path until he spied
A little fountain, where he stayed to drink.
Sir Launcelot.
And didst thou slay him?
King Arthur.
Listen, Launcelot.
Certes I pricked full hotly on the Beast,
But when he marked the onset, on he rolled
The while I followed fiercely. Weary leagues
I tracked him till my steed was clean forspent
And fell beneath me. Then the Questing Beast
Turned like a labouring carrack, and I dressed
My shield, for I did think a sore debate
Lay twixt us, but the Beast gave tongue and spake:
"Hail, king and father! Seekest thou for death?
Not now, but after, comes the dolorous day."
Wherewith he vanished like a flash of light,
And so I won disworship of my quest.
Columbe.
By all the saints of God, an evil Beast!
Wilt quench thy thirst again? Come, Guenever,
Serve thou the king.
King Arthur. ( leaping up ).
How say ye, Guenever?
Art thou the daughter to Leodegrance?
King of Cameliard?
Guenever.
No other maid,
I do protest, Sir king.
King Arthur.
Nay, by my sword,
I need no oath to prove me what thou art.
The day I freed thy father of Rience
Thou stood'st before me, matchless in my sight,
So like the splendid sun I fell abashed
And veiled mine eyes for worship of thy face.
Guenever.
And did my lord the king learn gentle speech
From this same Questing Beast? In Camelot
Men say he knows not how a maiden's face
Looks other than the visor'd visage grim
Of armoured knights.
King Arthur.
A murrain on the Beast!
In fair Cameliard I learned it well,
Nor slept a sennight for the wisdom gained.
Guenever.
Why, now I know they were but sorry japes
Wherewith the Court did mock me, for the king
Is not so faultless that he may not mark
A damsel's face, and tell her so withal.
King Arthur.
As thou shalt know, anon, my lady fair;
Come, sit beside me, let me see thine eyes
Look into mine, and let me hear thy voice
That lingers like the gentle summer wind
Among the yearning trees. Give me thy hand
And tell me of Cameliard - and thee.
( He leads her beneath the pavilion. )
Ysed.
Look where Sir Launcelot, the dolorous knight,
Stands ringed with thunder.
Ettard.
'Tis a grievous thing
To match a king in contest for a maid;
I do bemoan his fortune.
Sir Pelleas.
Launcelot, -
Why, how now, Launcelot! Have speech with us,
Sir knight, be merry!
Sir Tor.
Art thou then unhorsed,
Forefoughten with the first rude shock of fight
That hurtles down the lists?
Ettard.
Out on thee, Tor!
That thou shouldst mock a knight so all forlorn.
Columbe.
This likes me not: I would the king would ride
Upon some other quest.
( Exit Sir Launcelot.)
Ysed.
Sir Launcelot!
He lightly leaves the field! Who follows on?
A merry chase; come, sirs, the hunt is up.
( Exit, followed by Sir Tor and Sir Ector.)
Ettard.
I have no heart for such a scurvy jest;
Alas, poor Launcelot!
Sir Pelleas.
Bewail him not,
I back him 'gainst the king.
Ettard.
Nay, Pelleas,
Back no man 'gainst King Arthur.
Sir Pelleas.
Come away,
I do beseech thee, sweet, if thou dost say
"Back no man 'gainst King Arthur."
Ettard.
Save thyself,
For well thou knowest, Pelleas, my heart
Is like a stubborn fortress, strong and true,
Whereof thou hast the key.
Sir Pelleas.
Yet let us go
A little way along the water's rim,
For by his glances Arthur needs us not.
Ettard.
Poor Launcelot!
Sir Pelleas.
Think not of him, Ettard,
Or follow, and I'll teach thee to forget.
( Exeunt. )
King Arthur.
Sir Kay, I pray thee, wait not on us here,
I would not hinder thee.
Sir Kay.
I do protest,
No hinderance, my lord.
King Arthur.
I do protest,
Most grievous hinderance, my fair Sir Kay:
We follow straitly.
Columbe.
Sir, we must away.
Come thou with me, I fear the fruit of this.
( Exeunt Sir Kay and Columbe.)
King Arthur.
My bonds are riven from me! They are gone,
And I may give my tongue full liberty
To voice the surging of my teaming heart.
I love thee, Guenever!
Guenever.
And on the word
Thy sport o'ersteps the limits of a jest.
I am at fault that I did venture close
Upon the brink of danger. Come, my lord,
Let us go hence: this peril claims us not.
King Arthur.
I love thee! Give me back thy gentle hands
And let me see the wonder of thine eyes
Upturned to mine. I lack all mode of speech
For pleading with thee, for my words are rude
And hardly tempered to the cause of love,
For that I am unlearnèd in the field
Where any courtier matches me unscathed,
That am for fighting, not for dalliance;
And so I know not any form of words
That is more potent than, I love thee, sweet!
I love thee!
Guenever.
With such love as princes feign
To lightly lead them to the end thereof.
That usage likes me not.
King Arthur.
With such a love
As never yet was known of any man
Were he the truest knight of all the world!
I knew not why my father gave me life,
I knew not why I came by England's crown
Nor why I marched to free Leodegrance,
Thy father, till I saw thee, Guenever,
And then I knew!
Guenever.
How lightly lies the oath
Of knighthood on thee. What of Launcelot,
Aye, what of Launcelot? High chivalry
Thou showest, king! Hast thou no thought for him?
King Arthur.
Nor him, nor yet for anything that lives,
Save only thee. The lightning of thine eyes
Blots out all memory, all honour, all
That guided, governed me. Sir Launcelot?
I know him not! Is he then overlord
Of thee and me, that I should wait on him
And crave his pleasure? Am I not a man,
A knight, a king? Shall I not match with him
In contest for thy favour? Art thou his?
How came he by thee? Is his title proved?
By God, I challenge it!
Guenever.
I know thee not
In this unwonted humour. Let me go,
Thou art distraught!
King Arthur.
Aye, to the perilous edge
Of perfect madness! In my fevered veins
The seething blood cries out for recompense
And hot requital!
Guenever.
Of thy gentleness
Unloose me, king!
King Arthur.
Not though the sword of God
Were brandished in mine eyes! I love thee, sweet,
Give me thy lips, thyself!
( Enter Merlin.)
Merlin.
King Arthur, hail!
And to thee, lady, my most high devoir.
My lord, I wait upon thee.
King Arthur.
Get ye gone!
Avoid my sight and lightly. Guenever!
( Exit Guenever.)
Merlin.
Stay thou with me, if thou indeed art king,
And other than thy folly doth denote.
King Arthur.
What malice drove thee hither?
Merlin.
England, sir,
That hardly brooks divided loyalty.
Thou art the king. Let that enlightening torch
Shine ever on the road thou treadest in,
For by that light alone shalt thou avoid
Rude misadventure. I will chide thee not,
That thou hast played the fool. Thou art a boy,
And therefore prone to vain and wanton things;
But like a torrent raging lawlessly,
I'll turn thine ardour in an wholesome course
Until it serve God's ends.
King Arthur.
Must I abide
In vassalage to thine o'erriding spleen,
That am a king?
Merlin.
Abide a little yet
And shortly shalt thou reap the high reward.
No wanton humour leads me, but a cause,
A giant purpose, meet for England's king
To make his own. Endure me, good my lord,
And I shall set thee on the awful throne
Of universal majesty. But now
I missed thee from the council of the kings
That are thy vassals, and I find thee meshed
Within the springes of a wanton girl.
Yet will I chide thee not, but bid thee come
The while I show thee labour fit for kings,
And doubly fitting for thee, that shall reign
The lord of monarchs. Come, thy place is there
In Camelot, upon great England's throne.
( Curtain. )
SCENE II. Camelot. The terrace of Arthur's castle. Morgan le Fay is standing alone, gazing on Merlin's tower, which rises solitary in the background.
Morgan.
Thou black magician of the enchanted keep
Builded of dreams by subtle sorcery
To win dominion over all the world,
How shall I baffle thee?
Ringed 'round with cloud
Thy frowning tower, four-square, impregnable,
Fit symbol of thy pride, defies my will.
High on the giddy ramparts of the keep
Thy fell and fatal visage bends unseen
Above the mystic lore of perished worlds
For thou art sore bested. The puling boy
Thou fain wouldst make thy catspaw, fails, thee sore,
Most mighty Merlin, and thou knowest not
What engine Morgan fashions for thy fall;
Wherefore, affrighted, thou dost grope for aid.
Strive thou amain, rive spell on evil spell
From out the murky caverns of thy lore,
Thou shalt not hinder me.
( Enter Nimue)
Ha, Nimue!
I need thee, girl: art ready to my hand?
Nimue.
As restless sword that clamours for the fray
Within the sluggard sheath of errant knight.
Morgan.
I'll hale thee shortly from thy scabbard; look!
Where in his magic tower old Merlin sits,
A bloated spider, spreading wide the web
Wherein he thinks to catch us.
Nimue.
Like a fly
I'll buzz and blunder 'gainst his very fangs,
And when he springs, turn to a dragonfly
And stab him!
Morgan.
Thou shalt spead thy wings anon,
Thou subtle Nimue, for to my cost
I know that we may trap the silly king
Until our wit is withered, nor abate
As by the weight of one least little cloud
The curse that lets us, if we rest with that
And curb not Merlin.
Nimue.
Merlin fears us not,
For that the armour he has wrought him well
Of spells and magic gives him leave to laugh
At that we do.
Morgan.
I'll match him in his craft,
Else know I nought of sorcery, and bind
Him helpless in a sleep of living death.
There is a potent spell the fayter knows,
And only he, that grips in heavy sleep
Beyond all power to waken, whosoe'er
It falls on.
Nimue.
And thou'dst have me learn the rune
To-night?
Morgan.
To-night, or after, if ye fail at first.
This thing we must achieve, there is no choice.
Win me the rune and England falls awrack.
The way I leave to thee, but guard thyself;
Thou tiltest not against an orgulous boy
But in the front of awful wisdom.
Nimue.
Good:
I sound my challenge! In the lists of life
Flame-favoured Love has ever overthrown
Sir Wisdom.
Morgan.
But not Merlin. He is armed
In supple harness that will turn the point
Of weapons deadly to the cringing king.
Be wise and wakeful; strike with subtler tools
Than serve against a man.
Nimue.
Is he not that?
Mayhap the cloak of wisdom clothes him well
But underneath is man. I strike at that.
Morgan.
Meanwhile I lime the twigs to catch a king, --
But look ye where she comes! The savoury bait
Wherewith I lure him: Guenever.
Nimue.
Farewell,
The night is moonless: ere the east is gray
I'll cope with Merlin, and I win the rune!
( Exit. )
Morgan.
How best to use this knotted skein of love
Where Launcelot, the king, and Guenever
Are sorely tangled? If the knight shall win
What follows but the fixing of the king
More strongly in his purpose to obey
The crafty Merlin. But if Arthur gain
And Launcelot yield nothing: --
Through the night
That was so dark I see a little star,
A little, distant star that waxes great
And brightens to a ball of shrieking flame
That shall with shame and slaughter overwhelm
The king, the Court, and Merlin: Guenever
I'll give the king, -- and later, Launcelot.
A merry game and I can play it well; --
I call a greeting to thee, Guenever.
( Enter Guenever.)
Guenever.
Who hails me from the dusky twilight dim?
I cry thee pardon, lady, but the light
Befriends me not.
Morgan.
It is the Queen of Gore.
Guenever.
Oh, ho! and Empress of the Magic Mere,
The lady of two kingdoms.
Morgan.
Now, indeed,
I know thou givest ear unto the tales
Loose-hanging tongues set free in Camelot,
But this I tell thee, girl; the shameless knights
And wanton women wag forbidding heads,
Miscall me witch and mock me with their japes,
For that their witless folly likes me not
And I am wise in lore of many things
They know not of. Gray Merlin strikes them dumb,
With bated breath they pass him fearsomely,
But I, that am a woman, rouse their wrath
For matching Merlin.
Guenever.
And I blame them not;
Were I to couch a lance along the lists,
A she-knight thrusting in a fighter's field,
I'd give them leave to mock me. Well content
Am I that God has made me what I am,
Content that He has made men as they are;
My kingdom is mine own, I ask none else.
Morgan.
The which is folly. Yet I like thee well,
And so let call a truce to warring words
The while I counsel thee. Thou art a girl;
An headstrong filly, heedless of the curb;
Lawless, impatient; learn a thing of me
That am well broken to the harness, wise
In diverse things that thou shalt know anon.
Guenever.
That I may reign beneath the Magic Mere
A queen of goblins? Keep thy learned lore,
An earthly crown contents me.
Morgan.
Grasp it, girl,
And thou art Queen of England!
Guenever.
First, meseems,
I'd see it proffered. Thieving likes me not,
Nor yet a beggar's usage, when a crown
Is held for guerdon.
Morgan.
Hear me, Guenever!
Witch am I, if it please the prating Court;
Wise am I, maugre Court and king and thee;
And this I know: thou art assoted, girl,
If thou dost think King Arthur loves thee not!
Guenever.
Fool am I, if it please the learnèd queen;
Maid am I, maugre Court and king and thee;
And so I knew King Arthur loved me well
When first he saw me in Cameliard.
Morgan.
Then seize the crown he proffers with his heart.
Guenever.
The heart I see, but not as yet the crown.
Morgan.
Nathless he holds it forth. I know the king,
And for a word thou shalt be crownèd queen.
Guenever.
Of England.
Morgan.
Aye, of England: of the world!
Flout thou my wisdom if it pleaseth thee,
But well I know that on before the king
Stretches a path that rises to a height
Of glory and dominion such as men
As yet have never seen. Be thou the queen,
Walk thou with Arthur toward the blinding flame
Of fame and honour blazing in his path,
And thou shalt reign the Queen of Christiantie!
Guenever.
And pay the hateful price!
Morgan.
Why dost thou gaze
With wistful eyes into the crowding dark?
The while with heavy sigh thou sayest slow
"And pay the hateful price." Can'st read the crest
Above the helmet of the drooping knight
That mounts the steep upon a jaded steed?
Nay, now I know! 'Tis Launcelot returned
To Camelot from riding on the quest
That quickly called him when the king returned
And found thee come from far Cameliard.
Dost sigh for him? Out on thee, Guenever!
That weighs a king against a wanton knight.
Guenever.
Be silent, witch, and lightly quit my sight!
Mock me no more, nor tempt me with the tale
Of crown and kingdom purchased with the blood
Of this my heart; I need thee not!
Morgan.
Farewell!
I leave thee to Sir Launcelot, but mark
The thing I say: the crown is for thy brow,
Nor shall a knight let Arthur from his own.
( Exit. )
Guenever.
Ah me, unhappy, that am like a ball
Tossed back and forth across the tennis court;
Forbid to rest in any friendly hand,
But made the sport and pastime of a game.
Would well I knew so much of Morgan's lore
Or Merlin's, as would tell me why the heart
And brain were made of God fierce enemies,
Nor ever in accord.
The crown is mine
And at the price of one least little word,
For Arthur loves me, fain would make me queen,
To reign unchallenged; but Sir Launcelot
Would make me wife, and bend me to his will
A fawning slave.
What woman halts for choice
'Twixt service and dominion? So, the crown
Goes spinning down the vasty waste of night,
A mocking bauble, meet for envious fools.
The joust is over and the favour won,
Sir Heart, thou art the victor in the lists,
Sir Brain the recreant, I the warison!
( Enter: below the terrace, Sir Launcelot. He remains for a time seated on his horse. )
Sir Launcelot.
Although the night were darker than the depths,
Long since forgotten, of the nether hell
Where damnèd souls, forsaken, howl for light,
Yea, for the blazing of tormenting flame
So that 'twere light --I'd know thee, Guenever!
Guenever.
And were the world resounding with the din
Of rending heavens on the Judgment Day,
I'd hear thy voice if thou didst call my name,
O Launcelot!
Sir Launcelot.
Hide not within the night,
I know the king is with thee. Hale him forth
That I may see thy lover.
Guenever.
Launcelot!
Sir Launcelot.
So thou didst call me when I won thy love,
Playing the maid to mock me for a churl;
But now that thou art wanton to a king,
Call me Sir fool!
Guenever.
I know not what thou art
Or knave or madman, for thy words are wild
As one assotted.
Sir Launcelot.
Wouldst thou have me deal
In honeyed words to match thy honeyed breath?
I call thee as thou art.
Guenever.
Thou liest!
Sir Launcelot.
Peace!
Nor think to mesh me in a web of words.
Thou art the lightest lady in the Court,
And I will prove it 'gainst whoever comes,
Be he the king.
Guenever.
Thou layest in the glare
Of some malignant moon, and thou art mad!
Avoid my sight, I look on thee no more,
Thou art distained forever.
Sir Launcelot ( dismounting and coming on the terrace ).
Guenever,
'Tis thou that art distained. I thought thee mine,
Unsoilèd, faultless, and I find thee false
As rotting death's head grinning through the casque
That outwardly doth show the noble knight.
Unwrast my helm, my hauberk rent away,
My sword all shattered and my spear forhewn;
A craven knight, forlorn I walk the world,
Nor fall on worship whereso'er I go
For that I loved her that betrayèd me.
Guenever.
Am I a wanton that I stand at speech
And chaffer mouthings with a daffish churl?
This is the end. If I do look on thee
One only time in Camelot, beware!
I'll charge thee with black treason to thy face,
And call on every knight that loves the king
Or holds me worshipful, to prove me clean,
Upon thy craven body.
Sir Launcelot.
Stand thou there!
I have a thing to say. I loved thee well
And wore thy favour twined about my helm,
Wherefore I grew a jest for all the Court.
Thou wert King Arthur's, and they knew it well
The while I doted, heeding not the fame
That ran so lightly of thine evil ways.
Girls mocked me, curled their lips and laughed me down;
Knights tossed the shameful jest from hand to hand;
The very pages round the royal throne
Shrilled scornful laughter when I passed them by,
And still I loved thee.
Then upon a day
Meseemed I could no longer 'dure the Court
And rode for silence in the tongueless wood.
Right so I met a maid that bade me stay,
And plucked me by the mantle, saying so,
With railing words: "Wouldst thou then find the king?
I pray thee of thy gentleness, Sir knight,
Molest him not; he lies with Guenever
Among the ferns beside a little brook,
He needs us not."
A quarrel from the bow
I sped along the forest, drunk with wrath,
Believing naught, yet half believing all:
And then I saw thee. Through the leaning trees,
Beside the king I marked thee moving slow,
With willing eyes uplifted to his face.
White lightning seared mine eyeballs, heavy night
Shut down impenetrable, but I knew.
( Enter King Arthur.)
Guenever.
For that thou art a faithless, miscreant knight,
And like a buzzard fain of filthy food,
All gorged with slander, I do owe thee nought,
But this I tell thee, I am blameless here.
By neither word nor act, nay, by no thought,
No little fawning fancy has the king
Done me disworship.
King Arthur ( coming forward. ).
It is soothly said,
And I will prove the lie with mine own sword,
Upon his body that with shameful tongue
Says that thou art not spotless before God.
What knave missays thee, Guenever?
Guenever.
Sir king,
I pray thee, harm him not: a blighting spell
Is over him, he knows not what he says,
For e'er by magic he was driven mad,
Thou knowest, king, he was a stainless knight.
King Arthur.
Speak, traitor to thy king and chivalry,
That dost with bawdy mouth revile a maid!
The darkness cloaks thee, let me see thy face,
Stand forth, thou art no knight of Camelot!
Sir Launcelot.
My lord,
I am no traitor!
King Arthur.
Launcelot!
By Jesu's wounds, I would a thunderbolt
Had riven Camelot and hurled it wide
In rocky rain upon the blasted fields
Or ever I had seen this dolorous day!
Sir Launcelot.
So say I, king, and hadst thou taken heed
Of thine own knighthood, and the scarlet shame
That like a broidered mantle thou hast cast
Upon the body of thy paramour,
Thou wouldst have halted in thy faithless quest.
King Arthur.
I know not by what dark and devious road
Thou camest, Launcelot, unto this pass,
But that thou art a false, felonious knight
Distained of treason, foul with calumny,
Alas, I know. Deny thine evil words,
Upon thy knees beseech of Guenever
That she assoil thee of thy damnèd sin
Or thou dost fight thy king.
Sir Launcelot.
Right so, and now!
King Arthur.
A spell is cast around Pendragon's House;
How other should a knight fight fierce and grim
Against his brother? For I loved thee, sir,
Aye, more than any man of all the Court,
Yet I do love mine honour over all,
Save only that of Guenever. Assay!
Unsheathe thy sword and dress thy heavy shield,
I have no harness; shieldless, void of helm,
Armed only with my sword I meet thy stroke,
For righteousness is hauberk to a king.
Sir Launcelot.
And to a knight in equal measure. So,
I cast my helmet and my shield away,
Naked I stand before thee. Kill me, king,
Or thou shalt die for thy sins warison.
Guenever.
For God's love, hold! My honour cannot weigh
Within the balance 'gainst one little drop
Of royal blood, nor yet against thy life,
Sir Launcelot! --
King Arthur.
Art ready?
Sir Launcelot.
Cry you on!
( They fight. )
Guenever.
If ye do love me, sirs, I pray ye, stay!
( Enter Sir Kay: with him pages bearing torches. )
Sir Kay.
Who dares defy the laws of Camelot
And with rude weapons war against the peace
Of Arthur, King of England? Stay your swords,
Or rightwise shall I charge ye with offence
And treason 'gainst the king. Ha, Guenever!
What knights are these?
Guenever.
Woe to me, Seneschal,
It is the king and Launcelot.
( Enter: Sir Pelleas, Sir Tor, Ettard, and other Knights and Ladies , with them torch-bearers. )
Sir Kay.
Alas!
I know not how to speak for dole and woe;
Lord Arthur, of thy grace I pray thee stay!
Sir Launcelot, give way before the king,
Nor peril England with thy faithless blade.
Guenever.
Lords, make an end of this! My heart is torn
That I, unhappy, am the sorry cause
Of this forlorn debate.
Sir Tor.
What evil star
Has risen over England?
Sir Pelleas.
How befell
This wicked warfare twixt the hasty king
And Launcelot?
( Enter: Sir Ector, Morgan le Fay, Columbe, Ysed, and others. )
Columbe.
God's mercy, 'tis the king!
Sir Kay, bestir! Let not this awful shame
Fall blackening on the land.
Sir Kay.
Lord Arthur, see!
Upon my knees I cry thee mercy. Hold!
For God's love, hold. Think that thou art the king,
Nor hazzard England for a traitor's blood.
Morgan ( aside ).
Too soon I see the fruit of my design
Fall all untimely, yet I grasp it now.
Ysed.
See, see! King Arthur bleeds, and Launcelot
Is pressing on him sorely!
Sir Tor.
Ha! the king
Is smiting wonderly. The knight is lost,
He falls!
Sir Pelleas.
No, no! He struck that blow aside;
Look there!
Sir Kay.
My lord!
Sir Ector.
My God, this endeth here!
( He draws and rushes on Launcelot.)
King Arthur.
Who lets me from the fight or strikes my foe,
Hangs dead to-morrow on the castle wall!
(Merlin has entered: he strides through the crowd, seizes Ector's sword, and with it strikes down the weapons with such force they fall on the ground. )
Merlin.
Then so I die, for so I end the fight.
Lord Arthur, thou art king and thou art law;
Thou art incarnate England, and thy word
Is backed with all the majesty of God.
Nathless through me speaks all the awful line
Of perished kings that gave thee life and crown,
And with a voice that brooks of no reply.
Save thou thy sword for England's enemies!
Morgan ( aside ).
Again I meet thee; Merlin, thou shalt die!
King Arthur.
Am I the king, or thou, bold sorcerer?
One word from me and I may see thee torn
In horrid gobbets here before mine eyes!
Merlin.
That word knells England's doom. No earthly king
Although he hold dominion streight from God,
Sits on a steadfast throne unless he learn
The wisdom that God gives not with a crown.
King Arthur.
And this I learn from thee, my master?
Merlin.
Aye,
From me, King Arthur. I was grim with years
When first thou gavest tongue, and when the king
That did beget thee mouthed his mother's breast,
Still aged was I. Be persuaded, king,
By Merlin that did give Excalibur
Into thy hand.
King Arthur.
So all my royalty
Is but a pageant. I must let thee reign,
Most potent master!
Merlin.
Ring thyself with knights
And daunt the world with show of dreadful arms,
Thou art a crownèd jester, if thou lack'st
The prop of wisdom for thy majesty.
King Arthur.
Thou speakest well, and I am sore distained
That with unwatchful heart I did forget
The solemn warning thou didst bid me heed,
Yet, by my knighthood, I could find no choice,
For Launcelot did blacken Guenever
With most ungentle slander, and the crown
That guards the head clings not about the heart.
Sir Launcelot.
Thou hast not proved the slander on me, king,
Nor blotted out the shame with thine own blood;
Wherefore I stand my ground. Before the Court,
Yea, Arthur, before God, with brimming tears,
For that my heart is broken that my king
Should deal dishonourably with a maid
I loved with passing worship, once again
I do impeach thee of unknightly shame.
Sir Tor.
I challenge thee!
Sir Ector.
God's blood, I'll prove the lie
Upon thy body!
Omnes.
Treason, treason!
King Arthur.
Hold!
Gramercy for your loyalty, my knights,
But neither words nor blood blot out a lie,
The deed is all. Hear, lords and knights at arms,
Sir Launcelot impeacheth me of shame;
Take ye the answer. Lady, of thy grace
I do beseech thee hear me. Thou art she
That I do love in loyal, knightly wise,
As I have loved thee since the blessèd day
When first I saw thee in Cameliard.
God knows, and thou, there is no bond of shame
Betwixt us, maugre the scandal of the Court,
And therefore, Guenever, wilt thou be queen
Of Arthur and of England?
Merlin.
Stay!
Guenever.
My lord
As I am stainless and all clean of sin --
I will be Queen of England.
Morgan ( aside ).
I have won!
King Arthur.
Bid all the trumpets blow, and let the flame
Of flaunting beacons paint the sombre sky.
England, thou hast a queen!
Omnes.
Hail, Guenever!
Sir Launcelot ( aside ).
Christ Jesu, of thy mercy, let me die!
Merlin.
So comes the terror stalking through the night.
Morgan.
Merlin, the fight is lost, and England falls.
Merlin.
Not in thy hands, black witch!
King Arthur.
Come, Launcelot:
Thou hast impeached thy king and drawn a sword
Against his sacred body. Stand thou forth;
What chastisement befits thee?
Sir Launcelot.
Let me die.
Guenever.
In God's name, dear my lord --
King Arthur.
Peace, Guenever.
It needs not that thy heart should intercede
For Launcelot. I am no orgulous fool
To slay the knight that guards my lady's fame.
Give me thy hand, the hand that heaved a sword
Against thy king to shield a maid. I swear
Thou didst win greater worship of me, sir,
Than found I ever in all Camelot.
I know thee now, a fearless champion
Of maiden's honour, and a noble knight.
Look thou, Sir Launcelot, that when the crown
Of England tops the head of Guenever,
Thou dost defend her honour to thy death,
Yea, 'gainst the king himself.
Sir Launcelot.
I pray thee now
Let me depart, my heart is like to break.
King Arthur.
Yet would I have thee by me, Launcelot,
I need thy knightly heart. Come, Guenever.
Merlin.
One only word, King Arthur. When the sands
Have told an hour of the passing night,
I wait for thee upon the battlements
Of Merlin's Tower.
Arthur.
Lightly will I come.
And now, lead on, Sir Kay. Unsheathe your swords,
Hurl them in the air, my knights, and let the horns
Declare the tidings unto all the world,
The while with lusty voices ye acclaim
Queen Guenever!
Omnes.
God save Queen Guenever!
( Exeunt. )
Morgan ( alone ).
So passes Arthur to his destiny
And I abide. Queen Morgan, thou art free!
Curtain.
SCENE III. Camelot. The ramparts of Merlin's tower. Merlin is seated in the midst of the platform. Midnight.
Merlin.
How silent lie the purple fields of God
Above the troubled earth. Since time began,
When, by the fiat of Omnipotence,
The howling chaos, without form, and void,
Swelled to this awful vault, the hollow dome
That prisons us upon this little world
Has hung inexorable. Like a bird
That beats with futile wing against the roof,
The soul soars through the cavernous abyss
To smite impatient pinions 'gainst the sky
And falls back, vanquished. On the farther side
Of that impenetrable firmament
Lies Wisdom absolute, wherein the saints
And shining angels have a part with God.
Yet we that need so grievously the light
Of knowledge, were it but a slender ray
No larger than should filter through the chink
Of any little star, must live our lives
Unholpen, undirected.
What is this
That I have won of wisdom but the blind
And devious gropings of a creeping worm
Hid in the heavy earth? The world of men
He knows not, as I know not what is hid
Forever by that roof of adamant.
And yet, such learning as I win must serve
To make me master of these little men
Whereof I build a kingdom. Oh, how frail
The stones that I must work withal, how small
The craft that aids me, and when all is done
How unenduring is the fabric raised.
I may not think of this, but for the time
As other men, see that which lies to hand,
For wisdom works inaction in the blood
By showing forth the dread futility
Of that we do. How darkness chills the will
And halts the hand. Come, disenchanting flame,
Dispel my langour!
( He kindles the brazier. Enter: Nimue.)
Nimue.
Prythee, chide me not
That I have clomb with unfamiliar feet
Unto thy rocky fastness. Let me rest
Above the world with thee, a little space,
I will not hamper thee.
Merlin.
Were I a boy
All flushed with ardours, I would think a dream
Encountered with me in some dusky pass
Of unsubstantial sleep.
Nimue.
Why stare ye, sir,
And bend your solemn brows upon my face?
Is it so strange a thing to meet a maid
Within thy frowning stronghold?
Merlin.
Wit ye well
You are the only lady of the court
That would forgather with the sorcerer
Upon his tower. Streightway give me word
Of that thou needest, for the night is old
And thou must lightly go.
Nimue.
Dismiss me not!
The boon I crave leaves thee no poorer, lord,
Yet may it make me rich.
Merlin.
Ye lack the spell
To win unwilling love?
Nimue.
'Tis soothly said;
My love returns to me with empty hands.
Merlin.
I may not aid thee. Potions like me not,
Nor silly spells. Go thou to Morgan, girl,
That she may ease thee.
Nimue.
Out upon the witch
That deals with pagan demons in the Mere!
I will not speak with her.
Merlin.
Then thou art wise,
Yet shalt thou lack thy philtre.
Nimue.
Better so
Than that I peril mine immortal soul
In most unchristian commerce with a witch.
I am content to couch me at thy feet
The while with potent hand thou dost control
The straying stars, compel the elements
That with unkindly malice hinder us
And let us from our goal. Deny me not,
But suffer me to crouch against thy feet
Most mighty master.
Merlin.
Nay, thou silly child,
Thy vigil gains scant comfort. What have I
To give thee, that am but a surly seer,
While thou art --
Nimue.
But a woman! Say ye so?
Nay, Merlin, I am more, for perfect love
Ennobles e'en a woman.
Merlin.
What a thing
Is woman, then, without the gift of love,
That with it is but hell's ambassador.
Nimue.
I cannot hear thee, Merlin, let thine eyes,
Aweary of their scanning of the stars,
Look less unkindly on me. Read my heart
And learn what I would tell thee.
Merlin.
Mock me not!
I am no lusty knight. Love's apples grow
In other fields, not on the barren crest
Of Merlin's Tower. Lightly get ye hence,
I am aweary.
Nimue.
Nay, I leave thee not.
Art thou forspent? I'll pillow thee in sleep
Upon my bosom. Art thou sad withal?
Then shall I make thee laugh for joy of life,
And cradle thee in dreams that shall dispel
The lurking visions of adversity.
My lord, my love, look deep into mine eyes
And see my secret!
( Soft music. )
Merlin.
Dreams assail me, dreams
Of days that are not: dreams of laughing love,
And dreams of love that wept for very joy.
Why should I dream?
Nimue.
I love thee, Merlin!
Merlin.
Stay!
I heard a voice that spake an unknown tongue,
The which did say "I love thee."
Nimue.
Lift thine eyes
And look upon my face!
( The night slowly flushes with rosy light, and all the sky turns to a flowery pleasaunce. )
Merlin.
Who art thou?
Nimue.
She
That loved thee long ago.
Merlin.
I know thee not
And yet, -- I love thee! --
Nimue.
Crush me to thy breast,
Thou lord of all the world. Give me thy lips
And drink the wine of life that brimming high
Shall quench thine anguish!
Merlin.
Dreams assail me, dreams
Of days that may be nevermore.
Nimue.
My lord,
See how the forest opens for our feet
This day of June. It is the Land of Love,
Come follow, follow --
( She mounts the battlements. Merlin follows slowly. )
Merlin.
Dreams assail me, dreams
That baffle me --
Nimue.
Give my thy groping hand!
We two will lie beneath the little leaves
The while they whisper sleepy songs of love,
And noon melts into night.
Merlin.
A mocking spell
Is over me: my heart has ceased to beat:
My brain is in disorder. Help me, God!
My craft is broken!
( He makes the sign of the cross: the vision vanishes. )
Damn thee, witch of hell!
I know thee now!
Nimue.
Have mercy, master!
Merlin.
Go!
( He hurls her down from the battlements, then slowly descends and seats himself by the table. )
How better am I than the least of these
Ignoble creatures that I make my pawns
Upon the board where I do play at chess
With destiny. Am I no more than they
That I should be beguiled of sorcery?
Merlin, thou art a wittol! Mend thy wits
Or England crumbles.
( Enter: King Arthur.)
Thou art welcome, king;
So like a cloud I find thee, changing form
With every little wind, unstable, frail,
I durst not count upon thee. Being come
I crave thy patience. I'll have speech with thee.
King Arthur.
Meseems thou art ungentle in thy words
And scant of courtesy. I am thy king
While thou art -- Merlin.
Merlin.
Merlin am I still
When thou art crownless and a naked soul
Abashed before the Lord, an' thou dost flout
The aid I offer thee.
King Arthur.
Say on.
Merlin.
Sir king,
I am thy servant if thou dost obey,
Thy master else. Before thee, face to face
I tell thee this. Exalt thy feeble will,
Cry scorn upon the burrowing sorcerer
And magnify thy royal majesty,
Thou shalt not balk me. I will make thee king
Despite thee.
King Arthur.
Do I let thee from thy goal?
If thou hast any ground for chiding me,
If any way I fail of my devoir,
Name me the deed, nor stretch authority
Until it snap, with arrogant reproach.
Merlin.
So be it. Arthur, look upon this scroll
Wherein is traced the circle of the skies
At thy nativity. In each its place
Are posited the planets and stars,
The sun, the moon, the constellations, all
The fortunes and infortunes as they held
When thou didst see the light. Now mark them well.
For never stood the stars in this array
For any man before. So marvellous
And all unwonted is their strange design,
A word, a breath, a thought may tip the scale,
Make thee immortal, make thee infamous.
And dost thou marvel that I watch thee well
When thou art walking on the dizzy rim
Of fortune, that is like a naked sword
Set edgewise over hell?
King Arthur.
Act thou thy part
As guardian of the State, if so thou art;
Oppose me not in mine. I am the king,
And royalty strikes deeper than the crown.
Give me thy council, aid me with thy lore,
But hold in mind I am no puppet king
Content with empty majesty. I reign!
And while the crown is mine I shame it not
By playing pupil to thy mastership.
Merlin.
I hear Pendragon speaking through thy mouth
And am content, but only with thy words.
Act as thou speakest, king, and I am dumb,
But while thy words are grave thy deeds are wild
And wanton. Ruin crouches close at hand
Where thou dost walk, and for a paltry whim
Thou'dst barter England.
King Arthur.
Name thy grievance, sir!
Merlin.
Did I not hold thee from thy doltishness
Thou'dst lightly make a queen of Guenever.
King Arthur.
By God, I make her queen despite thy will!
This leaps the bounds of reason. Must I crawl
On supplicating belly to thy feet
And crave thy grace to wed with her I love?
I will not!
Merlin.
Listen: in the seventh house,
Yea, in the cusp thereof, in square of Mars,
The Great Malefic, grim, implacable,
Frowned on thy birth, and therefore shalt thou swear
To have no part in love forevermore;
For if thou takest to thy throne a queen,
Were she as pure as flame, thou shalt descend
Into thy grave a cuckold, and I read,
Alas, too clearly, in thine evil stars,
That England is entangled in thy fall.
King Arthur.
I know not why I do abide thy speech,
Thou foul-mouthed slanderer, nor hurl thee down
Incontinently from the battlements
For speaking thus of Lady Guenever.
I give my life in hostage for her faith,
Content thyself with that.
Merlin.
Thou art o'er bold.
Dost thou not know that with a whispered word
I could weave round her such a subtle spell
That thou shouldst see her not forevermore?
No man wins aught of me by haughty words,
For as the sword leaps baffled from my breast
So threats fall from me.
King Arthur.
Thou dost daunt me not.
Lay by thy magic for the quaking girls
That throng the Court. I marry Guenever!
Merlin.
Not while I live.
King Arthur.
Then shalt thou shortly die,
For, by God's wounds, I will!
Merlin.
Wait for the proof;
I have a hand in this. I made thee king,
And king I'll keep thee 'til the doleful day
When England totters, and Pendragon's seed
Shall slay Pendragon for Pendragon's lust.
King Arthur.
Mock me not, Merlin, with an idle rune,
For magic is no medecine for love.
Within the ordered limits of thy sphere
Be thou my guide, but look ye leave them not,
For there is yet another province, meet
For other councillors, and there I bar thee, sir.
Molest me not, for love brooks no control
Of wisdom or of magic or of fear.
Merlin.
Swear on thy knighthood and the holy Cross
That thou wilt cast away all love and lust.
King Arthur.
Lust will I cast away, but never love;
Who mocks thereat is damned for blasphemy.
Merlin.
Who plays with either perils all things else.
I tell thee, boy, this kingdom is not won
Save by him only that shall thrust away
All thought of love. The brand Excalibur
Carves not a kingdom if the wielding hand
Is tethered to a maiden's silly heart,
And therefore I forbid thee.
King Arthur.
Save thy words,
For here I act alone. Withhold thine aid
Since so it pleases thee. I call on God,
And He who gave me leave to live and love
Shall guard me.
Merlin.
Go thy ways, thou silly fool!
I builded on a false and shifting sand
When I did build on thee. The hour is gone,
And once again shall England split with strife
Until the wrath of God comes hurling forth
To strike thee by the hand of thine own son,
For so the doom shall fall.
King Arthur.
I know the rune
And heed it not, my life I leave with God,
And He shall take it when and how He will.
But if He call me not before the spring
Come burgeoning o'er England, once again
Pendragon's seed shall sprout in virgin fields,
To reign when God shall cast me from the throne.
So, thou art answered.
Merlin.
In such dolorous wise
That I am fain of death. I pray thee, go!
Nor seek me ever when thou art bested.
So splits the golden dream!
King Arthur.
I will not go
With wrath and malice. Merlin, I must live,
My life, not thine, and even as my soul
That I revere as God's ambassador
Commands me. Thou art withered with thy years
And may not know the majesty of love,
Therefore, my heart must be a sealèd book,
Clasped, clamped, and locked before thy failing sight,
Yet I may read it well, and in the words
I see the tracing of the hand of God.
By this I walk. I can no other thing.
( Exit. )
Merlin.
How like my life is this forlorn abyss
Of empty air that rings me with a wall
Of unrelenting iron. All alone,
Unaided, unbefriended, I abide
In solemn isolation, toiling on
To build a nation of the headstrong boys
That feign man's grave estate. Why should I strive
To wrench incompetence to dignity
Against its will?
Fool! for that thou art wise
With lofty learning men know nothing of:
Thou art of them that rule the childish world.
Thou art the king.
Ye silent, baffling stars,
Give me your aid! How shall I win the cast,
Despite the headlong folly of the boy
I crowned with England's crown? From sore defeat
Shall I not win abundant victory?
That thing I do, but by what subtle means?
King Arthur weds with Guenever. I heard
Pendragon speaking, and I know the blood.
What follows after? King Leodegrance
Henceforth is England's vassal. Small reward
I find the fact, but -- King Leodegrance!
Merlin, thou art assoted! Rouse thy wits
That art not used to such base treachery.
Queen Guenever? Aye, let her wear the crown,
And let the king be lapped in dalliance
If so he please. Out of Cameliard
The daughter of Leodegrance shall bring
A dowry that will disenthrall the State,
Release it from dependence on the king,
And guard it with invincible defence.
So cometh victory from overthrow,
So wisdom matches folly. So I win
Dominion absolute. Leodegrance
Yields the Round Table into Arthur's hand!
Curtain.
SCENE I. Camelot. The great hall of the castle. Sir Tor, Sir Ector, Sir Pelleas, Sir Breuse, and other Knights.
Sir Pelleas.
Now drain a beaker to Lord Arthur's love
And England's queen that shall be, on a day;
The fairest mistress and most worshipful
Betwixt the borders of the Scottish king
And grim Tintagail by the southern sea.
The Lady Guenever!
Omnes.
Hail, Guenever!
Sir Breuse.
Forget not Launcelot! Come, good my lords,
And drink oblivion to Launcelot
Lest he rebel. 'Twere safer for the State.
Sir Tor.
Missay him not. As any loyal knight
He yields before the king, not stretches forth
A hungry hand to grasp the thing he gave.
Sir Breuse.
A noble knight! yet may the gift return
For very liking; he will scorn it not.
Sir Pelleas.
Out on thy lewd and bawdy tongue, Sir Breuse,
That dares missay a maid with scurrile japes;
Thou art forsworn, thou false, felonious knight!
Sir Breuse.
Meseems I hear the voice of Launcelot,
But by the Mass, I look not on his visage;
Yet is he champion of Guenever
By right of earliest holding, and I crave
His pardon that I mocked his paramour.
Sir Pelleas.
That word against thy teeth, thou lying knave!
Sir Breuse.
How now, 'tis not Sir Launcelot that speaks,
But Pelleas? Why, thou most orgulous boy,
Art thou then of the blest? This makes amaze
Fall heavy on me.
Sir Pelleas.
Draw thy cankered sword,
Thou shame of knighthood, for I prove the lie
Upon thy body!
Sir Breuse.
Must I fight with babes?
Strange portents loom in England, when a maid
Forgets to favour men, and for a whim
Is fain of boys and makes them champions.
Sir Pelleas.
Wil't fight or no?
Sir Tor.
Stand back, good Pelleas!
Breuse saunce Pité this overleaps a jest:
Guard thou thy tongue: we brook no calumny
Against a maid.
Sir Ector.
Curb thou thy bastard blood
Or thou shalt lose it lightly; we are knights,
Not savage churls, and slander likes us not.
Sir Breuse.
Is any here would have to do with me?
My sword is ready!
Sir Tor.
Worship is not won
For fighting misbegotten savages.
Hold hard thy tongue, or lightly as ye may
Get thee again into thy wilderness.
Sir Breuse.
Fair manners find I in the haughty Court!
Sir Ector.
Thou'lt straitly cope with deeds as well as words,
An' thou dost silence not thy railing speech.
Avoid him, Pelleas, and you, Sir Tor.
Come hither where the air is sweeter; sirs,
What know ye of the rumour in the Court
Touching the deed that Arthur does to-day?
Fame is that some unwonted fortune falls
On England through that King Leodegrance,
We freed of Welsh Rience, but of what temper
The merit is, or how the boon shall come,
Whether of gold or knights or land, none knows
That I have coped with. Wit ye ought of this?
Sir Tor.
Naught save that never ransom matched with his.
Sir Pelleas.
And I o'erheard the seneschal the while
He muttered awsomely: "And I shall see
Our glory grow again; Leodegrance,
By thee comes England's dawn!"
Sir Ector.
'Tis very strange;
A fleeting memory, like fading smoke,
Slips lightly by me of a magic tale
My father told me very long ago
When Arthur was my brother, of a thing
The dead King Uther had whereby the State
Waxed wonderly, until a doleful day
Whereon a king did wrest it from his hold,
The which was England's ruin.
Sir Pelleas.
That, mayhap,
Was Joseph's sword, Excalibur.
Sir Ector.
Not so,
For I remember me the legend well
Of that most holy brand Lord Arthur won
In London at King Uther's burial.
( Enter: Sir Kay.)
Sir Pelleas.
Would well we knew.
Sir Tor.
Look where the seneschal
Comes well besene in honour of the day.
Ask him, Sir Ector.
Sir Ector.
Father, by thy leave
I pray thee tell us of this wondrous thing
King Arthur gainèd of Cameliard,
The which works fame for England.
Sir Kay.
Curb thy zeal,
Nor strive to sound the secrets of the king.
I promise thee he tells ye when the time
Has reached its term, but I can say ye nought,
Nor will for all your asking.
Sir Pelleas.
Fair Sir Kay,
Play not a churlish part, it ill beseems
Thy gentle bearing and so gracious heart.
Tell us, good seneschal.
Sir Kay.
Prevent me not,
Nor vex me with your prying inquiries,
I must attend the king. I tell ye nought.
Sir Pelleas.
And brave and hardy is the reason, sir;
Thou knowest nothing.
Sir Tor.
I'll be sworn of that.
Sir Kay.
How now, ye insolent and saucy knaves,
"Know nothing?" By the Mass, I know enough
To make your swelling hearts burst through the ribs
For exultation. I know nought forsooth!
Sir Pelleas.
Then go your ways, Sir Kay, unto the king,
And we will tell thee ere a little space
What ransom King Leodegrance did give,
For certes thou art ignorant.
Sir Kay.
I know,
Ye shameless knights!
Sir Pelleas.
Nay, nay, Sir seneschal,
The king has told thee nothing.
Sir Kay.
Aye, he has,
And rounded my old eyes with wonderment. --
But I must to him --Stay! Ye think I boast
Of that I know not -- but I must away,
The king has summoned me.
Sir Tor.
Our high devoir
Unto his lordship, and our humble praise
That he did tell thee nought, wise seneschal.
Sir Kay.
This passes bearing! King Leodegrance
Cedes the Round Table for his ransom. Hush,
No word of this to any eager ear
In Camelot. Farewell!
( Exit. )
Sir Pelleas.
In sooth, Sir Kay
Guards well the treasured secret of the king,
Yet I do think he gave us little light.
What boots a table to us?
Sir Ector.
'Tis the same!
I do remember now; the Table Round
That was the pledge of prowess in the field,
The guaranty of valour unexcelled;
But how and why I do remember not.
Sir Pelleas.
Meseems I win small wisdom from thy words,
For to the full they are as tenebrous
And blind of meaning as thy father's speech.
Sir Tor, I count on thee, for thou art merged
In gloomy seas of studious debate.
Read us the riddle!
Sir Tor.
As a mariner
Contending with the rough and burly waves,
Gropes blindly for the rope outflung for aid
Nor grasps it ever, so I clutch in vain
At fleeting phantoms of forgotten things.
The great Round Table of Pendragon, -- aye,
My father told me of its awful worth,
So much I know.
( Enter: above, Merlin.)
Sir Pelleas.
And that is nothing! -- Hail,
Thou fearsome Merlin, I did think thee near,
For on a moment all the hall grew dim
With murky darkness, as a cloud had drawn
Athwart the merry visage of the sun.
We stand at gaze, magician, dumb with doubt,
But thou art come to bring us blessèd ease;
What is the ransom of Leodegrance,
The great Round Table?
Merlin.
What is that to thee?
Where heard ye ought of this?
Sir Pelleas.
Where else, fair sir,
Save at the bubbling mouth of gossip's well,
The prudest seneschal, that strongly swore
He would tell nothing, and then lightly told.
Merlin.
Confide thy secrets to judicious age
That like a withered bawd goes up and down
To hawk her wares along the market-place!
Sir Pelleas.
A truce to mouldy saws; tell us of this!
Merlin.
Since ye do have the half, take ye the whole.
The great Round Table of Pendragon comes,
And so is England armed against the world.
Sir Ector.
That much we know.
Sir Tor.
But not the cause thereof.
Merlin.
When blessèd Joseph came from Palestine
Unto the sacred isle of Avalon,
He brought the awful Sword, Excalibur,
And that most precious Thing, the Holy Grail.
Long time he lay in Avalon, and they
That came with him from looking on the face
Of Jesu Christ, did build a little church
Where stands the solemn pile of Glastonbury,
And daily did the brothers sit at meat
Around the Table.
One by one the Lord
Callèd them to Him, till the latest left,
Alone and watching, heard the welcome voice.
Yet ere he answered he did give the Sword,
The Holy Grail, and this same Table Round,
Unto the king from out whose mighty loins
Sprang great Pendragon's line. A little while
Pendragon guarded well the sacred gift
And England waxed in glory. On a day
He proved unfaithful, and the Holy Grail
Returned to heaven, yet the Sword remained,
And eke the Table. Slowly rolled the years
Until King Uther's father's father reigned,
By whom the Sword was lost. The evil hap
Swept darkening over England; pestilence,
Famine and battle blasted all the land,
Until the king stood in such sorry plight
He gave the Table to Cameliard
For aid and succour 'gainst the paynim kings.
So fell great England's glory, and the shame
That scorched her fields burned out the memory
Of ancient honour.
Glory be to God,
That did withhold His wrath, the Sword is come,
And now the Table once again returns.
The night is broken, and Pendragon's seed
Shall reign, Pendragon, on Pendragon's throne.
For 'round the Table knights invincible,
Seven score and ten, each thronèd in his siege,
Shall round a ring that none shall cope withal.
Sir Pelleas.
And are we chosen?
Sir Ector.
Are we summoned here
To see the founding of the Table Round?
Sir Tor.
Who names the knights to form this wondrous ring,
Who marks the sieges, Merlin?
Merlin.
God Himself!
Whoso shall sit beside the sacred board
Gains double prowess by His sovereign grace.
But none may claim a siege save only he
Whose sword is stainless: who has won renown
In joust and tourney: who can bring the proof
Of some adventure, knightly, worshipful:
And in whose heart the flame of honour burns
Untroubled of the breath of any shame.
So once again the fame of England soars
On beating wings into the farthest height
Of earthly majesty. So God He sends
Unto King Arthur endless victory,
Rimless dominion, and a steadfast crown.
No longer England chafes within the curb
Of fretting seas, but leaps the narrow flood
And wins the world, Pendragon's heritage!
( Exit. )
Sir Ector.
Ye mock us, Merlin!
Sir Pelleas.
He is gone again
And as he came, unmarked of any eye.
How think ye, Tor, did Merlin jest with us,
Or is this wonder rising to its dawn?
Sir Tor.
I doubt me nothing, now King Arthur reigns;
No marvel balks me.
Sir Ector.
Hark, what horns are these,
Didst hear them?
Sir Tor.
Aye, look where Duke Lucas comes
Forspent with haste. What word?
Sir Pelleas.
Lord duke, what word?
( Enter: Duke Lucas.)
Duke Lucas.
Good sirs, I come from looking on a thing
So passing wonderful I lack the heart
To give it forth, for ye will cry me down,
And mock me for a madman.
Sir Tor.
Nay, no whit.
We take thy word, for wonders with the sun
Rise brightning over England on this day.
Sir Pelleas.
Hast thou descried a comet in the noon
Fighting the sun with greater glory?
Sir Ector.
Speak,
Duke Lucas of the Southfolk, nor defraud
Our hungry ears of marvels.
Duke Lucas.
As I rode,
But now to answer to the king, I spied
A little army wonderly arrayed,
And decked with trappings alien to mine eyes.
No banners blew along the morning air,
All blank the shields that swung beside the knights,
But fashionèd of brass that mocked the sun
With emulating fire. For a space
I halted, dumb with wonder; moving slow
The pageant passed, and in the midst thereof
I saw twelve aged men, most reverend
And grave of countenance: within each hand
A branch of olive spake the peaceful quest,
The which assuaged my doubt, and so with spur
Unspared I galloped here to Camelot
To warn the castle.
Sir Ector.
Embassy from Rome!
So far the fame of England's name has fled.
Sir Tor.
Call out the knights! Advise the heedless king
Of this most gracious advent.
( Trumpets without. )
Duke Lucas.
Follow me!
Hark, how the trumpets signal Rome's approach,
Make we what show we may. Come on, Sir knights!
( Trumpets. )
Sir Pelleas.
I know that song: the horns of Camelot
Give England's greeting to Imperial Rome.
Cry royal welcome, knights!
Omnes.
Hail, Rome! All hail!
( Exeunt: leaving Sir Breuse.)
Sir Breuse.
So, like a mob of silly, gaping boys,
The fawning hounds troop off to mouth and stare.
I rest me here and watch; I have her word,
Queen Morgan's word, that I shall wear the crown
That Arthur ravished from the rotting skull
Of Uther. Shall I gain it then to-day?
Ha, Morgan!
( Enter: Morgan le Fay)
Morgan.
Hail, Sir Breuse saunce Pité
How like ye Camelot?
Sir Breuse.
As bastards love
The house forbid them by their father's lust.
How else?
Morgan.
Thou art discourteous of speech.
Dost owe me nothing?
Sir Breuse.
No!
Morgan.
How now, thou knave?
I promise thee the crown.
Sir Breuse.
And give it not.
Morgan.
Thou puling child, a crown is hardly won
For asking.
Sir Breuse.
But by taking. Mark the king.
Morgan.
The king? The crown is topling to its fall
From off his vaunting head. Hold thou thy hand
And wait on me; when thou dost see it roll
A trundling circlet to thy shambling feet,
Then grasp it! Thou art king and I am queen.
Sir Breuse.
And Uriens?
Morgan.
Falls with Lord Arthur's crown.
Sir Breuse.
How long must I abide?
Morgan.
Until the king
Has married Guenever, and Launcelot
Makes noble horns sprout on the royal head
To crowd the crown!
Sir Breuse.
And on the word he comes.
Bid him bestir.
( Enter: Sir Launcelot.)
Morgan.
Hail, Launcelot du Lake,
Thou art o'er kind to wait upon the king
That lightly triumphs over thee.
Sir Breuse.
Be sure
He'll not attend thee, knight, in gentle wise
The night thy triumph falls!
Sir Launcelot.
Hark ye, Sir Breuse,
I am not tempered to abide thy words
This day or any when, as slimy snails
Defile a rose, they do befoul the name
Of Lady Guenever. Look to it, sir.
Sir Breuse.
Before to-day I've seen a monkish cowl
Serve as a cloak for cunning lechery,
Nor ducked devotion for the seeing.
Sir Launcelot.
Peace!
Or on the word thou art an unshrived corse.
Sir Breuse.
By God! I lie no longer in the hail
Of ribald railing that King Arthur's Court
Holds high in honour!
Morgan.
Sheathe thine eager sword,
Thou testy brawler, lest it cut the cord
That binds thee to good hap. Sir Launcelot,
Small worship gainest thou of conflict here,
But haply misadventure.
( Exit Morgan and Sir Breuse.)
Sir Launcelot.
Go thy ways,
Thou mock of chivalry, I kill thee not.
( Trumpets. Enter Duke Lucas, Duke Brastias, Sir Tor, Sir Ector, Sir Pelleas, and Knights. With them twelve Ambassadors.)
Duke Lucas.
Upon the stroke comes now great England's king,
Most reverend ambassadors. Be sure
He will of his great gentleness be pleased
To have Rome's message in his royal hands
Before the task that waits him. Stand ye here
Beside the throne.
Sir Tor.
Hark, how the warning call
Of brazen-throated trumpets doth proclaim
His happy coming.
Omnes.
Hail to England's king!
God save King Arthur!
( Enter: King Arthur, with him vassal Kings, Nobles, Knights, and Pages, preceded by Sir Kay. When the King comes before the throne the Ambassadors kneel. )
First Ambassador.
Hail, most mighty king!
Receive our homage, and of royal grace
Be pleased to listen to the solemn words
Imperial Rome has spoken.
King Arthur.
Who are ye,
Most venerable, that do stay the course
Of England's kign upon this blessèd day?
We give ye royal greeting. Let it serve
Until the high fulfillment of the hour;
Then shall we hark with unabated ear
Unto our cousin, Rome. Go on, my lords.
First Ambassador.
Stand, England! for our duty may not wait.
King Arthur.
How say ye, may not? Yet perforce it must,
Since we are prompted not to stay our course
For any king in Christendom. Go on.
First Ambassador.
Bethink thee, England, Rome speaks through our lips,
Disworship unto her is sacrilege.
King Arthur.
We are not wanting in fair courtesy,
Nor would we suffer semblance of the lack.
So be it, sirs. My lords, we crave your grace
The while we wait on these ambassadors.
Now sir, speak on.
( He ascends the throne. )
First Ambassador.
The mighty emperor,
Lucius, Dictator of the Public Weal
And Sovereign of the World, to England's king
Sends greeting, and commands him by the laws,
The statutes, and decrees that Caesar made,
He that did conquer Britain and was crowned
First Emperor of Rome, that he shall swear
Liege loyalty to him, as they have sworn,
His royal predecessors, out of mind.
Sir Pelleas.
My lords, must we sit silent under this
And hear our king missayed by Roman knaves
Nor lift a sword in answer?
Sir Tor.
By the Mass,
Thou speakest as a man! My lord, my king,
Have done with this!
Sir Launcelot.
Dismiss the Embassy!
Omnes.
Down with them!
King Arthur.
Silence! We are crownèd king,
And as a king we listen. Finish, sir.
First Ambassador.
So runs Rome's high commandment: if ye fail
To render homage unto Caesar, fail
To pay the truage rightly due to him
As sovereign lord of England ---
Duke Brastias.
Stay thy tongue,
Thy life is forfeit if thou sayest more!
King Arthur.
Peace! Are ye knights, or knaves, that dare defy
Our royal will? Say on!
First Ambassador.
If ye refuse
To bind yourself in vassalage to Rome,
He will forthwith wage such unkindly war
Against your realm, that to the end of time
Ye shall remain a warning to the world
Of that most fearsome chastisement that falls
On such as do deny him. We are done.
Sir Pelleas.
Knights, rally to the king!
Duke Brastias.
Hell seize the churls!
Duke Lucas.
By all the saints of God, we'll prove our king
The peer of any Roman!
Sir Pelleas.
Draw your swords!
King Arthur.
Here to me, spearmen! guard them with your lives
Or yours shall pay the forfeit. Hear me speak!
Am I a king of men, or lawless wolves,
That ye shall dare assail ambassadors
With olives in their hands? Strike back your swords!
Sir Launcelot.
They mocked your majesty!
Sir Pelleas.
They did defile
The honour of our kingdom!
King Arthur.
What of that?
We are no wanton, jealous of a name
That bears scant questioning, but England's king,
Raised on an eminence of such estate
That words are gadflies waging silly war
Against a mighty mountain. We will give
Such answer unto Rome as does befit
Our crown and England.
Lord ambassadors,
Ye shall return unscathed unto your king,
"Lucius, Dictator of the Public Weal
And Sovereign of the World." From England's king
Bear ye our greeting; say, "Thus England spake."
The great Round Table of Pendragon's House
Is 'stablishèd to-day. An hundred knights
And fifty, stainless, ignorant of fear,
Shall form a circle none may cope withal.
To-morrow we will wed with Guenever;
Upon the day thereafter we shall go,
With raging armies that shall shake the earth,
To take possession of Imperial Rome,
Whereof we are the king and overlord.
To them that do confess us emperor
We grant abundant pardon, but to him
That doth usurp our throne, and unto them
That dare deny our lordship we shall mete
Such chastisement as doth befit their case.
The audience is ended.
Omnes.
On to Rome!
God save King Arthur! Lead us on to Rome!
Curtain.
SCENE II. Camelot. The shore of the Magic Mere, Sunset. Sir Breuse: enter to him, Morgan le Fay.)
Morgan.
Small space have I for greetings, good Sir Breuse,
But all falls bravely in tall Camelot
And deep disorder reigns in Arthur's Court,
For Guenever is gone!
Sir Breuse.
Whose hand is here?
I thought ye playèd pander to the king.
Morgan.
The which shall follow lightly: for the nonce
Wise Merlin aids us, for with potent spells
He has engulfed the girl that would be queen
In some profound abyss of mystery
Beyond the king's control.
Sir Breuse.
What follows?
Morgan.
War!
Rude war betwixt the king and Merlin.
Sir Breuse.
Ha!
I see thine import, Morgan.
Morgan.
All is well;
We need not vex us touching Guenever,
Our work lies close at hand. The king is wroth,
And deep dissension gets betwixt the twain
That let us from the throne. Sir Launcelot
Sits in his haughty seige amid the knights
Of that Round Table that shall guard the king.
I see the issue of that royal whim;
Red war is out against Imperial Rome,
The while along the borders of the realm
Impatient kings are fretting at their chains,
And black confusion like a thunder cloud
Creeps to the zenith.
Sir Breuse.
Have we nought to do?
Or may we sit and babble of the day
When I am king?
Morgan.
I do not deal in words,
I act.
Sir Breuse.
Then lightly to thy labour.
Morgan.
Aye,
The while ye idly fondle dreams of state
When I have crowned ye.
Sir Breuse.
Curse thine idle tongue!
What would ye have me do?
Morgan.
Avoid my sight
That I may act alone. Stay! seek the Court
And bring me word of Merlin and the king.
Sir Breuse.
A gentle errand!
Morgan.
For a gentle knight.
Farewell, Sir Breuse.
( Exit Sir Breuse.)
Now I have ample swing;
Come forth, my sword! Hola, brave Nimue!
( Enter from the Mere: Nimue.)
Nimue.
Unhorsed, but in the lists. Grant me a quest,
And I will lift mine honour from the deep
Where Merlin hurled it.
Morgan.
Cope with him again
With better fortune: now another task
Of gentler savour have I for thy hand.
Anon King Arthur walks beside the Mere,
If thou didst whisper in his hungry ear
The thing I bade thee.
Nimue.
"King, the spell dissolves
At sunset, by the Magic Mere, to-night!"
Morgan.
Where ye shall soon encounter with him. See!
How like a jaded warrior the sun
Stands halting on the world's empurpled shore
Before he plunges in the sea of night;
The tide is at the flood and Arthur comes.
Entreat him worshipfully; give him pause,
Until I ring him with a magic sleep:
Then sink with him a thousand fathoms down
The where I wait thee.
Nimue.
Hush, I hear the fall
Of eager feet.
Morgan.
And on the word I go.
( Exit Morgan.)
Nimue.
And I will crouch me for a splendid spring.
This hunting likes me well: come, little king!
( Enter: King Arthur.)
King Arthur.
"At sunset by the Magic Mere to-night
The spell dissolves." So breathed a passing voice,
And I, a king, perforce must walk alone
Beside a cursèd lake, and wait on chance
To give me that is mine. And Merlin -- hell
Would lightly cast him forth an' he were dead,
Therefore he lives, and cloaks him with a cloud
Of black, impenetrable sorcery,
As he has shrouded Guenever -- By God!
I'll burn him for high treason if he crawls
Once more within my grasp. -- And Guenever!
I cannot see her, yet the sun is gone,
And noisome pestilence is lifting white
Above the Mere. Who played this sorry jest
Upon me for my shame? What whitened there?
Was it a ghostly creature from the lake
Or was it Guenever?
Nimue.
Most noble king,
I know thine errand, and I pledge my faith
Thou shalt achieve.
King Arthur.
What do ye, lady fair,
So far from Camelot?
Nimue.
The king's behest,
And my devoir unto his majesty.
Mistrust me not; I would befriend thee, sir,
And to that end I spake.
King Arthur.
It was from thee
I gained the warning?
Nimue.
Aye, "The spell dissolves
To-night, at sunset, by the Magic Mere."
King Arthur.
And Guenever?
Nimue.
Shall lie within thy hand
Despite Sir Merlin, ere the twilight goes
And darkness gathers.
King Arthur.
What is this to thee,
That thou shouldst play the part of mine ally?
Nimue.
Am I not subject unto England's crown
In equal measure with the watchful knights?
And shall I turn aside when treachery
Slides serpent-wise to sting thee?
King Arthur.
What is hid
Behind the arras of thy woven words?
Nimue.
Swift warning!
King Arthur.
Give it voice.
Nimue.
The sorcerer;
Endure him not lest thou shouldst see the crown
Reft from thee like thy mistress.
King Arthur.
What of her?
I hold a sword that well defends a crown,
Yet is it helpless here. Speak lightly, girl,
If thou know'st ought of Guenever.
Nimue.
My lord,
My honour on her coming. Of thy grace
I pray thee sit, and school thine eagerness
Until the stroke when Merlin's magic fails
And Guenever is free.
King Arthur.
What art thou, then?
How cam'st thou by this knowledge? By the Mass
I do misdoubt thee.
Nimue.
And thou dost me hurt
By thinking malice of my championship:
Nathless I will content thee. Guenever
Fled all distraught with dole from Camelot,
For that old Merlin sought to weave a spell
About her that should lift a wall of brass
Forever 'twixt her and the world of men.
( Soft music: the mist from the lake deepens. )
I found her crouching in the reedy sedge
And baffled Merlin, for I won a charm
Most potent, from the Lady of the Lake
Long since, for service, and he saw her not.
( The Lake Girls rise silently above the Mere; they come softly forward and dance around the King and Nimue.)
Within a mystic land of drifting dreams,
A realm of faery, ringed with summer seas,
She lieth, sleeping, 'til the long kiss frees
Her veilèd eyes of slumber. Level beams
Of sultry sunlight linger drowsily
Around her bed of roses, faint with love.
Give me thy hand, and thou shalt bend above
To breathe her name, and she shall wake to thee.
( The mist has deepened until all is obscured. It flushes rose colour and slowly dissolves. )
SCENE III. Beneath the Magic Mere. A hall of the enchanted castle. Morgan le Fay in the guise of Guenever is seated on a splendid throne. King Arthur lies at her feet, his head on her knees. Lake Girls are dancing softly in a ring about the throne. )
Morgan.
O thou that art the king of earthly kings,
The flower of chivalry and my true love,
Come from the misty land of dreams. Awake!
Unclose thine eyes and look upon my face,
Dost thou not know me?
King Arthur.
Guenever!
Morgan.
My king,
And worshipfullest lord of all my life,
I love thee.
King Arthur.
Say that word again! Dear God,
I know not if I sleep, or by the spell
Of sorcery am prisoned in a dream.
Oh, let me wake no more, whiche'er it is,
But lie forever in thy circling arms.
I love thee, Guenever!
Morgan.
With all my soul,
With all my body, and with all my life
I do thee worship, Arthur.
King Arthur.
Bend thy face
Close, close above me. Let me drink the wine
Of passion from the chalice of thy lips
'Til I am drunk with love! O Guenever,
Let me but love thee while the sliding sands
Tell one short hour of night, and I will die
Content with life.
Morgan.
Not one, but endless hours
Reach on before us like a golden dream.
Time knocks not on the gates of Love's demesne
Where I have brought thee. Very far away
The world of men lies cold and desolate,
Unwitting of us and of us forgot.
This is the Land of Love, where I am queen;
Wilt thou be king?
King Arthur.
Throned in thy closing arms
I ask one only boon; to cast away
My earthly kingship.
Morgan.
See, they open wide
To clasp thee close.
King Arthur.
Oh, take me to thy heart,
And let me feel thy body grow to mine
Until one fierce, incarnate love is all,
And life melts into death.
Morgan.
Not yet, not yet!
Bethink thee of the price thou needs must pay.
Wilt thou renounce thy crown for very love,
Forsake the knightly quest, the shock of war,
Thy royal House and England?
King Arthur.
On my knees
I swear to cast them, Guenever, away,
Nor ask them ever, for the love of thee.
Morgan.
Now do I know in sooth thou lov'st me well,
And for thy paltry kingdom cast aside,
I give thee, love, another kingdom, meet
For such as thou, the Land of Living Love,
Where we will lie forever, lapped in dreams
And lost to all the world.
King Arthur.
To all the world!
Farewell, my futile visions of estate,
My royal crown, my swift and savage Sword;
Farewell, proud Merlin, baffled of thy goal
And blind with arrogance, cast down to hell
The while I reign in heaven, crownèd king
Of love and Guenever!
Morgan.
Give me thy Sword,
That I may cherish it, and in the flame
Of blazing jewels burning on the hilt
See perfect proving of thy perfect love,
For with the Sword goes England.
King Arthur.
Take the toy
That is the badge of vassalage to man.
And give me aid to cast this harness off,
I need it not.
( The Lake Girls remove his armour: Morgan takes Excalibur and lifts it high in the air. )
Morgan.
Now swear upon thy Sword,
And by the faith of thy true body swear
That thou wilt bear liege love and loyalty
Forever unto me and to my land.
King Arthur.
Upon my Sword, and by the blameless faith
Of this my body, Guenever, I swear
I will do no disworship unto thee,
But yield unending love and service.
Morgan.
Come!
( The mist closes. )
SCENE IV. The shore of the Magic Mere: all is hidden in pale mist that slowly melts away. Merlin is standing beside Arthur , who is lying upon the ground without his armour or Sword. Moonlight.
King Arthur.
Where art thou, Guenever? The moving mist
Came close betwixt us and I saw thee not.
Give me thy lips and lift me to thy heart:
Where art thou, Guenever?
Merlin.
Where is thy Sword?
King Arthur.
What vision mocks me from the barren world
I lightly cast away? Begone, gray ghost,
Nor vex me with thy face!
Merlin.
Where is thy Sword?
King Arthur.
Who sent thee hither to the Land of Love,
Thou baleful portent? That thou hast the garb
And hungry visage of the sorcerer,
Gray Merlin, I confess.
Merlin.
Where is thy Sword?
King Arthur.
I gave it, starling-tongue, to Guenever
In pledge of love, as I would give the world
An' I possessed it. As I gave my crown,
My kingdom, all!
Merlin.
Thou silly, babbling fool,
Look 'round; dost know this place, and dost thou see
The Lady Guenever?
King Arthur.
Speak, sorcerer!
Hast thou through black enchantment reft her hence?
What hast thou done with Guenever? By God,
An' thou hast harmed her, I will gnaw thy heart
Before thine eyes!
Merlin.
Oh, what a thing is man,
When he has cast away the flimsy guise
The world bestows to veil his nakedness.
And I must work with such unhandy tools
As these to carve a kingdom.
King Arthur.
Wil't thou speak?
Or must I cut the truth from out thy maw:
Where is my lady?
Merlin.
Hid in Camelot.
Nor has she moved therefrom since I upreared
A mist betwixt ye that ye may not pass.
King Arthur.
Thou liest, Merlin, for I lay but now
Upon her breast, within the Magic Mere.
Whence thou didst draw me by malignant spells
To make me serve thee.
Merlin.
Since thou didst fall on sleep
Thou hast not seen the Lady Guenever,
But thou hast wantoned with a damnèd witch
Beneath the waters of the lake of hell,
And for an hour of lechery hast sold
Thy maidenhood and lost Excalibur.
King Arthur.
I hear thy words, but as the senseless din
Of summer thunder.
Merlin.
Thou shalt understand
Their heavy import shortly. Mark me well:
Such futile treason was not since the day
When Judas sold Christ Jesu. Thou art he
That bartered England for an harlot's kiss.
My weary eyes, that scarce can mark the course
Upon the dial of the shadow's path,
Saw through the weltering waters of the Mere
Down to the murky depths. I saw thee crawl
A wanton suppliant at a witch's feet;
I saw thee hang upon her mocking lips
And sell the Sword I bravèd hell to win.
King Arthur.
O Merlin, I am as a troubled child
That awakes from noisome dreams. I cannot see,
I know not what I say. Give me thy hand
And gentle pardon for unknightly words,
Read me the cursèd riddle!
Merlin.
Endless years
Have I wrought patiently to save this land.
The curse was lifted, and I crowned thee king
And gave thee that which should have made thee lord
Of such a kingdom as were fit for God.
Against thee hurtled all the craft of hell
To gain Excalibur, and thou didst prove
A faithful warder; traitor to thy name
And knightly lineage. The Sword is gone.
King Arthur.
Merlin, I love her as I love my God;
'Twas Guenever!
Merlin.
'Twas Morgan, hight le Fay,
Thy sister.
King Arthur.
Jesu, mercy!
( He falls upon his face. )
Merlin.
For thy sin,
For thine unholy incest, cry to God
For pardon. Thou shalt pay the penalty
With thine own blood, and I may save thee not
Although I love thee as an only son.
A little time is left us ere the doom
Falls on thee. Swear to do my will
And we may baffle Morgan, save the State,
And render it into the hand of God.
Swear me, King Arthur, and I win the Sword.
King Arthur.
Blast me, Lord God, with lightning, for my sin,
Else will I tear mine eyes from out my face
And sink my body in the cursèd Mere!
Merlin.
Rend not thy body, Arthur, rend thy soul;
For that thou art a perjured, bawdy knave,
Foul with dishonour; yet I know indeed
That thing must lie with God. I deal with thee
As King of England, I may give no heed
Unto thy soul but only to thy Sword,
The which I will achieve if thou wilt swear.
King Arthur.
What shall I do to gain Excalibur?
Merlin.
Wilt thou be sworn?
King Arthur.
Yea, Merlin, I will swear.
Merlin.
Renounce thou by thy knighthood love and lust;
Swear by Christ Jesu's wounds that thou wilt live
A spotless knight, and I will win the Sword.
King Arthur.
I cannot, Merlin.
Merlin.
What, thou wilt not swear?
King Arthur.
I cannot, Merlin. Lust I fling away,
And, by God's grace, I keep myself from sin
If He will help me. Love I hold mine own;
For I have sworn an oath to Guenever
And I will keep it if I lose the crown.
Merlin.
Bethink thee, king, for England hangs on this;
Excalibur is gone. Ambassadors
But lately come from out disdainful Rome
Already are returning to their king
That threats thee with invasion. Grimly war
Shall compass England with a ring of death
Advancing dauntlessly upon thy throne
Where thou art shrinking in a woman's arms.
What shall they profit thee if thou art bare
Of thy most sure defence, Excalibur?
King Arthur.
Forsake thy vision, Merlin: let me go
And hide me in the refuge of my love.
I am not of such metal as a king
Is fashionèd, and I shall fail thee sore
If thou dost wield me. Give me Guenever,
And let me sink in dim forgetfulness
The while thou find'st a weapon to thy mind.
I may not serve thee.
Merlin.
Yet perforce thou shalt;
I know thy temper and it suits me well,
Despite thy softness. None may save this land
And bring the kingdom of the living God
Upon this earth, but only thou thyself.
Deny thy destiny and hell prevails,
The night descends, and man shall grope in vain
Through murky shadows for the hand of God,
Nor find it ever. Seize the Sword and reign!
So shall thy name be blazoned on the page
Of God's great chronicle of blessèd saints
That do His service for His people's sake.
King Arthur.
Give back my lady and I do thy will;
Yea, Merlin, even to the uttermost
And latest, lingering drop of mine own blood;
Deny me, and I give thee back the crown.
Merlin.
What profits me my wisdom when I wage
Uneven warfare 'gainst hot-headed love
That weighs a beating heart against the world?
Needs must I meet thy humour. Hear me, boy;
The rune is written. "Now Pendragon's seed
Shall slay Pendragon for Pendragon's lust."
Read thou the import. Yet a little while
And Morgan bears a child within whose veins
Runs, dark and turbid, great Pendragon's blood.
By him thou diest, king!
King Arthur.
And in this wise,
For mine own wanton act, the doom shall fall.
So be it, Merlin. Ye have space to act
And I to do thy bidding, ere the wrath
Of God is on me. Give me Guenever,
And when I go the crown shall fall again
Unto Pendragon's seed.
( A long pause. )
Merlin.
Yea, that is well.
And in despite of destiny I yield
Unto thine inclination.
King Arthur.
Pledge thy word,
Thine honour, and thine oath to give me her
That I do love, the Lady Guenever,
To make her queen.
Merlin.
That thing I soothly do,
Wilt thou be sworn?
King Arthur.
Yea, Merlin, I will swear.
Merlin.
Then, by God's wounds and by thy body's faith,
Swear to forsake all lust forevermore,
But live unstainèd and devoid of sin.
King Arthur.
By Jesu's Blood and by the faith I owe
Unto my knighthood I do swear the oath.
Merlin.
Come thou with me, the day is not yet lost
Though perilled grievously, for nevermore
May I compel the false and paynim witch
To render up Excalibur. Be true
Upon thine oath; we may save England yet,
Though hardly.
( He leads Arthur to the brink of the Mere. )
Stand thou by me while I call
Upon the loathly witch to hear my voice,
And by the power of the awful spell
That by God's grace I weave around here, yield
The Sword of Joseph to thy waiting hand.
Art ready, boy?
King Arthur.
Here stand I, Merlin: speak!
Merlin.
When thou dost see an arm from out the Mere,
Robed in white samite, lift above the flood,
Grasp thou the proffered hilt.
King Arthur.
I will obey.
Merlin.
Morgan le Fay, by grace of Him that lives
Lord God of Heaven and Earth, and by the spell
So awful and so potent, of the king
Great Solomon of Israel, obey!
Around the Magic Mere I weave the rune
That locks thee helpless in an iron ring.
From thy duresse thou may'st not win away,
Thou lewd and miscreant fayter, without scathe
Unless ye render ransom. Yield the Sword
That with mal-engine thou didst win away.
Yield thou the Sword!
( A sound of wailing rises from the lake. )
Must I then ask again?
I give thee warning, lightly yield the Sword,
For if thou haltest till the lifting moon
Mounts skyward by the breadth of half a hand
I'll damn thee down to hell!
( Clouds obscure the moon and a fierce wind rushes across the lake. The wailing increases to a shriek. )
Yield thou the Sword!
Dost think to fright me with the stour of storm,
And let me my quest with futile din?
Thou art assotted, Morgan. Yield the Sword!
( The storm bursts with a tempest of thunder and lighting )
Ha, ha! ye fight with weapons weak with rust!
Howl, tempests, 'til ye blast the shrinking earth;
Blaze, all ye lightnings, split the sky in shards
And hurl the reeling stars in torrents down,
Ye cannot move me from a mighty quest.
I bandy words no longer. Yield the Sword
Before my heart beats thrice within my breast
Or thou art damned! Yield thou Excalibur!
( A pale, greenish light rises and illuminates the surface of the lake. Within Arthur's reach an arm arises, brilliantly lighted, holding Excalibur. He seizes it and brandishes it in the glare of lightning. The light vanishes and the moon bursts through the clouds. )
Angelic Voices.
Hail, Pendragon!
Lord of the Sword.
Crownèd of England
saviour and king.
Arise! O thou servant of God,
for the dawn burgeons white on the world
and the Lord Christ has armed thee to-day.
The Sword is won.
and hell in confounded!
Back from England
cowers the curse.
The Sword Excalibur comes,
follows fast the Kingdom of God
that He will raise at thy hands.
The Table Round
He has established,
so art thou warded
with knighthood anointed
by God with the unction of blessing.
Go forth on the Quest for the crowning
high symbol of God in His world.
The Holy Grail
reft from the holding
of man in his pride
of will and of wisdom
awaits the winning of them
that acknowledge the Wisdom of God
nor exalt themselves over His Will.
The Holy Grail
the Sword and the Table
fix the foundation
of God's Holy City.
Guard thou Pendragon's inheritance
Build thou the City of God.
Curtain.
MERLIN'S LAST PROPHECY
by
GEORGE DARLEY
"Come ye from far, wild Ocean Daughters!
Shell-borne on the dangerous sea,
With pearly oars that ply the waters,
Say, bright Strangers, whence ye be?"
From a far Isle in unknown waters
Fleeting like mist the windswept sea,
We come--wise Merlin's potent Daughters,
Morgain-le-fay's handmaidens we!
Wide our gossamer sails unfurling,
With coral prow we stem the spray,
Our crisp shell behind us curling
Keeps the plashy surge away.
Fear not baleful charms or chidings,
Sweet our words as dropping balm,
Peace we bring and gentle tidings,
Keep thy heart in holiest calm.
The wild winds lull to our harps' soft numbers,
Lo! when music meet our hands,
Even the restless Ocean slumbers
Hugely on his bed of sands.
Lo! how swift our notes of pleasure
Sparkle along the golden strings,
While in rapturous mood and measure
Her dulcet verse each Maiden sings.
We o'er your land, like Guardian Spirits,
From our far isle of Avalon,
Watch, and o'er all that here inherits,
Beautiful daughter and brave son.
Favour to One grew strong and stronger,
Who from her bright looks aye hath been
Our Princess Fair-star: now no longer,
But Britain's fair and starry Queen.
Say to that young and sovran Beauty
This message hymned to thee alone,
Offering these gifts with proudest duty
At the bright foot which gems her throne.
Morgain to Britain's Queen commendeth
This magic Trident, virtue-stored;
Pendragon's Son, fair greeting, sendeth
Caliburn , his enchanted sword.
Rapt Merlin sings: "where a strengthless Woman
This sceptre holds with a firm strain,
That Land, maugre East and Western foeman,
Shall rule both East and Western main.
Where, with the same small clasp and slender,
This sword pale Resolution draws,
That Land need pray nought else defend her
But grace of God and her good Cause!"
Farewell!--the mortal arms that kept her
Safe, thro' the Past, its rage might quell,
But 'tis no common sword and sceptre
Shall sway Futurity!--Farewell!
THE LAST BALLAD
by
JOHN DAVIDSON
By coasts where scalding deserts reek,
The apanages of despair;
In outland wilds, by firth and creek,
O'er icy bournes of silver air;
In storm or calm delaying not,
To every noble task addressed,
Year after year, Sir Lancelot
Fulfilled King Arthur's high behest.
He helped the helpless ones; withstood
Tyrants and sanctioners of vice;
He rooted out the dragon brood,
And overthrew false deities.
Alone with his own soul, alone
With life and death, with day and night,
His thought and strength grew great and shone
A tongue of flame, a sword of light.
And yet not all alone. On high,
When midnight set the spaces free,
And brimming stars hung from the sky
Low down, and spilt their jewellery,
Behind the nightly squandered fire,
Through a dark lattice only seen
By love, a look of rapt desire
Fell from a vision of the Queen.
From heaven she bent when twilight knit
The dusky air and earth in one;
He saw her like a goddess sit
Enthroned upon the noonday sun.
In passages of gulfs and sounds,
When wild winds dug the sailor's grave,
When clouds and billows merged their bounds,
And the keel climbed the slippery wave,
A sweet sigh laced the tempest; nay,
Low at his ear he heard her speak;
Among the hurtling sheaves of spray
Her loosened tresses swept his cheek.
And in the revelry of death,
If human greed of slaughter cast
Remorse aside, a violet breath,
The incense of her being passed
Across his soul, and deeply swayed
The fount of pity; o'er the strife
He curbed the lightning of his blade,
And gave the foe his forfeit life.
Low on the heath, or on the deck,
In bloody mail or wet with brine,
Asleep he saw about her neck
The wreath of gold and rubies shine;
He saw her brows, her lovelit face,
And on her cheek one passionate tear;
He felt in dreams the rich embrace,
The beating heart of Guinevere.
"Visions that haunt my couch, my path,
Although the waste, unfathomed sea
Should rise against me white with wrath
I must behold her verily,
"Once ere I die," he said, and turned
Westward his faded silken sails
From isles where cloudy mountains burned,
And north to Severn-watered Wales.
Beside the Usk King Arthur kept
His Easter court, a glittering rout.
But Lancelot, because there swept
A passion of despair throughout
His being, when he saw once more
The sky that canopied, the tide
That girdled Guinevere, forebore
His soul's desire, and wandered wide
In unknown seas companionless,
Eating his heart, until by chance
He drifted into Lyonesse,
The wave-worn kingdom of romance.
He leapt ashore and watched his barque
Unmastered stagger to its doom;
Then doffed his arms and fled baresark
Into the forest's beckoning gloom.
The exceeding anguish of his mind
Had broken him. "King Arthur's trust,"
He cried; "ignoble, fateful, blind!
Her love and my love, noxious lust!
"Dupes of our senses! Let us eat
In caverns fathoms underground,
Alone, ashamed! To sit at meat
In jocund throngs?--the most profound
"Device of life the mountebank,
Vendor of gilded ashes! Steal
From every sight to use the rank
And loathsome needs that men conceal;
"And crush and drain in curtained beds
The clusters called of love; but feed
With garlanded uplifted heads;
Invite the powers that sanction greed
"To countenance the revel; boast
Of hunger, thirst; be drunken; claim
Indulgence to the uttermost,
Replenishing the founts of shame!"
He gathered berries, efts, and snails,
Sorrel, and new-burst hawthorn leaves;
Uprooted with his savage nails
Earth-nuts; and under rocky eaves
Shamefast devoured them, out of sight
In darkness, lest the eye of beast,
Or bird, or star, or thing of night
Uncouth, unknown, should watch him feast.
At noon in twilight depths of pine
He heard the word Amaimon spoke;
He saw the pallid, evil sign
The wred-eld lit upon the oak.
The viper loitered in his way;
The minx looked up with bloodshot leer;
Ill-meaning fauns and lamiae
With icy laughter flitted near.
But if he came upon a ring
Of sinless elves, and crept unseen
Beneath the brake to hear them sing,
And watch them dancing on the green,
They touched earth with their finger-tips;
They ceased their roundelay; they laid
A seal upon their elfin lips
And vanished in the purple shade.
At times he rent the dappled flank
Of some fair creature of the chase,
Mumbled its flesh, or growling drank
From the still-beating heart, his face
And jowl ruddled, and in his hair
And beard, blood-painted straws and burs,
While eagles barked screening the air,
And wolves that were his pensioners.
Sometimes at night his mournful cry
Troubled all waking things; the mole
Dived to his deepest gallery;
The vixen from the moonlit knoll
Passed like a shadow underground,
And the mad satyr in his lair
Whined bodeful at the world-old sound
Of inarticulate despair.
Sir Lancelot, beloved of men!
The ancient earth gat hold of him;
A year was blotted from his ken
In the enchanted forest dim.
At Easter when the thorn beset
The bronzing wood with silver sprays,
And hyacinth and violet
Empurpled all the russet ways;
When buttercup and daffodil
A stainless treasure-trove unrolled,
And cowslips had begun to fill
Their chalices with sweeter gold,
He heard a sound of summer rush
By swarthy grove and kindled lawn;
He heard, he sighed to hear the thrush
Singing alone before the dawn.
Forward he stalked with eyes on fire
Like one who keeps in sound and sight
An angel with celestial lyre
Descanting rapturous delight.
He left behind the spell-bound wood;
He saw the branchless air unfurled;
He climbed a hill and trembling stood
Above the prospect of the world.
With lustre in its bosom pent
From many a shining summer day
And harvest moon, the wan sea leant
Against a heaven of iron-grey.
Inland on the horizon beat
And flickered, drooping heavily,
A fervid haze, a vaporous heat,
The dusky eyelid of the sky.
White ways, white gables, russet thatch
Fretted the green and purple plain;
The herd undid his woven latch;
The bleating flock went forth again;
The skylarks uttered lauds and prime;
The sheep-bells rang from hill to hill;
The cuckoo pealed his mellow chime;
The orient bore a burden shrill.
His memory struggled half awake;
Dimly he groped within to see
What star, what sun, what light should break
And set his darkened spirit free.
But from without deliverance came:
Afar he saw a horseman speed,
A knight, a spirit clad in flame
Riding upon a milkwhite steed.
For now the sun had quenched outright
The clouds and all their working charms,
Marshalled his legionary light,
And fired the rider's golden arms.
Softly the silver billows flowed;
Beneath the hill the emerald vale
Dipped seaward; on the burnished road
The milkwhite steed, the dazzling mail
Advanced and flamed against the wind;
And Lancelot, his body rent
With the fierce trial of his mind
To know, reeled down the steep descent.
Remembrances of battle plied
His soul with ruddy beams of day.
"A horse! a lance! to arms!" he cried,
And stood there weeping in the way.
"Speak!" said the knight. "What man are you?"
"I know not yet. Surely of old
I rode in arms, and fought and slew
In jousts and battles manifold."
Oh, wistfully he drew anear,
Fingered the reins, the jewelled sheath;
With rigid hand he grasped the spear,
And shuddering whispered, "Life and death,
"Love, lofty deeds, renown--did these
Attend me once in days unknown?"
With courtesy, with comely ease,
And brows that like his armour shone,
The golden knight dismounting took
Sir Lancelot by the hand and said,
"Your voice of woe, your lonely look
As of a dead man whom the dead
"Themselves cast out--whence are they, friend?"
Sir Lancelot a moment hung
In doubt, then knelt and made an end
Of all his madness, tensely strung
In one last effort to be free
Of evil things that wait for men
In secret, strangle memory,
And shut the soul up in their den.
"Spirit," he said, "I know your eyes:
They bridge with light the heavy drift
Of years. . . . A woman said, 'Arise;
And if you love the Queen, be swift!'
"The token was an emerald chased
In gold, once mine. Wherefore I rode
At dead of night in proudest haste
To Payarne where the Queen abode.
"A crafty witch gave me to drink:
Almost till undern of the morn
Silent, in darkness. . . . When I think
It was not Guinevere, self-scorn
"Cuts to the marrow of my bones,
A blade of fire. Can wisdom yield
No mood, no counsel, that atones
For wasted love! . . . Heaven had revealed
"That she should bear a child to me
My bed-mate said. . . . Yet am I mad?
The offspring of that treachery!
The maiden kngiht! You--Galahad,
"My son, who make my trespass dear!"
His look released his father's thought--
The darkling orbs of Guinevere;
For so had Lancelot's passion wrought.
With tenderer tears than women shed
Sir Galahad held his father fast.
"Now I shall be your squire," he said.
But Lancelot fought him long. At last
The maiden gently overpowered
The man. Upon his milkwhite steed
He brought him where a castle towered
Midmost a green enamelled mead;
And clothed his body, clothed his heart
In human garniture once more.
"My father, bid me now depart.
I hear beside the clanging shore,
"Above the storm, or in the wind,
Outland, or on the old Roman street,
A chord of music intertwined
From wandering tones deep-hued and sweet.
"Afar or near, at noon, at night,
The braided sound attends and fills
My soul with peace, as heaven with light
O'erflows when morning crowns the hills.
"And with the music, seen or hid,
A blood-rose on the palace lawn,
A fount of crimson, dark amid
The stains and glories of the dawn;
"Above the city's earthly hell
A token ominous of doom,
A cup on fire and terrible
With thunders in its ruddy womb;
"But o'er the hamlet's fragrant smoke,
The dance and song at eventide,
A beating heart, the gentle yoke
Of life the bridegroom gives the bride;
"A ruby shadow on the snow;
A flower, a lamp--through every veil
And mutable device I know,
And follow still the Holy Grail
"Until God gives me my new name
Empyreal, and the quest be done."
Then like a spirit clad in flame,
He kissed his father and was gone.
Long gazed Sir Lancelot on the ground
Tormented till benign repose
Enveloped him in depths profound
Of sweet oblivion. When he rose
The bitterest was past. "And I
Shall follow now the Holy Grail,
Seen, or unseen, until I die:
My very purpose shall avail
"My soul," he said. By day, by night,
He rode abroad, his vizor up;
With sun and moon his vehement sight
Fought for a vision of the cup--
In vain. For evermore on high
When darkness set the spaces free,
And brimming stars hung from the sky
Low down, and spilt their jewellery,
Behind the nightly squandered fire,
Through a dim lattice only seen
By love, a look of rapt desire
Fell from a vision of the Queen.
From heaven she bent when twilight knit
The dusky air and earth in one;
He saw her like a goddess sit
Enthroned upon the noonday sun.
Wherefore he girt himself again:
In lawless towns and savage lands,
He overthrew unrighteous men,
Accomplishing the King's commands.
In passages of gulfs and sounds
When wild winds dug the sailor's grave,
When clouds and billows merged their bounds,
And the keel climbed the slippery wave,
A sweet sigh laced the tempest; nay,
Low at his ear he heard her speak;
Among the hurtling sheaves of spray
Her loosened tresses swept his cheek.
And in the revelry of death,
If human greed of slaughter cast
Remorse aside, a violet breath,
The incense of her being passed
Across his soul, and deeply swayed
The fount of pity; o'er the strife
He curbed the lightning of his blade,
And gave the foe his forfeit life.
His love, in utter woe annealed,
Escaped the furnace, sweet and clear--
His love that on the world had sealed
The look, the soul of Guinevere.
PALOMYDES
by
AUSTIN DOBSON
Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,
Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--
The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.
But, unloved ever, still must love the same,
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.
So I, who strove to You I may not earn,
Methinks, am come unto so high a place,
That though from hence I can but vainly yearn
For that averted favour of your face,
I shall not turn.
No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,
To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,
Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,
And cry your name in my extremity,
As Palomyde,
Until the issue come. Will it disclose
No gift of grace, no pity made complete,
After much labour done,--much war with woes?
Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;--
Ah, Death--who knows?
How the Young Martimor would Become a Knight
and Assay Great Adventure
WHEN Sir Lancelot was come out of the Red Launds where he did many deeds of arms, he rested him long with play and game in a land that is called Beausejour. For in that land there are neither castles nor enchantments, but many fair manors, with orchards and fields lying about them; and the people that dwell therein have good cheer continually.
Of the wars and of the strange quests that are ever afoot in Northgalis and Lionesse and the Out Isles, they hear nothing; but are well content to till the earth in summer when the world is green; and when the autumn changes green to gold they pitch pavilions among the fruit-trees and the vineyards, making merry with song and dance while they gather harvest of corn and apples and grapes; and in the white days of winter for pastime they have music of divers instruments and the playing of pleasant games.
But of the telling of tales in that land there is little skill, neither do men rightly understand the singing of ballads and romaunts. For one year there is like another, and so their life runs away, and they leave the world to God.
Then Sir Lancelot had great ease for a time in this quiet land, and often he lay under the apple-trees sleeping, and again he taught the people new games and feats of skill. For into what place soever he came he was welcome, though the inhabitants knew not his name and great renown, nor the famous deeds that he had done in tournament and battle. Yet for his own sake, because he was a very gentle knight, fair-spoken and full of courtesy and a good man of his hands withal, they doted upon him.
So he began to tell them tales of many things that have been done in the world by clean knights and faithful squires. Of the wars against the Saracens and misbelieving men; of the discomfiture of the Romans when they came to take truage of King Arthur; of the strife with the eleven kings and the battle that was ended but never finished; of the Questing Beast and how King Pellinore and then Sir Palamides followed it; of Balin that gave the dolourous stroke unto King Pellam; of Sir Tor that sought the lady's brachet and by the way overcame two knights and smote off the head of the outrageous catiff Abelleus, --of these and many like matters of pith and moment, full of blood and honour, told Sir Lancelot, and the people had marvel of his words.
Now, among them that listened to him gladly, was a youth of good blood and breeding, very fair in the face and of great stature. His name was Martimor. Strong of arm was he, and his neck was like a pillar. his legs were as tough as beams of ash-wood, and in his heart was the hunger of noble tatches and deeds. So when he heard of Sir Lancelot these redoubtable histories he was taken with desire to assay his strength. And he besought the knight that they might joust together.
But in the land of Beausejour there were no arms of war save such as Sir Lancelot had brought with him. Wherefore they made shift to fashion a harness out of kitchen gear, with a brazen platter for a breast-plate, and the cover of the greatest of all kettles for a shield, and for a helmet a round pot of iron, whereof the handle stuck down at Martimor's back like a tail. And for spear he got him a stout young fir-tree, the point hardened in the fire, and Sir Lancelot lent to him the sword that he had taken from the false knight that distressed all ladies.
Thus was Martimor accoutred for the jousting, and when he had climbed upon his horse, there arose much laughter and mockage. Self Sir Lancelot laughed a little, though he was ever a grave man, and said, "Now must we call this knight, La Queue de Fer , by reason of the tail at his back."
But Martimor was half merry and half wroth, and crying, " 'Ware!" he dressed his spear beneath his arm. Right so he rushed upon Sir Lancelot, and so marvellously did his harness jangle and smite together as he came, that the horse of Sir Lancelot was frighted and turned aside. Thus the point of the fir-tree caught him upon the shoulder and came near to unhorse him. Then Martimor drew rein and shouted: "Ha! ha! has Iron-Tail done well?"
"Nobly hast thou done," said Lancelot, laughing, the while he amended his horse, "but let not the first stroke turn thy head, else will the tail of thy helmet hang down afore thee and mar the second stroke!"
So he kept his horse in hand and guided him warily, making feint now on this side and now on that, until he was aware that the youth grew hot with the joy of fighting and sought to deal with him roughly and bigly. Then he cast aside his spear and drew sword, and as Martimor walloped toward him, he lightly swerved, and with one stroke cut in twain the young fir-tree, so that not above an ell was left in the youth's hand.
Then was the youth full of fire, and he also drew sword and made at Sir Lancelot, lashing heavily as he would hew down a tree. But the knight guarded and warded without distress, until the other breathed hard and was blind with sweat. Then Lancelot smote him with a mighty stroke upon the head, but with the flat of his sword, so that Martimor's breath went clean out of him, and the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell over the croup of his horse as he were a man slain.
Then Sir Lancelot laughed no more, but grieved, for he weened that he had harmed the youth, and he liked him passing well. So he ran to him and held him in his arms fast and tended him. And when the breath came again into his body, Lancelot was glad, and desired the youth that he would pardon him of that unequal joust and of the stroke too heavy.
At this Martimor sat up and took him by the hand. "Pardon?" he cried. "No talk of pardon between thee and me, my Lord Lancelot! Thou hast given me such joy of my life as never I had before. It made me glad to feel thy might. And now am I delibred and fully concluded that I also will become a knight, and thou shalt instruct me how and in what land I shall seek great adventure."
II
How Martimor was Instructed of Sir Lancelot to
Set Forth Upon His Quest
So right gladly did Sir Lancelot advise the young Martimor of all the customs and vows of the noble order of knighthood, and shew how he might become a well-ruled and a hardy knight to win good fame and renown. For between these two from the first there was close brotherhood and affiance, though in years and in breeding they were so far apart, and this brotherhood endured until the last, as ye shall see, nor was the affiance broken.
Thus willingly learned the youth of his master; being instructed first in the art and craft to manage and guide a horse; then to handle the shield and the spear, and both to cut and to foin with the sword; and last of all in the laws of honour and courtesy, whereby a man may rule his own spirit and so obtain grace of God, praise of princes, and favour of fair ladies.
"For this I tell thee," said Sir Lancelot, as they sat together under an apple-tree, "there be many good fighters that are false knights, breaking faith with man and woman, envious, lustful and orgulous. In them courage is cruel, and love is lecherous. And in the end they shall come to shame and shall be overcome by a simpler knight than themselves; or else they shall win sorrow and despite by the slaying of better men than they be; and with their paramours they shall have weary dole and distress of soul and body; for he that is false, to him shall none be true, but all things shall be unhappy about him."
"But how and if a man be true in heart," said Martimor, "yet by some enchantment, or evil fortune, he may do an ill deed and one that is harmful to his lord or to his friend, even as Balin and his brother Balan slew each the other unknown?"
"That is in God's hand," said Lancelot. "Doubtless he may pardon and assoil all such in their unhappiness, forasmuch as the secret of it is with him."
"And how if a man be entangled in love," said Martimor, "yet his love be set upon one that is not lawful for him to have? For either he must deny his love, which is great shame, or else he must do dishonour to the law. What shall he then do?"
At this Sir Lancelot was silent, and heaved a great sigh. Then said he: "Rest assured that this man shall have sorrow enough. For out of this net he may not escape, save by falsehood on the one side, or by treachery on the other. Therefore say I that he shall not assay to escape, but rather right manfully to bear the bonds with which he is bound, and to do honour to them."
"How may this be?" said Martimor.
"By clean living," said Lancelot, "and by keeping himself from wine which heats the blood, and by quests and labours and combats wherein the fierceness of the heart is spent and overcome, and by inward joy in the pure worship of his lady, whereat none may take offence."
"How then shall a man bear himself in the following of a quest?" said Martimor. "Shall he set his face ever forward, and turn not to right, or left, whatever meet him by the way? Or shall he hold himself ready to answer them that call to him, and to succour them that ask help of him, and to turn aside from his path for rescue and good service?"
"Enough of questions!" said Lancelot. "These are things whereto each man must answer for himself, and not for other. True knight taketh counsel of the time. Every day his own deed. And the winning of a quest is not by haste, nor by hap, but what needs to be done, that must ye do while ye are in the way."
Then because of the love that Sir Lancelot bore to Martimor he gave him his own armour, and the good spear wherewith he had unhorsed many knights, and the sword that he took from Sir Peris de Forest Savage that distressed all ladies, but his shield he gave not, for therein his own remembrance was blazoned. So he let make a new shield, and in the corner was painted a Blue Flower that was nameless, and this he gave to Martimor, saying: "Thou shalt name it when thou hast found it, and so shalt thou have both crest and motto."
"Now am I well beseen," cried Martimor, "and my adventures are before me. Which way shall I ride, and where shall I find them?"
"Ride into the wind," said Lancelot, "and what chance soever it blows thee, thereby do thy best, as it were the first and the last. Take not thy hand from it until it be fulfilled. So shalt thou most quickly and worthily achieve knighthood."
Then they embraced like brothers; and each bade other keep him well; and Sir Lancelot in leather jerkin, with naked head, but with his shield and sword, rode to the south toward Camelot; and Martimor rode into the wind, westward, over the hill.
III
How Martimor Came to the Mill and There was
Stayed in a Delay
So by wildsome ways in strange countries and through many waters and valleys rode Martimor forty days, but adventure met him none, blow the wind never so fierce or fickle. Neither dragons, nor giants, nor false knights, nor distressed ladies, nor fays, nor kings imprisoned could he find.
"These are ill times for adventure," said he, "the world is full of meat and sleepy. Now must I ride farther afield and undertake some ancient, famous quest wherein other knights have failed and fallen. Either I shall follow the Questing Beast with Sir Palamides, or I shall find Merlin at the great stone whereunder the Lady of the Lake enchanted him and deliver him from that enchantment, or I shall assay the cleansing of the Forest Perilous, or I shall win the favour of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, or mayhap I shall adventure the quest of the Sangreal. One or other of these will I achieve, or bleed the best blood of my body." Thus pondering and dreaming he came by the road down a gentle hill with close woods on either hand; and so into a valley with a swift river flowing through it; and on the river a Mill.
So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel as the water turned it, and so bright blossomed the flowers in the garden, that Martimor had joy of the sight, for it minded him of his own country. "But here is no adventure," thought he, and made to ride by.
Even then came a young maid suddenly through the garden crying and wringing her hands. And when she saw him she cried him help. At this Martimor alighted quickly and ran into the garden, where the young maid soon led him to the millpond, which was great and deep, and made him understand that her little hound was swept away by the water and was near to perishing.
There saw he a red and white bratchet, caught by the swift stream that ran into the race, fast swimming as ever he could swim, yet by no means able to escape. Then Martimor stripped off his harness and leaped into the water and did marvellously to rescue the little hound. But the fierce river dragged his legs, and buffeted him, and hurtled at him, and drew him down, as it were an enemy wrestling with him, so that he had much ado to come where the bratchet was, and more to win back again, with the bratchet in his arm, to the dry land.
Which when he had done he was clean for-spent and fell upon the ground as a dead man. At this the young maid wept yet more bitterly than she had wept for her hound, and cried aloud, "Alas, if so goodly a man should spend his life for my little bratchet!" So she took his head upon her knee and cherished him and beat the palms of his hands, and the hound licked his face. And when Martimor opened his eyes he saw the face of the maid that it was fair as any flower.
Then was she shamed, and put him gently from her knee, and began to thank him and to ask with what she might reward him for the saving of the bratchet.
"A night's lodging and a day's cheer," quoth Martimor.
"As long as thee liketh," said she, "for my father, the miller, will return ere sundown, and right gladly will he have a guest so brave."
"Longer might I like," said he, "but longer may I not stay, for I ride in a quest and seek great adventures to become a knight."
So they bestowed the horse in the stable, and went into the Mill; and when the miller was come home they had such good cheer with eating of venison and pan-cakes, and drinking of hydromel, and singing of pleasant ballads, that Martimor clean forgot he was in a delay. And going to his bed in a fair garret he dreamed of the Maid of the Mill, whose name was Lirette.
IV
How the Mill was in Danger and the Delay
Endured
In the morning Martimor lay late and thought large thoughts of his quest, and whither it might lead him, and to what honour it should bring him. As he dreamed thus, suddenly he heard in the hall below a trampling of feet and a shouting, with the voice of Lirette crying and shrieking. With that he sprang out of his bed, and caught up his sword and dagger, leaping lightly and fiercely down the stair.
There he saw three foul churls, whereof two strove with the miller, beating him with great clubs, while the third would master the Maid and drag her away to do her shame, but she fought shrewdly. Then Martimor rushed upon the churls, shouting for joy, and there was a great medley of breaking chairs and tables and cursing and smiting, and with his sword he gave horrible strokes.
One of the knaves that fought with the miller, he smote upon the shoulder and clave him to the navel. And at the other he foined fiercely so that the point of the sword went through his back and stuck fast in the wall. But the third knave, that was the biggest and the blackest, and strove to bear away the Maid, left hold of her, and leaped upon Martimor and caught him by the middle and crushed him so that his ribs cracked.
Thus they weltered and wrung together, and now one of them was above and now the other; and ever as they wallowed Martimor smote him with his dagger, but there came forth no blood, only water.
Then the black churl broke away from him and ran out at the door of the mill, and Martimor after. So they ran through the garden to the river, and there the churl sprang into the water, and swept away raging and foaming. And as he went he shouted, "Yet will I put thee to the worse, and mar the Mill, and have the Maid!"
Then Martimor cried, "Never while I live shalt thou mar the Mill or have the Maid, though foul, black, misbegotten churl!" So he returned to the Mill, and there the damsel Lirette made him to understand that these three churls were long time enemies of the Mill, and sought ever to destroy it and to do despite to her and her father. One of them was Ignis, and another was Ventus, and these were the twain that he had smitten. But the third, that fled down the river (and he was ever the fiercest and the most outrageous), his name was Flumen, for he dwelt in the caves of the stream, and was the master of it before the Mill was built.
"And now," wept the Maid, "he must have had his will with me and with the Mill, but for God's mercy, thanked be our Lord Jesus!"
"Thank me too," said Martimor.
"So I do," said Lirette, and she kissed him. "Yet am I heavy at heart and fearful, for my father is sorely mishandled and his arm is broken, so that he cannot tend the Mill nor guard it. And Flumen is escaped; surely he will harm us again. Now I know not, where I shall look for help."
"Why not here?" said Martimor.
Then Lirette looked him in the face, smiling a little sorrily. "But thou ridest in a quest," quoth she, "thou mayst not stay from thy adventures."
"A month," said he.
"Till my father be well?" said she.
"A month," said he.
"Til thou hast put Flumen to the worse?" said she.
"Right willingly would I have to do with that base, slippery knave again," said he, "but more than a month I may not stay, for my quest calls me and I must win worship of men or ever I become a knight."
So they bound up the miller's wounds and set the Mill in order. But Martimor had much to do to learn the working of the Mill; and they were busied with the grinding of wheat and rye and barley and divers kinds of grain; and the miller's hurts were mended every day; and at night there was merry rest and good cheer; and Martimor talked with the Maid of the great adventure that he must find; and thus the delay endured in pleasant wise.
V
Yet More of the Mill, and of the Same Delay, also
of the Maid
Now at the end of the third month, which was November, Martimor made Lirette to understand that it was high time he should ride farther to follow his quest. For the miller was now recovered, and it was long that they had heard and seen naught of Flumen, and doubtless that black knave was well routed and dismayed that he would not come again. Lirette prayed him and desired him that he would tarry yet one week. But Martimor said, No! for his adventures were before him, and that he could not be happy save in the doing of great deeds and the winning of knightly fame. Then he showed her the Blue Flower in his shield that was nameless, and told her how Sir Lancelot had said that he must find it, then should he name it and have both crest and motto.
"Does it grow in my garden?" said Lirette.
"I have not seen it," said he, "and now the flowers are all faded."
"Perhaps in the month of May?" said she.
"In that month I will come again," said he, "for by that time it may fortune that I shall achieve my quest, but now forth must I fare."
So there was sad cheer in the Mill that day, and at night there came a fierce storm with howling wind and plumping rain, and Martimor slept ill. About the break of day he was wakened by a great roaring and pounding; then he looked out of window, and saw the river in flood, with black waves spuming and raving, like wood beasts, and driving before them great logs and broken trees. Thus the river hurled and hammered at the mill-dam so that it trembled, and the logs leaped as they would spring over it, and the voice of Flumen shouted hoarsely and hungrily, "Yet will I mar the Mill and have the Maid!"
Then Martimor ran with the miller out upon the dam, and they laboured at the gates that held the river back, and thrust away the logs that were heaped over them, and cut with axes, and fought with the river. So at last two of the gates were lifted and one was broken, and the flood ran down ramping and roaring in great raundon, and as it ran the black face of Flumen sprang above it, crying, "Yet will I mar both Mill and Maid."
"That shalt thou never do," cried Martimor, "by foul or fair, while the life beats in my body."
So he came back with the miller into the Mill, and there was meat ready for them and they ate strongly and with good heart. "Now," said the miller, "must I mend the gate. But how it may be done, I know not, for surely this will be great travail for a man alone."
"Why alone?" said Martimor.
"Thou wilt stay, then?" said Lirette.
"Yea," said he.
"For another month?" said she.
"Till the gate be mended," said he.
But when the gate was mended there came another flood and brake the second gate. And when that was mended there came another flood and brake the third gate. So when all three were mended firm and fast, being bound with iron, still the grimly river hurled over the dam, and the voice of Flumen muttered in the dark of winter nights, "Yet will I mar--mar--mar--yet will I mar Mill and Maid."
"Oho!" said Martimor, "this is a durable and dogged knave. Art thou feared of him Lirette?"
"Not so," said she, "for thou art stronger. But fear have I of the day when thou ridest forth in thy quest."
"Well, as to that," said he, "when I have overcome this false devil Flumen, then will we consider and appoint that day."
So the delay continued, and Martimor was both busy and happy at the Mill, for he liked and loved this damsel well, and was fain of her company. Moreover the strife with Flumen was great joy to him.
VI
How the Month of May came to the Mill, and the
Delay was Made Longer
Now when the month of May came to the Mill it brought a plenty of sweet flowers, and Lirette wrought in the garden. With her, when the day was spent and the sun rested upon the edge of the hill, went Martimor, and she showed him all her flowers that were blue. But none of them was like the flower on his shield.
"Is it this?" she cried, giving him a violet.
"Too dark," said he.
"Then here it is," she said, plucking a posy of forget-me-not.
"Too light," said he.
"Surely this is it," and she brought him a spray of blue-bells.
"Too slender," said he, "and well I ween that I may not find that flower, till I ride farther in my quest and achieve great adventure."
Then was the Maid cast down, and Martimor was fain to comfort her.
So while they walked thus in the garden, the days were fair and still, and the river ran lowly and slowly, as it were full of gentleness, and Flumen had amended him of his evil ways. But full of craft and guile was that false foe. For now that the gates were firm and strong, he found a way down through the corner of the dam, where a water-rat had burrowed, and there the water went seeping and creeping, gnawing ever at the hidden breach. Presently in the night came a mizzling rain, and far among the hills a cloud brake open, and the mill-pond flowed over and under, and the dam crumbled away, and the Mill shook, and the whole river ran roaring through the garden.
Then was Martimor wonderly wroth, because the river had blotted out the Maid's flowers. "And one day," she cried, holding fast to him and trembling, "one day Flumen will have me, when thou art gone."
"Not so," said he, "by the faith of my body that foul fiend shall never have thee. I will bind him, I will compel him, or die in the deed."
So he went forth, upward along the river, till he came to a strait place among the hills. There was a great rock full of caves and hollows, and there the water whirled and burbled in furious wise. "Here," thought he, "is the hold of the knave Flumen, and if I may cut through above this rock and make a dyke with a gate in it, to let down the water another way when the floods come, so shall I spoil him of his craft and put him to the worse."
Then he toiled day and night to make the dyke, and ever by night Flumen came and strove with him, and did his power to cast him down and strangle him. But Martimor stood fast and drave him back.
And at last, as they wrestled and whapped together, they fell headlong in the stream.
"Ho-o!" shouted Flumen, "now will I drown thee, and mar the Mill and the Maid."
But Martimor gripped him by the neck and thrust his head betwixt the leaves of the gate and shut them fast, so that his eyes stood out like gobbets of foam, and his black tongue hung from his mouth like a water-weed.
"Now shalt thou swear never to mar Mill nor Maid, but meekly to serve them," cried Martimor.
Then Flumen sware by wind and wave, by storm and stream, by rain and river, by pond and pool, by flood and fountain, by dyke and dam.
"These be changeable things," said Martimor, "swear by the Name of God."
So he sware, and even as the Name passed his teeth, the gobbets of foam floated forth from the gate, and the water-weed writhed away with the stream, and the river flowed fair and softly, with a sound like singing.
Then Martimor came back to the Mill, and told how Flumen was overcome and made to swear a pact. Thus their hearts waxed light and jolly, and they kept that day as it were a love-day.
VII
How Martimor Bled for a Lady and Lived for a
Maid, and how His Great Adventure Ended
and Began at the Mill
Now leave we of the Mill and Martimor and the Maid, and let us speak of a certain Lady, passing tall and fair and young. This was the Lady Beauvivante, that was daughter to King Pellinore. And three false knights took her by craft from her father's court and led her away to work their will on her. But she escaped from them as they slept by a well, and came riding on a white palfrey, over hill and dale, as fast as ever she could drive.
Thus she came to the Mill, and her palfrey was spent, and there she took refuge, beseeching Martimor that he would hide her, and defend her from those caitiff knights that must soon follow.
"Of hiding," said he, "will I hear naught, but of defending am I full fain. For this have I waited."
Then he made ready his horse and his armour, and took both spear and sword, and stood forth in the bridge. Now this bridge was strait, so that none could pass there but singly, and that not till Martimor yielded or was beaten down.
Then came the three knights that followed the Lady, riding fiercely down the hill. And when they came about ten spear-lengths from the bridge, they halted, and stood still as it had been a plump of wood. One rode in black, and one rode in yellow, and the third rode in black and yellow. So they cried Martimor that he should give them passage, for they followed a quest.
"Passage takes, who passage makes!" cried Martimor. "Right well I know your quest, and it is a foul one."
Then the knight in black rode at him lightly, but Martimor encountered him with the spear and smote him backward from his horse, that his head struck the coping of the bridge and brake his neck. Then came the knight in yellow, walloping heavily, and him the spear pierced through the midst of the body and burst in three pieces: so he fell on his back and the life went out of him, but the spear stuck fast and stood up from his breast as a stake.
Then the knight in black and yellow, that was as big as both his brethren, gave a terrible shout, and rode at Martimor like a wood lion. But he fended with his shield that the spear went aside, and they clapped together like thunder, and both horses were overthrown. And lightly they avoided their horses and rushed together, tracing, rasing, and foining. Such strokes they gave that great pieces were clipped away from their hauberks, and their helms, and they staggered to and fro like drunken men. Then they hurtled together like rams and each battered other the wind out of his body. So they sat either on one side of the bridge, to take their breath, glaring the one at the other as two owls. Then they stepped together and fought freshly, smiting and thrusting, ramping and reeling, panting, snorting, and scattering blood, for the space of two hours. So the knight in black and yellow, because he was heavier, drave Martimor backward step by step till he came to the crown of the bridge, and there fell grovelling. At this the Lady Beauvivante shrieked and wailed, but the damsel Lirette cried loudly, "Up! Martimor, strike again!"
Then the courage came into his body, and with a great might he abraid upon his feet, and smote the black and yellow knight upon the helm by an overstroke so fierce that the sword sheared away the third part of his head, as it had been a rotten cheese. So he lay upon the bridge, and the blood ran out of him. And Martimor smote off the rest of his head quite, and cast it into the river. Likewise did he with the other twain that lay dead beyond the bridge. And he cried to Flumen, "Hide me these black eggs that hatched evil thoughts." So the river bore them away.
Then Martimor came into the Mill, all for-bled; "Now are ye free, lady," he cried, and fell down in a swoon. Then the Lady and the Maid wept full sore and made great dole and unlaced his helm; and Lirette cherished him tenderly to recover his life.
So while they were thus busied and distressed, came Sir Lancelot with a great company of knights and squires riding for to rescue the princess. When he came to the bridge all bedashed with blood, and the bodies of the knights headless, "Now, by my lady's name," said he, "here has been good fighting, and those three caitiffs are slain! By whose hand I wonder?"
So he came into the Mill, and there he found Martimor recovered of his swoon, and had marvellous joy of him, when he heard how he had wrought.
"Now are thou proven worthy of the noble order of knighthood," said Lancelot, and forthwith he dubbed him knight.
Then he said that Sir Martimor should ride with him to the court of King Pellinore, to receive a castle and a fair lady to wife, for doubtless the King would deny him nothing to reward the rescue of his daughter.
But Martimor stood in a muse; then said he, "May a knight have his free will and choice of castles, where he will abide?"
"Within the law," said Lancelot, "and by the King's word he may."
"Then choose I the Mill," said Martimor, "for here will I dwell."
"Freely spoken," said Lancelot, laughing, "so art thou Sir Martimor of the Mill; no doubt the King will confirm it. And now what sayest thou of ladies?"
"May a knight have his free will and choice here also?" said he.
"According to his fortune," said Lancelot, "and by the lady's favour, he may."
"Well, then," said Sir Martimor, taking Lirette by the hand, "this Maid is to me liefer to have and to wield as my wife than any dame or princess that is christened."
"What, brother," said Sir Lancelot, "is the wind in that quarter? And will the Maid have thee?"
"I will well," said Lirette.
"Now are you well provided," said Sir Lancelot, "with knighthood, and a castle, and a lady. Lacks but a motto and a name for the Blue Flower in thy shield."
"He that names it shall never find it," said Sir Martimor, "and he that finds it needs no name."
So Lirette rejoiced Sir Martimor and loved together during their life-days; and this is the end and the beginning of the Story of the Mill.
MERLIN I
by
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor tinkle of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smite the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned flood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice or orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
"Pass in, pass in," the angels say,
"In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise."
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,--
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mold the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall not seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,--
The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 'tis inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;--
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors,
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.
MERLIN II
by
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs;
Balance-loving Nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode;
Each color with its counter glowed;
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting balls and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand;
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated;
Adding by their mutual gage,
One to other, health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The self-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife,
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
MERLIN'S SONG
by
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Of Merlin wise I learned a song,--
Sing it low, or sing it loud,
It is mightier than the strong,
And punishes the proud.
I sing it to the surging crowd,--
Good men it will calm and cheer,
Bad men it will chain and cage.
In the heart of the music peals a strain
Which only angels hear;
Whether it waken joy or rage,
Hushed myriads hark in vain,
Yet they who hear it shed their age,
And take their youth again.
THE LOVE-SONG OF TRISTRAM AND ISEULT
by
CYRIL EMRA
Beneath the heavens sublime;
Far-spent, the day was passing on
To the great deep of time;
And half-way hid behind the west,
The dying sun immense and bright
Touched with red fire the foamy crest
Of endless waves, and bathed in light
A ship with ivory sails unfurled
That danced adown the waste sea-world,
Alone of all things there,-
Sir Tristram's vessel voyaging
South to the Cornish coast to bring
For Mark, his uncle and his king,
A bride, Iseult the fair.
Iseult and Tristram - knight and maid: -
O names of dust and fire!
When shall the glamour of them fade,
Or when the pity tire?
On strange adventure came they, he
Unwilling escort of the queen
That was to be; unwilling she
To wed the king she ne'er had seen.
And who, that knows how love may be
Bound not by any man's decree,
But works its wilful way and free
To what dim fate it cannot see,
Through peril and through woe,
Shall wonder that between these twain,
The goodliest of all splendid men,
The loveliest woman living then,
A spell, a charm their souls to chain,
A bond of dread, delightful pain
Silent and strong should grow?
All day adown the shining seas
They saw the sunlight gleam;
The straining canvas caught the breeze
That surged upon their beam,
Till the long hours to evening drew,
Hushed to a whisper sank the wind,
And ribboned out across the blue
The fleecy clouds far-streaming thinned
Into illumined lines of mist
By the red sunset redly kissed,
And blushing rosy-bright,
In that short hour of lesser life
That drifts between the alternate strife
Of restless day and night.
Faint as a bank of cloud that sails
Where sea-line touches sky,
They saw the hilly coast of Wales
On the horizon lie;
And gazing at the distant heights,
'How long?' she asked; 'how many more
Of sunny days and starry nights
Before we reach Tintagel's shore?'
'By wind and tide so fairly sped,
On the third day,' Sir Tristram said,
'I doubt not we shall see you led
In royal state, a bride to wed
With Mark, my kinsman lord.'
And either in the other's eyes
A moment glanced, aware and wise
Of speech that in deep silence lies,
Of fear that through great stillness cries;
Nor spake they other word.
The sun slid down behind the west;
Bright grew the milky moon;
That dream of dusk, that hour of rest
Was ended all too soon;
Fresh sang the breeze at sunset lulled;
The rattling tackle quivered tight;
The sullen waters, lately dulled,
Gleamed with a myriad points of white.
Close-hauled, with sheets no longer slacked,
Windward the golden galley tacked,
And by the cloud-ribbed heavens tracked,
Through the gray twilight, she
Into the moonshine and the dark
Went gliding like a phantom bark
Adown a fairy sea.
One gleaming planet pale and red
They saw about them burn,
The mirrored moonlight far ahead
Lay glistening, and astern
Like trampled snow her froth-strewn wake,
Whereon were shadowed blurred and black
The broad sails and the high-raised deck,
Slow-fading followed on her track.
The crested water slapped her bows
Like spray on some strong swimmer's brows
Who beats against the breeze;
And where, the shattered foam amid,
Her knife-edged battle-bleak was hid,
Purred a low ripple as she slid
Along the gliding seas.
Screened by the bulwark's lofty shade
And lit by swinging lights
Iseult sate idle with her maid,
And Tristram with his knights.
After the long inactive day
Bound by the vessel's narrow space,
With tale and song they whiled away
This last, late hour of twilight grace.
O keen young faces eager-eyed,
O strength and beauty well allied,
Bright souls whose fire not yet had died,
And hearts impassioned with the pride
Which only youth can give!
How well it were that night to be
One there of Cornwall's chivalry, -
Between the starlight and the sea
How well to be alive!
Sir Tristram took his harp of gold
And sang an old, sad song,
Of two whose love was never told
Through lonely years and long.
For she already was a wife
Who suffered silent to the end,
And he who loved her more than life,
Her husband's own familiar friend.
And Iseult feared the nameless pang
Of yearning and despair that rang
Through sense and spirit as he sang, -
Almost it seemed to be
Her own heart's music in the chords,
Her soul's voice wailing in the words
Of that wild melody.
With lips light-parted, curving red
Above a pearly gleam,
With eyes in whose deep lustre played
The shadow of a dream,
Entranced she heard him, while the throng
Of knights about her, great and tall,
The brave, the battle-tried, the strong,
Were held by the sweet minstrel all.
And Tristram made the music thrill
With witchery of sleep to still
And lull the listeners at his will
Where round him rested they, until
He saw the wakeful fire
In their eyes soften, as the spell
Of numbering languour on them fell;
But hers he could not tire.
Their souls were drowsed with sleep; they grew
Aweary; one by one
And two by two away they drew
And left them twain alone.
His fingers faltered on the strings,
Upon his lips the music died,
And stirred with dim disquietings
He rose and gat him to her side.
'The night grows old,' he said, 'and lo,
Now the still hours more silent grow;
Thy maiden waits for thee below;
Ah, then, Iseult, I pray thee go,
While I a vigil keep;
In me such fires unrestful roll
As drive the calmness from my soul,
And from mine eyes the sleep!'
No stir save that the vessel made
Seemed there in all the world;
In utter calm, in silence dead,
She lay with canvas furled;
The sudden landward breeze had sighed
Its life away an hour ago;
And hushed as in a shrine replied
Iseult, her clear voice thrilling low, -
'From me, too, sleep is far away;
Should I fare better if I lay
Wide-eyed until the weary day?
Ah, Tristram, the may I not stay
And watch with thee awhile?'
And though he feared her presence nigh,
Yet could he not her will deny,
So with light words of courtesy
Tristram made answer, marvelling why
Such rapture in her touch should lie,
Such peril in her smile!
The starry heavens circled slow;
The dreamy hours of sleep
On wings of slumber brooded low
Above the drowsy deep;
But never life more wakeful glowed
Through their twain hearts that beat in tune,
As side by side the deck they trod
And watched the westward-waning moon
In burnished splendour round and large
Like some spent warrior's battle-targe,
Drop down behind the distant marge
Of shadowy sea and sky, -
So calm the night, so clear the sight
Of those keen eyes whose vision bright
Saw the last ragged wisp of light,
Like flames on some faint far-off height,
Melt to a mist and die!
'Now,' said Sir Tristram, 'night is come
To its most breathless tide;
In this great silence ghostly-dumb
We must no more abide.'
'Ah, stay thou yet awhile!' she said,
'Is not this hour at least our own?
My heart is touched with sudden dread;
I fear the stillness all alone,
I fear the solitary hours,
The darkness that above me towers
In my low cabin's gloom,
And most the sounds that sigh and groan
All night of waters, like the moan
Of souls that sob in doom.
'But here no restless murmur mars
The deep, unworldly spell
Of glassy sea and solemn stars, -
These that I love most well.
And haply this the last time is
That earth so free a mood can give,
When not in dreams and memories
But still in burning life I live.
Ah, Tristram, to the world is shown
The gilded glory of a throne,
Yet she is friendless and alone
Who weds a gray-haired king.
Would God 'twere mine to choose between
Love and the splendours of a queen,
Or that I had not destined been
For such proud sorrowing.'
And Tristram found no word to say,
Nor might his will devise
To tell what pity in him lay,
And he with silent eyes
Gazed on her through the twilight dim,
Desired, adored all else above,
Dearer than his own life to him
And fair beyond the dreams of love.
Almost in fancy wild and sweet
He felt his arms about her meet,
His heart upon her bosom beat
In passionate embrace;
And through the pulses of his frame,
And through his soul in shuddering flame
The wonder of her beauty came,
Till might he not, for fear and shame,
Look more upon her face.
'This is a bitter thing,' she said,
'That comes upon my life;
Almost I would that I were dead
Than be that gaunt king's wife.
Ah! Tristram, like a little child
My little woes on thee I pour;
Forgive me if my words are wild.
Forget them! Now I say no more!'
Then with low voice he answered, 'Nay,
Iseult, there is no word to say
Save this, that if on any day
All else desert thee or betray,
Then look thou unto me;
And if I fail thee may my name
Be blotted from the book of fame,
And in the silence set with them
Which for dishonour and black shame
May never spoken be!
'And now, since all sweet hours must die,
Since even the dark has sight
And ears that gape and tongues that lie,
My lady fair, good-night!'
Then lifted she her wistful eyes
To where in the faint light he stood
Seeming of more than mortal size
Near her, and splendid as a god.
And all her strength grew weak and dim;
She loved the clean-cut length of limb,
The beauty and the might of him,
The proud imperial face
With features clear against the night,
And eyes now lit with tender light
Which in the battle, blue and bright
So terribly might blaze.
They passed from where the encircling screen
Had hid them in its frame,
Whose silken curtains hung between
The middle ship and them;
And beautiful before their sight
All the great galley dreaming lay,
The mightiest ship that e'er in fight
Or peaceful errand flung the spray.
Her tall masts tapered overhead;
A hundred steps a man might tread
From rudder-post to figure-head,
A score across her beam;
High-decked, and slender, lithe of bow
Was she; and sheer the deep to plough
The royal dragon on her prow
Shone with a golden gleam.
All living things, as in some realm
Sleep-haunted, seemed to drowse;
The steersman nodded at the helm,
And in the distant bows
The seaman of the watch looked out
Over the deep and never stirred;
Neither was any call nor shout
Nor murmur of low voices heard;
And laced by shadows gaunt and gray
From the pale mast-light's ghostly ray,
Beside their oars the rowers lay
Like sleepers dumb in death.
'Speak low; step softly!' Tristram said,
'Iseult, we are as two that tread
With mortal feet the darkness dread
On some gray vessel of the dead
Where none but we have breath!'
The sheen of stars was all that came
From the blue vault of night,
Yet the wide waters were aflame
With luminous, dim light.
Most strange it was how silent gleamed
Those pale fires on the deep around,
And once, when a star shot, it seemed
There should have been some gentle sound.
No stir, no breath, above, beneath!
All earth, all heaven were calm as death,
Save only, now and then,
A low wave lapped the vessel's side,
And faint above their heads replied
The tap of quivering rope and slide,
As smooth she rocked upon the tide,
And all was hushed again.
'Now,' said Iseult, 'I must obey
If thou wilt have it so;
A maiden has no voice to say
What things she will or no.
Howe'er the impatient heart rebels
Still must she suffer and be dumb:
Therefore in this, as in all else,
Perforce I yield. Then, Tristram, come!'
And down the narrow stairway slow,
Lit by a flickering lantern's glow,
They passed to the dim deck below,
And at her door made pause.
And Iseult opening looked therein:
No light was there save what might win
Through the high porthole drifting thin;
Nor in the shadowy dusk within
Or sound or movement was.
'My maid is gone,' she said. 'Wilt thou
Bring, of thy courtesy,
The lamp that hangs behind thee now,
And set it here for me?'
So Tristram, in the old, free way
Of those less rigid-mannered days,
Entered with her, and silent they
Pale in the lantern's dusky haze,
With hands that trembled at the touch
Each of the other, marvelled much
What presence filled the room, -
A lonely sound, it seemed to them,
The breath of one who listened came,
And watchful eyes of quiet flame
Peered through the dim-lit gloom.
Shamed with a strange and sacred awe,
As in some holy place,
He lifted up his eyes and saw,
Framed round her loveliness,
All things that in that chamber made
Fit setting for a fairy face, -
The walls with costly stuff arrayed,
And mirrors of dark steely glaze;
Fur of wild things with peril killed,
And niche-held bowls with flowers filled,
Whose faint erotic perfume thrilled
Like some dim dream of old;
And on a carven shelf that swung
By chains of cunning silver slung,
A great bejewelled flagon hung,
And cup of curious gold.
'Lo here,' she said, 'a gift I bring
From that old home of mine,
My father's gift to Mark the king,
A meed of ancient wine.
And now, I wis, the night grows cold; -
Sir Tristram, ere thou go from here,
Of this rare vintage century-old
Drink thou one cup of royal cheer!"
No seals upon the vessel were,
And little toil it made for her
To take the golden lid from there,
And pour a cup thereof.
Thus with her lithe, white hands she did,
And thence her faltering fingers slid
To where lay in her bosom hid
A witchwork fiery and forbid,
A reckless charm of love.
By what compelling whim possessed
Her soul might scarce divine,
She drew the philtre from her breast
And poured it in the wine,
That secret draught her mother brewed
For Mark and her, of magic might
To sear the soul and sting the blood
With passion perilously bright.
They watched the rosy bubbles swim
Around the golden beaker's brim,
Like spirits loosened, which in dim
Strange bondage were asleep;
She drank, and kissed the goblet's edge.
'Take thou,' she said, 'this cup I pledge!'
And Tristram drained it deep.
What breath of drowsy fire was this
That made his soul to swoon;
What drift of sunset memories,
Or love beneath the moon;
What surging music faintly sighed
From ways in old glad seasons trod;
What dreadful daring that defied
The vengeance of eternal God?
He looked into her eyes and felt
His soul touch hers that in them dwelt,
His brimming senses reel and melt
In some supreme eclipse.
He drew her to him; close and still
She drooped as one who has no will;
More near and near he leaned, until
His whole heart's yearning seemed to thrill
Like flame upon her lips!
Ah joy beyond the world's desire!
What burning dream was this?
Their breathless souls drew in like fire
All heaven in a kiss!
Through deeps of space, it seemed to him,
Her voice thrilled low: - 'Dear love,' she said,
'My spirit faints; the world grows dim
With joy that makes my soul afraid.'
And from her arms' dear bondage he
Loosed him, and said low-voiced, 'On me
Fear also comes. And now from thee
Must I begone till day shall be.'
Nor made they other speech,
But parted there as dreamers might
Whom some wild vision of the night
Fulfils with anguish and delight,
An-hungered each for each.
And Tristram went, with shuddering soul,
Back to the star-lit gloom.
The brooding stillness seemed to roll
On him great breaths of doom.
Athrough the silence and the dark
He heard a voice cry out his name,
And saw the ghostly face of Mark
Peer on him through a mist of flame; -
'Art thou that knight whom rumour saith
Men shall find faithful to the death?
Is Tristram traitor to his faith?'
And answer found he none,
But felt about him darkly set,
With some strange purpose dim and great,
The glowing fetters of a fate
He might not guide nor shun.
In the gray watch before the morn
Deep silence hung sublime;
Darkly the dying night was borne
To the great dark of Time.
No breath the quiet water stirred
Nor frayed the heaven's cloudy bars,
Yet one who listened might have heard
A sigh which to the drooping stars
From the dead stillness of the deep
Lifted, as from a world asleep
That feels a dream withdrawn;
And up the purple orient flowed
A stormy light that throbbed and glowed
Like the avenging fires of God, -
The first faint pulse of dawn!
WHEN TRISTRAM TO TINTAGEL CAME
by
CYRIL EMRA
When Tristram with his fifty knights
On a midnight hour
Back to long Tintagel came,
Queen Iseult sate watching them
In the glare of the cresset-lights,
From her royal tower.
Hurry and hum of hoofs she had heard,
(Who sooner than she?)
And the chains in the gateway groaned and stirred,
Straining heavily;
And the mighty drawbridge downward swung
Massive and slow;
And through the vaulted archway rung
Voice and tread of steel-girt men,
When Tristram's knights came home again
In Cornwall long ago!
Over the drawbridge came the knights
Riding together,
Three abreast,
With clank of steel and rattle of leather
And flaunt of many a scarf and crest
In the windy flare of the dancing lights
Agleam on shining arms and mail;
But here and there, as they rode,
Was a sun-tanned face dead pale, -
Ay, there was rust and stain of blood,
And shoulder-high the splash of mud
When the watchers gave them hail.
'Greet ye well and true, Sir Tristram,
That ye come back from war!
Welcome to Cornwall's chivalry!
And how did ye fare?
'I give ye thanks,' Sir Tristram said,
'For your brave welcoming.
We have fought and gotten victory,
So good news I bring!
I greet ye well, fair gentlemen.
And whither is Mark the King?'
'Well is thee for victory,
Tristram, Sir Knight!
King Mark went out a-hunting
To-day at dawn-light;
And no more cometh he
Till the third night.'
Then waxed Sir Tristram
Right wroth with King Mark,
And bitter his smile was,
And his face grew dark.
'A strange thing is this,' said he,
'That Mark has done! -
But left he aught word for me?'
And they told him, 'None!'
'That is an ill thing!' Tristram said,
'And it grieves me full sore;
Here win we back with a dozen dead
And wounded a score, -
And Mark is out a-hunting gone
While I fight his war"
I trow me well, by Godis head,
It grieves me full sore!'
And here came a lady's lad
With golden curled hair,
Desiring of Tristram,
From Iseult, with courtesies,
To learn how he fare.
Then made he none else other word,
But bade his squire to him,
And did him off his great fell sword
And his harness hacked and grim,
And girt him with a chain of gold
And his long cloak of green,
And gat him as a gentle knight
To greet that fair queen.
All alone in her royal chamber
Iseult watched for him,
Where she screened candles made her
A light soft and dim;
They lit the beauty of her face
And the glory of her hair:
There was no maid in Christendom
Half so wondrous fair.
'Hail to thee, Tristram, back from thy warfare!
Home again come again, hero, to me!
Lone I have waited, fain for thy welfare,
Longing and praying, dear one, for thee!'
'Yea, I come again, O my belovèd,
Back to Tintagel, home dear to thee.
In the red warfare thy will for my welfare,
Praying, has holpen and comforted me!'
'Comest thou spent from the foemen who pressed thee?'
'Yea, I am weary with travail of war!'
'Ah, lay thy head on my bosom and rest thee.'
'Dear, at thy touch, I am weary no more!'
He knelt before her knightly-wise
And kissed her finger-tips;
She kissed him once on either cheek
And twice upon the lips.
'And now,' quoth he, 'is dole on me,
That I may not abide with thee:
Iseult, mine own, I pray thee then,
Think me not graceless if I go,
For much is now for me to do
When home again come we;
And I wis my gallant gentlemen
Are calling for me!'
'Nay till this candle burn away,'
She said, 'O tarry thou, -
And that will be, as well we see,
Short while enough from now!'
And Tristram, watching near her, smiled
As one on whom old memories fall,
Saying, 'Iseult, art still a child
In spite of all, in spite of all!'
And low he sat him at her feet
And took in his the hand she gave,
And felt her presence, rare and sweet,
As ever sway him, till it drave
From sense and limb the weariness
Of battle and the road, and lent
Its lulling magic to caress
His soul with some divine content.
The pine-log smouldering on the hearth
Shone through the shaded gloom;
The flowers on her table thrilled
With drowsy, faint perfume.
They talked of battle and the chase,
They spake of life and love,
So that they saw no shadow
Across the dim wall more,
Neither behind them wist they
From the corner curtain-screened
King Mark out of the darkness
Creep with face of fiend!
'Tristram! - ah no -!' A gleam like silver swung
Downward and struck. And frozen on her tongue
The low cry died that warned him of his fate,
Ah God, too late, too late!
Too late she saw the shadowed image fall
Of a man's huge armed hand upon the wall,
And felt the presence clutch her heart, of one
Like doom behind them, silent, knowing all.
Dear Christ! too late she heard
That sudden gasp of sharply loosened breath
As sheer the great blade fell.
And Mark stood forth with face of flaming hell,
And they two looked on death
And spake no word.
ARTHUR'S KNIGHTING
by
SEBASTIAN EVANS
I mind me of Toraise in Carmelide:--
Plenary court with show and festival
Held King Leodegan that Whitsuntide.
By noon the busy cooks had served in hall
Pottage of herbs with spiceries and wine,
Boars' heads in aigredouce and therewithal
Herons and egrets in sauce Gamelyne,
Peacocks in pride in platters of pure gold,
And swans in silver served with galentine,
Bakemeats and venison and a store untold
Of savoury breads, and flesh, and fowl, and fish,
Sallets and mortrews, fritters hot and cold,
Creams, cates, and jellies, many a lordly dish
Of pear and pippin, comfit-carraways,
Citron and dates--a Cardinal could wish
No fairer garnish on his holy days.
And after every course the Sewer arrayed
A subtle fancy of Dame Fortune's ways:
First, Belisaire upon his throne displayed;
Next, the blind lazar cowering by the wall;
The third, in tattered weed, a beggar-maid;
And last, Cophetua's bride in crown and pall.
Dame Fortune's self the while, in midmost place,
Poising her gilded limbs on her swift ball
Above the mast-head, with a silken lace
Bare up the mainsail of an argosy
Of beaten silver, that in hypocras
Swam idly, all becalmed in a Red Sea,
Among the isles of wafer-cake in sop.
And fair aloft, the minstrel-gallery
A ceilure starred with gold did overtop:
And ever among, the quire or played or sang
With citole, sackbut, sawtrey, and sweet stop
Of clariner and cornet, and the clang
Of timbrels and of tabors--pipe and lute
With their wild warble thrilling through the twang
Of harps and wail of melancholy flute.
To that high music every heart beat high
With knightly passion, and when all was mute,
The young men did not think it much to die;
And greybeards knew that their old blood was young,
And looked upon the young men with a sigh.
Then forward stood a chorister and flung
Such sweet, sweet sorrow into his sweet lay
Of lovers' woe, that, ere the song was sung,
There was no warrior's eye but turned away
Lest it should meet his fellow's for the tear.
Ginevra looked at Arthur, but the grey
Of her bright eyne knew nought of lover's fear;
And when they met not his, the rebel blood
Flushed to the fair tip of her tingling ear,
As there before him teeth on lip she stood,
For that she knew she showed so beautiful
In the wild triumph of that sovran mood,
And grudged that he should see not. Was he dull,
And drank that philtre of sweet sound in vain,
That thus he looked away, nor cared to lull
The divine longing of love's hunger-pain
By feeding in her eyes his love with love?
He saw not,--no! Nor, though he stared amain,
Saw he the banners blazoned bright above
The starry ceilure. Not until the stir
After the song, when all the guests 'gan move,
Did her true lover think to look at her.
And then, pardie, her eyes were otherwhere:
For lo, past truncheoned steward and cellarer
Who stood beside the cupboard, mazed with care
Of the great goblets and the cups of state,
Limped Tronc the jester, with a Kaiser's air,
His kingly train upborne by an ape sedate,
And four white poodles, two on either side,
Marching upright, but sad, as if the fate
Of courtier-life bore hardly on their pride,
And those gay silken masquer weeds they wore
Repaid not half what they must needs abide
As hangers-on to majesty so poor.
Long laughter shook the hall at that strange show,
Which waxed amain when on the lower floor
The motley knave, with many a mop and mow,
Bade all his four-foot courtiers dance and leap,
Just as a king might bid his dukes do so.
The feasters laughed and drank, and they drank deep
Of those tall flagons, and the butler's wand
Waved for fresh vintage with a lordly sweep.
Ginevra raught a wine-flask from the stand
Brimmed with the ripest, and at Arthur's knee
Knelt, a deep beaker in her dainty hand,
Gemmed all within with jewels that make flee
All taint and venom from the faery brim,
And humbly proffered her new lord. But he,
Shamed that such service should be done to him
By her who was his worship, bade her rise.
"Nay," quoth the Sire, "fair knight, in life and limb
We are all thine--Let be, the girl is wise."
Then Arthur drank and gave her back the cup;
But still she knelt beside him, and her eyes
Betrayed no signal as she raised them up
Of woman's art in the child's artlessness,
As if she wondered how her lord should sup.
Yet inly knew she all her loveliness:
The pilch of velvet, parted white and blue,
Reversed with ermines for an emperess,
All overt on the sides, where shimmered through
The kirtle's silken warp with weft of gold
From looms of Baldack--O, full well she knew
The needled broidery wrought on every fold--
Those smiling suns above and sunflowers three
Under each sun, with faces broad and bold
Staring upon him through their greenery
Of sheeny leafage; all along the hem
A rienz plus bas jeo ne me tourne mie
Figured in umber, and on every stem
Solleil m'attire on scroll of argent grain--
The glistening girdle brooched with pearl and gem,
The gipciere silver-guarded and its chain,
The coronal of gold and golden net--
Full well she knew she wore them not in vain,
But knew no less herself was mightier yet.
The joyous witchcraft of her sunny hair,
The spell of eyes that dimmed the eyes they met,
Even the sigh that half betrayed how fair
The rosy promise of the imperial breast,
Guising an art to tell how, pillowed there,
Her love, the sovran of the world, might rest
In empire sweeter than the sway of kings.
So, for the night was waxing, host and guest
Betook them to their chambers, and the things
Which showed so mighty faded while they slept
Utterly even as fond imaginings,
And no man knew that he had laughed or wept.
But not forgetful of sweet life they lay,
For each, almost ere midnight tolled, had leapt
Forth from his couch to busk him for the day.
Then on the dais a carpet of fine Tars
Was spread in hall, where grooms and pages gay,
With tapers twinkling under the gold stars,
Lighted the bare-armed, leathern-aproned band
Who cased us in our harness for the wars.
And 'mid the clang, a squire on either hand,
Came Arthur's self, and on the carpet doffed
His mantle blue of cloth of Samarcand,
Unhasped the jewelled girdle, and aloft
Lifted the velvet coat, and set aside
The banded shoon of cheveril white and soft.
Then stately through high hall in seemly pride,
Among the clashing press, that Peerless One
Stepped with such gait as might beseem the bride
Of empire peerless underneath the sun.
Yet to her lord right maidenly she spake,
Bidding good morrow: "Nay," quoth she, "by none
Save mine own hands, sweet Sire, for knighthood's sake
Shalt thou be armed this day."--With that she set
Upon the kingly cycladoun of lake
The hacketon all lined with sarcinet,
Orfreyed without with crescents of thin gold
Upon the buckskin; next the solleret
She fitted on each foot with fold on fold
Of overlapping steel and toe-piece keen,
Like scale and sting of hornet; next in hold
She locked his thews in greaves of damasked sheen
Of Milan; next the cuisses featously
She hasped upon his thigh, and fair between
Buckled the knee-piece underneath the knee;
Vambrace and brassart next, and elbow-plate
As squire who knew full well where each should be
Upon his arms she jointed in due state,
And shelled the shoulders in their silver scale.
Then, o'er the pourpoint, heeding not the weight,
Deftly she donned the jesseraunt of mail;
And over that, the jupon, blazoned fair
With fiery dragon swindging his huge tail,
And broidered bordure, wrought in leafage rare
Of braided strands of silk incarnadine.
Then on the golden glory of his hair
With gentle stedfast hand and earnest eyne,
As if she offered up a kingly gift
With solemn pageant at a saintly shrine,
With arms upstretched before him did she lift
The bascinet all burnished, rich inlaid
With golden damask, then with fingers swift
Made fast the fringe of camail fair displayed;
Drew on the gauntlets with their gadlings gilt
And tasseled hems with knotted silk arrayed;
And kneeling then, the spurs he won in tilt
On the first day he armed him, on his heel
She set and buckled. Deftly thus she built
Around her love that sheeny tower of steel.--
But more was wanting. Still upon one knee
Beside her new lord did the proud one kneel,
And from the blushing page took reverently
The faery wonder of Escalibor
With all its wealth of jewelled wizardry
Wherewith to gird her knightly bachelor:
Baldrick and hilt and scabbard--not a gem
But flashed with virtue for a conqueror:--
This ruby once on Judith's diadem
Blazed like a star--that diamond clasp of yore
Girdled the Wise King in Jerusalem:
Yet all not worthier than the blade they bore,
Forged in the caverns of the Enchanted Lake
By Weland, snapped and forged again thrice o'er,
Graven with names whereat the foul fiends quake
In potent rune and mystic sign enscrolled;
Then for the first time did the fair hand shake,
Yet tongued the buckle smoothly on the fold
And the rich ends in a loose knot let fall.
So rose she, proudly smiling to behold
Her knight and king, how comely and how tall
He showed in that fair labour of her hand.
Yea, and beside her others smiled in hall;
For watching the sweet pair anigh did stand
Her sire and Merlin, with such thoughts as stir
Old hearts at sight of young love, 'mid a band
Of gaping losels, page and armourer.
Then spake old Merlin with his sour-sweet smile,
By name to Arthur, but as much to her:--
"Fair sir, in Logress, in the minster-aisle
Of sweet Saint Stephen erst thou didst receive
At pious Dubric's hand the name and style
Of a true knight, but now thou wouldst achieve
A dearer honour--now almost 'tis thine
To be love-knighted. By this lady's leave
One thing alone is lacking."--Her full eyne
Ginevra flashed upon that wizard grey,
As Arthur asked: "What lacketh, master mine?
No rite shall fail my chivalry this day
From whence I date my knighthood, for till this
I have but jested." Then quoth Merlin: "Nay,
'Tis but a trifle--let the lady kiss,
And thou, fair sir, art knight for evermore!"
"Sweet Sire," quoth she, "King Arthur shall not miss
For gift so small his knighthood. If my lore
Be nothing in this matter, pardon me:
Yet as to kisses, I am not so poor
That I can spare none." Then full maidenly
Her rosy lips she lifted to her lord
And kissed him in all stateliness; but he
Caught her in both arms and without a word
Repaid the kiss thrice o'er and thrice to boot.
O, but no rune nor gem on belt nor sword
Could stay the trembling that from head to foot
Shook the new knight in that encounter sweet,
No harness ward the wound from his heart's root.
So kissed those lovers. Fleet and few, how fleet,
How few, from the first cradle to the last,
Those high eternal moments! O, the beat
Within their pulses made our own beat fast
And dimmed our eyes with pity and regret.
Or do we now grow old, and fondly cast
A sadness on the joy we half forget,
Clouding with sorrows of our eld the youth
We do remember to remember yet?
We know not now. But even thus in sooth
Those lovers kissed, and we who saw them kiss
Look back and see them still with such deep ruth
As maketh old men weep at sight of bliss;--
Still feel the whisper which we could not hear:
"All eyes are staring--loose me after this."
So slipped she from his arms with gracious cheer,
Ruddy for maiden shame, yet not the less
Proud, not alone of her own knight sans peer,
But proud that all should see that fond caress.
Then Arthur turned as one but half awake,
Drunken with that deep draught of loveliness,
Dazed with his dreams of conquest for her sake
And bliss to be. But when his eye did light
On her sad-smiling sire, a flush 'gan break
Into his brow, with love's own wanness white;
And when beyond he felt the glittering blue
Of Merlin's eye, he crimsoned through outright;
For well that bridegroom knew that Merlin knew
His lawless other love and its wild sin--
Sin unto death, even though all else be true.
But Merlin spake: "Hereafter thou shalt win
Glory undying, such as never yet
Was e'er achieved by prince or paladin.
Yea, there be mighty names that men forget,
And all our life is but a little space,
And soon we shall lie still for all our fret.
Our day is short, and night comes on apace,
And then we shall not know sorrow nor bliss,
Nor toil nor rest, nor recollect the face
Of man nor woman. Yet by that sweet kiss
To the world's end men shall remember thee!
They shall remember, yea, and more than this:
King thou art now, and king again shalt be
Hereafter in this land of Bloy Bretayne;
For though thou go away, and shalt be free
No less than others from the toil and pain,
Thou shalt not die as others, nor the years
Shall waste no glory of thy secret reign
In realm of Faery, whence among thy peers
Thou shalt return to rule in sight of all
That shall have eyes to see thee through their tears
Of joy that after so long interval
Their own King Arthur doth come back to men."
So Merlin spake, and we, who stood in hall,
Were mute for musing. But Ginevra then
As one whom joy and doubt at once o'erwhelm,
Hearing how he, her lord, should come agen,
Yet nought of her, the lady of his realm--
Stepped forth once more and with firm hand did don
Over the knight's steel cap the kingly helm,
Windowed and pranked with gold, and thereupon
A chaplet wrought with leaf of lily and vine,
Beaten in gold--a Jew's-work pentagon
Under each foil, inwrought with subtle twine
Of stones of empire on the sheeny rim.
Then Merlin came, saying: "The last is mine,"
And set above the helm a crest to dim
All gold and gemwork flash they as they might;
The Dragon-royal, through whose every limb
The lifeblood beat in pulses of quick light;
Yet stirred it not, save that its snaky tail
It curled in glancing folds, and fiery bright
It breathed a flame, red-mirrored in the mail.
So strode the King full kingly to the gate,
Where in gay trappings o'er the burnished scale
Bridged by the saddle, his tall steed did wait
And neighed to greet his monarch as he strode
And swung into the stirrups in all state.
Sadly those lovers each bade each to God;
For glory is sweet but love is loth to go;
And through the strait lane clattering forth we rode
With folded gonfanons and lances low.
THE EVE OF MORTE ARTHUR
by
SEBASTIAN EVANS
Beside the dripping copses fleeting low,
The homeless cuckoo jeereth all the day,
Even as he jeered a thousand years ago.
May-morn itself is weary of the May.
In wonted wise, the cheerless nightingale
Carpeth her carol on the hawthorn spray:
The daffodil and primrose are as pale,
Dog-violet scentless as in Mays of yore,
And all the woodland telleth its old tale.
All deeds are done, and the last quest is o'er;
For Galahad is gone, and sinless Knight
Shall seat him in Siege Perilous no more.
O pure and perfect Champion of the Right,
O lily-flower of sinful Lancelot's line!
Wert thou not born to teach us how the might
Of earthly knighthood quails before divine?
True warrior, harnessed in celestial mail!
Wert thou not Priest, too, chosen at the shrine,
When the last glory of the Holy Grail
Flashed from the altar-stone in Carbonek,
And psalms of welcome pealed within the veil?
Not like thine erring sire hast thou made wreck
Of God's dear grace, and flinched the one last quest;
In death as life, a soul without a fleck!
Yea, Galahad hath entered into rest,
Fair-tombed in Sarras, his own holy land!
That knightly Hermit, too, whom he loved best,
Percivall, sleeps in peace at his right hand;
And at his left, that knight's sweet sister, oared
By angel-shipmates to the blissful strand.
Tristan, than whom since Nembroth 'fore the Lord
No mightier hunter rode with horn and hound;
He, too, hath died the death, not hand on sword
As best beseems true knight of Table Round,
But slain by her he wronged: "Fair dame," quoth he,
"Look forth, for I am faint of my sore wound:
Be the sails white, my Love comes back to me,
Be the sails black, all my good days are done."
Then went the wife and looked across the sea,
And saw the white sails glisten in the sun,
And lied to him she loved: "One sail I spied,
Blacker than treason,--other spied I none."
But he thereon gave a great groan and died.
Then came that other widow to the beach,
And those two women meeting there dry-eyed
Across the dead stood staring each on each.
Then, bending low, that queenly Voyager
Kissed the white lips: "Mine own!"--and in the speech
Fell forward dead. The first one glared at her
And spurned her with her foot and slunk away.
So passed he to the land where none can err;
The Sire of Nurture. Let the gaunt wolf bay,
And the tall-antlered red-deer couch secure,
The broad-winged heron fearless cleave the grey;
No bowman lives can draw a bolt so sure;
Dumb are his deep-mouthed boar-hounds of Albayne,
His falcons-royal heedless of the lure!
And he, too, Merlin, he who wooed in vain
The grace of that fair Lady of the Lake
Who nursed Sir Lancelot--cometh not again!
Snared in the charm he taught her for love's sake,
The hoary Wizard haunts the thorny brere,
And wastes his marvels on the wild-wood brake.
Yet still not seldom may the Hermit hear
A dolorous hint at dusk in the Waste Land;
And caitiff horseman, felled by angry spear
Five fathom o'er the croup with unseen hand,
Surmise a dreary chuckle in the breeze
Among the bare oaks of Brokeliand.
All are forgotten. Yea, and more than these,
Fair dame and lord, minstrel and knight and sage,
Who wrought and fought and loved and took their ease,
Have wended forth on their last pilgrimage.
In shameless drivel of unhallowed eld
Morgana doteth on a lusty page
Among the lakes o' the West, where once she held
High court that vied with Arthur's court of yore:
And, homeless wandering through her woods unspelled,
The Fair Dame of the Forest Sans-retour
Hath lost her chess-play and sweet carollings,
Her greenwood bowers of dalliance all forlore.
O, for those old May-days, when queens and kings
Held court of Love amidst the Table Round,
And she whose knight had done the worthiest things
For her sole sake, though she and Fortune frowned,
Heard all the doughty deeds he did achieve
And gave the guerdon as he sate there crowned!
O days of glory! O that Easter Eve
In Table Round when Arthur sate in hall,
And all the kings from whom he did receive
Homage and fee were vested with the pall
And crown and sceptre, vassals of his throne;
While lordly heralds told with trumpet call
The whole fair folk of fifteen realms his own!
Aye, and the knights that won them, with loud voice
Those heralds blazoned, and their full renown,
Even to the steeds that bare them, and the choice
Of shield and token and enchanted brand,
Galuth and Morglay, Florent, Marmyadoise,
And the keen glory of the Arthurian hand!
And when the heralds ceased, the Minstrel's chant
Bound up the flowers of fame from every land.
From Prester John the lily elephant
Bare shells and incense of the imperial East,
Cathaian ivories, gums of Garamant,
Tall plumes of estrich, fells of spotted beast,
With stuffs of Baldack and of Babylon
All in a golden tower enfortaliced.
And, twixt the seas of Caspian Amazon
Where Alisaunder wrought the Walls of Weird
Athwart the gateways of Mount Caucason,
With caitiff howling Magog shrank afeard
Into his hollows, where on Antichrist
Ever he raveth, rending his red beard.
The Paynim Soudans, leagued in solemn tryst
From Nile to Tars, from Tars to Trebisound,
Dismayed forgat their hoary feuds and kissed,
And at their altars grovelled all discrowned;
To Belsabuk, Mahound and Apolyn
Shrieking vain curses on the Table Round!
Then, too, by faery, venturous wight could win
Beneath the moonled swaying of the waves,
The crystal marches of the deep within;
And Arthur's name among the twilight caves
Would scare the Grendel to her coral brake,
And cow the fell sea-unicorns like slaves!
The Damsels of the Waters for his sake
Bade summon all their gruesome treasurers,
Orc, Kraken, and immeasurable Snake,
To delve from out their whirl-pit sepulchres
The peerless hoards of immemorial wreck
Whelmed o'er with bones of old-world mariners--
Gem-talismans once gorgeous on the neck
Of queens of Tarshish--Idol's eyes of Ind,
And moneys minted by Melchizedek.
And, past the deep sea-dungeons of the wind,
The Pilgrim heard the Hell-stream cataracts boom
Within the abyss by flames eternal mined
Through ice eternal to the chasm of doom:--
"Arthur!" he cried--one moment Hell was still,
And "Arthur!" echoed through the seething gloom!
Yea, and yet onward through the midnight chill
Of desolate wastes beyond, where dawn is none,
Erewhile rejoicing to the Holy Hill
Through God's dear grace unspotted knight hath won,
And all the mystery of the Gates hath seen;
Where o'er-against the birthstead of the sun
The bulwarks glow of Paradise Terrene--
The walls of jasper, sardonyx, and pearl
With golden mortar molten in between:
The crystal-carven canopies a-curl
With emerald sprays of passion-flower and vine,
And garnet grapes and topaz tendril whorl:
The doors of starry diamond, with a twine
Of sapphire hinges cusped with chrysoprase
And ruby studs and knops of almondine:--
And, all opaque against the liquid blaze,
Central, with sword and balance, helm and greave,
The Archangel-champion, crowned with awful rays;
Leftward Our Lady, whispering sweet reprieve
To sinful father Adam, and to right
Her Son, the Healer, comforting sad Eve.
Yea, erst such marvel cheered the Pilgrim Knight,
And ever about the Eternal Doors, like doves,
Or poised or fluttered a celestial flight
Of Angels chanting in the trellised groves
Of crest and corbel, cope and capital;
Flashing sweet sheen among the fretted coves
And depths of amethystine interval
In gabled eaves of niche and pinnacle,
Or basking in fair alleys on the wall.
And one from forth the blissful citadel
Would hover toward the Palmer as he prayed,
With gift of water from the Fourfold Well
Whence flow the streams of Eden, so allayed
With sovran virtue, that three drops alone
Make whole all deadliest dint of mortal blade,
And bade him bear to Arthur on his throne
That living token of immortal grace
Stopped in a cruse of hieroglyphic stone.
So sang the poet in his pride of place,
And Arthur bade the pages plenish well
The cups of all the kings with wine of race,
Osaye or Algarde, Rhenish or Rochell,
Vernage of Venice, Rhodes or Famagust,
Sweet Malvoisie or Cretan Muscadel,--
And pledged them all with outstretched arm august.
Then to the lordly singer of his name,
Still standing, he bade bear as guerdon just
A bugle carved in tusk of hippotame,
And whale's-bone comb in casket of red gold.
So sang the poet, and his songs were fame,
For fame was truth, and true the tales he told,
For men believed them: All are falsehood now,
For faith is lost alike in new and old.
Yea, even high achievements, such as plough
Their record deepest in men's memories
Are true no longer. Lo, as none knows how
The splendour faileth out of sunset skies,
When on the long capes of the cloudland bay
Like foam from seas of light the glory lies,
Yet ere we mark it gloameth into grey,--
So Truth hath died in talk at bench and board,
And Preacher's holy lore and Poet's lay.
Yea, men no more durst speak the manly word,
But waste their wit in woman jest and jeer;
And courtly things that strut and wear a sword
Whisper to high-born dame, and crouch and leer
And sneer a double meaning to the tale
No loyal knight could tell nor maiden hear.
Even in council, clad in useless mail,
They gibe and chatter, each in fooling phrase
Girding at other till their lips are pale
With such small wrath as in emasculate days
May vent itself in slander and be safe.
We have forgotten knightly words and ways,
When gentle Chieftain at a glance would chafe,
And at a hinted slur clap hand to hilt.
Honour is dead and Courtesy a waif
None cares to treasure, now no blood is spilt
To prove its value. Lie and give the lie,
And the lewd world will laugh away the guilt!
Nor man nor woman now with stedfast eye
Shall scathe the craven slanderer for his pains!
Our dames are worthy of our chivalry.--
In their dull eyne a nightshade philtre feigns
A fire unfelt and fondness not their own:
Wan cheeks are flushed, unvermeiled of the veins,
And brows disfurnished flaunt a spangled loan
Of saffron tress in pearl-y-fretted caul.--
Now languid beauty luxeth her green zone
Starry with ouches on her purfled pall,
And, whitely shuddering o'er the lees of lust,
Clencheth her teeth and fingers to recall
How frolic erst she quaffed the foamy must:
Yet doth she publish still as sumptuously
Her lavish bosom blanched with pearly dust:
Still with the smile which love ne'er lived to see,
Wooeth in vain a withered knight to wait
And loop a posied loveknot at her knee.
There is a dreadful secret in the State--
A secret bruited at the Market-cross
And blased by every lazar at the gate;
Such secret as the gleeman's wit makes gross
To wipe a tally off the ale-wife's score,
Or earn a pandar's penny by his gloss.
Lo, where she standeth by the Castle-door,
The Weaver of the Secret--mid a band
Of idling courtiers, dame and paramour,--
Our queen, Ginevra; on her dainty hand
A tercel gentle with a silken jess.--
There in the sun Dame Meliot sees her stand,
Scans her from head to foot, and falls to guess
How many marks might buy the violet hood
Reversed with ermines on her auburn tress.--
Sir Dinadan lets loose his fooling mood
And prates how old-world beauty wont to smile,--
Elayne of Troy and that sweet Moor who wooed
Heroes and aspics to her breast by Nile,--
Judith and Cressid,--the fair queen who died
For Duke Eneas, and the dame whose wile
Saddled and bridled for a summer ride
The Sage who thought to tame Olympia's son--
Panthasilee and Theseus' warrior-bride,--
Swears that of all the bevy never a one
Was half so queenly, half so fair as she!
And one with narrow eyes that durst meet none,
Makes felt the prying which she cannot see,
Like a chill draught the casement chinks between:
Mordred--and chews on treason yet to be.
He, born of love where love should never have been,
Is Arthur's first-born--why not Arthur's heir?
Ginevra is Arthur's, why not Mordred's queen?
No mother she to Mordred! Wherefore spare,
When he may smite with one avenging stroke
His father's crime, and win a queen so fair?--
A parricide?--Nay, but the sire first broke
The laws of kind! Vengeance in kind were meet!
Is she not Lancelot's love? She could revoke
Her love for Arthur--were't not doubly sweet
To reign Sir Lancelot's Lancelot, in her grace?--
Thus the black pulses of the false heart beat.
But other twain who gaze upon her face
Are sick with other fancies. Lancelot one--
That other, Arthur--each a little space
Baring his sorrow to the May-day sun.
O, but the look within Sir Lancelot's eyes!--
He who of old hath diced with Death, and won
The life he freely staked on his emprize,
Ever thereafter beareth in his look
The mark of one who hath read mysteries:
But here beside that sign as in a book
Is writ the tragedy of love--such love
As weaveth its own shame, yet cannot brook
The eternal doom, to wear the weft it wove!
Yea, and yet more! Look on his cheek again:--
Along the furrows which his madness drove
So deeply there, have tears not flowed in vain?
Tears to which those of widows o'er the dead
Ere nine days' bridal are as summer rain?
But now those eyelids have no tears to shed!--
He looks upon the Dame who is his fate,
Yet hath no worship for the white and red,
Love-lustrous eyne and queenly grace of gait,
And lips the world were once well lost to win.
He never knew such passion as may sate
Its yearnings and forget that it hath bin--
His was the love that, daring all things, dares
Interminable sequences of sin--
And dying, leaves its office to its heirs,
Remorse and ruth and duty. Love, erewhile,
Was lavish in observances and cares,
And none are stinted.--Love, to earn a smile,
Would spend its heart's blood on a hopeless quest:
And, though the guerdon can no more beguile,
He still woos death as freely to his breast,
With every due devoir of champion knight.
Yea, not the smallest point of love's behest
In hall and bower but is fulfilled aright.
The Temple is as stately as before:
There is no change, no lacking to the sight--
Only behind the Veil, where once of yore
Within the Holy of Holies, in the Ark,
By wings of Cherubs warded evermore,
Love's own Shekinah dwelt, now burns a spark
Of liquid hell-fire! All else is the same--
Even the light--but that which lights the dark
No longer is the glory of The Name!
There is no madness in the grief that ploughs
The front of Arthur, but the searing flame
Followed no less the share athwart his brows.--
True king from crown to spur, within his eye
Where royally 'mid high ambitions, house
The sage's lore and the knight's chivalry,
Lurk adders of inevitable sting.
'Tis nothing that his time draws near to die:
'Tis long since death hath seemed a dreadful thing,
And he who did forebode it, told no less
Of days when Arthur should again be king.--
Death simply were an end of weariness,
Were't not he knoweth that it comes as doom
Of sin unspeakable in youth's excess.
Not yet he knoweth how nor when shall bloom
That deadly seed he sowed within his life,
Whose ripeness is the fruitage of the tomb;
Yet even now the shadows of the strife
Fall on him from its leaves--and there be moods
In which he knows he hath no friend nor wife;
And hinting doubts and treacherous likelihoods
Like night-mared children wake and cry aloud.
Yet speaks he not the grief o'er which he broods:
He will believe not. "Nay, she is too proud,
Too pure, too loving! Never have I seen
In her true eyes the trouble and the cloud--
No shame--no wish unworthy such a queen!
And he, Sir Lancelot--shall my weakness wrong
Mine own knight peerless? Why, the time hath been
When, had he been less loyal-souled than strong,
He might have won her when myself lay low,
And all the realm made glad his bridal song!
Yea, had he been less true, it hath been so
A thousand times.--Yet, not as wronging them,
But testing mine own conscience--say, I know
The twain are guilty--how shall I condemn?
I, by the side of whose transcendent crime
Theirs were a mud-smirch on a kirtle-hem?
Nay! I do wrong them! These my fancies chime
Too truly with that frenzy of mine youth!
'Tis I, whose soul hath wallowed in the slime,
Whose thoughts pollute the cleanness of their truth!"
Thus museth he--too sad, too pure to own
Even to himself he knows the secret sooth!
And Thou, fair Curse of Empire on his throne!
Hath that proud nostril known no penitence?
O subtly double nature! each alone
As true as truest music to the sense--
Together both in discord intervals
Jangling a double falsehood and offence!
Yea, false to Arthur and Lancelot false,
Thou'rt true to Lancelot and to Arthur true!
Queen never queenlier stept in Camelot's halls,
Leman more loving Joyous-Gard ne'er knew!
Red as the life-blood, as the snowdrift white,
The twin loves each from other wrests his due;
And even as now the king's most royal right
At knighthood's feet the imperious pulses fling,
That empire's daughter, mated with the knight,
Had treasured her last fondness for the king!
Thine is the star of even and of morn!
A childless Eve, thy loves for children bring
Two offerings at two altars--blood and corn:
Cain's garden-ransom of primeval sin
And Abel's firstling of the flocks unshorn!
Yea, even thus did Death at first begin,
And thus begins our own! Nay, Death for her
Already hath made desolate all within,
Yet left her beauty for its sepulchre.--
Dream ye she knows not how she hath grown old,
Or that the Mays in fleeting can confer
The peaceful pulses of a heart grown cold?
Nay, the late summer of her years reveals
Secrets of passion which the spring ne'er told!
Burns her with threefold thirst, yet, mocking, seals
The springs of joy and leaves the witchcraft stale
Could once have freed them! Think you not she feels
That little spout of hell-fire through the veil
Within the temple of Sir Lancelot's love?
Think you her eyes are seared not with the bale
Of cloven flames her own twin arks above?
Yea, Arthur's court is Arthur's court no more,
And none have heart to strive as once they strove.
All high emprize is crushed and crusted o'er
With ruin wrought by false and feeble wills,
And the whole realm is smitten at the core
With restless boding of supremer ills.
So have we heard Sicilian palmer tell
Of quaking homesteads in the cloven hills,--
Of muttered warnings in the Demon Dell
And dreary levin flickering on the snow
That crests the hollow heights of Mongibell.--
While o'er the sulphurous cauldron gathering slow
The swart reek waxeth like a cedar tree
O'ershadowing half the welkin; and below
The whole isle groaneth--woodland, waste, and lea.
Till on a starless night, with rending flash
Of fury flaring into skies and sea,
Far through the clouds the fiery fountains crash
Of chaos spouted from abysmal wells:
And in the mountain-crucible a gash
Of blinding brightness gapeth on the dells,
Whence forth in thundery ruin o'er the verge,
Bursting the shattered gateways of the fells,
Far through the pinewood swoops the smolten surge.
The belted oaks a league before its tread
Shudder and writhe like slaves beneath the scourge,
Ere long to die the death!--A ghastly red
Looms through the reek among their smouldering leaves,
And, clogged with craggy dross, the fires of dread
Flood round the blazing trunks. The woodland heaves,
And all the staggering mountain-side aflame
Slides to the plain among the ungarnered sheaves,
Vineyard and thorp and city of old name.--
Vainly inviolate all a summer's day
The wall Cyclopian holds its ancient fame!
Round scarp and bulwark, tower and buttress-stay
Fathom on fathom, fiercelier swells and beats
The weltering fireflood with its stony spray!
One rending yawn, and through the desert streets
The white walls float upon the deadly wave
That whelms for aye those old imperial seats!--
Thence, five-fold cloven, scarce with might to pave
With fire the fig-tree shades and groves of palm,
The grim flood loiters to its ocean-grave,
And the old world resumeth its old calm:
Though far o'er-sea, the Maltese anchorite
Mid hail of ashes, stints his morning psalm
And Northward peers into the mist till night
For the next sign of Judgment to begin.
So fares our kingdom now, for Arthur's might
Quakes to the base, fire-sapped by kingly sin:--
A footfall jarring scarce enough to shake
One withered blossom from the jessamin
More than enough beneath our feet to wake
The doom we wait for from its slumberings,
And loose the fountains of the burning lake.
The world is old--and still the mavis sings.
We wait the doom--yet on the hawthorn-spray
The nightingale remembers the old springs.
May-morn itself is weary of the May,
Yet, careless of the wreck of realms and kings,
The homeless cuckoo jeereth all the day.
THE NEW KING ARTHUR:
AN OPERA WITHOUT MUSIC
by
EDGAR FAWCETT
Take, Alfred, this mellifluous verse of mine,
Nor rank too high the honor I bestow,
Howe'er it thrill thy soul with grateful pride.
For thou hast sung of Arthur and his knights,
And thou hast told of deeds that they have done,
And thou hast told of loves that they have loved,
And thou hast told of sins that they have sinned,
And I have sung in my way, thou in thine.
I think my way superior to thine,
Yes, Alfred, yes, in loyal faith I do;
But if I do I may be right or wrong;
And whether right or wrong, what matters it?
For shall not swans be swans, though geese are geese?
And if our swans be geese yet swans are deemed,
The merrier for ourselves that deem them swans.
So, take my verses, Alfred, nor with shame
Too deeply blush, as when we gain a boon
So precious that we know 'tis undeserved.
For thou has very creditably sung
Of Arthur, if we judge thee all-in-all;
And I, if I more creditably sing,
Can help it not; but let us live our lives.
For now o'er tilth and wold, o'er waste and weald,
Full summer broods, the linnet warbles peace,
The red kine stray, and butter has gone down!
MERLIN, his Magician in Ordinary.
SIR LANCELOT.
SIR GALAHAD.
MODRED, near Kinsman of the King.
DAGONET, the King's Fool.
SIR BEDIVERE.
SIR GERAINT.
GUINEVERE, Queen of Britain.
ENID.
VIVIEN.
KNIGHTS, LADIES, SOLDIERS, POPULACE OF CAMELOT, ETC.
Damna tamen celeres reparant cælestia lunæ;
Nos, ubi decidimus
Quo pater Aeneas, quo Tullus, dives et Ancus,
Pulvis et umbra sumus .
Hor., Lib. IV., Ode VII.
TROOPS:
It is not a pleasant matter
To endure the idle chatter
Sentimentalists who flatter
Will continually breed,
All about the battle gory,
With its legendary glory
And its fame in song or story
As the centuries proceed.
For we long ago decided
That the honor is divided
By the leaders who have guided
Not the men who urged the strife;
That the captains get the measure
Of all military treasure,
And the soldier's only pleasure
Is escaping with his life.
We are sensible of duty
And its highly moral beauty,
Though we've all an eye to booty
While we tread the martial plain;
Yet the monarch of our nation
Disapproves of spoliation,
And to win his approbation
We must quell the greed of gain.
Still, the history of Britain,
Howsoever it is written,
With the foes that we have smitten
Will in future time be rife.
And we think that our employment
Should be rid of more annoyment,
Since the soldier's one enjoyment
Is escaping with his life.
While the battle-axe is crashing
And the cavalry are dashing
And the mighty swords are flashing
And the deadly arrow shoots,
We remember with dejection
(Though it smells of insurrection)
That we're simply a collection
Of compulsory recruits.
When the chances look most narrow,
'Tis a memory to harrow
That our grave may be a barrow
Far away from child and wife;
And we feel, without aspersion,
After every new exertion,
That the soldier's one diversion
Is escaping with his life!
SIR BEDIVERE:
You hear, loved Galahad, this thankless plaint
From warriors we have led to victory?
SIR GALAHAD:
I hear it, good Sir Bedivere. Forgive
Their strange dissent, since they have borne them true,
Even as the stanch legs of our Table Round.
SIR GERAINT:
Myself, I would bring scourges for their dole,
Not being as meek and excellent as thou.
SIR GALAHAD:
Nay, let them cry their cry, since well they fought
For Cross and King with those wild heathen hordes.
Chide not the fleet steed if he toss his mane,
Nor the brave lion if he at whiles may roar.
SIR BEDIVERE:
Too lenient art thou, Galahad. Harangue
This carping soldiery ere comes our King.
Speak; thou art rich in oratoric tact,
Nor bluff and rude of tongue, like half thy mates.
SIR GERAINT:
True, Bedivere; though best the surly knaves
Were taught to rule their spleen with lusty whips.
When dogs like these break leash it is the sting
Of discipline that proves the wiser curb.
Still, Galahad, speak forth; thy gentle art
Hath silver fluencies past common phrase.
SIR GALAHAD:
It is not with foolish arrogance
That I publicly report
I'm the paragon of paragons
To be found in Arthur's court.
I may tell with calm security
What a stainless life I lead,
For to paint my perfect purity
Would be difficult indeed.
It is true that once a pal I had--
An irreverential pal--
Who replaced my name, Sir Galahad,
By the name Sir Had-a-gal.
But the wag whose cruel witticism
Would have soiled this dove's white wing,
Overwhelmed with angry criticism,
Has been exiled by the King!
At the seventh anniversary
Of my spotless birth and growth,
I had fainted in my nursery
When my nurse let fall an oath.
But at nine years old, humanity
Had impressed me as so weak
That I lectured on profanity
In the purest Attic Greek.
As a boy of ten, so heatedly
I had yearned to soar the sky
That I bruised myself repeatedly
In the vain attempt to fly;
And the saintliest proclivities
Were so ardent in my soul,
That I went to all festivities
With a pasteboard aureole.
Notwithstanding such firm tendency
To preserve unsoiled my heart,
I developed an ascendency
In the military art;
But as time with new vitality
Has endowed this noble frame,
My astonishing morality
Has continued just the same.
And it now is no surprise to me,
Being wrought of such fine clay,
That the maidens all make eyes to me
In a matrimonial way.
For the charms that I disseminate
Are of manly sort, though mild,
And I'm not at all effeminate,
Though a lily undefiled.
SIR GERAINT:
Now, Galahad, by every martyred saint,
Call you this vaunt of self a fit reproach
For insubordination in our troops?
SIR GALAHAD:
Past doubt I call it so, my fair Geraint.
SIR BEDIVERE:
Not with good reason, Galahad, I vow.
Thy sinless character we all concede;
Thou never yet hast killed a foe in fight,
Save that thine eye let fall the briny tear.
SIR GERAINT:
Especially we all do venerate
That briny tear of thine; 'tis national
And representative, that briny tear.
We honor it as emblematical
Of our most gentlemanly Table Round;
Nor less we place thine other virtues high
As civilizing standards of our realm.
But when we summon thee to chide our troops,
What profit may these grumblers hope to win
From hearing that thy soul is free of fault?
SIR GALAHAD:
Ye do me grievous wrong! . . .
These erring sons of earth,
Reminded but in song
Of my surpassing worth,
Will cherish the reminder,
Will calmer grow and kinder,
Will feel what bonds belong
To their inferior birth.
TROOPS:
Already this is true; . . .
For since we cannot fail
To recognize in you
A knightly nonpareil,
With keen humiliation
We grant our lowly station,
And swear from further view
Our discontents to veil.
SIR GALAHAD:
How sensible you are
I scarcely need affirm.
The worm would be a star,
Yet still remains a worm.
For one the pain of pining,
While one is sure of shining;
One brightly beams afar,
While one must meanly squirm.
TROOPS:
In just this hatful wise
Does caste her laws dispense,
However we surmise
The wherefore and the whence!
Your simile is bitter--
'Tis even a shoulder-hitter;
Yet we philosophize
And own its common-sense.
SIR BEDIVERE, SIR GERAINT, AND OTHER KNIGHTS:
To Galahad we pay
Respect for having filled
With penitent dismay
These churls of brawny build,
Who bow in due submission
To their depraved position,
And meekly from to-day
Will let themselves be killed.
SIR GALAHAD:
I wonder, mates, that ye should marvel thus
At my unfailing power to thrill with shame
All creatures on whose grosser lives I turn
The quiet splendor of my sinless gaze.
When will ye value at its mighty claim
The awful rectitude and probity
That men have named Sir Galahad? Ah! when?
A HERALD:
The King approaches.
SIR GERAINT:
Galahad, beware;
It ill beseems thee so to laud thy worth
In presence of our blameless liege, the King.
( Enter King Arthur, in glittering armor. He wears the golden dragon of the Pendragonship on his jewelled helm, and is followed by Sir Modred, with other retainers .)
KING ARTHUR:
In spite of my authority as England's chief executive,
In spite of those who compass me with service or salaam,
I can't repeat the list of my progenitors consecutive,
Explaining with lucidity exactly who I am.
For while it would be folly to declare me a nonentity,
Considering the hardihood and prowess all applaud,
It still is understood that there are flaws in my identity,
And that by certain skeptics I am feared to be a fraud.
'Tis argued I was this, and it's asserted I another was;
My places of nativity for number might appall;
'Tis doubted who my father and distrusted who my mother was;
It even is denied that I was ever born at all.
But I, with eager wishes in my subjects' brains to germinate
A rational solution of my origin as man,
Have found that all my memories poetically terminate
In visionary shadows on the Ossianic plan.
My own secure impression, I will say without apology,
Is that the times were favoring and summoned me from far,
A person who was picturesquely loaned you by mythology,
As persons of my prominence occasionally are.
However, if my lineage be earthly or ethereal,
If sprung from human parents or from spiritual hosts,
It strikes me I'm at present very palpably material,
With nothing in my biceps that would indicate a ghost's.
I give delightful dinners, with the motive to propitiate
Believers and supporters who are grouped about my throne;
And frankly I exhibit there, whenever I officiate,
An Early-English elegance essentially my own!
In council I am clever, and in battle where the banners are
My trusty knights, my Table Round, will swear I lead them well;
But all agree in thinking how magnificent my manners are,
Since born however oddly I was born a perfect swell!
The worst of evil tongues may neither whisper nor ejaculate
About my name as royal spouse a word that hints a sneer;
Connubially looked upon, my record is immaculate,
As also is the record of my consort, Guinevere.
I give the Queen's affections all the necessary twining-room,
Allow her to adore me as her wifehood may elect,
Approve of her appearance in my parlor or my dining-room,
And praise her taste in dressing, which is notably correct.
That I have deigned to wed her Guinevere is duly sensible,
Because, although she traces from a line of kings and queens,
There isn't any question that her race was reprehensible
In making ancient history by very shabby means.
And all, without exception, since the day when we were wed agree
That I, whose genealogy is lost in magic haze,
Decidedly surpass her with my mythologic pedigree,
And merit the fidelity she dutifully pays!
HERALD:
The Queen, my liege, approaches.
KING ARTHUR:
Joy! the Queen!
( Queen Guinevere enters, attended by the ladies Enid and Vivien, with other dames of her Court. Sir Lancelot soon afterward follows. Merlin appears later .)
GUINEVERE:
Welcome, Lord Arthur, fresh from victory!
Is it your gracious wish we should embrace?
KING ARTHUR:
Considerate wife! Thou understandest well
The difficulty that these mailèd arms
Would meet in properly embracing thee.
GUINEVERE:
Most true, my liege. And then this gown I wear,
My medieval milliner's last work,
Would surely suffer from thy clasp of steel.
How like you it? Sir Lancelot likes it well.
He--
KING ARTHUR:
How? Sir Lancelot greeted thee ere I?
LANCELOT ( bowing humbly ):
My lord, by merest accident--no more.
The soil of march had stained these doughty hands,
And fearing lest our Queen should chance on us
Ere seemly cleansing helped them, I repaired
With haste to yonder moat and dipped them there.
Thy pardon, King.
KING ARTHUR:
'Tis granted easily.
GUINEVERE:
Greeting to all! This day is framed in gold
Forevermore within my memory!
Now is the last great battle fought and won!
Our castle here at Camelot shall to-night
So blaze with revel that the envying stars
Will wish their light the cressets of our feast.
ENID:
A hundred happy preparations wait
The gay return of our victorious kin.
VIVIEN:
Already the great oxen roast in hall;
The tawny wassail tempts the unsparing hand;
Fair garlands, wreathed o'er many a lintel, glow;
And all is prophecy of mirthful peace.
( The populace, male and female, now appear, joining the troops and warmly saluting them .)
THE POPULACE:
While you abroad were daring
The foemen's fatal spears,
Our hearts at home were bearing
The burden of our fears.
No cheerful news could brighten
Our sorrow, nor assuage;
No telegrams enlighten
This unprogressive age.
One consolation served us,
More dear than you can guess,
And fortunately nerved us
To deal with our distress.
It was that war's dimension
Is yet of meagre span,
While powder's vile invention
Remains unknown to man.
With all its rush and riot,
The worst of war to-day
Is comfortably quiet
Beside the future's fray.
No clamorous bangs displeasing
Now vex your valiant lives,
With smoke to set you sneezing,
If still your nose survives.
Nor was it half a trifle
To thankfully recall
That no malicious rifle
Had bored you with its ball.
And well we recollected
Your risk was less extreme,
With bomb-shells unexpected
And dynamite a dream.
To hear the javelin whistle,
To shun the hurtling dart,
To dodge the desperate missile,
Will try the stoutest heart.
But would the thought not thrill you
More fearfully by far,
Of cannons that could kill you
Three miles from where you are?
Your fate were much inferior
If lumps of lead or zinc
Could wander your interior
Before you'd time to wink;
While dread that seldom ceases
Would bid you curse your lots,
Going up in little pieces
And coming down in spots!
O tenfold more terrific
Your danger, to a man's,
If war were scientific
In working out her plans!
And therefore, warriors plucky,
Appreciate the boon
Of having been so lucky
In being born so soon!
( The populace and troops retire, singing. )
KING ARTHUR:
Since wine and feast shall blithely hail us home,
You, Lancelot, lead the dance in hall to-night
With our loved Queen . . . What, Merlin, it is you?
MERLIN ( who has shown great agitation ):
My lord, 'tis I, even I, who thankfully
Greet your return from hazard in the field.
KING ARTHUR:
Nay, kiss not thus our hand, astrologer,
Magician, seer, and all things mystical.
We reverence too much thy wealth of lore,
King as we are, to blush not while we take
Obsequious welcome from thy wizard lips.
MERLIN ( in aside to Arthur ):
Sir King, let not Lord Lancelot dance to-night
With Guinevere. The stars themselves forbid.
KING ARTHUR:
Nay, Merlin, art thou tricked with fantasies,
Bluff imps that make the goblin residue
From spells and incantations of thy past,
Nor leave thee yet, but haunt thy moods of rest,
As moths a blown-out candle's flameless wick?
MERLIN:
Not so, my lord; thou art in error there.
'Twere seemlier that the Queen should lead the dance
With her true spouse, as courtly etiquette
By right demands; and therefore do I speak.
KING ARTHUR:
Shrewd Merlin! and thy stars have told thee this?
Considerate and accommodating stars!
Have they no weightier counsel for thine ears?
Nay, pardon if I wag my beard in mirth,
Dread augur, since thy potent oracles
Grasp truths of such large import to our realm.
MERLIN:
Sire, dost thou laugh at me?
KING ARTHUR ( with much laughter ):
No, by the Rood!
I weep, good Merlin, though I grant these tears
Less kin to grief than sources pleasanter.
Hail, Master of Etiquette at Arthur's court!
Wouldst clip thy robes to match a doublet's length,
Curl jauntily thy locks of snow, and don
Sword, plume and broidered hose? Why, so thou shalt,
If so thy choice, and that first knight who smiles
At seeing the awful Merlin grown a fop,
Shall forfeit straight our countenance and grace . . .
Look ye, my lords and gentlewomen; here
Doth age put forth a flower of youth to shame
Your lustier vigor! Merlin, mark him well,
Seeks new renown, and--
MERLIN:
Pause, I do beseech!
(I dare not speak and tell him all I know!)
Ah, flout me not with raillery, since I warn
As eager friend and guardian of thy peace!
KING ARTHUR:
Thy rapid tongue and that wild stress of gaze
Convince me thou art serious.
MERLIN:
O my lord,
Bear with me but a little while till chance
Unloose my speech and I may name the fear
It irks me now to hide! . . . No more . . . we are watched!
GUINEVERE ( aside to Lancelot ):
Didst thou note well how Merlin eyed the King?
I quake with terror lest the seer hath guessed
What treacherous truth lies hid between us twain.
SIR LANCELOT:
These are but idle terrors, Guinevere.
Suspicion harms no man of my repute.
Great deeds of evil fit the great alone,
Who leap on them as they that mount a steed
Untamable to feebler hands than theirs.
GUINEVERE:
The deed thou hast in mind is horrible;
It plucks the sleep from off my lids o' nights,
And steals, a ghost of guilt, to haunt the gloom.
SIR LANCELOT
The face-wash that shall lend those blooming cheeks
A pearlier beauty than of mortal tint--
The hair-dye that shall stain each silken strand
Of those rich tresses into sunnier sheen--
He has the secret of them, Guinevere,
He, Merlin, arch-enchanter, sorcerer, sage.
GUINEVERE:
I know. Yet Arthur deems me fair enough . . .
I am his Queen. Oh, Lancelot, tempt me not!
SIR LANCELOT:
The face-wash and the hair-dye--magic boons,
Whose baffling whereabouts alone he knows.
Men say that in the dusk of days remote
A daughter of the stars who reigned as queen
O'er an immortal race, loved foolishly
A mortal, and her subjects, wroth at this,
Fired up and slew her in her palace walls.
GUINEVERE:
I know the tale . . . And afterward 'twas told . . .
SIR LANCELOT:
That he, even Merlin, who has lived ten spans
Of usual life, and dies but when he wills,
Then being a wizard in that weird queen's court,
Snatched from her piteous eyes the dropping tears,
And from her piteous wounds the rushing blood,
In separate flasks of crystal hoarding each.
And these he yet retains, from that wild hour
Holding them sealed and hidden, and knowing well
Their marvellous uses . . . And they shall be thine!
GUINEVERE:
Mine at what cost? If I will filch for thee
The sacred sword, Excalibur, the King's
Unconquerable blade, his pride and joy.
SIR LANCELOT:
Even so, my Queen. Excalibur once mine,
Its fairy brand makes Merlin do my hest.
And I, securing it, will straightway force
Delivery of the flasks to thy fair hands.
VIVIEN ( covertly listening ):
'Tis of the face-wash and the hair-dye, sure,
That these twain parley thus in whispers fleet.
GUINEVERE:
But if I steal it for thee, Lancelot,
Our realm will topple into anarchy.
Unkinged will Arthur be, and I disqueened,
Our Table Round a ruin, and all our fame
The jest of babblers in far future times.
SIR LANCELOT:
Not so, my Queen. Possessing that famed sword,
I shall not linger here in Camelot.
Hence will I fare, with my own people reign,
Nor push my empery one jealous inch
Beyond the earldom fated me at birth.
GUINEVERE:
But this were wanton treason in itself . . .
Hast thou not sworn to aid and serve the King?
SIR LANCELOT:
Thee will I serve instead. The precious flasks
Made thine, irrevocably thine, perchance
Thou wilt become my Queen in place of his !
GUINEVERE:
Elope with thee! O monstrous impudence!
( She sings: )
My father was King Leodogran,
An exceedingly meritorious man,
With a realm that the heathen over-ran
In a most distracting way.
There was never a king so hard-beset;
He was full of the cares that irk and fret;
He was head-over-ears in horrid debt
That he hadn't the means to pay.
But he brought me up in a style austere,
And he always advised me, "Guinevere,
If you ever fall in with a cavalier
Who should hint of an impropriety, dear,
There is only one thing to say:
'Very, very witty--but I don't see the wit of it;
Awfully obliged--but no, not a bit of it;
Many, many thanks--good day!'"
CHORUS OF KING, KNIGHTS AND LADIES:
Her father was King Leodogran,
An unfortunate impecunious man,
Who was neither a prince of plot and plan,
Nor a tyrant of brutal sway.
It is all very well to record his debt,
But his creditors and his foes had met,
And the first had perished without regret,
While the last made him still their prey.
Yet he reared his child in a mode austere,
And he often remarked to her, "Guinevere,
If you ever fall in with a knight, my dear,
Whose deportment strikes you as insincere,
Be polite but firm while you say:
'Very, very clever--but I don't see the wit of it;
Awfully obliged--but no, not a bit of it;
Many, many thanks--good day!'"
GUINEVERE:
My father was King Leodogran,
An aristocratic indigent man,
With an army at best a ragged clan
And a navy in sad decay.
He had only one or two courtiers left;
Of a parliament he was quite bereft;
His crown had been carried off by theft;
His exchequer had gone astray.
But he still admonished me, "Guinevere,
Be discreet in your feminine career,
And if wily charmers would dupe you, dear,
So arrange that with conscience truly clear
You can lift up your head and say:
'Very, very pretty--but I don't see the wit of it;
Awfully obliged--but no, not a bit of it;
Many, many thanks--good-day!'"
CHORUS OF KING, KNIGHTS AND LADIES:
Her father was King Leodogran,
A peculiarly disappointed man,
Whose reign with a flourish of drums began,
Though it ended in disarray.
Corruption and bribery made him ill:
His Lord High Chancellor robbed the till;
When the Royal Grocer sent in a bill,
Its amount he could not defray.
Yet the records and annals all cohere
That he counselled his daughter, Guinevere--
"If you ever receive the suggestion, dear,
To behave like a moral mutineer,
Be decisive, and promptly say:
'Very, very pleasant--but I don't see the wit of it;
Awfully obliged--but no, not a bit of it;
Many, many thanks--good-day!'"
KING ARTHUR:
Come, Guinevere. Let us fare palaceward.
Thy lyric candor hath less prudence in it
Than lightsome truth . . . You, Lancelot, go with us?
SIR LANCELOT:
Your Grace, one word with Merlin, I beseech.
( Omnes retire toward the palace, except Merlin and Sir Lancelot. )
MERLIN:
Wouldst converse hold with me, Sir Lancelot?
SIR LANCELOT:
Nay, Merlin, art thou angered? Speak, I pray.
MERLIN:
Thou hast sent missives from the seat of war.
SIR LANCELOT:
To whom?
MERLIN:
Whom me no whoms. The Queen.
SIR LANCELOT:
And thou hast read these missives, Merlin--thou!
MERLIN:
Never! But if by magic art I learned
Their import, canst thou blame me that I did?
SIR LANCELOT:
I see. Thy magic art is over-bold.
Wax melts in flame; my letter writ the Queen
Were slyly intercepted of thyself!
MERLIN:
Mere son of earth, presume not on my rights,
Nor scoff them, lest thou writhe in punishment.
SIR LANCELOT:
Enough. Thou hast read those missives. Then thou know'st
I would possess Excalibur for mine.
MERLIN:
Conspirator! Dost thou dare tell me this?
SIR LANCELOT:
Hark, Merlin. Once that mystic sword my own,
I rule instead of Arthur. For thyself,
Thou shalt, I swear, become Prime Minister
Where thou art now mere vassal to the king.
MERLIN:
Prime Minister? . . . What madness moves thy speech?
The sword from him who wields it may not pass,
Except the Queen herself, at midnight hour,
Will steal it with her own fair hands. Even then
The earth would quake, hot lightnings rend the sky,
And she, its guardian Lady of the Lake,
Would rise in wrath, and bid the Table Round
Slay the fell traitor who had urged this act.
SIR LANCELOT:
Meanwhile the sword were mine. And, Merlin, thou
Wouldst be Prime Minister in my new realm.
Does Arthur value thee at thy fit worth?
To-day thou scarcely hast his jester's rank.
As mountebank, even charlatan, he holds
Thy reverend self. Reflect ere thou refuse.
MERLIN:
It was ages and ages and ages ago,
In an antediluvian time,
When my beard could as now patriarchally flow,
And my gaze had the same supernatural glow
Which at present is thought so sublime,
That I served with a monarch whose glory was great,
As his trusted Secretary of State.
SIR LANCELOT:
I am far from objecting that then as that now
You extended six feet in your hose,
And that none could with honesty dare disallow
Your remarkably intellectual brow
And your magisterial nose,
When the King who is pre-historical dust
So distinguished you by a prominent trust.
MERLIN:
To resume my remarks where you cut them so short,
I was not, as a statesman, exempt
From the fell office-hunter's insidious court,
From the perils and snares of malicious report,
Or from bribery's evil attempt;
But approaches like these I would straightway subdue
By the withering glance that I now bend on you.
SIR LANCELOT:
If I own that your glance has a singular stress
Which reacts on my chief spinal nerve,
I shall fail to make manifest, nevertheless,
How you equally mortify as you impress
By the probity that you preserve;
Yet I beg very earnestly still to insist
That you deal with no common corruptionist.
MERLIN:
I remember that once when a knave had presumed
His perfidious views to expound,
Though of social distinction he blustered and fumed,
I arranged that alive in the earth he was tombed,
With his head poking out above ground;
And while slowly of thirst and of hunger he died,
I assure you I laughed till I really cried.
SIR LANCELOT:
So unpleasant are vivid accounts like to these
When embellished with your dainty skill,
That I beg you will bear it in mind, if you please,
How my terrified marrow commences to freeze
And the roots of my being to thrill;
Yet I cannot deny, notwithstanding alarm,
That my villainy wears an exceptional charm.
MERLIN:
Oh, if then you had shown me these poisonous plums
Which the branches of treason contain,
I perhaps would have had you hung up by your thumbs,
Or have put red-hot pins in your eyelids and gums,
While I gloated with glee on your pain;
For the impulse of gloating I seldom repress,
And I always have gloated with striking success.
SIR LANCELOT:
That you gloat with a grace altogether your own,
You are wasting your words to denote,
And indeed a sincere admiration alone
Now impels me to have my depravity known,
For the purpose of seeing you gloat;
Yet an ominous feeling my bosom has crost
That you hesitate and are in consequence lost.
MERLIN:
I regard your assumption as wholly unfair,
And conveyed with unmerited scorn,
Since the proud reputation I handsomely bear
I for ages and ages of much wear and tear
Have with noteworthy rectitude borne;
Yet the place of Prime Minister, all will admit,
Is a place that my talents would capably fit.
SIR LANCELOT:
Strike hands, good necromancer. Thou at last
Consentest. Big the risk, yet big the prize.
MERLIN:
My qualms of conscience still abide the same.
I feel myself provisionally bad,
And that alone. You tempted, and I fell;
But then you tempted fatly.
SIR LANCELOT:
So I did.
MERLIN:
Enough. My expiation may require
Perchance a thousand years. A trifle, that,
To me, the immortal Merlin, it is true.
SIR LANCELOT:
A trifle weightless as blown thistledown.
Had I your same deep funds of earthly life,
By fits I would be virtuous and by fits
The baccanal opposite. One century
The dusk of cloisters and the garb of serge,
The chill high-windowed cell, with loaf and jug,
The sandalled feet and prayer-worn rosary-beads.
Next century, mirth and revel, dance and dice,
Lights, music, diamond eyes amid the dark
Of velvet masks, with folly a gilded toy
And grim sin painted all of rainbow hues.
Monotony is pleasure's bane and curse,
Change and variety are its meat and wine!
MERLIN:
Hollow philosophy, I fear, my lord;
Yet hollow things, like wine-cups, oft hold cheer.
Does the Queen will to steal this magic brand?
SIR LANCELOT:
To-night, if thou wilt aid her in the act.
MERLIN:
At set of sun with solemn pomp I bless
The sword for this great victory fought and gained,
While all our people voice their hymn of thanks.
SIR LANCELOT:
Piously singing somewhat out of tune--
I know the ceremony; it has made me yawn
Eleven good times already. Afterward?
MERLIN:
I bear the sword away and lock it up
In the huge vault below the castle-moat,
To symbolize its ancient years of rest
Deep in the bosom of the lake whence rose
An arm that held it forth as Arthur's boon,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
SIR LANCELOT:
Thy pardon, mage, but were not those last words
Quoted from some bard who has framed this theme
In verse? I fancy I recall the line.
MERLIN:
Sir Lancelot, you are grievously at fault;
Whatever else I am or may become,
I am and always grandly will remain
Original.
SIR LANCELOT:
Again thy pardon, seer.
Tell more, I pray.
MERLIN:
The vault whereof I spoke
Hath seven huge iron doors, and each of these
Is opened by a separate massive key.
At end of all a flight of seven stone steps,
Thick-filmed with dank ooze and deceptive slime,
Leads to an iron chest whose every nail
Juts like the clenched fist of a giant knight
From ponderous bands of steel. The Queen's own strength
Must lift the lid and draw Excalibur
Out from the chest. If there she chance to fail,
The brand itself shall rise and smite her dead,
While thou and I, her arch-accomplices,
In half the thinking of a thought, are hurled
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition.
SIR LANCELOT:
Grace again . . .
Thy last fine phrase--was that original?
MERLIN:
Completely so, Sir Lancelot. Plagiarism
Has never soiled my native eloquence.
SIR LANCELOT:
And must the Queen this dangerous journey take
In utter darkness? May she not have light?
MERLIN:
None, save the light of her intelligence,
Never a torch of brilliance at its best.
SIR LANCELOT:
You wrong her. She will put her wit to proof
This night, and if I err not, test as well
Her courage; I will answer you for both.
MERLIN:
'Tis as clear to my mind as the commonest rule
Mathematical teachings beget,
That the Queen is a fool, and that you are a fool,
And that I am a worse fool yet.
There are thousands of people who envy our lot,
But we can't keep along at a moderate trot;
We've a devilish fancy to see how it feels
When you break in a gallop and kick up your heels!
SIR LANCELOT:
That is true not alone of the Queen, you and me,
But of all humankind, I am sure;
There is always one apple high up on the tree
That we'd tear our best clothes to secure.
Though in life, as it often occurs, we have got
All the tidbits we need floating round in our pot,
Spite of prudence and tact we must see how it feels
To kick over the pot while we kick up our heels!
MERLIN:
You're a knight with a record for brain and for brawn--
Guinevere's royal rank who'll deny?--
As the great court-magician I weekly have drawn
From my monarch a salary high;
Yet although our life's leaves are without the least blot,
We've a strange inclination to wish they were not;
On the nice clean white paper, to see how it feels,
We must spill half the ink while we kick up our heels!
SIR LANCELOT:
To obtain a king's throne fortune's favor I sue;
Guinevere wants a handsomer lord;
The portfolio of a Prime Minister you
Have a long time in secret adored.
Very likely 'twere best we should alter no jot
From the stations whose changes we privately plot,
Yet we've all a temptation to see how it feels
When at last you've concluded to kick up your heels!
MERLIN:
What further speech hath issue on this head
We fitlier should hold otherwhere than here.
SIR LANCELOT:
True, Merlin. These rude bastions, nooks and towers,
Were facile ambush for some envious ear.
MERLIN:
And such an one is Modred's.
SIR LANCELOT:
Fearest thou
Sir Modred, that sly cousin to the King?
Him of the uneasy eye, unechoing tread
And bright prompt smile? Myself, I like him not.
MERLIN:
If covert foe we have, that foe is he.
Come, let us hence. Time fleets, and colloquy
Must further shape this dark wild plan for use.
( Merlin and Sir Lancelot retire through an archway of the castle. From another egress Modred cautiously enters, followed by Vivien. )
MODRED:
Their plot is mine! Now, Vivien, if the Queen
Shall get from Merlin's hand the seven great keys
And tread the slippery stairs until she clutch
The subterranean sword, Excalibur,
Returning safe with it to upper air,
Why, then, what easier than to crouch in wait
And seize it from her grasp ere Lancelot dream?
VIVIEN:
O wily Modred, wilt thou dare this thing?
MODRED:
Sweet Vivien, for thy sake I would dare more.
VIVIEN:
Thou darest nothing. Flatter not thy soul
With fantasy of courage for thy spur.
Deceit alone is pith and kernel here;
All else is vaunt, ambition, treachery!
MODRED:
Hast thou forgot love, too, or canst thou rate
Such love as mine a toy to toss and lose?
Vivien, dost thou remember when we played,
Mere boy and girl, together on sea-sands,
In sight of those gray beetling walls where dwelt
Our kinsman, that bluff Earl who loved us both?
VIVIEN:
Yes, I recall. We shaped amid the sands
Full many a castle, drawbridge, gate and moat;
But all were thine, or so thy mood would claim.
MODRED:
All those pretty palaces of sand,
Swept afar so long by ocean's pride,
Were but meant, if thou couldst understand,
For the little maiden at my side.
She it was whose tender eyes and lips
All the mimic realm should sweetly sway,
When my fairy gold in fairy ships
From enchanted isles had found its way!
While her dimpled face, in childish thought,
Watched my eager fingers as they plied,
Happy was the toil with which I wrought
For the little maiden at my side
Every tiny chamber should possess
Riches past all value and compare--
Pearls that beam amid the mermaid's tress,
Corals that the rosy sea-caves bear!
Since those idle moments, many a year,
Filled with shade or sun, has dawned and died.
Mightier now the palace I would rear
For the statelier maiden at my side.
Here at last, in honor and renown,
She may dwell my treasured wife and true,
Wearing on her brows the queenly crown
That by dower of beauty is her due!
VIVIEN:
Modred, I wonder that thou trustest me
With this dread secret of thy coming guilt.
What earnest hast thou (nay, let go my hand)
That I will clamor not, with wrathful speed,
Thy full intent where those who learn its ill
May crush it dead by dungeon, chain or block?
MODRED:
Pah, Vivien, well thou knowest that if I hold
Excalibur, the power I wield with it
Makes Merlin serve me then as Arthur now.
VIVIEN:
What import to myself if he so serve?
MODRED:
Nay, large, my subtle Vivien, I can prove.
The face-wash and the hair-dye Merlin holds
He would surrender if I held the sword.
VIVIEN:
The face-wash and the hair-dye? Thou in sooth
Hast heard of these long-hoarded talismans?
MODRED:
Who here at Camelot has not heard of them?
The little dusk-haired page that trips through hall,
Bearing the flagon in his lifted clasp,
Wots of the charms and longs to test their worth.
VIVIEN:
And dost thou think that I, Sir Modred, I,
Would trifle with such witcheries? . . . Thou hast called
Full many a time the Lady Vivien fair.
Would I be fairer, then, if tress and tint
Were fair indeed, as wrought so by these arts?
MODRED:
No silkier could one strand of thy dear hair
Gleam to these eyes, my Vivien, if so steeped
In sun its gay gold matched the daffodil's!
No tenderer would the curve of that soft cheek
Seem to my sense if now its olive tinge
Were pinker than the frail wild-rose's leaf!
I love thee seeing that what I love no change
Of face-wash or of hair-dye may annul!
Thy smile--the beam of thy deep roguish gaze--
The sorcery of thy dewy lips--the arch
Of nostril or of brow--would bide the same!
And more, the intelligence--
VIVIEN:
Enough. 'Tis plain
Thou wouldst prefer me were I not brunette.
MODRED:
(How sweet to rouse her dainty jealousy!)
VIVIEN:
(He does not dream the wherefore of my wish!
Yet once the face-wash and the hair-dye mine,
That languid saint, Sir Galahad, whom I love,
Might melt and thrill where now his mien is ice!)
MODRED:
Hast thou forgot, sweet Vivien, that spring day
Scarce one year hence, when wandering the dark belt
Of beechwood nigh to Camelot's green domain,
I chanced upon thyself and heard thee sing,
Dreaming none heard save some stray thrush or merle,
That pensive song beside a shaded pool?
The limpid pool was mirror for thy face,
And as a maiden to her mirror sings,
Thou to the shining mere didst pour thy plaint.
VIVIEN:
I have forgot. (No lie was gliblier told!)
MODRED:
Nay, thou rememberest. Sing the song once more.
VIVIEN:
What were the gist and lilt of that same song?
MODRED:
The gist I know; the lilt hath lost itself
In revery of the love it roused that day.
But this I keep as record of the song:
Thou didst deplore thou wert not born a blonde.
VIVIEN:
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Quiet pool and clear,
Why it thus befell me
To be mourning here!
Why with unabated
Woe do I regret
That I was created
A confirmed brunette!
Why does hope expel me,
Like a child from school?
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Sleepy little pool!
Enid's locks are sunny
As the wheat's ripe stores;
Golden as new honey
Lynette's, Lyonors';
Here alone I linger,
Full of yearnings fond,
I, who'd give a finger
To have been a blonde!
Why so far excel me
Maud, Yseult, Gudule,
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Placid little pool!
Heavy is the tax on
Patience when I see
That it is un-Saxon
To be dark like me.
Were I queen anointed,
Still my heart would fret,
As a disappointed
And aggrieved brunette!
Why despair should quell me,
Destiny o'errule,
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Lazy little pool!
In my deep dejection,
Pool so pure to view,
Cast me my reflection,
Clad with brighter hue!
Weave the sunbeams in it,
While I thus despond;
Let me dream a minute
I was born a blonde!
Why should fate repel me,
Why should chance befool,
Tell me, tell me, tell me,
Silent little pool!
MODRED:
The song's true self; thou hast not missed a word.
VIVIEN:
(No hint of Galahad slept within the strain;
'Twas therefore safe to sing it as I did.)
( Sir Galahad now appears from the castle, with bowed head, as of one who muses while he walks. )
MODRED:
Look where that smooth male vaunt of saintliness
Moves like the animate statue of himself,
Paid for ere death in charge to his leal heirs.
VIVIEN:
I see . . . I would a word with Galahad.
MODRED:
So would not I . . . Dear Vivien, ere I go,
Thou wilt swear help and secrecy to-night?
VIVIEN:
Stanch help and secrecy . . . Why should I not
So swear? Alas! I was not born a blonde!
MODRED:
Enough. I kiss thy hand in faith and troth.
Farewell, my blonde Queen that may shortly be!
Shalt dally long with that white peacock, love?
VIVIEN:
Nay, briefly . . . I would question him by stealth,
Lest he dream aught of damage to our plan.
MODRED:
Right, Vivien. Let me read those lucid eyes . . .
And so thou lov'st me now I may be King?
Ah, woman, woman, weak as thou wert made,
What strength is in thy love for worldly power!
Well, if thou love the place I lift thee to,
I'll dream thou still dost prize the hand that lifts!
VIVIEN:
In that hand's grip thou hast a mighty faith.
MODRED:
Why not? If I can seize Excalibur,
Much of the soldiery, this warrant seen,
Will join me in revolt, since I am held
As one of Arthur's family by near
Relationship--or shall I rather say
Pendragonship?--to our sworn liege, the King.
Ah, yes, that brand, once flourished, will convince
These dolts that Heaven with Arthur is at odds,
And that to me, his kinsman, Modred, falls
The right to lead and rule them how I list.
But Lancelot as an alien they would hold,
Nor pay his hest a shred of courtesy,
He being of other than the princely line . . .
Note well this grade of difference in our states,
My Vivien, and so hug ambition close . . .
Again farewell, my Queen that soon shall be!
Grant me one kiss . . .
VIVIEN:
Nay, not till I am Queen.
MODRED:
Unpitying girl! . . . Well, be it thus indeed!
Ere the great pomp is holden we shall meet,
And in the dance thy white hand shall I claim . . .
I trust thee with that self-swamped Galahad!
Again, remember--and again, farewell!
( Modred disappears into the castle, scornfully watched by Vivien. )
VIVIEN:
I mate with thee, thou soul packed thick with spites!
And thou hast trusted me! Even so we trust
The wave that drowns us or the drug that slays!
SIR GALAHAD:
What voice was that? Ah, Lady Vivien, thine?
VIVIEN:
Yes, mine. Did I hold converse with myself
Unwittingly? If so, I crave thy grace.
SIR GALAHAD:
Sure none were easier rendered than mine own.
VIVIEN:
Thou, too, wert lost in musing. May I seek
To learn what drooped thy head so sombrely?
SIR GALAHAD:
Sweet Vivien, if I mused it must have been
On mine own superhuman purity.
VIVIEN:
Ah, true. Bur purity and coldness wed . . .
Sir Galahad, art thou cold as thou art pure?
SIR GALAHAD:
Meseems I am peculiarly cold . . .
I know not . . . Were I grosser I might tell
The measure of mine own frigidity
In way more accurate. Yet I do think
I am exceeding cold. What thinkest thou?
VIVIEN:
What think I? No bare northland berg that lifts
A glassy spire in arctic air is more
Cold to its clime's dim heaven than thou to love!
SIR GALAHAD:
Love? What is love? I oft have heard it named,
And oft have fancied that I lack it not.
Myself I love, and virtue--which are one . . .
And nicety of deportment . . .
VIVIEN:
Well, what more?
SIR GALAHAD:
And meats or fish in season, deftly cooked,
Especially with sauce of proper spice.
VIVIEN:
Thou questionest what love is . . . I will tell!
SIR GALAHAD:
Pray, tell; and I with zest of heed shall hark.
VIVIEN:
Love is a temple all alone,
Pure-white and small of scope,
Not built of wood, not built of stone,
But built of something that is known
To human hearts as hope.
And here the lover's foot will steal,
And here the lover oft will kneel,
Perchance when no one cares,
His love in secret to reveal,
With tender tears and prayers!
SIR GALAHAD:
If love the soul endue
With loyalty so true,
Then surely love must be above
All joys I ever knew!
VIVIEN:
Love is a garden whose delights
May lovers only know;
A garden that is always night's,
Where westward from her starry heights
A summer moon drops low;
Where urns of glossy myrtles beam,
Where statues from the terrace gleam,
Where pale cool fountains pour,
And lovers in delicious dream
Go wandering evermore!
SIR GALAHAD:
If love may so invite
King Arthur's virgin knight,
Then love indeed must far exceed
The rhymes that poets write!
VIVIEN:
Love is a forest in whose deep
A stream's clear waters glide;
And many a mortal here doth creep,
His thirsting lips to lean and steep
Amid the crystal tide.
But soon, with hearts that sadly sink,
They linger by that river's brink,
And feel its waves accurst;
For ah, the longer that they drink
The deadlier grows their thirst!
SIR GALAHAD:
If love to such excess
May ban as well as bless,
Then love must hide a seamy side
Of curious ugliness!
VIVIEN:
Love is a land where dead leaves fall
And wild-flowers droop their blooms;
A land that ever feels the thrall
Of sorrowing winds that moan and call
Like voices out of tombs.
And here wan lovers roam forlorn,
Each with a rose-crown he has worn
In merrier moods than now;
For every rose has turned a thorn
That wounds its wearer's brow!
SIR GALAHAD:
If love through storm and sun
So strange a course can run,
Then love's a bane that any sane
Philosopher should shun!
VIVIEN:
Love keeps a joy to match its worst of woe,
And worst its woe when we have loved where lies
A blank of dead indifference . . . like thine own! . . .
Thou sighest, Galahad; wherefore dost thou sigh?
SIR GALAHAD:
I sigh to think how many maids there be
On whom my dead indifference must have wrought
This woe thou paintest in such dreary phrase.
VIVIEN:
Nay, thou art wrong. Thy comeliness perchance
Allures full many a maid, or touches her
With spleen of slighted vanity. But this
Means not the grief of loving without hope.
SIR GALAHAD:
Then no maids love me? Ah, how glad I am!
I merely rouse their wish that I would woo?
'Tis well; I hate to even account myself
As irresponsibly responsible
For broken hearts I had no aim to break.
VIVIEN:
Nay, Galahad, 'tis not entirely so!
I know one maid whose heart is bent for thee--
Bent cruelly, if not yet quite broke in twain.
SIR GALAHAD:
Pray, tell me of this maid. 'Twould pleasure me
To know her and console her if I could.
VIVIEN:
What balm of consolation wouldst thou bring
The sharp distemper of her troubled soul?
SIR GALAHAD:
I should advise her with due haste to seek
A nunnery, since having loved myself,
She could not stoop to lower than myself,
And therefore must win recompense alone
In pious raptures taught by holy deeds.
VIVIEN:
But if she were too worldly for this task
Of self-abasement?--if men deemed her fair,
And by the power of beauty, wit and grace
She dreamed of kindling from thy lethargy
A leap of flame as vital as her own?
SIR GALAHAD:
I should deplore her motive, were it seen,
And recommend a nunnery, all the same.
VIVIEN:
O pitiless! has fancy never shaped
From shadow a life whose love thou couldst hold dear?
SIR GALAHAD:
No, never . . . Stay, thy question doth recall
A vision which at times hath haunted me.
It looked so pure and beautiful, I thought
At first it was my own similitude.
But later it convinced me that I erred,
And that the sex it bore was feminine.
VIVIEN:
And thou didst love this vision, Galahad?
Oh, tell me more! . . . What color were its eyes?
SIR GALAHAD:
Strange, Vivien, that while closer scanning thee
I do remember, past a gleam of doubt,
That it had eyes both hued and lit like thine.
VIVIEN:
(O Heaven! Wild heart, thy riot pulses curb!)
Yes, Galahad--and what more? Pray, had it wings?
SIR GALAHAD:
It did not necessarily have wings;
I think wings were not indispensable
To its angelical anatomy.
But ah, its hair! . . . a glory of living gold,
An aureole of splendor, like a saint's!
VIVIEN:
I mark thee well. This vision was a blonde.
SIR GALAHAD:
It was. An English, Early-English blonde.
VIVIEN:
And I, whose mortal eyes thou late hast called
Like to thy vision's-- I am a brunette!
And yet, O Galahad, if my hair were hers--
If by some trick of magic change these locks
Took radiance vivid as thy vision's owned,
Wouldst thou, or couldst thou, Galahad--O my star
Of knightly sanctity and manful worth!--
Wouldst thou, or couldst thou--?
SIR GALAHAD:
Lady, I could not!
VIVIEN:
At last the truth is clear to thee--at last!
SIR GALAHAD:
It is, at last, and thou hast made it so.
VIVIEN:
And all thine answer is thy silent scorn!
SIR GALAHAD:
Scorn? Nay, I recommend a nunnery.
( He sings. )
I consider you, let me candidly to your face respond,
Not as perfectly satisfactory as I would a blonde.
Yet in ranking me as a personage who to wed were fain,
You have totally misinterpreted, I must here maintain.
Not to Galahad, as to Percivale, Bedivere, Geraint,
May the argument matrimonial its allurements paint;
For the solitude of a celibate I prefer--d so,
To a nunnery, to a nunnery--, go, go!
VIVIEN:
An indifference more contemptuous you could scarcely reach,
And the magnitude of my misery is beyond all speech.
I am confident you'd reciprocate the regard I bear,
Could I possibly make it manifest in my head of hair;
The affinity you have told me of would in mist abscond,
Opportunity being given me to become a blonde;
And you'd say to me self-reproachfully, with your heart aglow,
"To a nunnery? to a nunnery?--, no, no!"
SIR GALAHAD:
'Twould be difficult to exaggerate the sensation strange
That I certainly should experience at so great a change;
But it seems to me that the quality of my pure repute
Should reveal to you how unpractical is your present suit;
For so thoroughly unconnubial are the views I hold,
Their solidity would be permanent if your hair turned gold.
And in consequence I reiterate the remark you know--
"To a nunnery, to a nunnery--, go, go!"
VIVIEN:
I am obstinate in the attitude which I now assume--
That a physical incapacity has pronounced my doom;
I insist upon being positive that my hair's dark tint
Is accountable for the prejudice that you more than hint;
And I prophesy, O my Galahad, that the hour draws near
When the evidence of your sympathy will at last appear,
And you'll say to me, self-accusingly, while your eyes o'erflow--
"To a nunnery? to a nunnery?--, no, no!"
( Vivien now disappears into the castle. )
SIR GALAHAD ( alone ):
What meant she by that mood of prophecy?
Poor maid! can she have dreamed her locks and face
Will feel the touch of those weird lotions hid
By Merlin through so many a century?
I dare be sworn the girl hath some pet scheme
To win these flasks of the great seer by trick
Of flattery, or mock love's insidious guile.
Ah, doubly foiled, if such indeed her aim,
Since one as well might hope that yonder towers
Would push from battlement or barbacan
A growth of living leaves, as Merlin thrill
To blandishments her smiles could whelm him with.
Age hath made pale the ruby in his blood,
As virtue long hath tamed the ripple in mine.
( King Arthur and all his knights, ladies, etc., appear from the castle, the populace also following. Lastly enters Merlin, clad in priestly robes, holding aloft the magic sword, Excalibur. )
KING ARTHUR:
Now for the rites that will simply and totally
Mighty Excalibur's praises attest,
Ere he is once again put sacerdotally
Down underground in his magical chest.
Never was blade that excelled by comparison
This one in temper or finish at all,
Fit to extinguish the Turk or the Saracen,
Fit to eradicate Roman or Gaul.
Nothing could vex curiosity crueller
Than to determine the source of his craft . . .
Who was the antediluvian jeweller
Able to shape that magnificent haft?
Yet should my fancy endeavor to speculate
How such a marvellous weapon was made,
I should be tempted by falsehood to peculate,
Since, like myself, he's a fabulous blade!
Still, when we gaze on his exquisite mystery--
Steel, silver, jewels and gold interblent--
Something we guess of his actual history
From the appearance we see him present.
Much of him seems to conclusively indicate
That he resulted from some sort of queer
Silversmith-blacksmith-and jeweller syndicate,
Gone out of partnership many a year!
If he could speak, what a record of victory
Would there be found in the words he would say,
Causing so often, without valedictory,
Many a hero to vanish away!
He, of our commonweal chief representative,
Makes opposition disclose its weak joint,
And if inclined to become argumentative,
Doesn't beg questions, but forces his point!
Though at his doings (I mention with jollity)
Many the critics who cavil and carp,
Dulness at least is by no means his quality,
All guaranteeing him notably sharp.
Justice, moreover, should say with sincerity,
Ere its account of him properly ends,
That while he treats all his foes with asperity,
No one can charge him with cutting his friends!
Persons whose peaceable souls would abolish him,
As the rude symbol of rapine and fray,
Rude as he is, must allow they could polish him
Not any more than he's polished to-day.
Nay, while his coarseness and lack of gentility
Haters of war with invective would flood,
Who can refuse him the right and ability,
Odd though it seems, to be proud of his blood?
CHORUS OF KNIGHTS, LADIES AND POPULACE:
No more thy strokes we need,
Our foes in flight to stir.
Farewell, thou friend indeed,
Farewell, thou famous magic brand, Excalibur!
Into thy vault below
The castle's moat, O sword,
To slumber dost thou go,
Desired no longer by our leader and our lord!
Let Merlin bear thee hence,
Unlock the seven huge gates,
And drop with reverence
Thy stalwart body where its mystic chest awaits!
Oh, down the seven steep stairs
Heed lest thou tumble not;
Firm be the hand that bears
Excalibur to his dark resting-spot!
O Merlin, let no rat
Thy foot too quickly curb,
No surreptitious bat,
No grim clandestine mouse thine equipoise disturb!
Be brave as thou art wise;
The stairs are slimed with ooze,
And therefore we advise,
O Merlin, that thou shalt put on thine over-shoes!
O think how shame would crush
Thy soul if thou shouldst wash
That sacred sword in slush,
Because thou didst not wear the requisite galosh!
The Lady of the Lake
With terrible dispatch
Her stern revenge would take
If thou shouldst even employ a single sulphur-match!
Thy journey must be free
From any guiding spark;
By absolute decree
Excalibur must go to bed quite in the dark.
O noble sword, thy might
In happiness we shelve,
Since thou hast come to fight
The last great battle of the fated twelve.
Farewell, secure from fray;
And shouldst thou crave, instead,
For further foes to slay,
We should reply, "Not any, thank thee-- to bed."
Superbly canst thou strike,
As we in memory keep,
Yet we confess we like
Thee best, Excalibur, when thou art fast asleep.
Of course on moor or fen
Thy prowess all aver,
But we've observed that then
The orphans and the widows frequently occur. . . .
And so farewell, farewell, farewell, Excalibur!
In slumber's holy spell
Long may thy grandeur dwell,--
Yes, even till Doomsday's knell,
Farewell, farewell, farewell,
Our glorious and victorious sword, Excalibur!
( Merlin moves toward the castle, bearing the sword aloft, followed reverently by King Arthur, the knights, ladies and populace. )
ACT II.
Enter Sir Galahad, musing pensively.
SIR GALAHAD:
With mercy I was harsh to Vivien.
Best shatter as I did by one stout blow
The breadth and height of her infatuate hope!
I think, in spite of what her speech averred,
That she is only one of many maids
Who bear me this devout idolatry.
Why should not many another worship me?
And is it vanity to deem they should?
I am not sure if modesty at all
Concern a being as perfect as myself . . .
Now, am I wrong to argue in this wise?
If I esteemed it wrong I straight should fast--
As I do fast if any speck of blame
Seem like to mar the unblemished life I live.
That is, I would abstain from ale at lunch,
And were my slice of capon dressed to taste,
I would with pious rigor shake my head
At thought of second helping. Praise of self,
In one so superexcellently pure
As I were mad to claim that I were not,
Would scarce be more than common sense of worth.
We would not chide the lily if her white lips
Found voice one day to tell the passing breeze,
"I am a lily and sweetly free from stain."
Why, therefore, when I say that Galahad
Is quite exceptionally void of sin,
Should I be held to boast by faultier minds?
No, on mature reflection, I will take
My usual share of capon when I lunch,
Or even my pasty (should a pasty tempt),
Or even two cups of ale (if thirst be keen),
and relish all with humble appetite
And holy veneration of myself.
( He sings. )
And yet what worldly thought hath shed
Its power across my soul?
If Vivien had a golden head,
Could I my love control?
If gold the head of Vivien clad,
Were love so lightly tamed? . . .
O Galahad, O Galahad,
You ought to be ashamed!
I quite detest this feeling new
That wakes my self-contempt;
If Vivien's locks were gold of hue,
Would love my heart exempt?
Ah, truth were best (when turned so sad)
By harmless fibs disclaimed . . .
O Galahad, O Galahad,
You ought to be ashamed!
In high alarm do I resent
This firm but fatal bond
Of unexpected sentiment
For Vivien as a blonde.
Against my will it makes me glad
With happiness unnamed . . .
O Galahad, O Galahad,
You ought to be ashamed!
Can I believe that love would set
Her raptures in my reach,
If Vivien, who is now brunette,
Should ever chance to bleach?
As one who slips from good to bad,
With fear I am inflamed . . .
O Galahad, O Galahad,
You ought to be ashamed!
( Sir Galahad moves mournfully away, while a chorus of revellers begins from within the castle. )
CHORUS OF REVELLERS:
With feast and sport
We now consort,
The merry dames of Arthur's court;
While joys abound
We here are found,
The Knights of Arthur's Table Round.
With nimble feet
We form and fleet,
In many a measure soft and sweet;
With shining eyes,
With happy sighs,
We dance till dawn shall scale the skies!
Oh, dance and sing,
While pages bring
The cups where golden dragons cling;
Oh, dance and drink,
With cups that clink,
And loitering hands that interlink!
Oh, "all is well"
The sentinel
To Camelot's town will shortly tell,
When proudly, soon,
At night's mid-noon,
The towers of Camelot meet the moon!
But we who quaff,
In mirth's behalf
The wine where lustres leap and laugh,
We dance the more
While many a score
Of sleepy burghers toss and snore.
In pomp and pride
The galleries glide,
By mantling banners glorified,
Or glittering tiers
Of chandeliers
On helms of glittering halberdiers.
At times we seem
Like shapes of dream
That out from shadowy legends gleam;
At times we throng
As they who long
Were ghosts of story and of song!
At times we hear,
Or faint or clear,
A phantom voice amid our cheer;
A wandering air
The words will bear,
"Ye are not and ye never were!"
Oh, dance with glee,
For what know we
Of things that are and things to be?
Oh, pour anew
The wine, for who
Hath power to part the false from true?
Oh, Merlin sage,
All gray with age,
Dost thou know more than prince or page?
Go, teach thy spells,
Where wisdom dwells,
To Dagonet, with his cap-and-bells!
Thy learning school,
By rote and rule,
With good King Arthur's gaudy fool!
For Dagonet now
Can guess, we vow,
The riddle of life as well as thou!
We all are here,
In festal gear,
Gawaine, Geraint and Bedivere;
we all are met,
Elaine, Lynette,
And hosts of lovelier ladies yet!
With hest and wile,
With quip and smile,
The hours of banquet we beguile--
With cups that clink,
And blushes pink,
And loitering hands that interlink!
Oh, speed the rout,
And round about,
For life's a dream and death's a doubt!
Oh, pour the wine,
For who shall sign
The bounds of human and divine?
Oh, circle well,
For who can tell
The day that brings the funeral-bell?
Oh, fill the bowls,
And when it tolls,
May Saints have mercy on our souls!
With wines that wink
And cups that clink,
And loitering hands that interlink,
In feast and sport
We now consort,
The knights and dames of Arthur's court!
( Merlin now slowly enters, and pauses in revery. )
MERLIN:
The tenor of their wine-song likes me not.
Modred was right. My old prestige is lost.
They rank me half in jeer with Arthur's fool,
That grinning Dagonet, whose wry wit can strike
With random malice, like a smitten snake.
Oh, well it is temptation comes my way;
Had Lancelot failed to tempt, I must have made
Some other shift to work my vengeful spleen.
I wonder, now and then, if dame or lord
Have chanced, by rumor led or by surmise,
On the cold ugly truth that I am not
wholly the same miraculous personage
I rate myself . . . Who's there? 'Tis thou, sir fool?
( Dagonet, the fool, has cautiously entered. )
DAGONET:
Hats off, good Merlin, when the fool draws nigh.
He's king, thou knowest it well, when t'other fool,
His royal master, doth fool otherwhere.
Nay, I miss terms; thou dost not don a hat;
Thou hast but several centuries of hair,
White as the whitest plume the goose can vaunt.
MERLIN:
Peace, peace, thou fool. The seneschals within
Will give thee cakes and comfits of thy fill.
Get hence. I muse.
DAGONET:
Nay, Merlin, so do I.
MERLIN:
Pray, fool, on what large matter dost thou muse?
DAGONET:
On my huge age. That I, last birthday, reached
Three thousand years of life--and live to tell't.
MERLIN:
Thou mockest me, thou wriggling eel of man.
I think thy head is like the viper's own--
The brains of it pushed out by venom. Go!
DAGONET:
Now, marry, if a man hath skill enough,
I see not why he should lack power to be
Immortal . . . till he dies.
MERLIN:
What saidst thou, knave?
DAGONET:
Nay, never knave, good Merlin--always fool;
A most complaisant fool, withal, and one
That knows to keep a secret jealously,
As magpies keep their spoil.
( He laughs gleefully. )
MERLIN:
What secret, pray?
I warrant 'twas a worse fool than thyself
Who gave thee one.
DAGONET:
What I do know I know!
( He sings. )
At Camelot town,
With staff and gown,
A seer doth dwell in great renown.
Of stars and moon,
His comrades boon,
He chants in many a mystic rune.
He claims to deal,
For woe or weal,
In spells and charms that hurt or heal--
To plot and plan,
By curse and ban,
By amulet and by talisman.
Perchance 'tis true,
Howe'er they grew,
His powers of magic are not few;
Beside him here,
I scent a queer
Unsavory brimstone atmosphere.
But when he states
His birthday dates
Beyond the Flood, he--fabricates.
And when he cries
He never dies,
Why, Dagonet, then, declares he lies!
CHORUS OF REVELLERS ( heard within ):
O Merlin sage,
All gray with age,
Dost thou know more than prince or page?
Go teach thy spells,
Where wisdom dwells,
To Dagonet, with his cap-and-bells!
DAGONET ( dancing scornfully ):
O mighty mage,
Believed so sage,
We both are fools, and earn our wage.
O seer most high,
You're young as I;
You say you're not, but you know you lie!
CHORUS OF REVELLERS:
O Merlin, school
By rote and rule
Thy learning with King Arthur's fool;
For Dagonet now
Can guess, we vow,
The riddle of life as well as thou!
DAGONET ( dancing before Merlin while he recedes ):
Ah, go to school,
From now till Yule,
to Dagonet, good King Arthur's fool.
For when you cry
You'll never die,
You don't prevaricate--no, you lie!
( Merlin disappears into the castle, Dagonet dancing before him. )
DAGONET ( alone ):
By these white moonbeams folding these gray towers,
It needs not even so apt a fool as I
To note some wild work is abroad to-night.
Thrice did I see Sir Modred scowl by stealth
At our brave king, while subtle Vivien
Stood at his arm and whispered in his ear.
Then, too, the Queen . . . her pallor while she went
Between the tapestries of the great South hall,
With Lancelot at her side in quick hot speech . . .
What means it all? Ah, well, a fool hath ears . . .
Too large his ears, they say, too long his tongue.
Howbeit, I know a fool who hath listened much
Already, and can listen more, betimes.
A very wise and comfortable fool
Is Dagonet, since he loves to serve his lord,
King Arthur, and with all his lack of wit
May serve more wisely than some wise fools dream.
( Queen Guinevere has meanwhile appeared from archway. )
GUINEVERE:
What dost thou, Dagonet, moping in the moon?
DAGONET:
I mope not, sweet my lady, but compose
A soft love-ballad to the maid I love.
GUINEVERE:
Lov'st thou a maid? In mercy wed her not.
Bedlam doth brim with madness, as it is.
There, get thee thence; that gargoyle leer of thine
Jars on my mood--nay, tarry not to bow.
DAGONET ( aside ):
(If I but loved thy lord the less, fair Queen,
I'd show thee, who hast ever used me ill,
How fools can hate. . . . But no; I serve the King.
Though curses be my thanks I still will serve.
( Dagonet goes out. )
GUINEVERE:
How dizzy looks the abyss of my misdeed,
Seen from the precipice of sheer resolve!
Yet now it is too late; I dare not pause.
And these majestic towers and buttresses,
Courts, galleries, gardens, all--in losing these,
What may I win? Perchance a frigid throne
Set in dull wastes of country, heaths and wilds.
And yet . . . the face-wash and the hair-dye; here
Is guerdon . . . Nay, but wherefore? If I beamed
A hundredfold more beautiful than now,
What profit, in a land of clods and churls?
Ah, why should this unrest in human hearts
Yearn always after change, though change be loss?
( She sings. )
O lady moon, O mother moon, O moon that movest high,
Elucidate, explain to me, the wherefore and the why!
What is it that coerces us our mortal term to mar
By always wishing we were not the very thing we are?
O lady moon, in splendid state,
In beauty pure and high,
Investigate and intimate
The wherefore and the why!
O queenly moon, O saintly moon, pale priestess of the sky,
If X be X, what makes him want forever to be Y?
If Y is Y, and well-to-do, then wherefore is he led
Invariably to repine because he is not Z?
O lady moon, in lonely state,
Attend my longing sigh;
Enunciate and extricate
The wherefore and the why!
O sombre moon, O sober moon, however well we thrive,
Why should we mourn that two and two make four instead of five?
And when our ducks are healthy ducks, and swim in handsome lakes,
Why should we droop with discontent because they are not drakes?
O lady moon, of glow sedate,
With gracious heed reply;
Communicate and indicate
The wherefore and the why!
( Lancelot now appears, joining Guinevere. )
SIR LANCELOT:
My Queen, it lacks not long of twelve o'clock.
Thy knowledge, as I trust, is now complete,
By just what means to grasp and gain the sword.
GUINEVERE:
Yes, yes . . . Oh, Lancelot, should I quite break down!
SIR LANCELOT:
Break down? Ah, that would break me up, my Queen!
Forgive the jest, which hath a modern tinge,
Unseemly in our quaint Arthurian age.
GUINEVERE:
Oh, Lancelot, I'm a very foolish queen!
Thou knowest I am; deny it not . . . Pray tell,
Shall not my altered tresses and new skin
Find many to admire them in your realm?
SIR LANCELOT:
Myself above all others, glorious Queen!
GUINEVERE:
How many others?
SIR LANCELOT:
We in family
Are seven, if I count fair the list of us.
GUINEVERE:
What! seven! And shall no more than fourteen eyes
Pay homage to my beauty every day?
SIR LANCELOT:
Yes, vassals, village-folk, and--
GUINEVERE:
Out on thee!
What care I whether these admire or no?
Shall I be Queen of Love and Beauty, then,
At no more jousts? or head no cavalcade
Of merry falconers in forests green?
No court, no knights, no ladies, as of yore!
Only the secrets of old Merlin's flasks,
The face-wash and the hair-dye, and--
SIR LANCELOT:
Myself!
My passionate homage, Guinevere, will hold
All other that their deed or speech could pay.
( He takes a lute from near by, and sings. )
If I should make some perfect song,
Your smile to claim,
Another voice, more sweet and strong,
Would wake another song and shame
My own, erelong--
If I should make some perfect song,
Your smile to claim.
If I should match in marble pure
That shape divine,
The years would level and obscure
My sculpture till no certain sign
Were left secure--
If I should match in marble pure
That shape divine!
If I caught colors from the sea,
The flowers, the sun,
To paint your picture with--ah me!
Back to their native bournes each one
At last would flee--
If I caught colors from the sun,
The flowers, the sea!
Since I can praise from many ways
No deathless way,
'Tis sweet to dream that for all days
Immortally my love shall stay,
Its own best praise--
Since I can praise from many ways
No deathless way!
( Merlin has now appeared. )
MERLIN:
A tender song, but this were scarce the hour
For ditties tuned in such a lightsome key.
The Queen hath full instruction of her task?
GUINEVERE:
Ay, full, and will perform it if her nerves
Can possibly endure the dreadful stress.
MERLIN:
Nerves, madam? Dost thou not anticipate
Thy time by several centuries too soon?
Nerves feminine, if right I prophesy,
Will not importantly develope till
Somewhere about the nineteenth century,
When ills of strange name, like neuralgia,
Dyspepsia and hysteria, wide should rage.
SIR LANCELOT:
Great prophet!--fit Prime Minister indeed!
GUINEVERE:
Nathless I now do feel what nerves are like . . .
Oh, Merlin, Lancelot, why do we commit
This reckless deed, when all have much to lose,
When none, in losing much, may safely count
As absolute result on winning more?
MERLIN:
I cannot give the answer you exact;
It is immersed in psychologic mist;
And yet I will advance it as a fact
That many people stalk
From virtue's proper walk
Because of some obscure cerebral twist.
And therefore what we do I would explain
By venturing the clause
That it is done because
All three of us are morally insane.
GUINEVERE:
How thoroughly delightful to be told
This welcome and invigorating news!
With altered gaze my conduct I behold,
When on the grim affair
At last I bring to bear
Your liberally scientific views;
Since now 'tis far more easy to explain
The reason of our lapse
By saying that perhaps
All three of us are morally insane.
SIR LANCELOT:
Extenuating circumstances ought
Undoubtedly to help condone our crime,
And possibly you've neither of you thought
That we have been compelled
To live in days of eld,--
A most romantic yet barbaric time!
So this consideration may explain
The mischief we are at
More lucidly than that
All three of us are morally insane.
GUINEVERE, MERLIN AND SIR LANCELOT:
Oh, yes, though we are keenly picturesque,
Our casuistry may appear amiss,
And stimulate sardonical burlesque
For persons yet unborn,
Who probably will scorn
Our total want of moral synthesis.
And so this new reflection may explain
Our object of debate
Much better than to state
All three of us are morally insane.
SIR LANCELOT:
Let us return, my Queen, else all within
Will gossip of our absence from the rout.
GUINEVERE:
Sir Lancelot, for the last time thou and I
As Queen and subject will together dance.
And then . . . Why, then I shall be Queen no more--
Only the most ungrateful wife on earth!
SIR LANCELOT:
But think--you may be morally insane.
GUINEVERE:
Alas! that plea may legally excuse
The brazen indiscretion I commit.
But can it salve the wound of conscience?--no!
SIR LANCELOT ( to Merlin ):
Thou hast no salves for wounds of conscience, eh?
MERLIN:
There grew a field-herb hereabouts, wherefrom
I once distilled a physic for remorse.
But scarce the people of its use had learned
When I was so besieged by calls for it
That roundly at last I cried to them, "Go cure
Your own remorses," and I spilled my drug.
GUINEVERE:
Let us pass in, Sir Lancelot, thou and I--
The wicked courtier and his foolish Queen!
SIR LANCELOT:
Remember, Merlin. On the stroke of twelve
All three of us do meet where now we stand.
( Sir Lancelot and Guinevere go out. )
MERLIN:
Small marvel that the Queen should hate her fault
Ere consummate! I cannot well decide
Wherefore she lets herself slip into it.
True, Lancelot is a comelier make of man,
Steps freer and hath more majesty of build.
Then Arthur is a most transcendent prig;
I think 'twere hard for one to ever find,
Not though he lived three spans of mortal life,
A more self-centered prig than is our King.
Not Galahad may compare with him in this,
For Galahad's glory of self is like a child's.
And yet I think some motive sways the Queen,
Unguessed by any one save Lancelot.
Nor is it her regard for Lancelot,
Nor yet . . .
VIVIEN ( who has covertly approached ):
Great seer, the revel tempts not thee?
MERLIN:
Nor thee, it seems, fair Lady Vivien.
VIVIEN:
Thou call'st me fair; I would be fair indeed,
Had I that face-wash and that hair-dye, kept
In separate flasks of crystal by thyself
This many and many a year. O give them me!
MERLIN:
An idle tale. No charms like these are mine.
VIVIEN:
Denial is easy, but I know . . . I know!
(Now, could I win these flasks ere twelve be struck,
I would play false to Modred and inform
The King what treachery menaces his realm!)
Nay, Merlin, hide the treasures if thou wilt,
Yet Vivien, who already holds thee dear,
For such an act of generosity
Would pay thee all her heart in recompense!
MERLIN:
(I never had such flasks, as Heaven could prove!
Yet I have heard this rumor, and it served
My purpose to augment authority
and fame for witchcraft by a mute assent.)
VIVIEN:
What mutterest thou so weirdly to thyself,
Great Merlin? Is it bane to hurt poor me?
MERLIN:
Nay, lady. Rather would I strike the dust
From some rare moth's voluptuous-colored wings,
Than send a sorrow to thy guileless life.
VIVIEN:
I beg from thee those magic flasks, kind seer!
MERLIN:
Would I could give them! Yet it may not be!
VIVIEN:
Then grant me but a few dear drops from each!
MERLIN:
(I never felt so hollow a fraud as now!)
A few drops, Lady Vivien? No, not one!
VIVIEN:
Not one! . . . What symmetry thy nose conveys,
Here in the dubious moonlight's dreamy dusk!
I always yearned to love a man who had
Importance, dignity and wisdom, all
Blent in the single compass of a nose!
MERLIN:
I have been told ere now my nose was not
Contemptible . . . Yet seek not for the flasks!
VIVIEN:
And then thy beard, thy patriarchal beard!
Always from early girlhood I have longed
To win the love and loyalty of a man
With beard so admirably white as thine!
( Galahad now appears from ramparts of castle, where he has been walking, and overhears Vivien's last words. )
SIR GALAHAD:
O faithless girl, for shame!
O girl of trick and feint!
O clever young tactician!
You make love just the same
To Galahad, the saint,
As Merlin, the magician!
MERLIN:
Has Vivien then made love
To you, my spotless child?--
I scarce the tale can credit!
Yet Galahad, my dove,
My lily undefiled--
Remember that you said it!
VIVIEN:
O Galahad, I see
Your eyes upon me beam
With look intensely haughty;
Yet sometimes we are free
From blame, although we seem
Immeasurably naughty!
SIR GALAHAD:
No wonder, wily friend,
That I esteemed your mind
In lore of love omniscient;
I now can comprehend
The causes that combined
To render you proficient.
MERLIN:
A censure so severe
From this most mild of men
Should wound its object sadly.
From all accounts, I fear,
My Lady Vivien,
You've been behaving badly!
VIVIEN:
Of course I feel the stings
Of all this fuss and buzz,
As would not be surprising.
And yet so many things
One innocently does
Are counted compromising!
SIR GALAHAD:
I fail to catch the sense
Of your rejoinder dark,
Though all its wit conceding;
I rest on evidence
(As lawyers would remark)
The case that I am pleading.
( King Arthur now appears from archway of castle. )
KING ARTHUR:
What, lords and ladies, chanting i' the moon?
Wise Merlin here? and thou, Sir Galahad?
And Lady Vivien? Where, then is the Queen?
VIVIEN:
We know not, good my liege. Does she not dance?
KING ARTHUR:
She hath not danced this hour, I will be sworn.
I thought to find her here. Why look ye all
At your most royal sire thus bitingly?
MERLIN:
Not bitingly, your Grace, yet with due leave
We all have dread lest you be half in wine.
KING ARTHUR:
Half, think ye? I am nigh three quarters in't.
VIVIEN:
My lord!
SIR GALAHAD:
King Arthur--thou!
MERLIN:
Incredible!
KING ARTHUR:
Nay, credible enough. I like it, too,
This being in wine the first time o' my life.
How sits the mad mood, Merlin, on thy King?
Say quick, or I'll have Dagonet here, my fool,
To answer in thy stead.
MERLIN:
It suits thee well,
My lord, as all moods. (Even in wine, still prig!)
KING ARTHUR:
Am I not blameless knight and gentleman,
Quite as before? I warrant you I am!
Where's Galahad? . . . Ah, so thou hast kept from wine,
My prodigy? Alas! thou hast no more
A rival in thy King, but reignest sole
For all abstemious habits under sun.
( Guinevere and Lancelot now appear, and afterward Modred. )
Sir Lancelot and the Queen! So, Guinevere,
Thou'rt found at last. Now, by the saints, I ask
Is this nice courtesy to leave thy lord,
So late returned as victor from dread wars,
And while the jubilant revel misses thee,
Steal with a knight of ours to watch the moon
Float pensive over Camelot's thronging towers?
GUINEVERE:
I do beseech thy clemency, my liege.
Sir Lancelot kept at heart an eating pain,
And sought my counsel with desire to use
What help alleviative I could lend.
(Some falsehood must I coin, and why not this?)
VIVIEN ( to Modred ):
Mark how the King doth gaze on Lancelot.
Can this be jealousy's hot stab and cut,
Or do the wine-fumes breed mere flitting wrath?
MODRED ( to Vivien ):
'Tis neither. Wine doth make him jest--no more.
The King could never bring himself to dream
That any spouse of his preferred him not
Before all men, live, dead or yet to be.
KING ARTHUR:
What pain of soul could my good Lancelot have
He would not tell his King, yet trust his Queen
To-night in gallant confidence withal?
MODRED ( to Vivien ):
What said I? Go persuade the swan her plumes
Are soot-black ere thou couldst make Arthur think
The woman breathes who does not worship him!
KING ARTHUR:
Ah, now I think, my Lancelot, thou perchance
Dost grieve remembering that fair girl, Elaine,
Who floated down to Camelot in a barge,
Quite dead for love of thee.
GUINEVERE ( to Lancelot ):
Say yes--say yes.
SIR LANCELOT:
Why, yes, my lord. This was and is my grief.
KING ARTHUR:
A sorry and pretty tale; I mind it well.
Elaine, the lily-maid of Astolat,
Died all for love of thee, who loved her not.
Ah me! how worse than foolish in the maid!
Had she but seen ourself, now, all were changed.
We had consoled her graciously. Perchance,
On noting that she loved us to excess,
We would have given her out Sir Galahad,
The lily of men to wed the lily-maid.
SIR GALAHAD:
Thanks, thanks, your Majesty. (what gross conceit!)
SIR LANCELOT:
(Was ever such a pattern of a man,
So drenched and steeped in arrant egotism?)
KING ARTHUR:
I made a ballad on the lily-maid;
How goes it? Let me con it in my thoughts.
MODRED ( to Vivien ):
(Twelve soon will strike, and if the King bide here,
'Twill ruin the whole conspiracy they plan.)
MERLIN ( to Sir Lancelot and the Queen ):
(If he should sing the ballad, draughts of time
Were drawn, ere midnight, that we ill can spare.)
GUINEVERE:
(I know . . . Yet when he wills to sing, he sings.)
SIR LANCELOT:
(He deems his ballad sweet; 'tis trivial stuff.
Peace rest thee, lily-maid of Astolat!)
KING ARTHUR:
I have it, every word and every line!
It is an almost faultless piece of work . . . .
( He sings. )
In a castle quite decayed,
Not so very long ago,
Dwelt a modest little maid,
With a neck as white as snow,
And a manner that was meek and unconventional.
To this castle's gate, one day,
Did the good Sir Lancelot stray,
Though his visit there by means was intentional.
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
So clever to advance a lot
Of pleasantries that ended but in pain!
Though your conduct was inviolate,
With love you did annihilate
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine.
KING ARTHUR:
How her rosy ears did hum
As she oped the castle-door,
And besought the knight to come
Where her family of four
Had been lunching upon nothing in particular!
It was certainly no sin
For Elaine to ask him in,
Though already somewhat off her perpendicular!
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
You're capable to glance a lot,
Yet from imprudent speeches you refrain!
To your graces not insensible,
She found you indispensable,
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine!
KING ARTHUR:
To her brothers he was kind,
And the aged, Earl, her sire;
All the culture of his mind
He induced them to admire,
When the lily-maid was watching and was listening.
But he failed to see the blush
That her tender cheek would flush,
Or the lights that in her lovely eyes were glistening.
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
You owe to circumstance a lot,
For making you excel in brawn and brain;
But unhappy was the day with her
You had a word to say with her,
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine!
KING ARTHUR:
By necessity the stay
Of Sir Lancelot was brief,
And he shortly rode away,
To the girl's exceeding grief,
And the flattering regret of all her family;
But before a year had fled,
Poor Elaine was lying dead--
On her modest little bed was lying clammily!
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
You've added to romance a lot,
Yet still you've every reason to complain
Of the mournful notoriety
She gave you in society,
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine!
KING ARTHUR:
But the luckless lily-maid,
By her ante-mortem charge,
Had her beauteous body laid
On an ornamental barge,
That to Camelot floated sombre and funereal;
And the lords and ladies here,
When they saw the barge appear,
Thought they scented very scandalous material.
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
In Italy or France a lot
Of similar events we could sustain,
But in England we have froze a bit
And fear she meant to pose a bit,
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine!
KING ARTHUR:
Yet Sir Lancelot was sound
In his conduct as a knight,
For the evidence was found
To exonerate him quite,
In a posthumous epistle most poetical.
It was hid within her breast,
And intelligence expressed
Of a passion unrequited and pathetical!
CHORUS:
O you captivating Lancelot,
Your manners may entrance a lot,
Yet all ignoble dealings you disdain;
For to smile upon and fascinate
Was hardly to assassinate
The lily-maid of Astolat, Elaine!
KING ARTHUR:
Pardon, dear Lancelot, if our verse offends.
We think that we ere now have sung it thee.
Our mood is merry at whiles, as thou dost know,
When onerous cares of state engross us not.
SIR LANCELOT:
The greatest have been merry amid their cups,
And therefore why not thou? (My sarcasm stings
No more than would a nettle sting an ox!)
KING ARTHUR:
True, I am great. No greater yet has lived.
I sometimes marvel at the plenitude
Of mine own greatness--just as thou, I know,
Sir Galahad, marvellest at thy pure fame.
SIR GALAHAD:
Nay, sire, I rank my virtue with naught else
That lives on earth. I draw my line at earth.
KING ARTHUR:
Come, now, Sir Galahad; and I rank my strength
Of greatness well above thy sinless life.
SIR GALAHAD:
Then does thy majesty in error dwell,
Nor wouldst thou speak like this except in wine.
KING ARTHUR:
Thou darest thus to brave my royalty?
SIR GALAHAD:
Yes, for if angry thou wouldst cease to be
A blameless knight and stainless gentleman.
KING ARTHUR:
I had forgot. I must be always those.
Yet, Galahad, dost thou positively think
Thyself mine equal? Candidly respond.
SIR GALAHAD:
Hadst thou my purity, thou wouldst excel
As never king excelled since time began.
Had I thy force in fight, I would be more
Than thou this hour canst ever dream to be.
MODRED ( to Vivien ):
(Mark how they wrangle now in discourse hot.
Forsooth, a pair of kings, the realm of each
His own immeasurable love for self!)
SIR LANCELOT ( to Guinevere ):
('Twill soon be twelve. Must we stand here and list
To interchange of vanities like these?
Address the King; persuade him to return
Ere languor in the revel he has quit
Shall mar its joy and spoil his worth as host.)
GUINEVERE ( to Sir Lancelot ):
(Fain would I speak, yet fear my wariest phrase
Might wake the alert distrust I would avoid.)
CHORUS OF REVELLERS ( heard within ):
Oh, dance with glee,
For what know we
Of things that are and things to be?
Oh, pour anew
The wine, for who
Hath power to part the false from true?
KING ARTHUR:
Thy hand, my Galahad. Heardest thou that strain?
The knights and nobles call us. Well, agree
We both are almost, in our separate ways,
Pre-eminently perfect, yet not quite.
SIR GALAHAD:
It seems to me, my liege, that I am quite.
KING ARTHUR:
Incorrigible Galahad! Farewell.
I go to join the dance again. And thou,
Sir Lancelot, hast thou ended with the Queen?
Come all--thou Merlin, too, our seer and priest,
Come, taste the flashing wine from golden cups,
And dream thy lore its jocund wisdom mates!
( They all retire except Modred and Vivien. )
MODRED:
A happy chance. The wine-song from within
Has lured King Arthur back. Now, Vivien--ick;
Hide yonder with me in the buttresses.
( The form of a cloaked man steals along back of stage. )
VIVIEN:
Look, Modred. What strange flitting shape was that?
Nay, saw you nothing?
MODRED:
Nothing, as I live.
VIVIEN:
Well, well, perchance I only dreamed I saw.
( She goes with Modred into ambush. )
( An interval. The stage is empty. Guinevere appears from castle. Sir Lancelot and Merlin soon follow. )
GUINEVERE:
I bade the pages ply the King with wine.
MERLIN:
Right hast thou done, my Queen. 'Tis twelve. Prepare.
Here are the keys, and yonder is the vault.
SIR LANCELOT:
Go bravely and go firmly, Guinevere.
How art thou shod? In overshoes, I trust.
GUINEVERE:
Look. Are these queenly feet thou dost behold?
SIR LANCELOT:
O desecrated feet! . . . And yet endure
The ordeal; it will not be for long. Farewell!
( Twelve o'clock sounds from one of the towers. )
MERLIN:
Farewell, my Queen. Haste ere the final stroke!
( Guinevere hurries to the door of the vault, unlocks it, and disappears. )
MODRED ( heard from the dimness ):
Look, Vivien. She has gone to seek the sword.
VIVIEN:
And art thou sure to seize it first of all,
When she emerges? What if thou shouldst fail?
MODRED:
I shall not fail. Nor Lancelot nor the sage
Dream we are here. Take courage; all is well.
SIR LANCELOT:
Merlin, what voice was that? Or did my sense
Entrap me with the semblance of a voice?
MERLIN:
Sir Lancelot, I heard nothing. All is still.
( A noise of thunder is heard, and the vault is redly illumined. )
SIR LANCELOT:
Heaven save us, Merlin! Is the Queen beset
By peril that we had not counted on?
What mean this glare and sound?
MERLIN:
Allay thy fears.
'Tis but the Lady of the Lake, whose wrath
As guardian of Excalibur we rouse.
Thus far hath Guinevere her task achieved;
Each minute, now, is big with fateful chance.
( The moonlight becomes obscured; the thunder grows louder. )
SIR LANCELOT:
Alas! the imperilled Queen! We both were mad
To let her dare those diabolic spells.
MERLIN:
This last wild crash gave signal that the sword
Was lifted from his chest below the moat.
All future risk threats only her return.
SIR LANCELOT:
And see . . . the vault grows ruddier; that is well.
If now no actual flame shall touch the Queen,
This fairy wrath will dissipate the dark,
And so make easier each new step she takes.
( Guinevere soon emerges from the vault, staggering, and dragging the sword, whose hilt she clutches with both hands. The darkness becomes denser, and the thunder-peals are of greater volume. She utters a shriek as the sword is seized from her hand by some one whose face she cannot discern, and who instantly afterward vanishes. The darkness is diminishing when she encounters Merlin and Sir Lancelot. )
MERLIN:
Thou hast secured the sword, heroic Queen!
SIR LANCELOT:
Flower of all courage feminine art thou!
I kiss thy hands--d yet . . . they bear no sword!
MERLIN:
Excalibur? What hast thou done with him?
Just ere the darkness grew so dense, I saw
Thee bearing him, close-clutched, from out the vault.
GUINEVERE:
Nay, some one seized him from me, vanishing
So swiftly in the lurid dusk, I keep
No record of his lineaments or shape.
MERLIN:
O dire misfortune! Ruin is now our doom!
SIR LANCELOT:
O dread fatality!
( Encountering Modred. )
Traitor, it was thou!
Thou hast Excalibur! Confess, or feel
My sword forever make thine answers mute!
MODRED:
By every saint I swear to you, the brand
Excalibur I have not, nor conceive
Whither he has been spirited, or by whom!
VIVIEN:
What Modred utters is the whitest truth.
GUINEVERE:
Some grewsome mystery lies beneath all this.
MERLIN:
Excalibur has disappeared! Oh, shame,
Disaster, punishment unspeakable!
SIR LANCELOT:
The King approaches. Modred, we are all
Conspirators against him; that is plain.
Vivien and you in ambush were concealed,
Knowing our plot to rape Excalibur,
And hoping to secure him for yourselves.
Confess that you, as we, were deep in guile.
MODRED:
We do confess!
VIVIEN:
We both are black with blame!
SIR LANCELOT:
So be it. Then let us all stand firm of front,
And cleave, each one, to what the other says.
Our single hope of safety dwells in this.
Let all cry innocence with common tongue,
And fight it out hereafter as we may,
When watched no longer of the royal eye.
( King Arthur now appears from castle, with many knights, ladies, retainers, etc. )
KING ARTHUR:
What sounds are these
That break upon our joy,
Our blood to freeze,
Our revel to destroy?
What means, where all was recently so quiet,
This horrid elemental roar and riot?
CHORUS:
What means it all?
(We thrill with nameless fright.)
Has somebody, with boldness to appall,
Done something that offends the rules of right?
Who, then, is the delinquent? Let us meet him,
And with proper indignation greet him!
KING ARTHUR:
We danced, we sang,
Our hearts were filled with peace.
This dreaded clang
Began, and would not cease.
And while with merriment we strove to shun it,
We feared, each one, lest what we drank had done it.
CHORUS:
Oh, no, a little wine
Of brand exceeding dear,
Could never make the intellect incline
To such a strange deception of the ear.
Habitual intemperance might do it,
But as for that, we all of us eschew it!
MERLIN:
Some impious hand, my lord, hath dared to steal
Thy sacred sword, Excalibur. The vault
Flared red with light a moment since, while bursts
Of thunder shook the heaven, and darkness veiled
The journeying moon. Sir Modred thought he saw
A cloaked shape dart away at headlong speed,
Bearing the sword; but who the dastard thief
We dream not, and the keys that ope the vault
I keep, as always, guarded with my life.
KING ARTHUR:
My sword, Excalibur! Blood, flame and death!
Where are thy magic arts, astrologer?
Catch me the knave, and I will see him swing
This very night from Camelot's tallest tower.
( Dagonet now appears. He hurries to King Arthur with the sword, and lays it at his feet, kneeling. )
OMNES:
What, Dagonet! Then did Dagonet steal the sword?
DAGONET:
Nay, Dagonet saved it for his kingly sire.
My liege, they all are traitors--Merlin there,
And Lancelot, Modred, Vivien--yes, even she
Thou trustest with surpassing trust--thy Queen!
SIR LANCELOT:
What insolence is this? Thou canst not, sire,
Believe the fool who babbles its mad tale.
GUINEVERE:
Nay, Lancelot, do not dream the king believes.
MERLIN:
Thy fool, King Arthur, hath purloined the sword,
And fearing after, with a true thief's fear,
Flings this atrocious charge upon ourselves.
MODRED:
I mind me now of what I had forgot,
My King, or deemed not worth remembering.
This fool, while Merlin dozed, some three hours since,
I saw emerging, with a cat-like tread,
From the seer's chamber in the northmost tower.
He paled and cowered when I confronted him,
Threading by chance the outer corridor.
'Twas then, past doubt, that he had filched the keys
From Merlin, afterward returning them,
I dare be sworn, when he had oped the vault
And made all ready for his midnight theft.
GUINEVERE:
And now, in terror, sire, he soils my name
With gross aspersion. Ah, 'tis horrible!
VIVIEN:
A fool's mere random transport. Who but scorns
To credit him, or deems his empty rant
Of weightier purport than the idle breeze?
DAGONET:
My lord, King Arthur, hear me when I say--
KING ARTHUR:
That thou art crafty knave no less than fool!
Speak not another word! Already crime
By right has drawn the noose about thy throat!
That we can pardon thee is due alone
To thy scant wit, whose work may not be judged
Equal with villainies of sounder brains.
DAGONET:
Hear me, Lord Arthur! Mercifully hear!
KING ARTHUR:
Get hence, poor Dagonet; liberty and life
Are compassed for thee in our pity, and this
We give from natural benignancy,
Being perhaps the most magnanimous king
That ever sat or shall sit throned to rule.
DAGONET:
My lord, I plead with you--
KING ARTHUR:
Why, seize him, then,
Sir Lamorack, Sir Gawain, and lodge him safe
Within the nearest monastery. Instruct
The monks to watch him as a lunatic
Of dangerous fashion and conceit, and tell
The holy men how he essayed to steal
My brand, Excalibur.
( Dagonet is borne away. )
Good people, all,
I pray you will observe my noble act.
It is but one of many hundreds more
Since I began to reign. Make note of it,
Good people; at some future day 'twill serve
With gold memorial letters to illume
One of my many monuments on earth.
SIR GALAHAD:
I hope your majesty does not expect
Complete monopoly, when you are dead,
Of all the monuments that shall be built.
GUINEVERE:
I tremble, Arthur, at the indignity
Of that fool's reckless charge. Sir Lancelot, thou
Must feel the scorching wrong of Dagonet's words.
SIR LANCELOT:
That jester's falsehood? Why, the tinkle of bells
Trilled through its gravity, making all mere masque
And mummery, till I scarce kept wrath to frown.
MERLIN:
Sir Lancelot speaks in wisdom. Nay, to heed
Such fury of accusation were to clothe
Slander with dignity, had even our fool
Been other than the garrulous imp he is.
(My Queen, be wary lest thy lord should see
Thine overshoes peep forth below thy robe.
Trifles like these might sow calamity--
And rid the holy men of Dagonet's care.)
VIVIEN:
(Sir Galahad, canst thou never love me, then,
If I remain brunette? I promise thee
That no brunette of more domestic turn
Has ever lived as wife than I would prove.)
SIR GALAHAD:
(Hadst thou been blonde . . . ah, well, I will not say
What joy has perished for all future time!
O Vivien, wildly, passionately loved!--)
VIVIEN:
(My Galahad! Dost thou mean it?)
SIR GALAHAD:
(No, not now.
I would have meant it, wert thou only blonde.
Farewell, my blonde that art not nor canst be,
This woful barrier lies between us twain
Forevermore. I shall be virgin knight
Henceforth, with one long sorrow in my soul,
And all my dreams and thoughts to one sad tune
Set ceaselessy--"She might have been a blonde!")
KING ARTHUR:
Why should this rough mishap our joyance mar?
Let us forget that Dagonet's folly was.
It still wants hours of dawn. Come, ladies, knights,
With thanks that good Excalibur is saved,
Let us fare back to revel and high pomp.
( He sings. )
Excalibur, the sacred sword,
Back to his royal owner is restored.
Give thanks, with high acclaim, with loud accord;
Let Camelot's towers and halls their echoes deep
O'er buttress, moat and bastion rise and sweep.
Excalibur, that we could ill afford
To lose, has found again his rightful lord!
Give thanks, give thanks,
Our loyal people, of all grades and ranks,
Give thanks, give thanks!
GENERAL CHORUS:
Give thanks, give thanks,
That by whatever curious tricks or pranks,
From out his awful chest
Some thief has dared to wrest
Our great Excalibur, the villain gains
Prompt punishment for all his evil pains.
Of course the present ode
Wherewith we celebrate this unsuccessful crime
Should mark an episode
That merits chronicling in future time.
And yet we greatly fear
That everybody here
Will merely prove the subject of romantic rhyme.
For none of us with surety can insist
That we at all exist,--
Nor knight, nor seer, nor lady!
It is our private feeling that we all are shady
As matter for the archæologist!
We somehow feel, although it may be fancy,
We soon will disappear by necromancy,--
Dissolved in something vague and legendary,
To puzzle every future antiquary!
But whether right or wrong
In this our supposition,
And whether we belong
To poet, to historian or to statistician,
We still with all due courtesy make bold
To call this New King Arthur of our song
As thoroughly authentic as the Old.
Nay, we will even go farther,
And say that no King Arthur
One bit of authenticity may hold
In his apocryphal and mythic mould,
Despite the songs that have been sung,
Despite the rhymes that have been rung,
Despite the tales nonsensical, like this that we have told!
THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL
by
EUGENE FIELD
Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth,
To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This holy Christmasse time;
But give us of thy heavenly cheere
That we may hold thy love most deere
And know thy peace sublime.
-------
Full merry waxed King Pelles court
With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport,
And, when the board was spread,
Now wit ye well 'twas good to see
So fair and brave a companie
With Pelles at the head.
"Come hence, Elaine," King Pelles cried,
"Come hence and sit ye by my side,
For never yet, I trow,
Have gentle virtues like to thine
Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,
Nor shall be nevermo!"
"Sweete sir, my father," quoth Elaine,
"Me it repents to give thee pain--
Yet, tarry I may not;
For I shall soond and I shall die
If I behold this companie
And see not Launcelot!
"My heart shall have no love but this--
My lips shall know no other kiss,
Save only, father, thine;
So graunt me leave to seek my bower,
The lonely chamber in the toure,
Where sleeps his child and mine."
Then frowned the King in sore despite;
"A murrain seize that traitrous knight,
For that he lies!" he cried--
"A base, unchristian paynim he,
Else, by my beard, he would not be
A recreant to his bride!
"Oh, I had liefer yield my life
Than see thee the deserted wife
Of dastard Launcelot!
Yet an' thou has no mind to stay,
Go with thy damosels away--
Lo, I'll detain ye not."
Her damosels in goodly train
Back to her chamber led Elaine,
And when her eyes were cast
Upon her babe, her tears did flow
And she did wail and weep as though
Her heart had like to brast.
The while she grieved the Yuletide sport
Waxed lustier in King Pelles' court,
And louder, houre by houre,
The echoes of the rout were borne
To where the lady, all forlorn,
Made moning in the toure,
"Swete Chryste," she cried, "ne let me hear
Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere
That mock at mine and me;
Graunt that my sore affliction cease
And give me of the heavenly peace
That comes with thoughts of thee!"
Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light
Made all that lonely chamber bright,
And o'er the infant's bed
A spirit hand, as samite pail,
Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail
Above the infant's head.
And from the sacred golden cup
A subtle incense floated up
And filled the conscious air,
Which, when she breathed, the fair Elaine
Forgot her grief, forgot her pain.
Forgot her sore despair.
And as the Grail's mysterious balm
Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,
Great mervail 'twas to see
The sleeping child stretch one hand up
As if in dreams he held the cup
Which none mought win but he.
Through all the night King Pelles' court
Made mighty cheer and goodly sport.
Nor never recked the joy
That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide
To Launcelot's deserted bride
And to her sleeping boy.
Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth
To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This present Christmasse night;
But send among us to and fro
Thy Holy Grail, that men may know
The joy withe wisdom dight.
TOM THUMB, A TRAGEDY
by
HENRY FIELDING
Dramatis Personæ
MEN.
KING ARTHUR, (Mr. Mullart. )
TOM THUMB, (Miss Jones. )
Lord GRIZZLE, (Mr. Jones. )
Mr. NOODLE, (Mr. Marshall. )
Mr. DOODLE, (Mr. Reynolds ).
1 PHYSICIAN, (Mr. Hallam ).
2 PHYSICIAN, (Mr. Dove ).
WOMEN.
QUEEN DOLLALOLLA, (Mrs. Mullart ).
PRINCESS HUNCAMUNCA, (Mrs. Jones ).
CLEORA,
MUSTACHA,
Slaves, &c.
ACT I. SCENE I.
SCENE The Palace.
Mr. Doodle, Mr. Noodle.
DOODLE . Sure, such a Day as this was never seen!
The Sun himself, on this auspicious Day
Shines like a Beau in a new Birth-Day Suit:
All Nature, O my Noodle! grins for Joy.
NOODLE . This Day, O Mr. Doodle ! is a Day
Indeed, a Day we never saw before.
The mighty Thomas Thumb victorious comes;
Millions of Giants crowd his Chariot Wheels,
Who bite their Chains, and frown and foam like Mad-Dogs.
He rides, regardless of their ugly Looks.
So some Cock-Sparrow in a Farmer's Yard,
Hops at the Head of an huge Flock of Turkeys.
DOODLE. When Goody Thumb first brought this Thomas forth,
The Genius of our Land triumphant reign'd;
Then, then, O Arthur ! did thy Genius reign.
NOODLE . They tell me, it is whisper'd in the Books
Of all our Sages, That this mighty Hero
(By Merlin's Art begot) has not a Bone
Within his Skin, but is a Lump of Gristle.
DOODLE. Wou'd Arthur's Subjects were such Gristle, all!
He then might break the Bones of ev'ry Foe.
NOODLE. But hark! these Trumpets speak the King's Approach.
DOODLE. He comes most luckily for my Petition!
Let us retire a little.
SCENE II.
King, Queen, Lord Grizzle, Doodle, Noodle.
KING . Let nothing but a Face of Joy appear;
The Man who frowns this Day, shall lose his Head,
That he may have no Face to frown again.
Smile, Dollalolla; -Ha! what wrinkled Sorrow
Sits, like some Mother Demdike , on thy Brow?
Whence flow those Tears fast down thy blubber'd Cheeks,
Like a swoln Gutter, gushing through the Streets?
QUEEN. Excess of Joy, my Lord, I've heard Folks say,
Gives Tears, as often as Excess of Grief.
KING. If it be so, let all Men cry for Joy,
'Till my whole Court be drowned with their Tears;
Nay, 'till they overflow my utmost Land,
And leave me nothing but the Sea to rule.
DOODLE. My Liege! I've a Petition-
KING. Petition me no Petitions, Sir, to-day;
Let other Hours be set apart for Bus'ness.
To-day it is our Pleasure to be drunk,
And this our Queen shall be as drunk as us.
QUEEN. If the capacious Goblet overflow
With Arrack-Punch -'fore George ! I'll see it out;
Of Rum , or Brandy , I'll not taste a Drop.
KING. Tho' Rack , in Punch , Eight Shillings be a Quart,
And Rum and Brandy be no more than Six,
Rather than quarrel, you shall have your Will.
[ Trumpets.
But, ha! the Warrior comes; Tom Thumb approaches;
The welcome Hero, Giant-killing Lad,
Preserver of my Kingdom, is arrived.
SCENE III.
Tom Thumb, attended; King, Queen, Lord Grizzle, Doodle, Noodle.
KING. O welcome, ever welcome to my Arms,
My dear Tom Thumb ! How shall I thank thy Merit?
THUMB. By not b'ing thank'd at all, I'm thank'd enough;
My Duty I have done, and done no more.
QUEEN. Was ever such a lovely Creature seen! [ Aside.
KING. Thy Modesty's a Candle to thy Merit,
It shines itself, and shews thy Merit too.
Vain Impudence, if it be ever found
With Virtue, like the Trumpet in a Consort,
Drowns the sweet Musick of the softer Flute.
But say, my Boy, where didst thou leave the Giants?
THUMB. My Liege, without the Castle Gates they stand,
The Castle Gates too low for their Admittance.
KING. What look they like?
THUMB. Like twenty Things, my Liege;
Like twenty thousand Oaks, by Winter's Hand
Stripp'd of their Blossoms; like a Range of Houses,
When Fire has burnt their Timber all away.
KING. Enough: The vast Idea fills my Soul;
I see them, yes, I see them now before me.
The monst'rous, ugly, barb'rous Sons of Whores,
Which, like as many rav'nous Wolves, of late
Frown'd grimly o'er the Land, like Lambs look now.
O Thumb , what do we to thy Valour owe!
The Princess Huncamunca is thy Prize.
QUEEN. Ha! Be still, my Soul!
THUMB. Oh, happy, happy Hearing!
Witness, ye Stars! cou'd Thumb have ever set
A Bound to his Ambition - it had been
The Princess Huncamunca, in whose Arms
Eternity would seem but half an Hour.
QUEEN. Consider, Sir, reward your Soldier's Merit,
But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb.
KING. Tom Thumb! Odzooks, my wide extended Realm
Knows not a Name so glorious as Tom Thumb.
Not Alexander , in his highest Pride,
Could boast of Merits greater than Tom Thumb.
Not Caesar, Scipio , all the Flow'rs of Rome ,
Deserv'd their Triumphs better than Tom Thumb.
QUEEN. Tho' greater yet his boasted Merit was,
He shall not have the Pricess, that is Pos'.
KING. Say you so, Madam? We will have a Trial.
When I consent, what Pow'r has your Denial?
For when the Wife her Husband over-reaches,
Give him the Petticoat, and her the Breeches.
NOODLE. Long Health and Happiness attend the General!
Long may he live, as now, the publick Joy,
While ev'ry Voice is burthen'd with his Praise.
THUMB. Whisper, ye Winds! that Huncamunca's mine;
Ecchoes repeat; that Huncamunca's mine!
The dreadful Bus'ness of the War is over,
And Beauty, heav'nly Beauty! crowns the Toil.
I've thrown the bloody Garment now aside,
And Hymeneal Sweets invite my Bride.
So when some Chimney-Sweeper, all the Day,
Has through dark Paths pursu'd the sooty Way,
At Night, to wash his Face and Hands he flies,
And in his t'other Shirt with his Brickdusta lies.
[ Exeunt all but Grizzle.
SCENE IV.
Lord Grizzle, Solus.
GRIZZLE. See how the cringing Coxcombs fawn upon him!
The Sun-shine of a Court can, in a Day,
Ripen the vilest Insect to an Eagle:
And every little Wretch, who but an Hour
Before had scorn'd, and trod him under Feet,
Shall lift his Eyes aloft, to gaze at distance,
And flatter what they scorn'd.
SCENE V.
Enter Queen, to Lord Grizzle.
QUEEN. Well met, My Lord,
You are the Man I sought. Have you not heard
(What ev'ry Corner of the Court resounds)
That little Thumb will be a great Man made.
GRIZZLE. I heard it, I confess - for who, alas!
Can always stop his Ears - but would my Teeth,
By grinding Knives, had first been set on Edge.
QUEEN. Would I had heard at the still Noon of Night
The dreadful Cry of Fire in ev'ry Street!
Odsbobs! I could almost destroy myself,
To think I should a Grand-mother be made
By such a Rascal. - Sure, the King forgets,
When in a Pudding, by his Mother put,
The Bastard, by a Tinker, on a Stall
Was dropp'd. - O, good Lord Grizzle ! can I bear
To see him, from a Pudding, mount the Throne?
GRIZZLE. Oh Horror! Horror! Horror! cease my Queen,
Thy Voice, like twenty Screech-Owls, wracks my Brain.
QUEEN. Then rouze thy Spirit - we may yet prevent
This hated Match.-
GRIZZLE. We will. - Not Fate, itself,
Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb, should cause it.
I'll swim through Seas; I'll ride upon the Clouds;
I'll dig the Earth; I'll blow out ev'ry Fire;
I'll rave; I'll rant; I'll rush; I'll rise; I'll roar
Fierce as the Man whom smiling Dolphins bore,
From the Prosaick to Poetick Shore.
I'll tear the Scoundrel into twenty Pieces.
QUEEN. Oh, no! prevent the Match, but hurt him not;
For, tho' I would not have him have my Daughter,
Yet, can we kill the Man who kill'd the Giants?
GRIZZLE. I tell you Madam, it was all a Trick,
He made the Giants first, and then he kill'd them;
As Fox-hunters bring Foxes to a Wood,
And then with Hounds they drive them out again.
QUEEN. How! Have you seen no Giants? Are there not
Now, in the Yard, ten thousand proper Giants?
GRIZZLE. Indeed, I cannot positively tell,
But firmly do believe there is not one.
QUEEN. Hence! from my Sight! thou Traytor, hie away;
By all my Stars! thou enviest Tom Thumb.
Go, Sirrah! go; hie away!hie! - thou art
A Setting-Dog - and like one I use thee.
GRIZZLE. Madam, I go.
Tom Thumb shall feel the Vengeance you have rais'd.
So when two Dogs are fighting in the Streets,
With a third dog, the Dog contending meets,
With angry Teeth, he bites him to the Bone,
And this Dog smarts for what that Dog had done.
[ Exit.
SCENE VI.
Queen, Sola.
QUEEN. And whither shall I go? - Alack-a-day!
I love Tom Thumb - but must not tell him so;
For what's a Woman, when her Virtue's gone?
A Coat without its Lace; Wig out of Buckle;
A Stocking with a Hole in't. - I can't live
Without my Virtue, or without Tom Thumb.
Then let me weigh them in two equal Scales,
In this Scale put my Virtue, that, Tom Thumb.
Alas! Tom Thumb is heavier than my Virtue.
But hold!-Perhaps I may be left a Widow:
This Match prevented, then Tom Thumb is mine,
In that dear Hope, I will forget my Pain.
So when some Wench to Tothill-Bridewell's sent,
With beating Hemp, and Flogging, she's content;
She hopes, in Time, to ease her present Pain;
At length is free, and walks the Streets again.
[ Exit.
ACT II. SCENE I.
Huncamunca, Cleora, Mustacha.
HUNCAMUNCA . Give me some Musick to appease my Soul,
Gentle Cleora, sing my fav'rite Song.
CLEORA sings.
Cupid, ease a Love-sick Maid,
Bring thy Quiver to her Aid;
With equal Ardor wound the Swain:
Beauty should never sigh in vain.
Let him feel the pleasing Smart,
Drive thy Arrow through his Heart,
When one you wound, you then destroy;
When both you kill, you kill with Joy.
HUNCAMUNCA. O Tom Thumb! Tom Thumb! wherefore art
thou Tom Thumb?
Why had'st thou not been born of Royal Blood?
Why had not mighty Bantam been thy Father?
Or else the King of Brentford, Old or New?
MUSTACHA. I am surprized that your Highness can give your
self a Moment's uneasiness about that little insignificant Fellow,
Tom Thumb. One properer for a Play-thing than a Husband. -
Were he my Husband, his Horns should be as long as his Body.-
If you had fallen in Love with a Grenadier, I should not have
wondered at it. If you had fallen in Love with Something; but to
fall in Love with Nothing!
HUNCAMUNCA. Cease, my Mustacha , on your Duty cease.
The Zephyr , when in flowry Vales it plays,
Is not so soft, so sweet as Thummy's Breath.
The Dove is not so gentle to its Mate.
MUSTACHA. The Dove is every bit as proper for a Husband.
Alas! Madam, there's not a Beau about the Court that looks so
little like a Man. He is a perfect Butterfly, a Thing without
Substance, and almost without Shadow too.
HUNCAMUNCA. This Rudeness is unseasonable; desist,
Or I shall think this Railing comes from Love.
Tom Thumb's a Creature of that charming Form,
That no one can abuse, unless they love him.
CLEORA. Madam, the King.
SCENE II.
King, Huncamunca.
KING. Let all but Huncamunca leave the Room.
[ Exit Cleora, and Mustacha.
Daughter, I have of late observ'd some Grief
Unusual in your Countenance, your Eyes
That, like two open Windows, us'd to shew
The lovely Beauty of the Room within,
Have now two Blinds before them - What is the Cause?
Say, have you not enough of Meat or Drink?
We've giv'n strict Orders not to have you stinted.
HUNCAMUNCA. Alas! my Lord, a tender Maid may want
What she can neither eat nor drink -
KING. What's that?
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! Spare my Blushes, but I mean a Husband.
KING. If that be all, I have provided one,
A Husband great in Arms, whose warlike Sword
Streams with the yellow Blood of slaughter'd Giants.
Whose Name in Terrâ incognitâ is known,
Whose Valour, Wisdom, Virtue make a Noise,
Great as the Kettle Drums of twenty Armies.
HUNCAMUNCA. Whom does my Royal Father mean?
KING. Tom Thumb.
HUNCAMUNCA. Is it possible?
KING. Ha! the Window-Blinds are gone,
A Country Dance of Joys is in your Face,
Your Eyes spit Fire, your Cheeks grow red as Beef.
HUNCAMUNCA. O, there's a Magick-musick in that Sound,
Enough to turn me into Beef indeed.
Yes, I will own, since licens'd by your Word,
I'll own Tom Thumb the Cause of all my Grief.
For him I've sigh'd, I've wept, I've gnaw'd my Sheets.
SCENE III.
King, Huncamunca, Doodle.
DOODLE. Oh! fatal News-the great Tom Thumb is dead .
KING. How dead!
DOODLE. Alas! as dead as a Door-Nail.
Help, help, the Princess faints!
KING. Fetch her a Dram.
HUNCAMUNCA. Under my Bed you'll find a Quart of Rum.
[ Exit Doodle.
KING. How does my pretty Daughter?
HUNCAMUNCA. Thank you, Papa,
I'm something better now.
KING. What Slave waits there?
[ Enter Slave.
Go order the Physicians strait before me,
That did attend Tom Thumb - now by my Stars,
Unless they give a full and true Account
Of his Distemper, they shall all be hang'd.
DOODLE. [ returns .] Here is the Bottle, and here is the Glass.
I found them both together-
KING. Give them me.
[ fills the Glass.
Drink it all off, it will do you no harm.
SCENE IV.
King, Huncamunca, Doodle, Physicians.
I PHYSICIAN. We here attend your Majesty's Command.
KING. Of what Distemper did Tom Thumb demise?
I PHYSICAN. He died, may it please your Majesty, of a
Distemper which Paracelsus calls the Diaphormane, Hippocrates the
Catecumen, Galen, the Regon -He was taken with a Dizziness in
his Head, for which I bled him, and put on Four Blisters-he
then had the Gripes, wherefore I thought it proper to apply
a Glister, a Purge, and a Vomit.
2 PHYSICIAN. Doctor, you mistake the Case; the Distemper
was not the Diaphormane, as you vainly imagine; it was the
Peripilusis -and tho' I approve very much of all that you did-let
me tell you, you did not do half enough-you know he complained
of a Pain in his Arm, I would immediately have cut off his Arm,
and have laid open his Head, to which I would have applied
some Trahifick Plaister; after that I would have proceeded to my
Catharticks, Emeticks, and Diureticks.
I PHYSICIAN. In the Peripilusis indeed these Methods are not
only wholesome but necessary: but in the Diaphormane otherwise.
2 PHYSICIAN. What are the Symptoms of the Diaphormane?
I PHYSICIAN. They are various-very various and uncertain.
2 PHYSICIAN. Will you tell me that a Man died of the Diaphomane
in one Hour-when the Crisis of that Distemper does not rise till
the Fourth?
I PHYSICIAN. The Symptoms are various, very various and
uncertain.
SCENE V.
[To them.] Tom Thumb attended.
THUMB. Where is the Princess? where's my Huncamunca?
Lives she? O happy Thumb! for even now
A Murmur humming skips about the Court,
That Huncamunca was defunct.
KING. Bless me!
Ye Blazing Stars - sure 'tis Illusion all.
Are you Tom Thumb , and are you too alive?
THUMB. Tom Thumb I am, and eke also alive.
KING. And have you not been dead at all? -
TOM THUMB. Not I.
I PHYSICIAN. I told you, Doctor, that Cathartick would
do his Business.
2 PHYSICIAN. Ay, and I am very much surprised to find
it did not.
SCENE VI.
King, Tom Thumb, Huncamunca, Physicians, Doodle, Noodle.
NOODLE. Great News, may it please your Majesty, I bring,
A Traytor is discover'd, who design'd
To kill Tom Thumb with Poison.
KING. Ha! say you?
NOODLE. A Girl had dress'd her Monkey in his Habit,
And that was poison'd by mistake for Thumb.
KING. Here are Physicians for you, whose nice Art
Can take a dress'd Monkey for a Man.
Come to my Arms, by dearest Son-in-Law!
Happy's the wooing, that's not long a doing;
Proceed we to the Temple, there to tye
The burning Bridegroom to the blushing Bride.
And if I guess aright, Tom Thumb this Night
Shall give a Being to a new Tom Thumb.
THUMB. It shall be my Endeavour so to do.
HUNCAMUNCA. O fie upon you, Sir, you make me blush.
THUMB. It is the Virgin's sign, and suits you well-
I know not where, nor how, nor what I am,
I'm so transported, I have lost my self.
HUNCAMUNCA. Forbid it, all the Stars; for you're so small,
That were you lost, you'd find your self no more.
So the unhappy Sempstress lost, they say,
Her Needle in a Bottle full of Hay.
In vain she look'd, and look'd, and made her Moan;
For ah! the Needle was for ever gone.
[Ex. King, &c.
SCENE VII.
Manent Physicians.
I PHYSICIAN. Pray, Doctor Church-yard , what is your Peripi-
lusis? I did not care to own my Ignorance to the King; but I
never heard of such a Distemper before?
2 PHYSICIAN. Truly, Doctor Fillgrave , it is more nearly allied
to the Diaphormane than you imagine-and when you know the
one, you will not be very far from finding out the other. But it is
now past Ten; I must haste to Lord Weekleys , for he'll be dead
before Eleven, and so I shall lose my Fee.
I PHYSICIAN. So Doctor, your Servant.
[ Exeunt severally.
SCENE VIII.
Enter QUEEN sola.
QUEEN. How am I forc'd to wander thus alone,
As if I were the Phaenix of my Kind;
Tom Thumb is lost-yet Hickathrift remains,
And Hickathrift's as great a Man as Thumb.
Be he then our Gallant-but ha! what Noise
Comes trav'ling onward, bellowing as loud
As Thunder rumbling through th' AEtherial Plains?
SCENE XI
King, Queen, Huncamunca, Courtiers.
KING. Open the Prisons, set the Wretched free,
And bid our Treasurer disburse Six Pounds
To pay their Debts-Let no one weep to-day.
Come, my fair Consort, sit thee down by me.
Here seated, let us view the Dancers Sport,
Bid them advance.-This is the Wedding-Day
Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom Thumb.
[Dance, Epithalamium , and Sports.
SCENE The Last
Noodle, King, Queen, Huncamunca, Courtiers.
NOODLE. Oh Monstrous! Dreadful! Terrible! Oh! Oh!
Deaf be my Ears, for ever blind my Eyes,
Dumb be my Tongue, Feet lame, all Senses lost.
KING. What does the Blockhead mean?
NOODLE. Whilst from my Garret
I look'd abroad into the Street below,
I saw Tom Thumb attended by the Mob,
Twice twenty Shoe-boys, twice two Dozen Links,
Chairmen, and Porters, Hackney Coachmen, Whores;
When on the sudden through the Streets there came
A Cow, of larger than the usual Size,
And in a Moment, guess, oh! guess the rest,
And in a Moment swallow'd up Tom Thumb.
KING. Horrible indeed!
GRIZZLE. Swallowed she him alive?
NOODLE. Alive, alive, Lord Grizzle; so the Boys
Of Fishmongers do swallow Gudgeons down.
GRIZZLE. Curse the Cow that took my Vengeance
from me. [ Aside.
KING. Shut up again the Prisons, bid my Teasurer
Not give three Farthings out - hang all the Culprits,
Guilty or not - no matter - ravish Virgins,
Go bid the School-masters whip all their Boys;
Let Lawyers, Parsons, and Physicians loose,
To rob, impose on, and to kill the World.
[ Ghost of Tom Thumb rises.
GHOST. Tom Thumb I am - but am not eke alive.
My Body's in the Cow, my Ghost is here.
GRIZZLE. Thanks, O ye Stars, my Vengeance is restor'd,
Nor shalt thou fly me - for I'll kill thy Ghost.
[Kills the Ghost.
HUNCAMUNCA. O barbarous Deed! - I will revenge him so.
[ Kills Grizzle.
DOODLE. Ha! Grizzle kill'd - then Murtheress beware.
[ Kills Huncamunca.
QUEEN. O Wretch! - have at thee.
[ Kills Doodle.
NOODLE. And have at thee too.
[ Kills the Queen.
CLEORA Thou'st kill'd the Queen.
[ Kills Noodle.
MUSTACHA. And thou hast kill'd my Lover.
[ Kills Cleora.
KING. Ha! Murtheress vile, take that.
[ Kills Mustacha.
And take thou this.
[ Kills himself, and falls.
So when the Child whom Nurse from Mischief guards,
Sends Jack for Mustard with a Pack of Cards;
Kings, Queens and Knaves, throw one another down,
'Till the whole Pack lies scatter'd and o'erthrown;
So all our Pack upon the Floor is cast,
And all I boast is, that I fall the last.
[ Dies.
FINIS.
THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES
by
HENRY FIELDING
HIS
PREFACE
The Town hath seldom been more divided in its Opinion, than concerning the Merit of the following Scenes. Whilst some publickly affirmed, That no Author could produce so fine a Piece but Mr. P ------, others have with as much Vehemence insistsed, That no one could write any thing so bad, but Mr. F ------.
Nor can we wonder at this Dissention about its Merit, when the learned World have not unanimously decided even the very Nature of this Tragedy. For tho' most of the Universities in Europe have honoured it with the Name of Egregium & maximi pretii opus, Tragaediis tam antiquis quam novis longe anteponendum; nay, Dr. B ------ hath pronounced, Citiùs Maevii AEneadem quam Scribleri istius Tragaediam hanc crediderim, cujus Autorem Senecam ipsum tradidisse haud dubitârim ; and the great Professor Burman , hath stiled Tom Thumb, Heroum omnium Tragicorum facilè Principem . Nay, tho' it hath, among other Languages, been translated into Dutch , and celebrated with great Applause at Amsterdam (where Burlesque never came) by the Title of Mynheer Vander Thumb , the Burgomasters receiving it with that reverent and silent Attention, which becometh an Audience at a deep Tragedy: Notwithstanding all this, there have not been wanting some who have represented these Scenes in a ludicrous Light; and Mr. D ------ hath been heard to say, with some Concern, That he wondered a Tragical and Christian Nation would permit a Representation on its Theatre, so visibly designed to ridicule and extirpate every thing that is Great and Solemn among us.
This learned Critick, and his Followers, were led into so great an Error, by that surreptitious and piratical Copy which stole last Year into the World; with what Injustice and Prejudice to our Author, I hope will be acknowledged by every one who shall happily peruse this genuine and original Copy. Nor can I help remarking, to the great Praise of our Author, that, however imperfect the former was, still did even that faint Resemblance of the true Tom Thumb , contain sufficient Beauties to give it a Run of upwards of Forty Nights, to the politest Audiences. But, nothwithstanding that Applause which it receiv'd from all the best Judges, it was as severely censured by some few bad ones, and I believe, rather maliciously than ignorantly, reported to have been intended a Burlesque on the loftiest Parts of Tragedy, and designed to banish what we generally call Fine Things, from the Stage.
Now, if I can set my Country right in an Affair of this Importance, I shall lightly esteem any Labour which it may cost. And this I the rather undertake, First, as it is indeed in some measure incumbent on me to vindicate myself from that surreptitious Copy before-mentioned, published by some ill-meaning People, under my Name: Secondly, as knowing my self more capable of doing Justice to our Author, than any other Man, as I have given my self more Pains to arrive at a thorough Understanding of this little Piece, having for ten Years together read nothing else; in which time, I think I may modestly presume, with the help of my English Dictionary, to comprehend all the Meanings of every Word in it.
But should any Error of my Pen awaken Clariss. Bentleium to enlighten the World with his Annotations on our Author, I shall not think that the least Reward or Happiness arising to me from these my Endeavours.
I shall wave at present, what hath caused such Feuds in the learned World, Whether this Piece was originally written by Shakespear , tho' certainly That, were it true, must add a considerable Share to its Merit; especially, with such who are so generous as to buy and to commend what they never read, from an implicit Faith in the Author only: A Faith! which our Age abounds in as much, as it can be called deficient in any other.
Let it suffice, that the Tragedy of Tragedies , or, The Life and Death of Tom Thumb , was written in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth . Nor can the Objection made by Mr. D ------, That the Tragedy must then have been antecedent to the History, have any Weight, when we consider, That tho' the History of Tom Thumb , printed by and for Edward M------r , at the Looking-Glass on London-Bridge , be of a later Date; still must we suppose this History to have been transcribed from some other, unless we suppose the Writer thereof to be inspired: A Gift very faintly contended for by the Writers of our Age. As to this History's not bearing the Stamp of Second, Third, or Fourth Edition, I see but little in that Objection; Editions being very uncertain Lights to judge of Books by: And perhaps Mr. M------r may have joined twenty Editions in one, as Mr. C------l hath ere now divided one into twenty.
Nor doth the other Argument, drawn from the little Care our Author hath taken to keep up to the letter of the History, carry any greater Force. Are there not Instances of Plays, wherein the History is so perverted, that we can know the Heroes whom they celebrate by no other Marks than their Names? Nay, do we not find the same Character placed by different Poets in such different Lights, that we can discover not the least Sameness, or even Likeness in the Features? The Sophonisba of Mairet , and of Lee , is a tender, passionate, amorous Mistress of Massinissa; Corneille , and Mr. Thomson give her no other Passion but the Love of her Country, and make her as cool in her Affection to Massinissa , as to Syphax . In the two latter, she resembles the Character of Queen Elizabeth ; in the two former she is the Picture of Mary Queen of Scotland . In short, the one Sophonisba is as different from the other, as the Brutus of Voltaire , is from the Marius Jun. of Otway ; or as the Minerva is from the Venus of the Ancients.
Let us now proceed to a regular Examinatoin of the Tragedy before us, in which I shall treat separately of the Fable, the Moral, the Characters, the Sentiments, and the Diction. And first of the
Fable ; which I take to be the most simple imaginable; and, to use the Words of an eminent Author, 'One, regular, and uniform, not 'charged with a Multiplicity of Incidents, and yet affording several 'Revolutions of Fortune; by which the Passions may be excited, 'varied, and driven to their full Tumult of Emotion.' -- Nor is the Action of this Tragedy less great than uniform. The Spring of all, is the Love of Tom Thumb for Huncamunca ; which causeth the Quarrel between their Majesties in the first Act; the Passion of Lord Grizzle in the Second; the Rebellion, Fall of Lord Grizzle , and Glumdalca , Devouring of Tom Thumb by the Cow, and that bloody Catastrophe, in the Third.
Nor is the Moral of this excellent Tragedy less noble than the Fable ; it teaches these two instructive Lessons, viz . That Human Happiness is exceeding transient, and, That Death is the certain End of all Men; the former whereof is inculcated by the fatal End of Tom Thumb ; the latter, by that of all the other Personages.
The Characters are, I think, sufficeintly described in the Dramatis Personae ; and I believe we shall find few Plays, where greater care is taken to maintain them throughout, and to preserve in every Speech that Characteristical Mark which distinguishes them from each other. 'But (says Mr. D ------) how well doth the Character of ' Tom Thumb , whom we must call the Hero of this Tragedy, if it hath 'any Hero, agree with the Precepts of Aristotle , who defineth Tragedy 'to be the Imitation of a short, but perfect Action, containing a just 'Greatness in itself , &c. What Greatness can be in a Fellow, whom History 'relateth to have been no higher than a Span?' This Gentleman seemeth to think, with Serjeant Kite , that the Greatness of a Man's Soul is in proportion to that of his Body, the contrary of which is affirmed by our English Physognominical Writers. Besides, if I understand Aristotle right, he speaketh only of the Greatness of the Action, and not of the Person.
As for the Sentiments and the Diction , which now only remain to be spoken to; I thought I could afford them no stronger Justification, than by producing parallel Passages out of the best of our English Writers. Whether this Sameness of Thought and Expression which I have quoted from them, proceeded from an Agreement in their Way of Thinking; or whether they have borrowed from our Author, I leave the Reader to determine. I shall adventure to affirm this of the Sentiments of our Author; That they are generally the most familiar which I have ever met with, and at the same time delivered with the highest Dignity of Phrase; which brings me to speak of his Diction . -- Here I shall only beg one Postulatum, viz . That the greatest Perfection of the Language of a Tragedy is, that it is not to be understood; which granted (as I think it must be) it will necessarily follow, that the only ways to avoid this, is by being too high or too low for the Understanding, which will comprehend every thing within its Reach. Those two extremities of Stile Mr. Dryden illustrates by the familiar Image of two Inns, which I shall term the Aerial and the Subterrestrial.
Horace goeth farther, and sheweth when it is proper to call at one of these Inns, and when at the other;
Telephus & Peleus, cùm pauper & exul uterque,
Projicit Ampullas & Sesquipedalia Verba .
That he approveth of the Sesquipedalia Verba , is plain; for had not Telephus & Peleus used this sort of Diction in Prosperity, they could not have dropt it in Adversity. The Aerial Inn, therefore (says Horace ) is proper only to be frequented by Princes and other great Men, in the highest Affluence of Fortune; the Subterrestrial is appointed for the Entertainment of the poorer sort of People only, whom Horace advises,
---- dolere Sermone pedestri .
The true Meaning of both which Citations is, That Bombast is the proper Language for Joy, and Doggrel for Grief, the latter of which is literally imply'd in the Sermo pedestris , as the former is in the Sesquipedalia Verba .
Cicero recommendeth the former of these. Quid est tam furiosum vel tragicum quàm verborum sonitus inanis, nullâ subjectâ Sententiâ neque Scientiâ . What can be so proper for Tragedy as a Set of big sounding Words, so contrived together, as to convey no Meaning; which I shall one Day or other prove to be the Sublime of Longinus. Ovid declareth absolutely for the latter Inn:
Omne genus scripti Gravitate Tragaedia vincit .
Tragedy hath of all Writings the greatest Share in the Bathos , which is the Profound of Scriblerus .
I shall not presume to determine which of these two Stiles be properer for Tragedy. -- It sufficeth, that our Author excelleth in both. He is very rarely within sight through the whole Play, either rising higher than the Eye of your Understanding can soar, or sinking lower than it careth to stoop. But here it may perhaps be observed, that I have given more frequent Instances of Authors who have imitated him in the Sublime, than in the contrary. To which I answer, First, Bombast being properly a Redundancy of Genius, Instances of Nature occur in Poets whose Names do more Honour to our Author, than the Writers in the Doggerel, which proceeds from a cool, calm, weighty Way of Thinking. Instances whereof are most frequently to be found in Authors of a lower Class. Secondly, That the Works of such Authors are difficultly found at all. Thirdly, That it is a very hard Task to read them, in order to extrat these Flowers from them. And Lastly, It is very often difficult to transplant them at all; they being like some Flowers of a very nice Nature, which will flourish in no Soil but their own: For it is easy to transcribe a Thought, but not the Want of one. The Earl of Essex , for Instance, is a little Garden of choice Rarities, whence you can scarce transplant one Line so as to perserve its original Beauty. This must account to the Reader for his missing the Names of several of his Acquaintance, which he had certainly found here, had I ever read their Works; for which, if I have not a just Esteem, I can at least say with Cicero, Quae non contemno, quippè quae nunquam legerim . However, that the Reader may meet with due Satisfaction in this Point, I have a young Commentator from the University, who is reading over all the modern Tragedies, at Five Shillings a Dozen, and collecting all that they have stole from our Author, which shall shortly be added as an Appendix to this Work.
| KING Arthur , A passionate sort of King, Husband to Queen Dollallolla , of whom he stands a little in Fear; Father to Huncamunca , whom he is very fond of; and in Love with Glumdalca . | Mr. Mullart . |
| TOM THUMB the Great , A little Hero with a great Soul, something violent in his Temper, which is a little abated by his Love for Huncamunca . | Young Verhuyck . |
| GHOST of Gaffar Thumb , A whimsical sort of GHOST. | Mr. Lacy . |
| Lord GRIZZLE, Extremely zealous for the Liberty of the Subject, very cholerick in his Temper, and in Love with Huncamunca . | Mr. Jones . |
| MERLIN, A Conjurer, and in some sort Father to Tom Thumb . | Mr. Hallam . |
| NOODLE, Courtiers in Place, and consequently of that Party that is uppermost. DOODLE, Courtiers in Place, and consequently of that Party that is uppermost. | Mr. Reynolds . Mr. Wathan . |
| FOODLE, A Courtier that is out of Place, and consequently of that Party that is undermost. | Mr. Ayres . |
| BAILIFF, and FOLLOWER, Of the Party of the Plaintiff. | Mr. Peterson . Mr. Hicks . |
| PARSON, Of the Side of the Church. | Mr. Watson . |
| QUEEN Dollallolla , Wife to King Arthur , and Mother to Huncamunca , a Woman entirely faultless, saving that she is a little given to Drink; a little too much a Virago towards her Husband, and in Love with Tom Thumb . | Mrs. Mullart . |
| The Princess HUNCAMUNCA, Daughter to their Majesties King Arthur and Queen Dollallolla , of a very sweet, gentle, and amorous Disposition, equally in Love with Lord Grizzle and Tom Thumb , and desirous to be married to them both. | Mrs. Jones . |
| GLUMDALCA, of the Giants, a Captive Queen, belov'd by the King, but in Love with Tom Thumb . | Mrs. Dove . |
| CLEORA, Maid of Honour, in Love with Noodle . MUSTACHA, Maid of Honour, in Love with Doodle . | |
| Courtiers, Guards, Rebels, Drums, Trumpets, Thunder and Lightning . |
SCENE the Court of King Arthur, and a Plain thereabouts .
SCENE I
SCENE, The Palace .
DOODLE, NOODLE.
DOODLE. Sure, such a 1 Day as this was never seen!
The Sun himself, on this auspicious Day,
Shines, like a Beau in a new Birth-Day Suit:
This down the Seams embroider'd, that the Beams.
All Nature wears one universal Grin.
NOODLE. This Day, O Mr. Doodle , is a Day
Indeed, 2 a Day we never saw before.
The mighty 3 Thomas Thumb victorious comes;
Millions of Giants crowd his Chariot Wheels,
4 Giants! to whom the Giants in Guild-hall
Are Infant Dwarfs. They frown, and foam, and roar,
While Thumb regardless of their Noise rides on.
So some Cock-Sparrow in a Farmer's Yard,
Hops at the Head of an huge Flock of Turkeys.
DOODLE. When Goody Thumb first brought this Thomas forth,
The Genius of our Land triumphant reign'd;
Then, then, Oh Arthur ! did thy Genius reign.
NOODLE. They tell me it is 5 whisper'd in the Books
Of all our Sages, that this mighty Hero
By Merlin's Art begot, hath not a Bone
Within his Skin, but is a Lump of Gristle.
DOODLE. Then 'tis a Gristle of no mortal kind,
Some God, my Noodle , stept into the Place
Of Gaffer Thumb , and more than 6 half begot,
This mightly Tom .
NOODLE. --7 Sure he was sent Express
From Heav'n, to be the Pillar of our State.
Tho' small his Body be, so very small,
A Chairman's Leg is more than twice as large;
Yet is his Soul like any Mountain big,
And as a Mountain once brought forth a Mouse,
8 So doth this Mouse contain a mighty Mountain.
DOODLE. Mountain indeed! So terrible his Name,
9 The Giant Nurses frighten Children with it;
And cry Tom Thumb is come, and if you are
Naughty, will surely take the Child away.
NOODLE. But hark! 10 these Trumpets speak the King's Approach.
DOODLE. He comes most luckily for my Petition.
Flourish
KING, QUEEN, GRIZZLE, NOODLE, DOODLE, FOODLE.
KING. 11 Let nothing but a Face of Joy appear;
The man who frowns this Day shall lose his Head,
That he may have no Face to frown withal.
Smile, Dollalolla, -- Ha! what wrinkled Sorrow,
12 Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy knitted Brow?
Whence flow those Tears fast down thy blubber'd Cheeks,
Like a swoln Gutter, gushing through the Streets?
QUEEN. 13 Excess of Joy, my Lord, I've heard Folks say,
Gives Tears as certain as Excess of Grief.
KING. If it be so, let all Men cry for Joy,
14 'Till my whole Court be drowned with their Tears;
Nay, till they overflow my utmost Land,
And leave me Nothing but the Sea to rule.
DOODLE. My Liege, I a Petition have here got.
KING. Petition me no Petitions, Sir, to-day;
Let other Hours be set apart for Business.
To-day it is our pleasure to be 15 drunk,
And this our Queen shall be as drunk as We.
QUEEN. (Tho' I already 16 half Seas over am)
If the capacious Goblet overflow
With Arrack-Punch -- 'fore George ! I'll see it out;
Of Rum , and Brandy , I'll not taste a Drop.
KING. Tho' Rack , in Punch , Eight Shillings be a Quart,
And Rum and Brandy be no more than Six,
Rather than quarrel, you shall have your Will.
Trumpets .
But, ha! the Warrior comes; the Great Tom Thumb ;
The little Hero, Giant-killing Boy,
Preserver of my Kingdom, is arrived.
TOM THUMB, to them with Officers, Prisoners, and Attendants .
KING. 17 Oh! welcome most, most welcome to my Arms,
What Gratitude can thank away the Debt,
Your Valour lays upon me?
QUEEN. [Aside.] -- 18 Oh! ye Gods!
TOM THUMB. When I'm not thank'd at all, I'm thank'd enough,
19 I've done my Duty, and I've done no more.
QUEEN. [Aside] Was ever such a Godlike Creature seen!
KING. Thy Modesty's a 20 Candle to thy Merit,
It shines itself, and shews thy Merit too.
But say, my Boy, where did'st thou leave the Giants?
TOM THUMB. My Liege, without the Castle Gates they stand,
The Castle Gates too low for their Admittance.
KING. What look they like?
TOM THUMB. Like Nothing but Themselves.
QUEEN. 21 And sure thou art like nothing but thy Self.
KING. [Aside.] Enough! the vast Idea fills my Soul.
I see them, yes, I see them now before me:
The monst'rous, ugly, barb'rous Sons of Whores.
But, Ha! what Form Majestick strikes our Eyes?
22 So perfect, that it seems to have been drawn
By all the Gods in Council: So fair she is,
That surely at her Birth the Council paus'd,
And then at length cry'd out, This is a Woman!
TOM THUMB. Then were the Gods mistaken. -- She is not
A Woman, but a Giantess -- whom we
23 With much ado, have made a shift to hawl
Within the Town: 24 for she is by a Foot,
Shorter than all her Subject Giants were.
GLUMDALCA. We yesterday were both a Queen and Wife,
One hundred thousand Giants own'd our Sway,
Twenty whereof were married to our self.
QUEEN. Oh! happy State of Giantism -- where Husbands
Like Mushrooms grow, whilst hapless we are forc'd
To be content, nay, happy thought with one.
GLUMDALCA. But then to lose them all in one black Day,
That the same Sun, which rising, saw me wife
To Twenty Giants, setting, should behold
Me widow'd of them all. -- 25 My worn out Heart,
That Ship, leaks fast, and the great heavy Lading,
My Soul, will quickly sink.
QUEEN. -- Madam, believe,
I view your Sorrows with a Woman's Eye;
But learn to bear them with what Strength you may,
To-morrow we will have our Grenadiers
Drawn out before you, and you then shall choose
What Husbands you think fit.
GLUMDALCA. -- 26 Madam, I am
Your most obedient, and most humble Servant.
KING. Think, mighty Princess, think this Court your own,
Nor think the Landlord me, this House my Inn;
Call for whate'er you will, you'll Nothing pay.
27 I feel a sudden Pain within my Breast,
Nor know I whether it arise from Love,
Or only the Wind-Cholick. Time must shew.
Oh Thumb ! What do we to thy Valour owe?
Ask some Reward, great as we can bestow.
TOM THUMB. 28 I ask not Kingdoms, I can conquer those,
I ask not Money, Money I've enough;
For what I've done, and what I mean to do,
For Giants slain, and Giants yet unborn,
Which I will slay -- if this be call'd a Debt,
Take my Receipt in full -- I ask but this,
29 To Sun my self in Huncamunca's Eyes.
KING. Prodigious bold Request.
QUEEN. [Aside.] -- 30 Be still my Soul.
TOM THUMB. 31 My heart is at the Threshold of your Mouth,
And waits its answer there -- Oh! do not frown,
I've try'd, to Reason's Tune, to tune my Soul,
But Love did overwind and crack the String.
Tho' Jove in Thunder had cry'd out, YOU SHAN'T,
I should have love'd her still -- for oh strange fate,
Then when I lov'd her least, I lov'd her most.
KING. It is resolv'd -- the Princess is your own.
TOM THUMB. 32 Oh! happy, happy, happy, happy, Thumb !
QUEEN. Consider, Sir, reward your Soldiers Merit,
But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb .
KING. Tom Thumb ! Odzooks, my wide extended Realm
Knows not a Name so glorious as Tom Thumb .
Let Macedonia, Alexander boast,
Let Rome her Caesar's and her Scipio's show,
Her Messieurs France , let Holland boast Mynheers ,
Ireland her O's, her Mac's let Scotland boast,
Let England boast no other than Tom Thumb .
QUEEN. Tho' greater yet his boasted Merit was,
He shall not have my Daughter, that is Pos'.
KING. Ha! sayst thou Dollalolla ?
QUEEN. -- I say he shan't.
KING. 33 Then by our Royal Self we swear you lye.
QUEEN. 34 Who but a Dog, who but a Dog,
Would use me as thou dost? Me, who have lain
35 These twenty Years so loving by thy Side.
But I will be reveng'd. I'll hang my self,
Then tremble all who did this Match persuade,
36 For riding on a Cat, from high I'll fall,
And squirt down Royal Vengeance on you all.
FOODLE. 37 Her Majesty the Queen is in a Passion.
KING. 38 Be she, or be she not -- I'll to the Girl
And pave thy Way, oh Thumb -- Now, by our self,
We were indeed a pretty King of Clouts,
To truckle to her Will -- For when by Force
Or Art the Wife her Husband over-reaches,
Give him the Peticoat, and her the Breeches.
TOM THUMB. 39 Whisper, ye Winds, that Huncamunca's mine;
Echoes repeat, that Huncamunca's mine!
The dreadful Bus'ness of the War is o'er,
And Beauty, heav'nly Beauty! crowns my Toils,
I've thrown the bloody Garment now aside,
And Hymeneal Sweets invite my Bride.
So when some Chimney-Sweeper, all the Day,
Hath through dark Paths pursu'd the sooty Way,
At Night, to wash his Hands and Face he flies,
And in his t'other Shirt with his Brickdusta lies.
GRIZZLE solus .
GRIZZLE. 40 Where art thou Grizzle ? where are now thy Glories?
Where are the Drums that waken'd thee to Honour?
Greatness is a lac'd Coat from Monmouth-Street ,
Which Fortune lends us for a Day to wear,
To-morrow puts it on another's Back.
The spiteful Sun but yesterday survey'd.
His Rival, high as Saint Paul's Cupola;
Now may he see me as Fleet-Ditch laid low.
QUEEN, GRIZZLE.
QUEEN. 41 Teach me to scold, prodigious-minded Grizzle .
Mountain of Treason, ugly as the Devil,
Teach this confounded hateful Mouth of mine,
To spout forth Words malicious as thy self,
Words, which might shame all Billingsgate to speak.
GRIZZLE. Far be it from my Pride, to think my Tongue
Your Royal Lips can in that Art instruct,
Wherein you so excel. But may I ask,
Without Offence, wherefore my Queen would scold?
QUEEN. Wherefore, Oh! Blood and Thunder! han't you heard
(What ev'ry Corner of the Court resounds)
That little Thumb will be a great Man made.
GRIZZLE. I heard it, I confess -- for who, alas!
42 Can always stop his Ears -- but wou'd my Teeth,
By grinding Knives, had first been set on Edge.
QUEEN. Would I had heard at the still Noon of Night,
The Hallaloo of Fire in every Street!
Odsbobs! I have a mind to hang my self,
To think I shou'd a Grandmother be made,
By such a Raskal. -- Sure the King forgets,
When in a Pudding, by his Mother put,
The Bastard, by a Tinker, on a Stile
Was drop'd. -- O, good Lord Grizzle ! can I bear
To see him from a Pudding, mount the Throne?
Or can, Oh can! my Huncamunca bear,
To take a Pudding's Offspring to her Arms?
GRIZZLE. Oh Horror! Horror! Horror! cease my Queen,
43 Thy Voice like twenty Screech-Owls, wracks my Brain.
QUEEN. Then rouse thy Spirit -- we may yet prevent
This hated Match. --
GRIZZLE. -- We will; 44 not Fate it self,
Should it conspire with Thomas Thumb , should cause it.
I'll swim through Seas; I'll ride upon the Clouds;
I'll dig the Earth; I'll blow out ev'ry Fire;
I'll rave; I'll rant; I'll rise; I'll rush; I'll roar;
Fierce as the Man whom 45 smiling Dolphins bore,
From the Prosaick to Poetick Shore.
I'll tear the Scoundrel into twenty Pieces.
QUEEN. Oh, no! prevent the Match, but hurt him not;
For tho' I would not have him have my Daughter,
Yet can we kill the Man that kill'd the Giants?
GRIZZLE. I tell you, Madam, it was all a Trick,
He made the Giants first, and then he kill'd them;
As Fox-hunters bring Foxes to the Wood,
And then with Hounds they drive them out again.
QUEEN. How! have you seen no Giants? Are there not
Now, in the Yard, ten thousand proper Giants?
GRIZZLE. 46 Indeed, I cannot positively tell,
But firmly do believe there is not One.
QUEEN. Hence! from my Sight! thou Traitor, hie away;
By all my Stars! thou enviest Tom Thumb .
Go, Sirrah! go, 47 hie away! hie! -- thou art
A setting Dog, be gone.
GRIZZLE. Madam, I go.
Tom Thumb shall feel the Vengeance you have rais'd:
So, when two Dogs are fighting in the Streets,
With a third Dog, one of the two Dogs meets,
With angry Teeth, he bites him to the Bone,
And this Dog smarts for what the Dog had done.
QUEEN sola .
QUEEN. And whither shall I go? -- Alack-a-day!
I love Tom Thumb -- but must not tell him so;
For what's a Woman, when her Virtue's gone?
A Coat without its Lace; Wig out of Buckle;
A Stocking with a Hole in't -- I can't live
Without my Virtue, or without Tom Thumb .
48 Then let me weigh them in two equal Scales,
In this Scale put my Virtue, that, Tom Thumb .
Alas! Tom Thumb is heavier than my Virtue.
But hold! -- perhaps I may be left a Widow:
This Match prevented, then Tom Thumb is mine:
In that dear Hope, I will forget my Pain.
So, when some Wench to Tothill-Bridewell's sent,
With beating Hemp, and Flogging she's content:
She hopes in time to ease her present Pain,
At length is free, and walks the Streets again.
ACT II
SCENE I
SCENE, The Street .
BAILIFF, FOLLOWER.
BAILIFF. Come on, my trusty Follower, come on,
This Day discharge thy Duty, and at Night
A Double Mug of Beer, and Beer shall glad thee.
Stand here by me, this Way must Noodle pass.
FOLLOWER. No more, no more, Oh Bailiff! every Word
Inspires my Soul with Virtue. -- Oh! I long
To meet the Enemy in the Street -- and nab him;
To lay arresting Hands upon his Back,
And drag him trembling to the Spunging-House.
BAILIFF. There, when I have him, I will spunge upon him.
49 Oh! glorious Thought! by the Sun, Moon, and Stars,
I will enjoy it, tho it be in Thought!
Yes, yes, my Follower, I will enjoy it.
FOLLOWER. Enjoy it then some other time, for now
Our Prey approaches.
BAILIFF. Let us retire.
TOM THUMB, NOODLE, BAILIFF, FOLLOWER.
TOM THUMB. Trust me my Noodle , I am wondrous sick;
For tho' I love the gentle Huncamunca ,
Yet at the Thought of Marriage, I grow pale;
For oh! -- 50 but swear thoul't keep it ever secret,
I will unfold a Tale will make thee stare.
NOODLE. I swear by lovely Huncamunca's Charms.
TOM THUMB. Then know -- 51 my Grand-mamma hath often said,
Tom Thumb , beware of Marriage.
NOODLE. Sir, I blush
To think a Warrior great in Arms as you,
Should be affrighted by his Grand-mamma;
Can an old woman's empty Dreams deter
The blooming Hero from the Virgin's Arms?
Think of the Joy that will your Soul alarm,
When in her fond Embraces clasp'd you lie,
While on her panting Breast dissolv'd in Bliss,
You pour out all Tom Thumb in every Kiss.
TOM THUMB. Oh! Noodle , thou hast fir'd my eager Soul;
Spight of my Grandmother, she shall be mine;
I'll hug, caress, I'll eat her up with Love.
Whole Days, and Nights, and Years shall be too short
For our Enjoyment, every Sun shall rise
52 Blushing, to see us in our Bed together.
NOODLE. Oh Sir! this Purpose of your Soul pursue.
BAILIFF. Oh, Sir! I have an Action against you.
NOODLE. At whose Suit is it?
BAILIFF. At your Taylor's, Sir.
Your Taylor put this Warrant in my Hands,
And I arrest you, Sir, at his Commands.
TOM THUMB. Ha! Dogs! Arrest my Friend before my Face!
Think you Tom Thumb will suffer this Disgrace!
But let vain Cowards threaten by their Word,
Tom Thumb shall shew his Anger by his Sword.
Kills the BAILIFF and his FOLLOWER.
BAILIFF. Oh, I am slain!
FOLLOWER. I am murthered also,
And to the Shades, the dismal Shades below,
My Bailiff's faithful Follower I go.
NOODLE. 53 Go then to Hell, like Rascals as you are,
And give our Service to the Bailiffs there.
TOM THUMB. Thus perish all the Bailiffs in the Land,
Till Debtors at Noon-Day shall walk the streets,
And no one fear a Bailiff or his Writ.
The Princess Huncamunca's Apartment .
HUNCAMUNCA, CLEORA, MUSTACHA.
HUNCAMUNCA. 54 Give me some Musick -- see that it be sad.
CLEORA sings .
Cupid, ease a Love-sick Maid,
Bring thy Quiver to her Aid;
With equal Ardor wound the Swain:
Beauty should never sigh in vain.
II.
Let him feel the pleasing Smart,
Drive thy Arrow thro' his Heart;
When One you wound, you then destroy;
When Both you kill, you kill with Joy .
HUNCAMUNCA. 55 O, Tom Thumb ! Tom Thumb ! wherefore art thou Tom Thumb ?
Why had'st thou not been born of Royal Race?
Why had not mighty Bantam been thy Father?
Or else the King of Brentford, Old or New ?
MUSTACHA. I am surpriz'd that your Highness can give your
self a Moment's Uneasiness about that little insignificant Fellow,
56 Tom Thumb the Great -- One properer for a Play-thing, than
a Husband. -- Were he my Husband, his Horns should be as long
as his Body. -- If you had fallen in Love with a Grenadier, I
should not have wonder'd at it -- If you had fallen in Love with
Something; but to fall in Love with Nothing!
HUNCAMUNCA. Cease, my Mustacha , on thy Duty cease.
The Zephyr , when in flowry Vales it plays,
Is not so soft, so sweet as Thummy's Breath.
The Dove is not so gentle to its Mate.
MUSTACHA. The Dove is every bit as proper for a Husband --
Alas! Madam, there's not a Beau about the Court looks so little
like a Man -- He is a perfect Butterfly, a Thing without Substance,
and almost without Shadow too.
HUNCAMUNCA. This Rudeness is unseasonable, desist;
Or, I shall think this Railing comes from Love.
Tom Thumb's a Creature of that charming Form,
That no one can abuse, unless they love him.
MUSTACHA. Madam, the King.
KING, HUNCAMUNCA.
KING. Let all but Huncamunca leave the Room.
Exit CLEORA, and MUSTACHA.
Daughter, I have observ'd of late some Grief,
Unusual in your Countenance -- your Eyes,
57 That, like two open Windows, us'd to shew
The lovely Beauty of the Rooms within,
Have now two Blinds before them -- What is the Cause?
Say, have you not enough of Meat and Drink?
We've giv'n strict Orders not to have you stinted.
HUNCAMUNCA. Alas! my Lord, I value not my self,
That once I eat two Fowls and half a Pig;
58 Small is that Praise; but oh! a Maid may want,
What she can neither eat nor drink.
KING. What's that?
HUNCAMUNCA. 59 O spare my Blushes; but I mean a Husband.
KING. If that be all, I have provided one,
A husband great in Arms, whose warlike Sword
Streams with the yellow Blood of slaughter'd Giants.
Whose Name in Terrâ Incognitâ is known,
Whose Valour, Wisdom, Virtue make a Noise,
Great as the Kettle-Drums of twenty Armies.
HUNCAMUNCA. Whom does my Royal Father mean?
KING. Tom Thumb .
HUNCAMUNCA. Is it possible?
KING. Ha! the Window-Blinds are gone,
60 A Country Dance of Joy is in your Face,
Your Eyes spit Fire, your Cheeks grow red as Beef.
HUNCAMUNCA. O, there's a Magick-musick in that Sound,
Enough to turn me into Beef indeed.
Yes, I will own, since licens'd by your Word,
I'll own Tom Thumb the Cause of all my Grief.
For him I've sigh'd, I've wept, I've gnaw'd my Sheets.
KING. Oh! thou shalt gnaw thy tender Sheets no more,
A Husband thou shalt have to mumble now.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! happy Sound! henceforth, let no one tell,
That Huncamunca shall lead Apes in Hell.
Oh! I am over-joy'd!
KING. I see thou art.
61 Joy lightens in thy Eyes, and thunders from thy Brows;
Transports, like Lightning, dart along thy Soul,
As Small-shot thro' a hedge.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! say not small.
KING. This happy News shall on our Tongue ride Post,
Our self will bear the happy News to Thumb .
Yet think not, Daughter, that your powerful Charms
Must still detain the Hero from his Arms;
Various his Duty, various his Delight;
Now is his Turn to kiss, and now to fight;
And now to kiss again. So mighty 62 Jove ,
When with excessive thund'ring tir'd above,
Comes down to Earth, and takes a Bit -- and then,
Flies to his Trade of Thund'ring, back again.
GRIZZLE, HUNCAMUNCA.
63 GRIZZLE. Oh, Huncamunca, Huncamunca , oh,
Thy pouting Breasts, like Kettle-Drums of Brass,
Beat everlasting loud Alarms of Joy;
As bright as Brass they are, and oh, as hard;
Oh Huncamunca, Huncamunca ! oh!
HUNCAMUNCA. Ha! do'st thou know me, Princess as I am,
64 That thus of me you dare to make your Game.
GRIZZLE. Oh Huncamunca , well I know that you
A Princess are, and a King's Daughter too.
But Love no Meanness scorns, no Grandeur fears,
Love often Lords into the Cellar bears,
And bids the sturdy Porter come up Stairs.
For what's too high for Love, or what's too low?
Oh Huncamunca, Huncamunca , oh!
HUNCAMUNCA. But granting all you say of Love were true,
My Love, alas! is to another due!
In vain to me, a Suitoring you come;
For I'm already promis'd to Tom Thumb .
GRIZZLE. And can my Princess such a Durgen wed,
One fitter for your Pocket than your Bed!
Advis'd by me, the worthless Baby shun,
Or you will ne'er be brought to bed of one.
Oh take me to thy Arms and never flinch,
Who am a Man by Jupiter ev'ry Inch.
65 Then while in Joys together lost we lie
I'll press thy Soul while Gods stand wishing by.
HUNCAMUNCA. If, Sir, what you insinuate you prove
All Obstacles of Promise you remove;
For all Engagements to a Man must fall,
Whene'er that Man is prov'd no Man at all.
GRIZZLE. Oh let him seek some Dwarf, some fairy Miss,
Where no Joint-stool must lift him to the Kiss.
But by the Stars and Glory, you appear
Much fitter for a Prussian Grenadier;
One Globe alone, on Atlas Shoulders rests,
Two Globes are less than Huncamunca's Breasts:
The Milky-way is not so white, that's flat,
And sure thy Breasts are full as large as that.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh, Sir, so strong your Eloquence I find,
It is impossible to be unkind.
GRIZZLE. Ah! speak that o'er again, and let the 66 Sound
From one Pole to another Pole rebound;
The Earth and Sky, each be a Battledoor
And keep the Sound, that Shuttlecock, up an Hour;
To Doctors Commons , for a License I,
Swift as an Arrow from a Bow will fly.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh no! lest some Disaster we should meet,
'Twere better to be marry'd at the Fleet.
GRIZZLE. Forbid it, all ye Powers, a Princess should
By that vile Place, contaminate her Blood;
My quick Return shall to my Charmer prove,
I travel on the 67 Post-Horses of love.
HUNCAMUNCA. Those Post-Horses to me will seem too slow,
Tho' they should fly swift as the Gods, when they
Ride on behind that Post-Boy, Opportunity.
TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA.
TOM THUMB. Where is my Princess, where's my Huncamunca ?
Where are those Eyes, those Cardmatches of Love,
That 68 Light up all with Love my waxen Soul?
Where is that Face which artful Nature made
69 In the same Moulds where Venus self was cast?
HUNCAMUNCA. 70 Oh! What is Musick to the Ear that's deaf,
Or a Goose-Pye to him that has no taste?
What are these Praises now to me, since I
Am promis'd to another?
TOM THUMB. Ha! promis'd.
HUNCAMUNCA. Too sure; it's written in the Book of Fate.
TOM THUMB. 71 Then I will tear away the Leaf
Wherein it's writ, or if Fate won't allow
So large a Gap within its Journal-Book,
I'll blot it out at least.
GLUMDALCA, TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA.
GLUMDALCA. 72 I need not ask if you are Huncamunca ,
Your Brandy Nose proclaims --
HUNCAMUNCA. I am a Princess;
Nor need I ask who you are.
GLUMDALCA. A Giantess;
The Queen of those who made and unmade Queens.
HUNCAMUNCA. The Man, whose chief Ambition is to be
My Sweetheart, hath destroy'd these mightly Giants.
GLUMDALCA. Your Sweetheart? do'st thou think the Man, who once
Hath worn my easy Chains, will e'er wear thine?
HUNCAMUNCA. Well may your chains be easy, since if Fame
Says true, they have been try'd on twenty Husbands.
73 The Glove or Boot, so many times pull'd on,
May well sit easy on the Hand or Foot.
GLUMDALCA. I glory in the Number, and when I
Sit poorly down, like thee, content with one,
Heaven change this Face for one as bad as thine.
HUNCAMUNCA. Let me see nearer what this Beauty is,
That captivates the Heart of Men by Scores.
Holds a Candle to her Face .
Oh! Heaven, thou art as ugly as the Devil.
GLUMDALCA. You'd give the best of Shoes within your Shop,
To be but half so handsome.
HUNCAMUNCA. -- Since you come
74 To that, I'll put my Beauty to the Test;
Tom Thumb , I'm yours, if you with me will go.
GLUMDALCA. Oh! stay, Tom Thumb , and you alone shall fill
That Bed where twenty giants us'd to lie.
TOM THUMB. In the Balcony that o'er-hangs the Stage,
I've seen a Whore two 'Prentices engage;
One half a Crown does in his Fingers hold,
The other shews a little Piece of Gold;
She the Half Guinea wisely does purloin,
And leaves the larger and the baser Coin.
Exeunt all but GLUMDALCA .
GLUMDALCA. Left, scorn'd, and loath'd for such a Chit as this;
75 I feel the Storm that's rising in my Mind,
Tempests, and Whirlwinds rise, and rowl and roar.
I'm all within a Hurricane, as if
76 The World's four Winds were pent within my Carcass.
77 Confusion, Horror, Murder, Guts and Death.
KING, GLUMDALCA.
KING. 78 Sure never was so sad a King as I,
79 My Life is worn as ragged as a Coat
A Beggar wears; a Prince should put it off,
80 To love a Captive and a Giantess.
Oh Love! Oh Love! how great a King art thou!
My Tongue's thy Trumpet, and thou Trumpetest,
Unknown to me, within me. 81 oh Glumdalca !
Heaven thee design'd a Giantess to make,
But an Angelick Soul was shuffled in.
82 I am a Multitude of Walking Griefs,
And only on her Lips the Balm is found,
83 To spread a Plaister that might cure them all.
GLUMDALCA. What do I hear?
KING. What do I see?
GLUMDALCA. Oh!
KING. Ah!
84 GLUMDALCA. Ah Wretched Queen!
KING. Oh! Wretched King!
GLUMDALCA. Ah!
KING. 85 Oh!
TOM THUMB, HUNCAMUNCA, PARSON.
PARSON. Happy's the Wooing, that's not long adoing;
For if I guess aright, Tom Thumb this Night
Shall give a Being to a New Tom Thumb .
TOM THUMB. It shall be my Endeavour so to do.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! fie upon you, Sir, you make me blush.
TOM THUMB. It is the Virgin's Sign, and suits you well:
86 I know not where, nor how, nor what I am,
87 I'm so transported, I have lost my self.
HUNCAMUNCA. Forbid it, all ye Stars, for you're so small,
That were you lost, you'd find your self no more.
So the unhappy Sempstress once, they say,
Her needle in a Pottle, lost, of Hay;
In vain she look'd, and look'd, and made her Moan,
For ah, the Needle was for ever gone.
PARSON. Long may they live, and love, and propagate,
Till the whole Land be peopled with Tom Thumbs .
88 So when the Cheshire Cheese a Maggot breeds,
Another and another still succeeds.
By thousands, and ten thousands they increase,
Till one continued Maggot fills the rotten Cheese.
NOODLE, and then GRIZZLE.
NOODLE. 89 Sure Nature means to break her solid Chain,
Or else unfix the World, and in a Rage,
To hurl it from its Axle-tree and Hinges;
All things are so confus'd, the King's in Love,
The Queen is drunk, the Princess married is.
GRIZZLE. Oh! Noodle , hast thou Huncamunca seen?
NOODLE. I've seen a Thousand Sights this day, where none
Are by the wonderful Bitch herself outdone,
The King, the Queen, and all the Court are Sights.
GRIZZLE. 90 D------n your Delay, you Trifler, are you drunk, ha?
I will not hear one Word but Huncamunca .
NOODLE. By this time she is married to Tom Thumb .
GRIZZLE. 91 My Huncamunca .
NOODLE. Your Huncamunca .
Tom Thumb's Huncamunca , every Man's Huncamunca .
GRIZZLE. If this be true all Womankind are damn'd.
NOODLE. If it be not, may I be so my self.
GRIZZLE. See where she comes! I'll not believe a Word
Against that Face, upon whose 92 ample Brow,
Sits Innocence with Majesty Enthron'd.
GRIZZLE, HUNCAMUNCA.
GRIZZLE. Where has my Huncamunca been? See here
The Licence in my Hand!
HUNCAMUNCA. Alas! Tom Thumb .
GRIZZLE. Why dost thou mention him?
HUNCAMUNCA. Ah me! Tom Thumb .
GRIZZLE. What means my lovely Huncamunca ?
HUNCAMUNCA. Hum!
GRIZZLE. Oh! Speak.
HUNCAMUNCA. Hum!
GRIZZLE. Ha! your every Word is Hum
93 You force me still to answer you Tom Thumb .
Tom Thumb , I'm on the Rack, I'm in a Flame,
94 Tom Thumb , Tom Thumb , Tom Thumb , you love the Name;
So pleasing is that Sound, that were you dumb
You still would find a Voice to cry Tom Thumb .
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! Be not hasty to proclaim my Doom,
My ample Heart for more than one has Room,
A Maid like me, Heaven form'd at least for two,
95 I married him, and now I'll marry you.
GRIZZLE. Ha! dost thou own thy Falshood to my Face?
Think'st thou that I will share thy Husband's place,
Since to that Office one cannot suffice,
And since you scorn to dine one single Dish on,
Go, get your Husband put into Commission,
Commissioners to discharge, (ye Gods) it fine is,
The duty of a Husband to your Highness;
Yet think not long, I will my Rival bear,
Or unreveng'd the slighted Willow wear;
The gloomy, brooding Tempest now confin'd.
Within the hollow Caverns of my Mind,
In dreadful Whirl, shall rowl along the Coasts,
Shall thin the Land of all the Men it boasts,
96 And cram up ev'ry Chink of Hell with Ghosts.
97 So have I seen, in some dark Winter's Day,
A sudden Storm rush down the Sky's High-Way,
Sweep thro' the streets with terrible ding dong,
Gush thro' the Spouts, and wash whole Crowds along.
The crowded Shops, the thronging Vermin skreen,
Together cram the Dirty and the Clean,
And not one Shoe-Boy in the Street is seen.
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! fatal Rashness should his Fury slay,
My hapless Bridegroom on his Wedding Day;
I, who this Morn, of two chose which to wed,
May go again this Night alone to Bed;
98 So have I seen some wild unsettled Fool,
Who had her Choice of this, and that Joint Stool;
To give the Preference to either, loath
And fondly coveting to sit on both:
While the two Stools her Sitting Part confound,
Between 'em both fall Squat upon the Ground.
ACT III
SCENE I
SCENE, King Arthur's Palace .
99 GHOST solus .
GHOST. Hail! ye black Horrors of Midnight's Midnoon!
Ye Fairies, Goblins, Bats and Screech-Owls, Hail!
And Oh! ye mortal Watchmen, whose hoarse Throats
Th' Immortal Ghosts dread Croakings counterfeit,
All Hail! -- Ye dancing Fantoms, who by Day,
Are some condemn'd to fast, some feast in Fire;
Now play in Church-yards, skipping o'er the Graves,
To the 100 loud Musick of the silent Bell,
All Hail!
KING, and GHOST.
KING. What Noise is this? -- What Villain dares,
At this dread Hour, with Feet and Voice prophane,
Disturb our Royal Walls?
GHOST. One who defines
Thy empty Power to hurt him; 101 one who dares
Walk in thy Bed-Chamber.
KING. Presumptuous Slave!
Thou diest!
GHOST. Threaten others with that Word,
102 I am a Ghost, and am already dead.
KING. Ye Stars! 'tis well; were thy last Hour to come,
This Moment had been it; 103 yet by thy Shrowd
I'll pull thee backward, squeeze thee to a Bladder,
'Till thou dost groan thy Nothingness away.
GHOST retires .
Thou fly'st! 'Tis well.
104 I thought what was the Courage of a Ghost!
Yet, dare not, on thy Life -- Why say I that,
Since Life thou hast not? -- Dare not walk again,
Within these Walls, on pain of the Red-Sea .
For, if henceforth I ever find thee here,
As sure, sure as a Gun, I'll have thee laid --
GHOST. Were the Red-Sea , a Sea of Holland's Gin,
The Liquor (when alive) whose very Smell
I did detest, did loath -- yet for the Sake
Of Thomas Thumb , I would be laid therein.
KING. Ha! said you?
GHOST. Yes, my Liege, I said Tom Thumb ,
Whose Father's Ghost I am -- once not unknown
To mighty Arthur . But, I see, 'tis true,
The dearest Friend, when dead, we all forget.
KING. 'Tis he, it is the honest Gaffer Thumb .
Oh, let me press thee in my eager Arms,
Thou best of Ghosts! Thou something more than Ghost!
GHOST. Would I were Something more, that we again
Might feel each other in the warm Embrace.
But now I have th' Advantage of my King,
105 For I feel thee, whilst thou dost not feel me.
KING. But say, 106 thou dearest Air, Oh! say, what Dread,
Important Business sends thee back to Earth?
GHOST. Oh! then prepare to hear -- which, but to hear,
Is full enough to send thy spirit hence.
Thy Subjects up in Arms, by Grizzle led,
Will, ere the rosy finger'd Morn shall ope
The Shutters of the Sky, before the Gate
Of this thy Toyal Palace, swarming spread:
107 So have I seen the Bees in Clusters swarm,
So have I seen the Stars in frosty Nights,
So have I seen the Sand in windy Days,
So have I seen the Ghosts on Pluto's Shore,
So have I seen the Flowers in Spring arise,
So have I seen the Leaves in Autumn fall,
So have I seen the Fruits in Summer smile,
So have I seen the Snow in Winter frown.
KING. D------n all thou'st seen! -- Dost thou, beneath the Shape
Of Gaffer Thumb , come hither to abuse me,
With Similies to keep me on the Rack?
Hence -- or by all the Torments of thy Hell,
108 I'll run thee thro' the Body, tho' thou'st none.
GHOST. Arthur , beware; I must this Moment hence,
Not frighted by your Voice, but by the Cocks;
Arthur beware, beware, beware, beware!
Strive to avert thy yet impending Fate;
For if thou'rt kill'd To-day
To-morrow all thy Care will come too late.
KING solus .
KING. Oh! stay, and leave me not uncertain thus!
And whilst thou tellest me what's like my Fate,
Oh, teach me how I may avert it too!
Curst be the Man who first a Simile made!
Curst, ev'ry Bard who writes! -- So have I seen
Those whose Comparisons are just and true,
And those who liken things not like at all.
The Devil is happy, that the whole Creation
Can furnish out no Simile to his Fortune.
KING, QUEEN.
QUEEN. What is the Cause, my Arthur , that you steal
Thus silently from Dollallolla's Breast?
Why dost thou leave me in the 109 Dark alone,
When well thou know'st I am afraid of Sprites?
KING. Oh Dollallolla ! do not blame my Love;
I hop'd the Fumes of Last Night's Punch had laid
Thy lovely Eye-lids fast. -- But, Oh! I find
There is no Power in Drams, to quiet Wives;
Each Morn, as the returning Sun, they wake,
And shine upon their Husbands.
QUEEN. Think, Oh think!
What a Surprize it must be to the Sun,
Rising, to find the vanish'd World away.
What less can be the wretched Wife's Surprize,
When, stretching out her Arms to fold thee fast,
She folds her useless Bolster in her Arms.
110 Think, think on that -- Oh! think, think well on that.
I do remember also to have read
111 In Dryden's Ovid's Metamorphosis ,
That Jove in Form inanimate did lie
With beauteous Danae ; and trust me, Love
112 I fear'd the Bolster might have been a Jove .
KING. Come to my Arms, most virtuous of thy Sex;
Oh Dollallolla ! were all Wives like thee,
So many Husbands never had worn Horns.
Should Huncamunca of thy Worth partake,
Tom Thumb indeed were blest. -- Oh fatal Name!
For didst thou know one Quarter what I know,
Then would'st thou know -- Alas! what thou would'st know!
QUEEN. What can I gather hence? Why dost thou speak
Like Men who carry Raree-Shows about,
Now you shall see, Gentlemen, what you shall see ?
O tell me more, or thou hast told too much.
KING, QUEEN, NOODLE.
NOODLE. Long life attend your Majesties serene,
Great Arthur , King, and Dollallolla , Queen!
Lord Grizzle , with a bold, rebellious Crowd,
Advances to the Palace, threat'ning loud,
Unless the Princess be deliver'd straight,
And the victorious Thumb , without his Pate,
They are resolv'd to batter down the Gate.
KING, QUEEN, HUNCAMUNCA, NOODLE.
KING. See where the Princess comes! Where is Tom Thumb ?
HUNCAMUNCA. Oh! Sir, about an Hour and half ago
He sallied out to encounter with the Foe,
And swore, unless his Fate had him mis-led,
From Grizzle's Shoulders to cut off his Head,
And serve't up with your Chocolate in Bed.
KING. 'Tis well, I find one Devil told us both.
Come Dollallolla, Huncamunca , come,
Within we'll wait for the victorious Thumb ;
In Peace and Safety we secure may stay,
While to his Arm we trust the bloody Fray;
Tho' Men and Giants should conspire with Gods,
113 He is alone equal to all these Odds.
QUEEN. He is indeed, a 114 Helmet to us all,
While he supports, we need not fear to fall;
His Arm dispatches all things to our Wish,
And serves up every Foe's Head in a Dish.
Void is the Mistress of the House of Care,
While the good Cook presents the Bill of Fare;
Whether the Cod, that Northern King of Fish,
Or Duck, or Goose, or Pig, adorn the Dish.
No Fears the Number of her Guests afford,
But at her Hour she sees the Dinner on the Board.
, a Plain .
Lord GRIZZLE, FOODLE, and Rebels .
GRIZZLE. Thus far our Arms with Victory are crown'd;
For tho' we have not fought, yet we have found
115 No Enemy to fight withal.
FOODLE. Yet I,
Methinks, would willingly avoid this Day,
116 This First of April , to engage our Foes.
GRIZZLE. This Day, of all the Days of th' Year, I'd choose,
For on this Day my Grandmother was born.
Gods! I will make Tom Thumb an April Fool;
117 Will teach his Wit an Errand it ne'er knew,
And send it Post to the Elysian Shades.
FOODLE. I'm glad to find our Army is so stout,
Nor does it move my Wonder less than Joy.
GRIZZLE. 118 What Friends we have, and how we came so strong,
I'll softly tell you as we march along.
Thunder and Lightning .
TOM THUMB, GLUMDALCA cum suis .
TOM THUMB. Oh, Noodle ! hast thou seen a Day like this?
119 The unborn Thunder rumbles o'er our Heads,
120 As if the Gods meant to unhinge the World;
And Heaven and Earth in wild Confusion hurl;
Yet will I boldly tread the tott'ring Ball.
MERLIN. Tom Thumb!
TOM THUMB. What Voice is this I hear?
MERLIN. Tom Thumb!
TOM THUMB. Again it calls.
MERLIN. Tom Thumb!
GLUMDALCA. It calls again.
TOM THUMB. Appear, whoe'er thou art, I fear thee not.
MERLIN. Thou hast no Cause to fear, I am thy Friend,
Merlin by Name, a Conjuror by Trade,
And to my Art thou dost thy Being owe.
TOM THUMB. How!
MERLIN. Hear then the mystick Getting of Tom Thumb .
121 His Father was a Ploughman plain,
His Mother milk'd the Cow;
And yet the way to get a Son,
This Couple knew not how.
Until such time the good old Man
To learned Merlin goes,
And there to him, in great Distress,
In secret manner shows;
How in his Heart he wish'd to have
A Child, in time to come,
To be his Heir, tho' it might be
No biger than his Thumb:
Of which old Merlin was foretold,
That he his Wish should have;
And so a Son of Stature small,
The Charmer to him gave .
Thou'st heard the past, look up and see the future.
TOM THUMB. 122 Lost in Amazement's Gulph, my Senses sink;
See there, Glumdalca , see another 123 Me!
GLUMDALCA. O Sight of Horror! see, you are devour'd
By the expanded Jaws of a red Cow.
MERLIN. Let not these Sights deter thy noble Mind,
124 For lo! a Sight more glorious courts thy Eyes;
See from a far a Theatre arise;
There Ages yet unborn, shall Tribute pay
To the Heroick Actions of this Day:
Then Buskin Tragedy at length shall choose
Thy Name the best Supporter of her Muse.
TOM THUMB. Enough, let every warlike Musick sound,
We fall contented, if we fall renown'd.
Lord GRIZZLE, FOODLE, Rebels, on one Side .
TOM THUMB, GLUMDALCA, on the other .
FOODLE. At length the Enemy advances nigh,
125 I hear them with my Ear, and see them with my Eye.
GRIZZLE. Draw all your Swords, for Liberty we fight,
126 And Liberty the Mustard is of Life.
TOM THUMB. Are you the Man whom Men fam'd Grizzle name?
GRIZZLE. 127 Are you the much more fam'd Tom Thumb ?
TOM THUMB. The same.
GRIZZLE. Come on, our Worth upon our selves we'll prove,
For Liberty I fight.
TOM THUMB. And I for Love.
GLUMDALCA. Turn, Coward, turn, nor from a Woman fly.A bloody Engagement between the two Armies here, Drums beating, Trumpets sounding, Thunder and Lightning. -- They fight off and on several times. Some fall . GRIZZLE and GLUMDALCA remain .
GRIZZLE. Away -- thou art too ignoble for my Arm.
GLUMDALCA. Have at thy Heart.
GRIZZLE. Nay then, I thrust at thine.
GLUMDALCA. You push too well, you've run me thro' the Guts,
And I am dead.
GRIZZLE. Then there's an End of One.
TOM THUMB. When thou art dead, then there's an End of Two,
128 Villain.
GRIZZLE. Tom Thumb!
TOM THUMB. Rebel!
GRIZZLE. Tom Thumb!
TOM THUMB. Hell!
GRIZZLE. Huncamunca!
TOM THUMB. Thou hast it there.
GRIZZLE. Too sure I feel it.
TOM THUMB. To Hell then, like a Rebel as you are,
And give my Service to the Rebels there.
GRIZZLE. Triumph not, Thumb , nor think thou shalt enjoy
Thy Huncamunca undisturb'd, I'll send
129 My Ghost to fetch her to the other World;
130 It shall but bait at Heaven, and then return.
131 But, ha! I feel Death rumbling in my Brains,
132 Some kinder Spright knocks softly at my Soul,
And gently whispers it to haste away:
I come, I come, most willingly I come.
133 So; when some City Wife, for Country Air,
To Hampstead , or to Highgate does repair;
Her, to make haste, Her Husband does implore,
And cries, My Dear, the Coach is at the Door .
With equal Wish, desirous to be gone,
She gets into the Coach, and then she cries -- Drive on!
TOM THUMB. With those last Words 134 he vomited his Soul,
Which, 135 like whipt Cream, the Devil will swallow down.
Bear off the Body, and cut off the Head,
Which I will to the King in Triumph lug;
Rebellion's dead, and now I'll go to Breakfast.
KING, QUEEN, HUNCAMUNCA, and Courtiers .
KING. Open the Prisons, set the Wretched free,
And bid our Treasurer disburse six Pounds
To pay their Debts. -- Let no one weep To-day.
Come, Dollallolla ; 136 Curse that odious Name!
It is so long, it asks an Hour to speak it.
By Heavens! I'll change it into Doll , or Loll ,
Or any other civil Monosyllable
That will not tire my Tongue. -- Come, sit thee down.
Here seated, let us view the Dancer's Sports;
Bid 'em advance. This is the Wedding-Day
Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom Thumb ;
Tom Thumb! who wins two Victories 137 To-day,
And this way marches, bearing Grizzle's Head.
A Dance here .
NOODLE. Oh! monstrous, dreadful, terrible, Oh! Oh!
Deaf be my Ears, for ever blind my Eyes!
Dumb be my Tongue! Feet lame! All senses lost!
138 Howl Wolves, grunt Bears, hiss Snakes, shriek all ye Ghosts!
KING. What does the Blockhead mean?
NOODLE. I mean, my Liege
139 Only to grace my Tale with decent Horror;
Whilst from my Garret, twice two Stories high,
I look'd abroad into the Streets below;
I saw Tom Thumb attended by the Mob,
Twice Twenty Shoe-Boys, twice two Dozen Links,
Chairmen and Porters, Hackney-Coachmen, Whores;
Aloft he bore the grizly Head of Grizzle ;
When of a sudden thro' the Streets there came
A Cow, of larger than the usual Size,
And in a Moment -- guess, Oh! guess the rest!
And in a Moment swallow'd up Tom Thumb .
KING. Shut up again the Prisons, bid my Treasurer
Not give three Farthings out -- hang all the Culprits ,
Guilty or not -- no matter -- Ravish Virgins,
Go bid the Schoolmasters whip all their Boys;
Let Lawyers, Parsons, and Physicians loose,
To rob, impose on, and to kill the World.
NOODLE. Her Majesty the Queen is in a Swoon.
QUEEN. Not so much in a swoon, but I have still
Strength to reward the Messenger of ill News.
Kills NOODLE.
NOODLE. Oh! I am slain.
CLEORA. My Lover's kill'd, I will revenge him so.
Kills the QUEEN.
HUNCAMUNCA. My Mamma kill'd! vile Murtheress, beware.
Kills CLEORA.
DOODLE. This for an old Grudge, to thy Heart.
Kills HUNCAMUNCA.
MUSTACHA. And this
I drive to thine, Oh Doodle ! for a new one.
Kills DOODLE.
KING. Ha! Murtheress vile, take that
Kills MUSTACHA.
140 And take thou this.
Kills himself, and falls .
So when the Child whom Nurse from Danger guards,
Sends Jack for Mustard with a Pack of Cards;
Kings, Queens and Knaves throw one another down,
'Till the whole Pack lies scatter'd and o'erthrown;
So all our Pack upon the Floor is cast,
And all I boast is -- that I fall the last.
Dies .
1 Corneille recommends some very remarkable Day, wherein to fix the Action of a Tragedy. This the best of our Tragical Writers have understood to mean a Day remarkable for the Serenity of the Sky, or what we generally call a fine Summer's Day: So that according to this their Exposition, the same Months are proper for Tragedy, which are proper for Pastoral. Most of our celebrated English Tragedies, as Cato, Mariamne, Tamerlane , &c. begin with their Observations on the Morning. Lee seems to have come the nearest to this beautiful Description of our Authors;
Massinissa in the new Sophonisba is also a Favourite of the Sun;The Morning dawns with an unwonted Crimson,
The Flowers all odorous seem, the Garden Birds
Sing louder, and the laughing Sun ascends,
The gaudy Earth with an unusual brightness,
All Nature smiles. (Caes. Borg.)
Memnon in the Persian Princess , makes the Sun decline rising, that he may not peep on Objects, which would prophane his Brightness.-- The Sun too seems
As conscious of my Joy with broader Eye
To look abroad the World, and all things smile
Like Sophonisba.
-- The Morning rises slow,
And all those ruddy Streaks that us'd to paint
The Days Approach, are lost in Clouds as if
The Horrors of the Night had sent 'em back,
To warn the Sun, he should not leave the Sea,
To Peep , &c.
2 This Line is highly conformable to the beautiful Simplicity of the Antients. It hath been copied by almost every Modern,
Not to be is not to be in Woe. (State of Innocence.)
Love is not Sin but where 'tis sinful Love. (Don Sebastian.)
Nature is Nature, Laelius. (Sophonisba.)
Men are but Men, we did not make our selves. (Revenge.)
3 Dr. B------y reads the mighty Tall-mast Thumb. Mr. D------s the mighty Thumping Thumb. Mr. T------d reads Thundering. I think Thomas more agreeable to the great Simplicity so apparent in our Author.
4 That learned Historian Mr. S------n in the third Number of his Criticism on our Author, takes great Pains to explode this Passage. It is, says he, difficult to guess what Giants are here meant, unless the Giant Despair in the Pilgrim's Progress , or the Giant Greatness in the Royal Villain ; for I have heard of no other sort of Giants in the Reign of King Arthur. Petrus Burmanus makes three Tom Thumbs , one whereof he supposes to have been the same Person whom the Greeks called Hercules , and that by these Giants are to be understood the Centaurs slain by that Heroe. Another Tom Thumb he contends to have been no other than the Hermes Trismegistus of the Antients. The third Tom Thumb he places under the Reign of King Arthur , to which third Tom Thumb , says he, the Actions of the other two were attributed. Now tho' I know that this Opinion is supported by an Assertion of Justus Lipsius, Thomam illum Thumbum non alium quam Herculem fuisse satis constat ; yet shall I venture to oppose one Line of Mr. Midwinter , against them all,
In Arthur's Court Tom Thumb did live .
But then, says Dr. B------y , if we place Tom Thumb in the Court of King Arthur , it will be proper to place that Court out of Britain , where no Giants were ever heard of. Spencer , in his Fairy Queen , is of another Opinion, where describing Albion he says,
-- Far within a salvage Nation dwelt
Of hideous Giants .
And in the same Canto,
Then Elfar, who two Brethren Giants had,
The one of which had two Heads --
The other three .
Risum teneatis, Amici.
5 To whisper in Books says Mr. D------s is errant Nonsense. I am afraid this learned Man does not sufficiently understand the extensive meaning of the Word Whisper. If he had rightly understood what is meant by the Senses Whisp'ring the Soul in the Persian Princess , or what Whisp'ring like Winds is in Aurengzebe , or like Thunder in another Author, he would have understood this. Emmeline in Dryden sees a Voice, but she was born blind, which is an Excuse Panthea cannot plead in Cyrus , who hears a sight.
-- Your Description will surpass,
All Fiction, Painting, or dumb Shew of Horror,
That ever Ears yet heard, or Eyes beheld .
When Mr. D------s understands these he will understand Whisp'ring in Books.
6 -- Some Ruffian stept into his Father's Place ,
And more than half begot him. ( Mary Q. of Scots ).
7 -- For Ulamar seems sent Express from Heaven,
To civilize this rugged Indian Clime . (Liberty Asserted.)
8 Omne majus continet in se minus, sed minus non in se majus continere potest , says Scaliger in Thumbo . - I suppose he would have cavilled at these beautiful Lines in the Earl of Essex ;
-- Thy most inveterate Soul,
That looks through the foul Prison of thy Body .
And at those of Dryden,
The Palace is without too well design'd,
Conduct me in, for I will view thy Mind. (Aurengzebe.)
9 Mr. Banks hath copied this almost Verbatim,
It was enough to say, here's Essex come,
And Nurses still'd their Children with the fright. (E. of Essex .)
10 The Trumpet in a Tragedy is generally as much as to say enter King: Which makes Mr. Banks in one of his Plays call it the Trumpets's formal Sound.
11 Phraortes in the Captives seems to have been acquainted with King Arthur .
Proclaim a Festival for seven Days space,
Let the Court shine in all its Pomp and Lustre,
Let all our Streets resound with Shouts of Joy;
Let Musick's Care-dispelling Voice be heard,
The sumptuous Banquet, and the flowing Goblet
Shall warm the Cheek, and fill the Heart with Gladness.
Astarbe shall sit Mistress of the Feast .
12 Repentance frowns on thy contracted Brow . (Sophonisba.)
Hung on his clouded Brow, I mark'd Despair . (Ibid.)
-- A sullen Gloom,
Scowls on his Brow . (Busiris.)
13 Plato is of this Opinion, and so is Mr. Banks ;
Behold these Tears sprung from fresh Pain and Joy . (E. of Essex .)
14 These Floods are very frequent in the Tragick Authors.
Near to some murmuring Brook I'll lay me down,
Whose Waters if they should too shallow flow,
My Tears shall swell them up till I will drown . (Lee's Sophonisba.)
Pouring forth Tears at such a lavish Rate,
That were the World on Fire, they might have drown'd
The Wrath of Heav'n, and quench'd the mighty Ruin . (Mithridates.)
One Author changes the Waters of Grief to those of Joy,
-- These Tears that sprung from Tides of Grief,
Are now augmented to a Flood of Joy . (Cyrus the Great.)
Another,
Turns all the Streams of Hates, and makes them flow
In Pity's Channel . (Royal Villain.)
One drowns himself,
-- Pity like a Torrent pours me down,
Now I am drowning all within a Deluge . (Anna Bullen.)
Cyrus drowns the whole world,
Our swellin Grief
Shall melt into a Deluge, and the World
Shall drown in Tears. (Cyrus the Great.)
15 An Expression vastly beneath the Dignity of Tragedy, says Mr. D------s , yet we find the Word he cavils at in the Mouth of Mithridates less properly used and applied to a more terrible Idea;
I would be drunk with Death . (Mithrid.)
The Author of the New Sophonisba taketh hold of this Monosyllable, and uses it pretty much to the same purpose,
The Carthaginian Sword with Roman Blood
Was drunk .
I would ask Mr. D------s which gives him the best Idea, a drunken King, or a drunken Sword?
Mr. Tate dresses up King Arthur's Resolution in Heroicks,
Merry, my Lord, o' th' Captain's Humour right,
I am resolv'd to be dead drunk to Night .
Lee also uses this charming Word;
Love's the Drunkenness of the Mind . (Gloriana.)
16 Dryden hath borrowed this, and applied it improperly,
I'm half Seas o'er in Death . (Cleom.)
17 This Figure is in great use among the Tragedians;
'Tis therefore, therefore 'tis . (Victim.)
I long repent, repent and long again . (Busiris.)
18 A Tragical Exclamation.
19 This Line is copied verbatim in the Captives .
20We find a Candlestick for this Candle in two celebrated Authors;
-- Each Star withdraws
His golden Head and burns within the Socket. (Nero.)
A Soul grown old and sunk into the Socket . (Sebastian.)
21 This Simile occurs very frequently among the Dramatick Writers of both Kinds.
22 Mr. Lee hath stolen this Thought from our Author;
-- This perfect Face, drawn by the Gods in Council,
Which they were long a making. (Lu. Jun. Brut.)
-- At his Birth, the heavenly Council paus'd,
And then at last cry'd out, This is a Man!
Dryden hath improved this Hint to the utmost Perfection:
So perfect, that the very Gods who form'd you, wonder'd
At their own Skill, and cry'd, A lucky Hit
Has mended our Design! Their Envy hindred,
Or you had been Immortal, and a Pattern,
When Heaven would work for Ostentation sake,
To copy out again . (All for Love.)
Banks prefers the Works of Michael Angelo to that of the Gods;
A Pattern for the Gods to make a Man by,
Or Michael Angelo to form a Statue .
23 It is impossible says Mr. W------ sufficiently to admire this natural easy Line.
24 This Tragedy which in most Points resembles the Antients differs from them in this, that it assigns the same Honour to Lowness of Stature, which they did to Height. The Gods and Heroes in Homer and Virgil are continually described higher by the Head than their Followers, the contrary of which is observ'd by our Author: In short, to exceed on either side is equally admirable, and a Man of three Foot is as wonderful a sight as a Man of nine.
25 My Blood leaks fast, and the great heavy lading
My Soul will quickly sink. (Mithrid.)
My Soul is like a Ship . (Injur'd Love.)
26 This well-bred Line seems to be copied in the Persian Princess ;
To be your humblest, and most faithful Slave .
27 This Doubt of the King puts me in mind of a Passage in the Captives , where the Noise of Feet is mistaken for the Rustling of Leaves,
-- Methinks I hear
The sound of Feet
No, 'twas the Wind that shook yon Cypress Boughs.
28 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this Passage in his Eye in the first Page of Love Triumphant .
29 Don Carlos in the Revenge suns himself in the Charms of his Mistress,
While in the Lustre of her Charms I lay .
30 A tragical phrase much in use.
31 This Speech hath been taken to pieces by several Tragical Authors who seem to have rifled it and shared its Beauties among them.
My soul waits at the Portal of thy Breast,
To ravish from thy Lips the welcome News. (Anna Bullen.)
My Soul stands listening at my Ears . (Cyrus the Great.)
Love to his Tune my jarring Heart would bring,
But Reason overwinds and cracks the String. (D. of Guise.)
-- I should have lov'd,
Tho' Jove in muttering Thunder had forbid it . (New Sophonisba.)
And when it (my Heart) wild resolves to love no more,
Then is the Triumph of excessive Love . (Ibidem.)
32 Massinissa is one fourth less happy than Tom Thumb .
Oh! happy, happy, happy. (New Sophonisba.)
33 No by my self. (Anna Bullen.)
34 -- Who caus'd
This dreadful Revolution in my Fate?
Ulamar. Who but a Dog, who but a Dog? (Liberty Asserted.)
35 -- A Bride,
Who twenty Years lay loving by your side . (Banks.)
36 For born upon a Cloud, from high I'll fall,
And rain down Royal Vengeance on you all. (Albion Queens.)
37 An Information very like this we have in the Tragedy of Love , where Cyrus having stormed in the most violent manner, Cyaxares observes very calmly,
Why, Nephew Cyrus -- you are mov'd .
38 'Tis in your Choice,
Love me, or love me not! (Conquest of Granada.)
39 There is not one Beauty in this Charming Speech, but hath been borrowed by almost every Tragick Writer.
40 Mr. Banks has (I wish I could not say too servilely) imitated this of Grizzle in his Earl of Essex.
Where art thou Essex, &c.
41 The Countess of Nottingham in the Earl of Essex is apparently acquainted with Dollalolla .
42 Grizzle was not probably possessed of that Glew, of which Mr. Banks speaks in his Cyrus .
I'll glew my Ears to ev'ry word.
43 Screech-Owls, dark Ravens and amphibious Monsters,
Are screaming in that Voice . (Mary Q. of Scots.)
44 The Reader may see all the Beauties of this Speech in a late Ode called the Naval Lyrick .
45 This Epithet to a Dolphin doth not give one so clear an Idea as were to be wished, a smiling Fish seeming a little more difficult to be imagined than a flying Fish. Mr. Dryden is of Opinion, that smiling is the Property of Reason, and that no irrational Creature can smile.
Smiles not allowed to Beasts from Reason move . (State of Innocence.)
46 These Lines are written in the same Key with those in the Earl of Essex;
Why sayst thou so, I love thee well, indeed
I do, and thou shalt find by this, 'tis true.
Or with this in Cyrus;
The most heroick Mind that ever was.
And with above half of the modern Tragedies.
47 Aristotle in that excellent Work of his which is very justly stiled his Masterpiece, earnestly recommends using the Terms of Art, however coarse or even indecent they may be. Mr. Tate is of the same Opinion.
Bru. Do not, like young Hawks, fetch a Course about,
Your Game flies fair.
Fra. Do not fear it .
He answers you in your own Hawking Phrase . (Injur'd Love.)
I think these two great Authorities are sufficient to justify Dollalolla in the use of the Phrase -- Hie away hie ; when in the same Line she says she is speaking to a setting Dog.
48 We meet with such another Pair of Scales in Dryden's King Arthur .
Arthur and Oswald and their different Fates,
Are weighing now within the Scales of Heav'n
Also in Sebastian.
This Hour my Lot is weighing in the Scales .
49 Mr. Rowe is generally imagin'd to have taken some Hints from this Scene in his Character of Bajazet ; but as he, of all the Tragick Writers, bears the least Resemblance to our Author in his Diction, I am unwilling to imagine he would condescend to copy him in this particular.
50 This method of surprizing an Audience by raising their Expectation to the highest Pitch, and then baulking it, hath been practis'd with great Success by most of our Tragical Authors.
51 Almeyda in Sebastian is in the same Distress;
Sometimes methinks I hear the Groan of Ghosts,
Thin hollow Sounds and lamentable Screams;
Then, like a dying Echo from afar,
My Mother's Voice that cries, wed not Almeyda
Forewarn'd , Almeyda, Marriage is thy Crime .
52 As very well he may if he hath any Modesty in him, says Mr. D------s . The Author of Busiris , is extremely zealous to prevent the Sun's blushing at any indecent Object; and therefore on all such Occasions he addresses himself to the Sun, and desires him to keep out of the way.
Rise never more, O Sun! let Night prevail,
Eternal Darkness close the World's wide Scene . (Busiris.)
Sun hide thy Face and put the World in Mourning. (Ibid.)
Mr. Banks makes the Sun perform the Office of Hymen ; and therefore not likely to be disgusted at such a Sight;
The Sun sets forth like a gay Brideman with you . (Mary Q. of Scots.)
53 Nourmahal sends the same Message to Heaven;
For I would have you, when you upwards move,
Speak kindly of us, to our Friends above. (Aurengzebe.)
We find another to Hell, in the Persian Princess;
Villain, get thee down
To Hell, and tell them that the Fray's begun.
54 Anthony gives the same Command in the same Words.
55 Oh! Marius, Marius ; wherefore art thou Marius ? (Otway's Marius.)
56 Nothing is more common than these seeming Contradictions; such as,
Haughty Weakness. (Victim.)
Great small World . (Noah's Flood.)
57 Lee hath improv'd this Metaphor.
Dost thou not view Joy peeping from my Eyes,
The Casements open'd wide to gaze on thee;
So Rome's glad Citizens to Windows rise,
When they some young Triumpher fain would see. (Gloriana.)
58 Almahide hath the same Contempt for these Appetites;
To eat and drink can no Perfection be . (Conquest of Granada.)
The Earl of Essex is of a different Opinion, and seems to place the chief Happiness of a General therein.
Were but Commanders half so well rewarded,
Then they might eat. (Banks' Earl of Essex.)
But if we may believe one, who knows more than either, the Devil himself; we shall find Eating to be an Affair of more moment than is generally imagined.
Gods are immortal only by their Food . (Lucifer in the State of Innocence.)
59 This Expression is enough of it self (says Mr. D------s ) utterly to destroy the Character of Huncamunca ; yet we find a Woman of no abandon'd Character in Dryden , adventuring farther and thus excusing her self;
To speak our Wishes first, forbid it Pride,
forbid it Modesty: True, they forbid it,
But Nature does not, when we are athirst,
Or hungry, will imperious Nature stay,
Nor eat, nor drink, before 'tis bid fall on . (Cleomenes.)
Cassandra speaks before she is asked. Huncamunca afterwards.
Cassandra speaks her Wishes to her Lover.
Huncamunca only to her Father.
60 Her Eyes resistless Magick bear,
Angels I see, and Gods are dancing there. (Lee's Sophonisba.)
61 Mr. Dennis in that excellent Tragedy, called Liberty Asserted , which is thought to have given so great a Stroke to the late French King, hath frequent Imitations of this beautiful Speech of King Arthur;
Conquest light'ning in his Eyes, and thund'ring in his Arm.
Joy lighten'd in her Eyes.
Joys like Light'ning dart along my Soul .
62 Jove with excessive Thund'ring tir'd above,
Comes down for Ease, enjoys a Nymph, and then
Mounts dreadful, and to Thund'ring goes again. (Gloriana.)
63 This beautiful Line, which ought, says Mr. W------ to be written in Gold, is imitated in the New Sophonisba ;
Oh! Sophonisba, Sophonisba , oh!
Oh! Narva, Narva , oh!
The Author of a Song call'd Duke upon Duke, hath improv'd it.
Alas! O Nick, O Nick, alas!
Where, by the help of a little false Spelling, you have two Meanings in the repeated Words.
64 Edith , in the Bloody Brother , speaks to her Lover in the same familiar Language.
Your Grace is full of Game .
65 Traverse the glitt'ring Chambers of the Sky,
Born on a Cloud in view of Fate I'll lie,
And press her Soul while Gods stand wishing by. (Hannibal.)
66 Let the four Winds from distant Corners meet,
And on their Wings first bear it into France;
Then back again to Edina's proud Walls,
Till Victim to the Sound th' aspiring City falls. (Albion Queens.)
67 I do not remember any Metaphors so frequent in the Tragick Poets as those borrow'd from Riding Post;
The Gods and Opportunity ride Post . (Hannibal.)
-- Let's rush together,
For Death rides Post. (Duke of Guise.)
Destruction gallops to thy murther Post . (Gloriana.)
68 This Image too very often occurs;
-- Bright as when thy Eye
'First lighted up our Loves . (Aurengzebe.)
This not a Crown alone lights up my Name . (Busiris.)
69 There is great Dissension among the Poets concerning the Method of making Man. One tells his Mistress that the Mold she was made in being lost, Heaven cannot form such another. Lucifer in Dryden , gives a merry Description of his own Formation;
Whom Heaven neglecting, made and scarce design'd,
But threw me in for Number to the rest. (State of Innocence.)
In one Place, the same Poet supposes Man to be made of Metal;
I was form'd
Of that coarse Metal, which when she was made,
The Gods threw by for Rubbish. (All for Love.)
In another, of Dough;
When the Gods moulded up the Paste of Man,
Some of their Clay was left upon their Hands,
And so they made Egyptians. (Cleomenes.)
In another of Clay;
-- Rubbish of remaining Clay . (Sebastian.)
One makes the Soul of Wax;
Her waxen Soul begins to melt apace. (Anna Bullen.)
Another of Flint;
Sure our two Souls have somewhere been acquainted
In former Beings, or struck out together,
One Spark to Africk flew, and one to Portugal. (Sebastian.)
To omit the great Quantities of Iron, Brazen and Leaden Souls which are so plenty in modern Authors -- I cannot omit the Dress of a Soul as we find it in Dryden;
Souls shirted but with Air . (King Arthur.)
Nor can I pass by a particular sort of Soul in a particular sort of Description, in the New Sophonisba.
Ye mysterious Powers,
-- Whether thro' your gloomy Depths I wander,
Or on the Mountains walk; give me the calm,
The steady smiling Soul, where Wisdom sheds
Eternal Sun-shine, and eternal Joy .
70 This Line Mr. Banks has plunder'd entire in his Anna Bullen .
71 Good Heaven, the Book of Fate before me lay,
But to tear out the Journal of that Day.
Or if the Order of the World below,
Will not the Gap of one whole Day allow,
Give me that Minute when she made her Vow . (Conquest of Granada.)
72 I know some of the Commentators have imagined, that Mr. Dryden , in the Altercative Scene between Cleopatra and Octavia , a Scene which Mr. Addison inveighs against with great Bitterness, is much beholden to our Author. How just this their Observation is, I will not presume to determine.
73 A cobling Poet indeed, says Mr. D . and yet I believe we may find as monstrous Images in the Tragick-Authors: I'll put down one;
Untie your folded Thoughts, and let them dangle loose as a
Bride's Hair . (Injur'd Love.)
Which Lines seem to have as much Title to a Milliner's Shop, as our Author's to a Shoemaker's.
74 Mr. L------ takes occasion in this Place to commend the great Care of our Author to preserve the Metre of Blank Verse, in which Shakespear, Johnson and Fletcher were so notoriously negligent; and the Moderns, in Imitation of our Author, so laudably observant;
-- Then does
Your Majesty believe that he can be
A Traitor! (Earl of Essex.)
Every Page of Sophonisba gives us Instances of this Excellence.
75 Love mounts and rowls about my stormy Mind. (Aurengzebe.)
Tempests and Whirlwinds thro' my Bosom move. (Cleom.)
76 With such a furious Tempest on his Brow,
As if the World's four Winds were pent within
His blustring Carcase. (Anna Bullen.)
77 Verba Tragica.
78 This Speech hath been terribly maul'd by the Poets.
79 -- My Life is worn to Rags;
Not worth a Prince's wearing . (Love Triumph.)
80 Must I beg the Pity of my Slave?
Must a King beg! But Love's a greater King,
A Tyrant, nay a Devil that possesses me.
He tunes the Organ of my Voice and speaks,
Unknown to me, within me. (Sebastian.)
81 When thou wer't form'd, Heaven did a Man begin;
But a Brute Soul by chance was shuffled in. (Aurengzebe.)
82 -- I am a Multitude,
Of walking Griefs. (New Sophonisba.)
83 I will take thy Scorpion Blood,
And lay it to my Grief till I have Ease. (Anna Bullen.)
84 Our Author, who every where shews his great Penetration into human Nature, here outdoes himself: Where a less judicious Poet would have raised a long Scene of whining Love. He who understood the Passions better, and that so violent an Affection as this must be too big for Utterance, chooses rather to send his Characters off in this sullen and doleful manner: In which admirable Conduct he is imitated by the Author of the justly celebrated Eurydice . Dr. Young seems to point at this Violence of Passion;
-- Passion choaks
Their Words, and they're the Statues of Despair .
And Seneca tells us, Curaeleves Loquuntur, ingentes stupent . The Story of the Egyptian King in Herodotus is too well known to need to be inserted; I refer the more curious Reader to the excellent Montagne , who hath written an Essay on this Subject.
85 To part is Death --
-- 'Tis Death to part.
-- Ah.
-- Oh. (Don Carlos.)
86 Nor know I whether,
What am I, who or where, (Busiris.)
I was I know not what, and am I know not how. (Gloriana.)
87 To understand sufficiently the Beauty of this Passage, it will be necessary that we comprehend every Man to contain two Selfs. I shall not attempt to prove this from Philosophy, which the Poets make so plainly evident.
One runs away from the other;
Let me demand your Majesty,
Why fly you from your self? (Duke of Guise.)
In a 2d. One Self is a Guardian to the other;
Leave me the Care of me . (Conquest of Granada.)
Again, My self am to my self less near . (Ibid.)
In the same, the first Self is proud of the second;
I my self am proud of me . (State of Innocence.)
In a 3d. Distrustful of him;
Fain I would tell, but whisper it in mine Ear,
That none besides might hear, nay not my self . (Earl of Essex.)
In a 4th. Honours him;
I honour Rome,
But honour too my self . (Sophonisba.)
In a 5th. At Variance with him;
Leave me not thus at Variance with my self . (Busiris.)
Again, in a 6th.
I find my self divided from my self. (Medea.)
She seemed the sad Effigies of her self. (Albion Queens.)
Assist me, Zulema, if thou would'st be
The Friend thou seemest, assist me against me .
From all which it appears, that there are two Selfs; and therefore Tom Thumb's losing himself is no such Solecism as it hath been represented by Men, rather ambitious of Criticizing, than qualify'd to Criticize.
88 Mr. F----- imagines this Parson to have been a Welsh one from his Simile.
89 Our Author hath been plunder'd here according to Custom;
Great Nature break thy Chain that links together,
The Fabrick of the World and make a Chaos,
Like that within my Soul . (Love Triumphant.)
-- Startle Nature, unfix the Globe,
And hurl it from its Axle-tree and Hinges. (Albion Queens.)
The tott'ring Earth seems sliding off its Props.
90 D------n your delay, ye Torturers proceed,
I will not hear one Word but Almahide. (Conq. of Granada.)
91 Mr. Dryden hath imitated this in All for Love .
92 This Miltonick Stile abounds in the New Sophonisba .
-- And on her ample Brow
Sat Majesty .
93 Your ev'ry Answer, still so ends in that,
You force me still to answer you Morat. (Aurengzebe.)
94 Morat, Morat, Morat, You love the Name . (Aurengzebe.)
95 Here is a Sentiment for the Virtuous Huncamunca (says Mr. D------s ) and yet with the leave of this great Man, the Virtuous Panthea in Cyrus , hath an Heart every whit as Ample;
For two I must confess are Gods to me,
Which is my Abradatus first, and thee. (Cyrus the Great.)
Nor is the Lady in Love Triumphant more reserv'd, tho' not so intelligible;
-- I am so divided,
That I grieve most for both, and love both most.
96 A ridiculous Supposition to any one, who considers the great and extensive Largeness of Hell, says a Commentator: But not so to those who consider the great Expansion of immaterial Substance. Mr. Banks makes one Soul to be so expanded that Heaven could not contain it;
The Heavens are all too narrow for her Soul . (Virtue Betray'd.)
The Persian Princess hath a Passage not unlike the Author of this;
We will send such Shoals of murther'd Slaves,
Shall glut Hell's empty Regions .
This threatens to fill Hell even tho' it were empty; Lord Grizzle only to fill up the Chinks, supposing the rest already full.
97 Mr. Addisoin is generally thought to have had this Simile in his Eye, when he wrote that beautiful one at the end of the third Act of his Cato .
98 This beautiful simile is founded on a Proverb, which does Honour to the English Language;
Between two Stools the Breech falls to the Ground.
I am not so pleased with any written Remains of the Ancients, as with those little Aphorisms, which verbal Tradition hath delivered down to us, under the Title of Proverbs. It were to be wished that instead of filling their Pages with the fabulous Theology of the Pagans, our modern Poets would think it worth their while to enrich their Works with the Proverbial Sayings of their Ancestors. Mr. Dryden hath chronicl'd one in Heroick;
Two ifs scarce make one Possibility . (Conquest of Granada.)
My Lord Bacon is of Opinion, that whatever is known of Arts and Sciences might be proved to have lurked in the Proverbs of Solomon . I am of the same Opinion in relation to those abovemention'd: At least I am confident that a more perfect System of Ethicks, as well as Oeconomy, might be compiled out of them, than is at present extant, either in the Works of the Antient Philosophers, or those more valuable, as more voluminous, ones of the modern Divines.
99 Of all the Particulars in which the modern Stage falls short of the ancient, there is none so much to be lamented, as the great Scarcity of Ghosts in the latter. Whence this proceeds, I will not presume to determine. Some are of opinion, that the Moderns are unequal to that sublime Language which a Ghost ought to speak. One says ludicrously, That Ghosts are out of Fashion; another, That they are properer for Comedy; forgetting, I suppose, that Aristotle hath told us, That a Ghost is the Soul of Tragedy; for so I render the which M. Dacier , amongst others, hath mistaken; I suppose mis-led, by not understanding the Fabula of the Latins , which signifies a Ghost as well as a Fable .
-- Te premet nox, fabulaeque Manes (Hor.)
Of all the Ghosts that have ever appeared on the Stage, a very learned and judicious foreign Critick, gives the Preference to this of our Author. These are his Words, speaking of this Tragedy;
-- Nec quidquam in illâ admirabilius quam Phasma quoddam horrendum, quod omnibus aliis Spectris, quibuscum scatet Anglorum Tragaedia, longè (pace D ------ isii V. Doctiss. dixerim) praetulerim.
100 We have already given Instances of this Figure.
101 Almanzor reasons in the same manner;
-- A Ghost I'll be,
And from a Ghost, you know, no Place is free. (Conq. of Granada.)
102 The Man who writ this wretched Pun (says (Mr. D. ) would have picked your Pocket: Which he proceeds to shew, not only bad in it self, but doubly so on so solemn an Occasion. And yet in that excellent Play of Liberty Asserted , we find something very much resembling a Pun in the Mouth of a Mistress, who is parting with the Lover she is fond of;
Ul. Oh, mortal Woe! one Kiss, and then farewel.
Irene. The Gods have given to others to fare well.
O miserably must Irene fare.
Agamemnon , in the Victim , is full as facetious on the most solemn Occasion, that of Sacrificing his Daughter;
Yes, Daughter, yes; you will assist the Priest;
Yes, you must offer up your -- Vows for Greece.
103 I'll pull thee backwards by thy Shrowd to Light,
Or else, I'll squeeze thee, like a Bladder, there,
And make thee groan thy self away to Air. (Conquest of Granada.)
Snatch me, ye Gods, this Moment into Nothing. (Cyrus the Great.)
104 So, art thou gone? Thou canst no Conquest boast,
I thought what was the Courage of a Ghost . (Conquest of Granada.)
King Arthur seems to be as brave a Fellow as Almanzor , who says most heroically,
-- In spight of Ghosts, I'll on.
105 The Ghost of Lausaria in Cyrus is a plain Copy of this, and is therefore worth reading.
Ah , Cyrus!
Thou may'st as well grasp Water, or fleet Air,
As think of touching my immortal Shade. (Cyrus the Great.)
106 Thou better Part of heavenly Air. (Conquest of Granada.)
107 A String of Similies (says one) proper to be hung up in the Cabinet of a Prince .
108 This Passage hath been understood several different Ways by the Commentators. For my part, I find it difficult to understand it at all. Mr. Dryden says,
I have heard something how two Bodies meet,
But how two Souls join, I know not.
So that 'till the Body of a Spirit be better understood, it will be difficult to understand how it is possible to run him through it.
109 Cydaria is of the same fearful Temper with Dollallolla ;
I never durst in Darkness be alone. (Ind. Emp.)
110 Think well of this, think that, think every way. (Sophonisba.)
111 These Quotations are more usual in the Comick, than in the Tragick Writers.
112 This Distress (says Mr. D------ ) I must allow to be extremely beautiful, and tends to heighten the virtuous Character of Dollallolla, who is so exceeding delicate, that she is in the highest Apprehension from the inanimate Embrace of a Bolster. An Example worthy of Imitation from all our Writers of Tragedy .
113 Credat Judaeus Apelles.
Non ego -- (Says Mr. D. ) -- For, passing over the Absurdity of being equal to Odds, can we possibly suppose a little insignificant Fellow - I say again, a little insignificant Fellow able to vie with a Strength which all the Sampsons and Hercules's of Antiquity would be unable to encounter.
I shall refer this incredulous Critick to Mr. Dryden's Defence of his Almanzor ; and lest that should not satisfy him, I shall quote a few Lines from the Speech of a much braver Fellow than Almanzor , Mr. Johnson's Achilles;
Tho' Human Race rise in embattel'd Hosts,
To force her from my Arms -- Oh! Son of Atreus!
By that immortal Pow'r, whose deathless Spirit
Informs this Earth, I will oppose them all. (Victim.)
114 I have heard of being supported by a Staff (says Mr. D. ) but never of being supported by an Helmet . I believe he never heard of Sailing with Wings, which he may read in no less a Poet than Mr. Dryden ;
Unless we borrow Wings, and sail thro' Air. (Love Triumphant.)
What will he say to a kneeling Valley?
-- I'll stand
Like a safe Valley, that low bends the Knee,
To some aspiring Mountain. (Injur'd Love.)
I am asham'd of so ignorant a Carper, who doth not know that an Epithet in Tragedy is very often no other than an Expletive. Do not we read in the New Sophonisba of grinding Chains, blue Plagues, white Occasions , and blue Serenity ? Nay, 'tis not the Adjective only, but sometimes half a Sentence is put by way of Expletive, as, Beauty pointed high with Spirit , in the same Play -- and, In the Lap of Blessing, to be most curst , in the Revenge.
115 A Victory like that of Almanzor .
Almanzor is victorious without Fight . (Conq. of Granada.)
116 Well have we chose an happy Day for Fight,
For every Man in course of Time has found,
Some Days are lucky, some unfortunate . (K. Arthur.)
117 We read of such another in Lee;
Teach his rude Wit a Flight she never made,
And sent her Post to the Elysian Shade. (Gloriana.)
118 These Lines are copied Verbatim in the Indian Emperor .
119 Unborn Thunder rolling in a Cloud. (Conq. of Gran.)
120 Were Heaven and Earth in wild Confusion hurl'd,
Should the rash Gods unhinge the rolling World,
Undaunted, would I tread the tott'ring Ball,
Crush'd, but unconquer'd, in the dreadful Fall. (Female Warrior.)
121 See the History of Tom Thumb , pag. 2.
122 -- Amazement swallows up my Sense,
And in th' impetuous Whirl of circling Fate,
Drinks down my Reason. (Pers. Princess.)
123 -- I have outfaced my self,
What! am I two? Is there another Me? (K. Arthur.)
124 The Character of Merlin is wonderful throughout, but most so in this Prophetick Part. We find several of these Prophecies in the Tragick Authors, who frequently take this Opportunity to pay a Compliment to their Country, and sometimes to their Prince. None but our Author (who seems to have detested the least Appearance of Flattery) would have past by such an Opportunity of being a Political Prophet.
125 I saw the Villain, Myron, with these Eyes I saw him . (Busiris.)
In both which Places it is intimated, that it is sometimes possible to see with other Eyes than your own.
126 This Mustard (says Mr. D. ) is enough to turn one's Stomach: I would be glad to know what Idea the Author had in his Head when he wrote it . This will be, I believe, best explained by a Line of Mr. Dennis ;
And gave him Liberty, the Salt of Life . (Liberty asserted.)
The Understanding that can digest the one, will not rise at the other.
127 Han. Are you the Chief, whom Men fam'd Scipio call?
Scip. Are you the much more famous Hannibal? (Hannib.)
128 Dr. Young seems to have copied this Engagement in his Busiris :
Myr. Villain!
Mem. Myron!
Myr. Rebel!
Mem. Myron!
Myr. Hell!
Mem. Mandane
129 This last Speech of my Lord Grizzle , hath been of great Service to our Poets;
-- I'll hold it fast
As Life, and when Life's gone, I'll hold this last;
And if thou tak'st it from me when I'm slain,
I'll send my Ghost, and fetch it back again . (Conquest of Granada.)
130 My Soul should with such Speed obey,
It should not bait at Heaven to stop its way .
Lee seems to have had this last in his Eye;
'Twas not my Purpose, Sir, to tarry there,
I would but go to Heaven to take the Air . (Gloriana.)
131 A rising Vapour rumbling in my Brains . (Cleomenes.)
132 Some kind Spright knocks softly at my Soul,
To tell me Fate's at Hand .
133 Mr. Dryden seems to have had this Simile in his Eye, when he says,
My Soul is packing up, and just on Wing . (Conquest of Granada.)
134 And in a purple Vomit pour'd his Soul. (Cleomenes.)
135 The Devil swallows vulgar Souls
Like whipp'd Cream . (Sebastian.)
136 How I could curse my Name of Ptolemy!
It is so long, it asks an Hour to write it.
By Heav'n! I'll change it into Jove, or Mars,
Or any other civil Monosyllable,
That will not tire my Hand . (Cleomenes.)
137 Here is a visible Conjunction of two Days in one, by which our Author may have either intended an Emblem of a Wedding; or to insinuate, that Men in the Honey-Moon are apt to imagine time shorter than it is. It brings into my Mind a Passage in the Comedy call'd the Coffee-House Politician ;
We will celebrate this Day at my House To-morrow .
138 These beautiful Phrases are all to be found in one single Speech of King Arthur , or The British Worthy .
139 I was but teaching him to grace his Tale
With decent Horror . (Cleomenes.)
140 We may say with Dryden,
Death did at length so many Slain forget,
And left the Tale, and took them by the Great .
I know of no Tragedy which comes nearer to this charming and bloody Catastrophe, than Cleomenes , where the Curtain covers five principal Characters dead on the Stage. These Lines too,
I ask no Questions then, of Who kill'd Who?
The Bodies tell the Story as they lie.
seem to have belonged more properly to this Scene of our Author. -- Nor can I help imagining they were originally his. The Rival Ladies too seem beholden to this Scene;
We're now a Chain of Lovers link'd in Death,
Julia goes first , Gonsalvo hangs on her,
And Angelina hangs upon Gonsalvo,
As I on Angelina.
No Scene, I believe, ever received greater Honours than this. It was applauded by several Encores , a Word very unusual in Tragedy -- And it was very difficult for the Actors to escape without a second Slaughter. This I take to be a lively Assurance of that fierce Spirit of Liberty which remains among us, and which Mr. Dryden in his Essay on Dramatick Poetry hath observed -- Whether Custom (says he) hath so insinuated it self into our Countrymen, or Nature hath so formed them to Fierceness, I know not, but they will scarcely suffer Combats, and other Objects of Horror, to be taken from them . -- And indeed I am for having them encouraged in this Martial Disposition: Nor do I believe our Victories over the French have been owing to any thing more than to those bloody Spectacles daily exhibited in our Tragedies, of which the French Stage is so entirely clear.
Legends/Sagas
SONNET XXIII
by
FULKE GREVILLE
Merlin , they say, an English Prophet borne,
When he was yong and gouern'd by his Mother,
Took great delight to laugh such fooles to scorne,
As thought, by Nature we might know a Brother.
His Mother chid him oft, till on a day,
They stood, and saw a Coarse to buriall carried,
The Father teares his beard, doth weepe and pray;
The Mother was the woman he had married.
Merlin laughs out aloud in stead of crying;
His Mother chides him for that childish fashion;
Sayes, Men must mourne the dead, themselues are dying,
Good manners doth make answer vnto passion.
The Child (for children see what should be hidden)
Replies vnto his Mother by and by,
"Mother, if you did know, and were forbidden,
Yet you would laugh as heartily, as I.
This Man no part hath in the child he sorrowes,
His Father was the Monke that sings before him:
See then how Nature of Adoption borrowes,
Truth couets in me, that I should restore him.
True fathers singing, supposed fathers crying,
I thinke make women laugh, that lye a-dying."
GERAINT THE SON OF ERBIN
(Translation by Lady Charlotte Guest)
Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr was the chief porter; but he did not himself perform the office, except at one of the three high festivals, for he had seven men to serve him, and they divided the year amongst them. They were Grynn, and Pen Pighon, and Llaes Cymyn, and Gogyfwlch, and Gwrdnei with cat's eyes, who could see as well by night as by day, and Drem the son of Dremhitid, and Clust the son of Clustveinyd; and these were Arthur's guards. And on Whit-Tuesday, as the King sat at the banquet, lo! there entered a tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and a surcoat of diapered satin, and a golden-hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his feet. And he came, and stood before Arthur. "Hail to thee, lord!" said he. "Heaven prosper thee, he answered, "and be thou welcome. Dost thou bring any new tidings?" "I do, Lord," he said. "I know thee not," said Arthur. "It is a marvel to me that thou dost not know me. I am one of thy foresters, Lord in the Forest of Dean, and my name is Madawc, the son of Twrgadarn." "Tell me thine errand," said Arthur. I will do so, Lord," said he. "In the forest I saw a stag, the like of which beheld I never yet." "What is there about him," asked Arthur, "that thou never yet didst see his like?" "He is of pure white, Lord, and he does not herd with any other animal through stateliness and pride, so royal is his bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, Lord, and to know thy will concerning him." "It seems best to me," said Arthur, "to go and hunt him tomorrow at break of day; and to cause general notice thereof to be given to-night in all quarters of the Court." And Arryfuerys was Arthur's chief huntsman, and Arelivri was his chief page. And all received notice; and thus it was arranged. And they sent the youth before them. Then Gwenhwyvar said to Arthur, "Wilt thou permit me, Lord," said she, "to go to-morrow to see and hear the hunt of the stag of which the young man spoke?" "I will, gladly," said Arthur. "Then will I go," said she. And Gwalchmai said to Arthur, "Lord, if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt soever the stag shall come, that one, be he a knight, or one on foot, may cut off his head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, or to the lady of his friend." "I grant it gladly," said Arthur, "and let the Steward of the Household be chastised, if all are not ready to-morrow for the chase."
And they passed the night with songs, and diversions, and discourse, and ample entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep, they went. And when the next day came, they arose; and Arthur called the attendants, who guarded his couch. And these were four pages, whose names were Cadyrnerth the son of Porthawr, Gandwy, and Ambreu, the son of Bedwor, and Amhar the son of Arthur and Goreu the son of Custennin. And these men came to Arthur and saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And Arthur wondered that Gwenhwyvar did not awake, and did not move in her bed; and the attendants wished to awaken her. "Disturb her not, said Arthur, "for she had rather sleep than go see to the hunting."
Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near the lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the chief page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and they took the road to the Forest.
And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Gwenhwyvar awoke, and called to her maidens, and apparelled herself. "Maidens," said she, "I had leave last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the stable, and order hither a horse such as a woman may ride." And one of them went, and she found but two horses in the stable, and Gwenhwyvar, and one of her maidens mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed the track of the men and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a loud and rushing sound; and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight upon a hunter foal of mighty size; and the rider was a fair-haired youth, bare-legged, and of a princely mien, and a golden-hilted sword was at his side, and a robe and a surcoat of satin were upon him, and two low shoes of leather upon his feet; and around him was a scarf of blue purple, at each corner of which was a golden apple. And his horse stepped stately, and swift, and proud; and he overtook Gwenhwyvar, and saluted her. "Heaven prosper thee, Geraint," said she, "I knew thee when first I saw thee just now. And the welcome of heaven be unto thee. And why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?" "Because I knew not when he went," said he. "I marvel, too," said she, "how he could go unknown to me." "Indeed, lady," said he. "I was asleep, and knew not when he went; but thou, O young man, art the most agreeable companion I could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be, that I shall be more amused with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose, and begin to cry." So they went to the edge of the Forest, and there they stood. "From this place," said she, "we shall hear when the dogs are let loose." And thereupon, they heard a loud noise, and they looked towards the spot whence it came, and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately, and foaming, and prancing, and strong, and spirited. And in the hand of the dwarf was a whip. And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful white horse, of steady and stately pace; and she was clothed in a garment of gold brocade. And near her was a knight upon a warhorse of large size, with heavy and bright armour both upon himself and upon his horse. And truly they never before saw a knight, or a horse, or armour, of such remarkable size. And they were all near to each other.
"Geraint," said Gwenhwyvar, "knowest thou the name of that tall knight yonder?" "I know him not," said he, "and the strange armour that he wears prevents my either seeing his face or his features." "Go, maiden," said Gwenhwyar, "and ask the dwarf who that knight is." Then the maiden went up to the dwarf; and the dwarf waited for the maiden, when he saw her coming towards him. And the maiden inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. "I will not tell thee," he answered. "Since thou art so churlish as not to tell me," said she, "I will ask him himself." "Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith," said he. "Wherefore?" said she. "Because thou art not of honour sufficient to befit thee to speak to my Lord." Then the maiden turned her horse's head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, until the blood flowed forth. And the maiden, through the hurt she received from the blow, returned to Gwenhwyvar, complaining of the pain. "Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee," said Geraint. "I will go myself to know who the knight is." "Go," said Gwenhwyvar. And Geraint went up to the dwarf. "Who is yonder knight?" said Geraint. "I will not tell thee," said the dwarf. "Then I will ask him himself," said he. "That wilt thou not, by my faith," said the dwarf, "thou art not honourable enough to speak with my Lord." Said Geraint, "I have spoken with men of equal rank with him." And he turned his horse's head towards the knight; but the dwarf overtook him, and struck him as he had done the maiden, so that the blood coloured the scarf that Geraint wore. Then Geraint put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance for him to sly the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed knight, so he returned to where Gwenhwyvar was.
"Thou hast acted wisely and discreetly, said she. "Lady," said he, "I will follow him yet, with thy permission; and at last he will come to some inhabited place, where I may have arms either as a loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the knight." "Go, said she, "and do not attack him until thou hast good arms, and I shall be very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee." "If I am alive," said he, "thou shalt hear tidings of me by to-morrow afternoon;" and with that he departed.
And the road they took was below the palace of Caerlleon, and across the ford of the Usk; and they went along a fair, and even, and lofty ridge of ground, until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they saw a Fortress and a Castle. And they came to the extremity of the town. And as the knight passed through it, all the people arose, and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when Geraint came into the town, he looked at every house, to see if he knew any of those whom he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him to do him the kindness to let him have arms either as a loan or for a pledge. And every house he saw was full of men, and arms, and horses. And they were polishing shields, and burnishing swords, and washing armour, and shoeing horses. And the knight, and the lady, and the dwarf, rode up to the Castle that was in the town, and every one was glad in the Castle. And from the battlements and the gates they risked their necks, through their eagerness to greet them, and to show their joy.
Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the Castle; and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around him; and at a little distance from the town he saw an old palace in ruins, wherein was a hall that was falling to decay. And as he knew not any one in the town, he went towards the old palace; and when he came near to the palace, he saw but one chamber, and a bridge of marble-stone leading to it. And upon the bridge he saw sitting a hoary-headed man, upon whom were tattered garments. And Geraint gazed steadfastly upon him for a long time. Then the hoary-headed man spoke to him. "Young man," he said, wherefore art thou thoughtful?" "I am thoughtful," said he, "because I know not where to go to-night." "Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain?" said he, "and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee." So Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man preceded him into the hall. And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then he went on to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the chamber he beheld an old decrepit woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, tattered garments of satin upon her; and it seemed to him that he had never seen a woman fairer than she must have been, when in the fulness of youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were a vest and a veil, that were old, and beginning to be worn out. And truly, he never saw a maiden more full of comeliness, and grace, and beauty, than she. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, "There is no attendant for the horse of this youth but thyself." "I will render the best service I am able," said she, "both to him and to his horse." And the maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she furnished his horse with straw and with corn. And she went to the hall as before, and then she returned to the chamber. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, "Go to the town, " said he, "and bring hither the best that thou canst find both of food and of liquor." "I will, gladly, Lord," said she. And to the town went the maiden. And they conversed together while the maiden was at the town. And, behold! the maiden came back, and a youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good purchased mead, and a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the maiden was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her veil, and she came into the chamber. "I could not obtain better than this," said she, "nor with better should I have been trusted." "It is good enough," said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and when their food was ready, they sat down. And it was on this wise; Geraint sat between the hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden served them. And they ate and drank
And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary-headed man, and he asked him in the first place, to whom belonged the palace that he was in. "Truly," "said he, "it was I that built it, and to me also belonged the city and the castle which thou sawest." "Alas!" said Geraint, "how is it that thou has lost them now?" "I lost a great Earldom as well as these," said he; "and this is how I lost them. I had a nephew, the son of my brother, and I took his possessions to myself; and when he came to his strength, he demanded of me his property, but I withheld it from him. So he made war upon me, and wrested from me all that I possessed." "Good Sir," said Geraint, "wilt thou tell me wherefore came the knight, and the lady, and the dwarf, just now into the town, and what is the preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms in order?" "I will do so," said he. "The preparations are for the game that is to be held to-morrow by the young Earl, which will be on this wise. In the midst of a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the two forks a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a Sparrow-Hawk, and for the Sparrow-Hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go all the array thou didst see in the city, of men, of horses, and of arms. And with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can joust for the Sparrow-Hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him. And the knight that thou sawest has gained the Sparrow-Hawk these two years; and if he gains it the third year, they will, from that time, send it every year to him, and he himself will come here no more. And he will be called the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk from that time forth." "Sir," said Geraint, "what is they counsel to me concerning this knight, on account of the insult which I received from the dwarf, and that which was received by the maiden of Gwenhwyvar, the wife of Arthur?" And Geraint told the hoary-headed man what the insult was that he had received. "It is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou hast neither dame nor maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. Yet, I have arms here, which thou couldst have; and there is my horse also, if he seem to thee better than thine own." "Ah! Sir," said he, "Heaven reward thee. But my own horse, to which I am accustomed, together with thy arms, will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come to-morrow, thou wilt permit me, Sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the maiden as long as I live; and if I do not escape, she will remain unsullied as before." "Gladly will I permit thee," said the hoary-headed man; "and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary that thy horse and arms should be ready to-morrow at break of day. For then, the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk will make proclamation, and ask the lady he loves best, to take the Sparrow-Hawk. 'For,' will he say to her, 'thou art the fairest of women, and thou didst possess it last year, and the year previous; and if any deny it thee to-day, by force will I defend it for thee.' And therefore," said the hoary-headed man, "it is needful for thee to be there at daybreak; and we three will be with thee." And thus was it settled.
And at night, lo! they went to sleep; and before dawn they arose, and arrayed themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four in the meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk making the proclamation, and asking his lady-love to fetch the Sparrow-Hawk. "Fetch it not," said Geraint, "for there is here a maiden, who is fairer, and more noble, and more comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou." "If thou maintainest the Sparrow-Hawk to be due to her, come forward, and do battle with me." And Geraint went forward to the top of the meadow, having upon himself and upon his horse armour which was heavy, and rusty, and worthless, and of uncouth shape. Then they encountered each other, and they broke a set of lances, and they broke a second set, and a third. And thus they did at every onset, and they broke as many lances as were brought to them. And when the Earl and his company saw the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk gaining the mastery, there was shouting, and joy, and mirth amongst them. And the hoary-headed man, and his wife, and his daughter, were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served Geraint lances as often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the Knight of the Sparrow-Hawk. Then the hoary-headed man came to Geraint. "Oh! chieftain," said he, "since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance which was in my hand when I received the honour of knighthood; and from that time to this I never broke it. And it has an excellent point." Then Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon the dwarf also bought a lance to his lord. "Behold, here is a lance for thee, not less good than his," said the dwarf. "And bethink thee, that no knight ever withstood thee before so long as this one has done." "I declare to Heaven," said Geraint, "that unless death takes me quickly hence, he shall never fare the better for thy service." And Geraint pricked his horse towards him from afar, and warning him, he rushed upon him, and gave him a blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his shield, that he cleft it in two, and broke his armour, and burst his girths, so that both he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the horse's crupper. And Geraint dismounted quickly. And he was wroth, and he drew his sword, and rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also arose, and drew his sword against Geraint. And they fought on foot with their swords until their arms struck sparks of fire like stars from one another; and thus they continued fighting until the blood and sweat obscured the light from their eyes. And when Geraint prevailed, the hoary-headed man, and his wife, and his daughter, were glad; and when the knight prevailed, it rejoiced the Earl and his party. Then the hoary-headed man saw Geraint receive a severe stroke, and he went up to him quickly, and said to him, "Oh, chieftain, remember the treatment which thou hadst from the dwarf; and wilt thou not seek vengeance for the insult to thyself, and for the insult to Gwenhywvar the wife of Arthur!" And Geraint was roused by what he said to him, and he called to him all his strength, and lifted up his sword, and struck the knight upon the crown of his head, so that he broke all his head-armour, and cut through all the flesh and the skin, even to the skull, until he wounded the bone.
Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand, and besought the mercy of Geraint. "Of a truth," said he, "I relinquish my overdaring and my pride in craving thy mercy; and unless I have time to commit myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy mercy will avail me little." "I will grant the grace upon this condition," said Geraint, "That thou wilt go to Gwenhwyvar the wife of Arthur, to do her satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy dwarf. As to myself, for the insult which I received from thee and thy dwarf, I am content with that which I have done unto thee. Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest into the presence of Gwenhwyvar, to make her what atonement shall be adjudged at the Court of Arthur." "This will I do gladly. And who art thou?" said he. "I am Geraint the son of Erbin. And declare thou also who thou art?" "I am Edeyrn the son of Nudd." Then he threw himself upon his horse, and went forward to Arthur's Court, and the lady he loved best went before him and the dwarf, with much lamentation. And thus far this story up to that time.
Then came the little Earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and bad him to his castle. "I may not go," said Geraint, "but where I was last night, there will I be to-night also." "Since thou wilt none of my inviting, thou shalt have abundance of all that I command for thee, in the place thou wast last night. And I will order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues, and from the weariness that is upon thee." "Heaven reward thee," said Geraint, "and I will go to my lodging." And thus went Geraint, and Earl Ynywl, and his wife, and his daughter. And when they reached the chamber, the household servants and attendants of the young Earl had arrived at the Court, and they arranged all the houses, dressing them with straw and with fire; and in a short time the ointment was ready, and Geraint came there, and they washed his head. Then came the young Earl, with forty honourable knights from among his attendants, and those who were bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came from the anointing. And the Earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. "Where is the Earl Ynywl, said Geraint, "and his wife, and his daughter?" "They are in the chamber yonder," said the Earl's chamberlain, "arraying themselves in garments which the Earl has caused to be brought for them." "Let not the damsel array herself," said he, "except in her vest and her veil, until she come to the Court of Arthur, to be clad by Gwenhwyvar, in such garments as she may choose." So the maiden did not array herself.
Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and went, and sat down to meat. And thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young Earl, and Earl Ynywl beyond him; and on the other side of Geraint were the maiden and her mother. And after these all sat according to their precedence in honour. And they ate. And they were served abundantly, and they received a profusion of divers kind of gifts. Then they conversed together. And the young Earl invited Geraint to visit him the next day. "I will not, by Heaven," said Geraint. "To the Court of Arthur will I go with this maiden to-morrow, And it is enough for me as, long as Earl Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I go chiefly to seek to add to his maintenance." "Ah, chieftain," said the young Earl, "it is not by my fault that Earl Ynywl is without his possessions." "By my faith," said Geraint, "he shall not remain without them, unless death quickly takes me hence." "Oh, chieftain," said he, "with regard to the disagreement between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy counsel, and agree to what thou mayest judge right between us." "I but ask thee," said Geraint, "to restore to him what is his, and what he should have received from the time he lost his possessions, even until this day." "That I will do gladly, for thee," answered he. "Then," said Geraint, whosoever is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and perform it on the spot." And all the men did so. And by that treaty they abided. And his castle, and his town, and all his possessions, were restored to Ynywl. And he received back all that he had lost, even to the smallest jewel.
Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. "Chieftain," said he, "behold the maiden for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament, I bestow her upon thee." "She shall go with me," said Geraint, "to the Court of Arthur; and Arthur and Gwenhwyvar they shall dispose of her as they will." And the next day the proceeded to Arthur's Court. So far concerning Geraint.
Now, this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were divided into hunting parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag. And the last dog that was let loose was the favourite dog of Arthur. Cavall was his name. And he left all the other dogs behind him, and turned the stag. And at the second turn, the stag came towards the hunting party of Arthur. And Arthur set upon him. And before he could be slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the death horn for slaying, and they all gathered round.
Then came Kadyriaith to Arthur, and spoke to him. "Lord," said he, "behold yonder is Gwenhwyvar, and none with her save only one maiden." "Command Gildas the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the Court," said Arthur, "to attend Gwenhwyvar to the palace." And they did so.
Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head of the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be given to the lady best beloved by him, and another to the lady whom he loved best. And all they of the household, and the knights, disputed sharply concerning the head. And with that they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Gwenhwyvar heard them disputing about the head of the stag, Gwenhwyvar said to Arthur, "My lord, this is my counsel concerning the stag's head; let it not be given away until Geraint the son of Erbin shall return from the errand he is upon." And Gwenhwyvar told Arthur what that errand was. "Right gladly shall it be so," said Arthur. And thus it was settled. And the next day Gwenhwyvar caused a watch to be set upon the ramparts for Geraint's coming. And after mid-day they beheld an unshapely little man upon a horse, and after him, as they supposed, a dame or a damsel, also on horseback, and after her a knight of large stature, bowed down, and hanging his head low and sorrowfully, and clad in broken and worthless armour.
And before they came near to the gate, one of the watch went to Gwenhwyvar, and told her what kind of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. "I know not who they are," said he. "But I know," said Gwenhwyvar; "this is the knight whom Geraint pursued, and methinks that he comes not here by his own free will. But Geraint has overtaken him, and avenged the insult to the maiden to the uttermost." And thereupon, behold a porter came to the spot where Gwenhwyvar was. "Lady," said he, "at the gate there is a knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful an aspect to look upon as he. Miserable and broken is the armour that he wears, and the hue of blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own colour." "Knowest thou his name?" said she. "I do," said he; "he tells me that he is Ederyn the son of Nudd." Then she replied, "I know him not."
So Gwenhwyvar went to the gate to meet him, and he entered. And Gwenhwyvar was sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was accompanied by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Gwenhwyvar. "Heaven protect thee," said she. "Lady," said he, "Geraint the son of Erbin, thy best and most valiant servant greets thee." "Did he meet thee?" she asked. "Yes," said he, "and it was not to my advantage; and it was not his fault, but mine, Lady. And Geraint greets thee well; and in greeting thee he compelled me to come hither to do thy pleasure for the insult which thy maiden received from the dwarf. He forgives the insult to himself, in consideration of his having put me in peril of my life. And he imposed on me a condition, manly, and honourable, and warrior-like, which was to do thee justice, Lady." "Now, where did he overtake thee?" "At the place where we were jousting, and contending for the Sparrow-Hawk, in the town which is now called Cardiff. And there were none with him save three persons, of a mean and tattered condition. And these were an aged, hoary-headed man, and a woman advanced in years, and a fair young maiden, clad in worn-out garments. And it was for the avouchment of the love of that maiden that Geraint jousted for the Sparrow-Hawk at the tournament, for he said that that maiden was better entitled to the Sparrow-Hawk than this maiden that was with me. And thereupon we encountered each other, and he left me, Lady, as thou seest." "Sir," said she, "when thinkest thou that Geraint will be here?" "To-morrow, Lady, I think he will be here with the maiden."
Then Arthur came to him, and he saluted Arthur; and Arthur gazed a long time upon him, and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew him, he inquired of him, "Art thou Edeyrn the son of Nudd?" "I am, Lord," said he, "and I have met with much trouble, and received wounds insupportable." Then he told Arthur all his adventure. "Well," said Arthur, "from what I hear, it behoves Gwenhwyvar to be merciful towards thee." "The mercy which thou desirest, Lord," said she, "will I grant to him, since it is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered to me as to thyself." "Thus will it be best to do," said Arthur; "let this man have medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if he live, he shall do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the men of the Court; and take thou sureties to that effect. And if he die, too much will be the death of such a youth as Edeyrn for an insult to a maiden." "This pleases me," said Gwenhwyvar. And Arthur became surety for Edeyrn, and Caradawc the son of Llyr, Gwallawg the son of Llenawg, and Owain the son of Nudd, and Gwalchhmai, and many others with them. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to be called to him. He was the chief physician. "Take with thee Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and cause a chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid of medicine as thou wouldst do unto myself, if I were wounded, and let none into his chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer to him remedies." "I will do so, gladly, Lord," said Morgan Tud. Then said the steward of the household, "Whither is right, Lord, to order the maiden?" "To Gwenhwyvar and her handmaidens," said he. And the steward of the household so ordered her. Thus far concerning them.
The next day came Geraint towards the Court; and there was a watch set on the ramparts by Gwenhwyvar, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of the watch came to the place where Gwenhwyvar was. "Lady," said he, "methinks that I see Geraint, and the maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his walking gear upon him, and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to be clad in a garment of linen." "Assemble all the women," said Gwenhwyvar, "and come to meet Geraint, to welcome him, and wish him joy." And Gwenhwyvar went to meet Geraint and the maiden. And when Geraint came to the place where Gwenhwyvar was, he saluted her. "Heaven prosper thee," said she, "and welcome to thee. And thy career has been successful, and fortunate, and resistless, and glorious. And Heaven reward thee, that thou hast so proudly caused me to have retribution." "Lady," said he, "I earnestly desired to obtain thee satisfaction according to thy will; and, behold, here is the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge." "Verily," said Gwenhwyvar, "the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is fitting what we should receive her joyfully." Then they went in, and dismounted. And Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. "Heaven protect thee," said Arthur, "and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And since Edeyrn the son of Nudd has received his overthrow and wounds from thy hands, thou hadst had a prosperous career." "Not upon me the blame," said Geraint, "it was through the arrogance of Edeyrn the son of Nudd himself that we were not friends. I would not quit him until I knew who he was, and until the one had vanquished the other." "Now," said Arthur, "where is the maiden for whom I heard thou didst give challenge?" "She is gone with Gwenhwyvar to her chamber."
Then went Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur, and all his companions, and his whole Court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were they all, that had her array been suitable to her beauty, they had never seen a maid fairer than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to Geraint. And the usual bond made between two persons was made between Geraint and the maiden, and the choicest of all Gwenhwyvar's apparel was given to the maiden; and thus arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful to all who beheld her. And that day and that night were spent in abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of liquor, and a multitude of games. And when it was time for them to go to sleep, they went. And in the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Gwenhwyvar was, the couch of Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she became his bride. And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon Geraint with bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the palace; and she had many companions, both men and women, and there was no maiden more esteemed than she in the Island of Britain.
Then spake Gwehhwyvar. "Rightly did I judge," said she, "concerning the head of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint's return; and, behold here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be given to Enid the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And I do not believe any will begrudge it her, for between her and every one here there exists nothing but love and friendship." Much applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur also. And the head of the stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame increased, and her friends thenceforward became more in number than before. And Geraint from that time forth loved the stag, and the tournament, and hard encounters; and he came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, and a third, he proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of the kingdom.
And once upon a time Arthur was holding his Court at Caerlleon upon Usk, at Whitsuntide. And, behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full of knowledge, and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. "Heaven prosper you," said Arthur, "and the welcome of Heaven be unto you. And whence do you come?" "We come, Lord," said they, "from Cornwall; and we are ambassadors from Erbin the son of Custennin, thy uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee well, as an uncle should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet his lord. And he represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble, and is advancing in years. And the neighboring chiefs knowing this, grow insolent towards him, and covet his land and possessions. And he earnestly beseeches thee, Lord, to permit Geraint his son to return to him, to protect his possessions, and to become acquainted with his boundaries. And unto him he represents that it were better for him to spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his age, in preserving his own boundaries, than in tournaments, which are productive of no profit, although he obtains glory in them."
"Well," said Arthur, "go, and divest yourselves of your accoutrements, and take food, and refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before you go forth hence you shall have an answer." And they went to eat. And Arthur considered that it would go hard with him to let Geraint depart from him and from his Court; neither did he think if fair that his cousin should be restrained from going to protect his dominions and his boundaries, seeing that his father was unable to do so. No less was the grief and regret of Gwenhwyvar, and all her women, and all her damsels, through fear that the maiden would leave them. And that day and that night were spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur showed Geraint the cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors to him out of Cornwall. "Truly," said Geraint, "be it to my advantage or disadvantage, Lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this embassy." "Behold," said Arthur, "though it grieves me to part with thee, it is my counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend thy boundaries, and to take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends, and among thy companions in arms." "Heaven reward thee; and this will I do," said Geraint. "What discourse," said Gwenhwyvar, do I hear between you? Is it of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?" "It is," said Arthur. "Then it is needful for me to consider," said she, "concerning companions and a provision for the lady that is with me?" "Thou wilt do well, said Arthur.
And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them. And on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him. Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Riogonedd the son of the king of Ireland, and Ondyaw the son of the duke of Burgundy, Gwilim the son of the ruler of the Franks, Howel the son of Emyr of Brittany, Elivry, and Nawkryd, Gwynn the son of Tringad, Goreu the son of Custennin, Gweir Gwrhyd Vawr, Garannaw the son of Golithmer, Peredur the son of Evrawc, Gwynnllogell, Gwyr a judge in the Court of Arthur, Dyvyr the son of Alun of Dyved, Gwrei Gwalstawd Iethoedd, Bedwyr the son of Bedrawd, Hadwry the son of Gwyron, Kai the son of Kynyr, Odyar the Frank, the Steward of Arthur's Court, and Ederyn the son of Nudd. Said Geraint, "I think that I shall have enough of knighthood with me." "Yes," said Arthur, "but it will not be fitting for thee to take Ederyn with thee, although he is well, until peace shall be made between him and Gwenhwyvar." "Gwenhwyvar can permit him to go with me, if he give sureties." "If she please, she can let him go without sureties, for enough of pain and affliction has he suffered for the insult which the maiden received from the dwarf." "Truly," said Gwenhwyvar, "since it seems well to thee and to Geraint, I will do this gladly, Lord." Then she permitted Edeyrn freely to depart. And many there were who accompanied Geraint, and they set forth; and never was there seen a fairer host journeying towards the Severn. And on the other side of the Severn were the nobles of Erbin the son of Custennin, and his foster-father at their head, to welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of the women of the Court, with his mother, came to receive Enid the daughter of Ynywl, his wife. And there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout the whole Court, and throughout all the country, concerning Geraint, because of the greatness of their love towards him, and of the greatness of the fame which he had gained since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to take possession of his dominions and to preserve his boundaries. And they came to the Court. And in the Court they had ample entertainment, and a multitude of gifts and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of service, and a variety of minstrelsy and of games. And to do honour to Geraint, all the chief men of the country were invited to visit him. And they passed that day and that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next day Erbin arose, and summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who had borne him company. And he said to Geraint, "I am a feeble and aged man, and whilst I was able to maintain the dominion for thee and for myself, I did so. But thou art young, and in the flower of thy vigour and of thy youth; henceforth do thou preserve thy possessions." "Truly," said Geraint, "with my consent thou shalt not give the power over thy dominions at this time into my hands, and thou shalt not take me from Arthur's Court." "Into thy hands will I give them," said Erbin, "and this day also shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects."
"Then said Gwalchmai, "It were better for thee to satisfy those who have boons to ask, to-day, and to-morrow thou canst receive the homage of thy dominions." So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place. And Kadyrieith came to them, to know what were their requests. And every one asked that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to make gifts, and immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And they were not long in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts. And of those who came to ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that day and that night were spent in the utmost enjoyment.
And the next day, at dawn, Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to the men to ask them whether is was displeasing to them that he should come to receive their homage, and whether they had any object to him. Then Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall, to ask them this. And they all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honour to them for Geraint to come and receive their homage. So he received the homage of such as were there. And they remained with him until the third night. And the day after the followers of Arthur intended to go away. "It is too soon for you to go away yet, said he, "stay with me until I have finished receiving the homage of my chief men, who have agreed to come to me." And they remained with him until he had done so. Then they set forth towards the Court of Arthur; and Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid also, as far as Diganhwy: there they parted. Then Ondyaw the son of the duke of Burgundy said to Geraint, "Go first of all and visit the uttermost parts of thy dominions, and see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou hast any trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions." "Heaven reward thee," said Geraint, "and this will I do." And Geraint journeyed to the uttermost part of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief men of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they showed him he kept possession of.
And, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur's Court, he frequented tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty men, until he had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done elsewhere. And he enriched his Court, and his companions, and his nobles, with the best horses and the best arms, and with the best and most valuable jewels, and he ceased not until his fame had flown over the face of the whole kingdom. And when he knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for there was no one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and liked to continue in the palace, with minstrelsy and diversions. And for a long time he abode at home. And after that he began to shut himself up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no delight in anything besides, insomuch that he gave up the friendship of his nobles, together with his hunting and his amusements, and lost the hearts of all the host in his Court; and there was murmuring and scoffing concerning him among the inhabitants of the palace, on account of his relinquishing so completely their companionship for the love of his wife. And these tidings came to Erbin. And when Erbin heard these things, he spoke to Enid, and inquired of her whether it was she that had caused Geraint to act thus, and to forsake his people and his hosts. "Not I, by my confession unto Heaven," said she, "there is nothing more hateful to me than this." And she knew not what she should do, for, although it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet it was not more easy for her to listen to what she heard, without warning Geraint concerning it. And she was very sorrowful.
And one morning in the summer time, they were upon their couch, and Geraint lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment which had windows of glass. And the sun shone upon the couch. And the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and she said, "Alas, and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have lost their glory and warlike fame which they once so richly enjoyed!" And as she said this, the tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed, and the words she had spoken, awoke him; and another thing contributed to awaken him, and that was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she wished for other society, and thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind, and he called his squire; and when he came to him, "Go quickly," said he, "and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou arise," said he to Enid, "and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou has in thy possession. And evil betide me," said he, "if thou returnest here until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking." So she arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. "I know nothing, Lord," said she, "of thy meaning." "Neither wilt thou know at this time," said he.
Then Geraint went to see Erbin. "Sir," said he, "I am going upon a quest, and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore, unto thy possessions, until my return." "I will do so," said he, "but it is strange to me that thou shouldest go so suddenly. And who will proceed with thee, since thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of Lloegyr alone?" "But one person only will go with me." "Heaven counsel thee, my son," said Erbin, "and may many attach themselves to thee in Lloegyr." Then went Geraint to the place where his horse was, and it was equipped with foreign armour, heavy and shining. And he desired Enid to mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to keep a long way before him. "And whatever thou mayest see, and whatever thou mayest hear concerning me," said he, "do thou not turn back. And unless I speak unto thee, say not thou one word either." And they set forward. And he did not choose the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was the wildest and most beset by thieves, and robbers, and venomous animals. And they came to a high road, which they followed till they saw a vast forest, and they went towards it, and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest. When the horsemen had beheld them, one of them said to the others, "Behold, here is a good occasion for us to capture two horses and armour, and a lady likewise; for this we shall have no difficulty in doing against yonder single knight, who hangs his head so pensively and heavily." And Enid heard this discourse, and she knew not what she should do through fear of Geraint, who had told her to be silent. "The vengeance of Heaven be upon me," she said, "if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me, yet I will speak to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death." So she waited for Geraint until he came near to her. "Lord, " said she "didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?" Then he lifted up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. "Thou hadst only," said he, "to hold thy peace as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not for warning. And though thou shouldest desire to see my defeat and my death by the hands of those men, yet do I feel no dread." Then the foremost of them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him, and that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck the horseman upon the centre of his shield in such a manner that his shield was split, and his armour broken, and so that a cubit's length of the shaft of Geraint's lance passed through his body, and sent him to the earth, the length of the lance over the horse's crupper. Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But with one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed him as he had done the other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed him in a like manner. And thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful was the maiden as she saw all this. Geraint dismounted from his horse, and took the arms of the men he had slain, and placed them upon their saddles, and tied together the reins of their horses, and he mounted his horse again. "Behold, what thou must do," said he; "take the four horses, and drive them before thee, and proceed forward, as I bade thee just now. And say not one word unto me, unless I speak first unto thee. And I declare unto Heaven," said he, "if thou doest not thus, it will be to thy cost." "I will do, as far as I can, Lord," said she, "according to thy desire." Then they went forward through the forest; and when they left the forest, they came to a vast plain, in the centre of which was a group of thickly tangled copse-wood; and from out thereof they beheld three horsemen coming towards them, well equipped with armour, both they and their horses. Then the maiden looked steadfastly upon them; and when they had come near, she heard them say to one another, "Behold, here is a good arrival for us; here are coming for us four horses and four suits of armour. We shall easily obtain them in spite of yonder dolorous knight, and the maiden also will fall into our power." "This is but too true," said she to herself, "for my husband is tired with his former combat. The vengeance of Heaven will be upon me, unless I warn him of this." So the maiden waited until Geraint came up to her. "Lord," said she, "dost thou not hear the discourse of yonder men concerning thee?" "What was it?" asked he. "They say to one another, that they will easily obtain all this spoil." "I declare to Heaven," he answered, "that their words are less grievous to me than thou wilt not be silent, and abide by my counsel." My Lord," said she, "I feared lest they should surprise thee unawares." "Hold thy peace, then," said he, "do not I desire silence?" And thereupon one of the horsemen couched his lance, and attacked Geraint. And he made a thrust at him, which he thought would be very effective; but Geraint received it carelessly, and struck it aside, and then he rushed upon him, and aimed at the centre of his person, and from the shock of man and horse, the quantity of his armour did not avail him, and the head of the lance and part of the shaft passed through him, so that he was carried to the ground an arm and a spear's length over the crupper of his horse. And both the other horsemen came forward in their turn, but their onset was not more successful than that of their companion. And the maiden stood by, looking at all this; and on one hand she was in trouble lest Geraint should be wounded in his encounter with the men, and on the other hand she was joyful to see him victorious. Then Geraint dismounted, and bound the three suits of armour upon the three saddles, and he fasten the reins of all the horses together, so that he had seven horses with him. And he mounted his own horse, and commanded the maiden to drive forward the others. "It is no more use for me to speak to thee than to refrain, for thou wilt not attend to my advice." "I will do so, as far as I am able, Lord," said she; "but I cannot conceal from thee the fierce and threatening words which I may hear against thee, Lord, from such strange people as those that haunt this wilderness." "I declare to Heaven," said he, "that I desire nought but silence; therefore, hold thy peace." "I will, Lord, while I can." And the maiden went on with the horses before her, and she pursued her way straight onwards. And from the copse-wood already mentioned, they journeyed over a vast and dreary open plain. And at a great distance from them they beheld a wood, and they could see neither end nor boundary to the wood, except on that side that was nearest to them, and they went towards it. Then there came from out the wood five horsemen eager, and bold, and mighty, and strong, mounted upon chargers that were powerful, and large of bone, and high mettled, and proudly snorting, and both the men and the horses were well equipped with arms. And when they drew near to them, Enid heard them say, "Behold, here is a fine booty coming to us, which we shall obtain easily and without labour, for we shall have no trouble in taking all those horses and arms, and the lady also, from yonder single knight, so doleful and sad."
Sorely grieved was the maiden upon hearing this discourse, so that she knew not in the world what she should do. At last, however, she determined to warn Geraint; so she turned her horse's head towards him. "Lord," said she "if thou hadst heard as I did what yonder horsemen said concerning thee, thy heaviness would be greater than it is." Angrily and bitterly did Geraint smile upon her, and he said, "Thee do I hear doing everything that I forbade thee; but it may be that thou wilt repent this yet." And immediately, behold, the men met them, and victoriously and gallantly did Geraint overcome them all five. And he placed the five suits of amour upon the five saddles, and tied together the reins of the twelve horses, and gave them in charge to Enid. "I know not," said he, "what good it is for me to order thee; but this time I charge thee in an especial manner." So the maiden went forward towards the wood, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had desired her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit, to see a maiden so illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care of the horses. Then they reached the wood, and it was both deep and vast; and in the wood night overtook them. "Ah, maiden," said he, "it is vain to attempt proceeding forward!" "Well, Lord," said she, "whatsoever thou wishest, we will do." "It will be best for us," he answered, "to turn out of the wood, and to rest, and wait for the day, in order to pursue our journey." "That will we, gladly," said she. And they did so. Having dismounted himself, he took her down from her horse. "I cannot, by any means, refrain from sleep, through weariness," said he. "Do thou therefore, watch the horses, and sleep not. "I will, Lord," said she. The he went to sleep in his armour, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that season. And when she saw the day appear, she looked around her, to see if he were waking, and thereupon he woke. "My Lord," said she, "I have desired to awake thee for some time." But he spake nothing to her about fatigue, as he desired her to be silent. Then he arose, and said unto her, "Take the horses, and ride on; and keep straight on before thee as thou didst yesterday." And early in the day they left the wood, and they came to an open country, with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a river before them, and the horses bent down and drank the water. And they went up out of the river by a lofty steep; and there they met a slender stripling, with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. "Heaven prosper thee," said Geraint, "and whence dost thou come?" "I come," said he, "from the city that lies before thee. My Lord," he added, "will it be displeasing to thee if I ask whence thou comest also?" "By no means -- through yonder wood did I come." "Thou camest not through the wood to-day." "No," he replied, "we were in the wood last night." "I warrant," said the youth, "that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that thou hadst neither meat nor drink." "No, by my faith," said he. "Wilt thou follow my counsel," said the youth, "and take thy meal from me?" "What sort of meal?" he inquired. "The breakfast which is sent to yonder mowers, nothing less than bread and meat and wine; and if thou wilt, Sir they shall have none of it." "I will," said he, "and Heaven reward thee for it."
So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse. Then they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in slices, and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had finished, the youth arose, and said to Geraint, "My Lord, with thy permission, I will now go and fetch some food for the mowers." "Go, first, to the town," said Geraint, "and take a lodging for me in the best place that thou knowest, and the most commodious one for the horses, and take thou whichever horse and arms thou choosest in payment for thy service and thy gift." "Heaven reward thee, Lord," said the youth, "and this would be ample to repay services much greater than those I have rendered unto thee." And to the town went the youth, and he took the best and the most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and after that he went to the palace, having his horse and armour with him, and proceeded to the place where the Earl was, and told him all his adventure. "I go now, Lord," said he, "to meet the young man, and to conduct him to his lodging." "Go, gladly," said the Earl, "and right joyfully shall he be received here, if he so come." And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told him that he would be received gladly by the Earl in his own palace; but he would go only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was plenty of straw, and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for the horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. And after they had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke to Enid: "Go," said he, "to the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the house; and thou mayest call to thee the woman of the house, if thou wilt." "I will do, Lord," said she, "as thou sayest." And thereupon the man of the house came to Geraint, and welcomed him. "Oh, chieftain," he said, "hast thou taken thy meal?" "I have," said he. Then the youth spoke to him, and inquired if he would not drink something before he met the Earl. "Truly I will," said he. So the youth went into the town, and brought them drink. And they drank. "I must needs sleep," said Geraint. "Well," said the youth; "and whilst thou sleepest, I will go to see the Earl." "Go, gladly," he said, "and come here again when I require thee." And Geraint went to sleep; and so did Enid also.
And the youth came to the place where the Earl was, and the Earl asked him where the lodgings of the knight were, and he told him. "I must go," said the youth, "to wait on him in the evening." "Go," answered the Earl "and greet him well from me, and tell him that in the evening I will go to see him." "This will I do," said the youth. So he came when it was time for them to awake. And they arose, and went forth. And when it was time for them to take their food, they took it. And the youth served them. And Geraint inquired of the man of the house, whether there were any of his companions that he wished to invite to him, and he said that there were. "Bring them hither, and entertain them at my cost with the best thou canst buy in the town."
And the man of the house brought there those whom he chose, and feasted them at Geraint's expense. Thereupon, behold, the Earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve honourable knights with him. And Geraint rose up, and welcomed him. "Heaven preserve thee," said the Earl. Then they all sat down according to their precedence in honour. And the Earl conversed with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey. "I have none," he replied, "but to seek adventures, and to follow my own inclination." Then the Earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at her steadfastly. And he thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or more comely than she. And he set all his thoughts and affections upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, "Have I thy permission to go and converse with yonder maiden, for I see that she is apart from thee?" "Thou hast it gladly," said he. So the Earl went to the place where the maiden was, and spake with her. "Ah, maiden," said he, "it cannot be pleasant to thee to journey thus with yonder man!" "It is not unpleasant to me," said she, "to journey the same road that he journeys." "Thou has neither youths nor maidens to serve thee," said he. "Truly," she replied, "it is more pleasant for me to follow yonder man, than to be served by youths and maidens." "I will give thee good counsel," said he. "All my Earldom will I place in thy possession, if thou wilt dwell with me." "That will I not, by Heaven," she said, "yonder man was the first to whom my faith was ever pledged; and shall I prove inconstant to him!" "Thou art in the wrong," said the Earl; "if I slay the man yonder, I can keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest me I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thine own good will, I protest that our union shall continue eternal and undivided as long as I remain alive." Then she pondered these words of his, and she considered that it was advisable to encourage him in his request. "Behold, then, chieftain, this is the most expedient for thee to do to save me any needless imputation; come here to-morrow, and take me away as thou I knew nothing thereof." "I will do so," said he. So he arose, and took his leave, and went forth with his attendants. And she told not then to Geraint any of the conversation which she had with the Earl, lest it should rouse his anger, and cause him uneasiness and care.
And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of the night Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and placed all Geraint's armour together, so that it might be ready to put on. And although fearful of her errand, she came to the side of Geraint's bed; and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying, "My Lord, arise, and clothe thyself, for these were the words of the Earl to me, and his intention concerning me." So she told Geraint all that had passed. And although he was wroth with her, he took warning, and clothed himself. And she lighted a candle, that he might have light to do so. "Leave there the candle," said he, "and desire the man of the house to come here." Then she went, and the man of the house came to him. "Dost thou know how much I owe thee?" asked Geraint. "I think thou owest but little." "Take the eleven horses and the eleven suits of armour." "Heaven reward thee, Lord," said he, "but I spent not the value of one suit of armour upon thee." "For that reason," said he, "thou wilt be the richer. And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?" "I will, gladly," said he, "and in which direction dost thou intend to go?" "I wish to leave the town by a different way from that by which I entered it." So the man of the lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he bade the maiden to go on before him; and she did so, and went straight forward, and his host returned home. And he had only just reached his house, when, behold, the greatest tumult approached that was ever heard. And when he looked out, he saw fourscore knights in complete armour around the house, with the Earl Dwrm at their head. "Where is the knight that was here? said the Earl. "By thy hand," said he, "he went hence some time ago." "Wherefore, villain," said he, "didst thou let him go without informing me?" "My Lord, thou didst not command me to do so, else would I not have allowed him to depart." What way dost thou think that he took?" "I know not, except that he went along the high road." And they turned their horses' heads that way, and seeing the tracks of the horses upon the high road, they followed. And when the maiden beheld the dawning of the day, she looked behind her, and saw vast clouds of dust coming nearer and nearer to her. And thereupon she became uneasy, and she thought that it was the Earl and his host coming after them. And thereupon she beheld a knight appearing through the mist. "By my faith," said she, "though he should slay me, it were better for me to receive my death at his hands, than to see him killed without warning him. My Lord," she said to him, "seest thou yonder man hastening after thee, and many others with him?" "I do see him," said he; "and in despite of all my orders, I see that thou wilt never keep silence." Then he turned upon the knight, and with the first thrust he threw him down under his horse's feet. And as long as there remained one of the fourscore knights, he overthrew every one of them at the first onset. And from the weakest to the strongest, they all attacked him one after the other, except the Earl: and last of all the Earl came against him also. And he broke his lance, and then he broke a second. But Geraint turned upon him, and struck him with his lance upon the centre of his shield, so that by that single thrust the shield was split, and all his armour broken, and he himself was brought over his horse's crupper to the ground, and was in peril of his life. And Geraint drew near to him; and at the noise of the trampling of his horse the Earl revived. "Mercy, Lord," said he to Geraint. And Geraint granted him mercy. But through the hardness of the ground where they had fallen, and the violence of the stroke which they had received, there was not a single knight amongst them that escaped without receiving a fall, mortally severe, and grievously painful, and desperately wounding, from the hand of Geraint.
And Geraint journeyed along the high road that was before him, and the maiden went on first; and near them they beheld a valley which was the fairest ever seen, and which had a large river running through it; and there was a bridge over the river, and the high road led to the bridge. And above the bridge upon the opposite side of the river, they beheld a fortified town, the fairest ever seen. And as they approached the bridge, Geraint saw coming towards him from a thick copse a man mounted upon a large and lofty steed, even of pace and spirited though tractable. "Ah, knight," said Geraint, "whence comest thou?" "I come," said he, "from the valley below us." "Canst thou tell me," said Geraint, "who is the owner of this fair valley and yonder walled town?" "I will tell thee, willingly," said he. "Gwiffert Petit he is called by the Franks, but the Cymry call him the Little King." "Can I go by yonder bridge," said Geraint, "and by the lower highway that is beneath the town?" Said the knight, "Thou canst not go by his tower on the other side of the bridge, unless thou dost intent to combat him; because it is his custom to encounter every knight that comes upon his lands." "I declare to Heaven," said Geraint, "that I will, nevertheless, pursue my journey that way." "If thou dost so," said the knight, "thou wilt probably meet with shame and disgrace in reward for thy daring." Then Geraint proceeded along the road that led to the town, and the road brought him to a ground that was hard, and rugged, and high, and ridgy. And as he journeyed thus, he beheld a knight following him upon a war-horse, strong, and large, a proudly-stepping, and wide-hoofed, and broad-chested. And he never saw a man of smaller stature than he who was upon the horse. And both he and his horse were completely armed. When he had overtaken Geraint, he said to him, "Tell me chieftain, whether it is through ignorance or through presumption that thou seekest to insult my dignity, and to infringe my rules." "Nay," answered Geraint, "I knew not this road was forbid to any." "Thou didst know it," said the other, "come with me to my Court, to give me satisfaction." "That will I not, by my faith," said Geraint; "I would not go even to thy Lord's Court, excepting Arthur were thy Lord." "By the hand of Arthur himself," said the knight, "I will have satisfaction of thee, or receive my overthrow at thy hands." And immediately they charged one another. And a squire of his came to serve him with lances as he broke them. And they gave each other such hard and severe strokes, that their shields lost all their colour. But it was very difficult for Geraint to fight with him on account of his small size, for he was hardly able to get a full aim at him with all the efforts he could make. And they fought thus until their horses were brought down upon their knees; and at length Geraint threw the knight headlong to the ground; and then they fought on foot, and they gave one another blows so boldly fierce, so frequent, and so severely powerful, that their helmets were pierced, and their skullcaps were broken, and their arms were shattered, and the light of their eyes was darkened by sweat and blood. At the last Geraint became enraged, and he called to him all his strength; and boldly angry, and swiftly resolute, and furiously determined, he lifted up his sword, and struck him on the crown of his head a blow so mortally painful, so violent, so fierce, and so penetrating, that it cut through all his head armour, and his skin, and his flesh, until it wounded the very bone, and the sword flew out of the hand of the Little King to the furthest end of the plain, and he besought Geraint that he would have mercy and compassion upon him. "Though thou hast been neither courteous nor just," said Geraint, "thou shalt have mercy, upon condition that thou wilt become my ally, and engage never to fight against me again, but to come to my assistance whenever thou hearest of my being in trouble." "This will I do, gladly, Lord," said he. So he pledged him his faith thereof. "And now, Lord, come with me," said he, "to my Court yonder, to recover from thy weariness and fatigue." "That will I not, by Heaven," said he.
Then Gwiffert Petit beheld Enid where she stood, and it grieved him to see one of her noble mien appear so deeply afflicted. And he said to Geraint, "My Lord, thou doest wrong not to take repose, and refresh thyself awhile; for, if thou meetest with any difficulty in thy present condition, it will not be easy for thee to surmount it." But Geraint would do no other than proceed on his journey, and he mounted his horse in pain, and all covered with blood. And the maiden went on first, and they proceeded towards the wood which they saw before them.
And the heat of the sun was very great, and through the blood and sweat, Geraint's armour cleaved to his flesh; and when they came into the wood, he stood under a tree, to avoid the sun's heat; and his wounds pained him more than they had done at the time when he received them. And the maiden stood under another tree. And, lo! they heard the sound of horns, and a tumultuous noise; and the occasion of it was, that Arthur and his company had come down to the wood. And while Geraint was considering which way he should go to avoid them, behold, he was espied by a foot-page, who was an attendant on the Steward of the Household; and he went to the Steward, and told him what kind of man he had seen in the wood. Then the Steward caused his horse to be saddled, and he took his lance and his shield, and went to the place where Geraint was. "Ah, knight!" said he, "what dost thou here?" "I am standing under a shady tree, to avoid the heat and the rays of the sun." "Wherefore is thy journey, and who art thou? "I seek adventures, and go where I list." "Indeed," said Kai; "then come with me to see Arthur, who is here hard by." "That will I not, by Heaven," said Geraint. "Thou must needs come," said Kai. Then Geraint knew who he was, but Kai did not know Geraint. And Kai attacked Geraint as best he could. And Geraint became wroth, and he struck him with the shaft of his lance, so that he rolled headlong to the ground. But chastisement worse than this would he not inflict on him.
Scared and wildly Kai arose, and he mounted his horse, and went back to his lodging. And thence he proceeded to Gwalchmai's tent. "Oh, Sir," said he to Gwalchmai, "I was told by one of the attendants, that he saw in the wood above a wounded knight, having on battered armour; and if thou dost right, thou wilt to and see if this be true." "I care not if I do so," said Gwalchmai. "Take, then, thy horse, and some of thy armour," said Kai; "for I hear that he is not over courteous to those who approach him." So Gwalchmai took his spear and his shield, and mounted his horse, and came to the spot where Geraint was. "Sir Knight," said he, "wherefore is thy journey?" "I journey for my own pleasure, and to seek the adventures of the world." "Wilt thou tell me who thou art; or wilt thou come and visit Arthur, who is near at hand?" "I will make no alliance with thee, nor will I go and visit Arthur," said he. And he knew that it was Gwalchmai, but Gwalchmai knew him not. "I purpose not to leave thee," said Gwalchmai, "till I know who thou art." And he charged him with his lance, and it struck on his shield, so that the shaft was shivered into splinters, and their horses were front to front. Then Gwalchmai gazed fixedly upon him, and he knew him. "Ah, Geraint," said he, "is it thou that art here?" "I am not Geraint," said he. "Geraint thou art, by Heaven," he replied, "and a wretched and insane expedition is this." Then he looked around, and beheld Enid, and he welcomed her gladly. "Geraint," said Gwalchmai, "come thou and see Arthur; he is thy lord and thy cousin." "I will not," said he, "for I am not in a fit state to go and see any one." Thereupon, behold, one of the pages came after Gwalchmai to speak to him. So he sent him to apprise Arthur that Geraint was there wounded, and that he would not go to visit him, and that it was pitiable to see the plight that he was in. And this he did without Geraint's knowledge, inasmuch as he spoke in a whisper to the page. "Entreat Arthur," said he, "to have his tent brought near to the road, for he will not meet him willingly, and it is not easy to compel him in the mood he is in." So the page came to Arthur, and told him this. And he caused his tent to be removed unto the side of the road. And the maiden rejoiced in her heart. And Gwalchmai led Geraint onwards along the road, till the came to the place where Arthur was encamped, and the pages were pitching his tent by the road-side. "Lord," said Geraint, "all hail unto thee." "Heaven prosper thee; and who art thou?" said Arthur. "It is Geraint," said Gwalchmai, "and of his own free will would he not come to meet thee." "Verily," said Arthur, "he is bereft of his reason." Then came Enid, and saluted Arthur. "Heaven protect thee," said he. And thereupon he caused one of the pages to take her from her horse. "Alas! Enid," said Arthur, "what expedition is this?" "I know not, Lord," said she, "save that it behoves me to journey by the same road that he journeys." "My Lord," said Geraint, "with thy permission we will depart." "Whither wilt thou go?" said Arthur. "Thou canst not proceed now, unless it be unto thy death." "He will not suffer himself to be invited by me," said Gwalchmai. "But by me he will," said Arthur; "and, moreover, he does not go from here until he is healed." "I had rather, Lord," said Geraint, "that thou wouldest let me go forth." "That will I not, I declare to Heaven," said he. Then he caused a to be sent for to conduct Enid to the tent where Gwenhwyvar's chamber was. And Gwenhwyvar and all her women were joyful at her coming; and they took off her riding-dress and placed other garments upon her. Arthur also called Kadyrieith, and ordered him to pitch a tent for Geraint and the physicians; and he enjoined him to provide him with abundance of all that might be requisite for him. And Kadyrieith did as he had commanded him. And Morgan Tud and his disciples were brought to Geraint.
And Arthur and his hosts remained there nearly a month, whilst Geraint was being healed. And when he was fully recovered, Geraint came to Arthur, and asked his permission to depart. "I know not if thou art quite well." "In truth I am, Lord," said Geraint. "I shall not believe thee concerning that, but the physicians that were with thee." So Arthur caused the physicians to be summoned to him, and asked them if it were true. "It is true, Lord," said Morgan Tud. So the next day Arthur permitted him to go forth, and he pursued his journey. And on the same day Arthur removed thence. And Geraint desired Enid to go on, and to keep before him, as she had formerly done. And she went forward along the high road. And as they journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near to them. "Stay thou here," said he, "and I will go and see what is the cause of this wailing." "I will," said she. Then he went forward unto an open glade that was near the road. And in the glade he saw two horses, one having a man's saddle, and the other a woman's saddle upon it. And, behold, there was a knight lying dead in his armour, and a young damsel in a riding-dress standing over him, lamenting. "Ah! Lady," said Geraint, "what hath befallen thee?" "Behold," she answered, "I journeyed here with my beloved husband, when, lo! three giants came upon us, and without any cause in the world, they slew him." "Which way went they hence?" said Geraint. "Yonder by the high road," she replied. So he returned to Enid. "Go," said he, "to the lady that is below yonder, and await me there till I come." She was sad when he ordered her to do thus, but nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was ruth to hear, and she felt certain that Geraint would never return. Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each of them was greater of stature than three other men, and a huge club was on the shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them, and thrust his lance through his body. And having drawn it forth again, he pierced another of them through likewise. But the third turned upon him, and struck him with his club, so that he split his shield, and crushed his shoulder, and opened his wounds anew, and all his blood began to flow from him. But Geraint drew his sword, and attacked the giant, and gave him a blow on the crown of his head so severe, and fierce, and violent, that his head and his neck were split down to his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint left him thus, and returned to Enid. And when he saw her, he fell down lifeless from his horse. Piercing, and loud, and thrilling was the cry that Enid uttered. And she came and stood over him where he had fallen. And at the sound of her cries came the Earl of Limours, and the host that journeyed with him, whom her lamentations brought out of their road. And the Earl said to Enid, "Alas, Lady, what hath befallen thee?" "Ah! good Sir," said she, "the only man I have loved, or ever shall love, is slain." Then he said to the other, "What is the cause of thy grief?" "They have slain my beloved husband also," said she. "And who was it that slew them?" "Some giants," she answered, "slew my best-beloved, and the other knight went in pursuit of them, and came back in the state thou seest, his blood flowing excessively; but it appears to me that he did not leave the giants without killing some of them, if not all." The Earl caused the knight that was dead to be buried, but he thought that there still remained some life in Geraint; and to see if he yet would live, he had him carried with him in the hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went to the Court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a litter-couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they all took off their travelling gear, and the Earl besought Enid to do the same, and to clothe herself in other garments. "I will not, by Heaven," said she. "Ah! Lady," said he, "be not so sorrowful for this matter." "It were hard to persuade me to be otherwise," said she. "I will act towards thee in such wise, that thou needest not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight live or die. Behold, a good Earldom, together with myself, will I bestow on thee; be, therefore, happy and joyful." "I declare to Heaven," said she, "that henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live." "Come, then," said he, "and eat." "No, by Heaven, I will not," she answered. "But, by Heaven, thou shalt," said he. So he took her with him to the table against her will, and many times desired her to eat. "I call Heaven to witness," said she, "that I will not eat until the man that is upon yonder bier shall eat likewise." "Thou canst not fulfil that," said the Earl, "yonder man is dead already." "I will prove that I can," said she. Then he offered her a goblet of liquor. "Drink this goblet," he said, "and it will cause thee to change thy mind." "Evil betide me," she answered, "if I drink aught until he drink also." "Truly," said the Earl, "it is of no more avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle." And he gave her a box in the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, and her lamentations were much greater than they had been before, for she considered in her mind that had Geraint been alive, he durst not have struck her thus. But, behold, at the sound of her cry, Geraint revived from his swoon, and he sat up on the bier, and finding his sword in the hollow of his shield, he rushed to the place where the Earl was, and struck him a fiercely-wounding, severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting blow upon the crown of his head, so that he clove him in twain, until his sword was stayed by the table. Then all left the board, and fled away. And this was not so much through fear of the living as through the dread they felt at seeing the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint looked upon Enid, and he was grieved for two causes; one was, to see that Enid had lost her colour and her wonted aspect; and the other, to know that she was in the right. "Lady," said he, "knowest thou where our horses are?" "I know, Lord,, where thy horse is," she replied, "but I know not where is the other. Thy horse is in the house yonder." So he went to the house, and brought forth his horse, and mounted him, and took Enid up from the ground, and placed her on the horse with him. And he rode forward. And their road lay between two hedges. And the night was gaining on the day. And lo! they saw behind them the shafts of spears betwixt them and the sky, and they heard the trampling of horses, and the noise of a host approaching. "I hear something following us," said he, "and I will put thee on the other side of the hedge." And thus he did. And thereupon, behold, a knight pricked towards him, and couched his lance. When Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, "Oh! chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?" "Oh! Heaven," said he "is it Geraint?" "Yes, in truth," said she. "And who art thou?" "I am the Little King, he answered, "coming to thy assistance, for I heard that thou wast in trouble. And if thou hadst followed my advice, none of these hardships would have befallen thee." "Nothing can happen," said Geraint, "without the will of Heaven, though much good results from counsel." "Yes," said the Little King, "and I know good counsel for thee now. Come with me to the court of a son-in-law of my sister, which is near here, and thou shalt have the best medical assistance in the kingdom." "I will do so gladly," said Geraint. And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of the Little King's squires, and they went forward to the Baron's palace. And they were received there with gladness, and they met with hospitality and attention. And the next morning they went to seek physicians and it was not long before they came, and they attended Geraint until he was perfectly well. And while Geraint was under medical care, the Little King caused his armour to be repaired, until it was as good as it had ever been. And they remained there a fortnight and a month.
Then the Little King said to Geraint, "Now will we go towards my own Court, to take rest, and amuse ourselves." "Not so," said Geraint, we will first journey for one day more and return again." "With all my heart," said the Little King, "do thou go then." And early in the day they set forth. And more gladly and more joyfully did Enid journey with them that day than she had ever done. And they came to the main road. And when they reached a place where the road divided in two, they beheld a man on foot coming toward them along one of these roads, and Gwiffert asked the man whence he came. "I come," said he, "from an errand in the country." "Tell me," said Geraint, "which is the best for me to follow of these two roads?" "That is the best for thee to follow," answered he, "for if thou goest by this one, thou wilt never return. Below us," said he, "there is a hedge of mist, and within it are enchanted games, and no one who has gone there has ever returned. And the Court of the Earl Owain is there, and he permits no one to go to lodge in the town, except he will go to his Court." "I declare to Heaven," said Geraint, "that we will take the lower road." And they went along it until they came to the town. And they took the fairest and pleasantest place in the town for their lodging. And while they were thus, behold, a young man came to them and greeted them. "Heaven be propitious to thee," said they. "Good Sirs," said he, "what preparations are you making here?" "We are taking up our lodging," said they, "to pass the night." "It is not the custom with him who owns the town," he answered, "to permit any of gentle birth, unless they come to stay in his Court, to abide here; therefore, come ye to the Court." "We will come, gladly," said Geraint. And they went with the page, and they were joyfully received. And the Earl came to the hall to meet them, and he commanded the tables to be laid. And they washed, and sat down. And this is the order in which they sat, Geraint on one side of the Earl, and Enid on the other side, and next to Enid the Little King, and then the Countess next to Geraint; and all after that as became their rank. Then Geraint recollected the games, and thought that he should not go to them; and on that account he did not eat. Then the Earl looked upon Geraint, and considered, and he bethought him that his not eating was because of the games, and it grieved him that he had ever established those games, were it only on account of losing such a youth as Geraint. And if Geraint had asked him to abolish the games, he would gladly have done so. Then the Earl said to Geraint, "What thought occupies thy mind, that thou dost not eat? If thou hesitatest about going to the games, thou shalt not go, and no other of thy rank shall ever go either." "Heaven reward thee," said Geraint, "but I wish nothing better than to go to the games, and to be shown the way thither." "If that is what thou dost prefer, thou shalt obtain it willingly." "I do prefer it, indeed," said he. Then they ate, and they were amply served, and they had a variety of gifts, and abundance of liquor. And when they had finished eating they arose. And Geraint called for his horse and his armour, and he accoutred both himself and his horse. And all the hosts went forth until they came to the side of the hedge, and the hedge was so lofty, that it reached as high as they could see in the air, and upon every stake in the hedge, except two, there was the head of a man, and the number of stakes throughout the hedge was very great. Then said the Little King, "May no one go in with the chieftain?" "No one may," said Earl Owain. "Which way can I enter?" inquired Geraint. "I know not, said Owain, but enter by the way that thou wilt, and that seemeth easiest to thee."
Then fearlessly and unhestitatingly Geraint dashed forward into the mist. And on leaving the mist, he came to a large orchard; and in the orchard he saw an open space, wherein was a tent of red satin; and the door of the tent was open, and an apple-tree stood in front of the door of the tent; and on a branch of the apple-tree hung a large hunting-horn. Then he dismounted, and went into the tent; and there was no one in the tent save one maiden sitting in a golden chair, and another chair was opposite to her, empty. And Geraint went to the empty chair, and sat down therein. "Ah! chieftain," said the maiden, "I would not counsel thee to sit in that chair." "Wherefore?" said Geraint. "The man to whom that chair belongs has never suffered another to sit in it." "I care not," said Geraint, "though it displease him that I sit in the chair." And thereupon they heard a mighty tumult around the tent. And Geraint looked to see what was the cause of the tumult. And he beheld without a knight mounted upon a warhorse, proudly snorting, highly-mettled, and large of bone; and a robe of honour in two parts was upon him and upon his horse, and beneath it was plenty of armour. "Tell me, chieftain," said he to Geraint, "who was it that bade thee to sit there?" "Myself," answered he. "It was wrong of thee to do me this shame and disgrace. Arise and do me satisfaction for thine insolence." Then Geraint arose; and they encountered immediately; and they broke a set of lances, and a second set, and a third; and they gave each other fierce and frequent strokes; and at last Geraint became enraged, and he urged on his horse, and rushed upon him, and gave him a thrust on the centre of his shield, so that it was split, and so that the head of the lance went through his armour, and his girths were broken, and he himself was borne headlong to the ground the length of Geraint's lance and arm, over his horse's crupper. "Oh, my Lord!" said he, "thy mercy, and thou shalt have what thou wilt." "I only desire," said Geraint, "that this game shall no longer exist here, nor the hedge of mist, nor magic, nor enchantment." "Thou shalt have this gladly, Lord," he replied. "Cause, then, the mist to disappear from this place," said Geraint. "Sound yonder horn," said he, "and when thou soundest it, the mist will vanish; but it will not go hence unless the horn be blown by the knight by whom I am vanquished." And sad and sorrowful was Enid where she remained, through anxiety concerning Geraint. Then Geraint went and sounded the horn. And at the first blast he gave, the mist vanished. And all the hosts came together, and they all became reconciled to each other. And the Earl invited Geraint and the Little King to stay with him that night. And the next morning they separated. And Geraint went towards his own dominions; and thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour both to him and Enid from that time forth.
OWAIN OR THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN
(Translation by Lady Charlotte Guest)
King Arthur was at Caerlleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber; and with him were Owain the son of Urien, and Kynon the son of Clydno, and Kai the son of Kyner; and Gwenhwyvar and her hand-maidens at needlework by the window. And if it should be said that there was a porter at Arthur's palace, there was none. Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr was there, acting as porter, to welcome guests and strangers, and to receive them with honour, and to inform them of the manners and customs of the Court; and to direct those who came to the Hall or to the presence-chamber, and those who came to take up their lodging.
In the centre of the chamber King Arthur sat upon a seat of green rushes, over which was spread a covering of flame-coloured satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.
Then Arthur spoke, "If I thought you would not disparage me," said he, "I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some meat from Kai." And the King went to sleep. And Kynon the son of Clydno asked Kai for that which Arthur had promised them. "I, too, will have the good tale which he promised to me," said Kai. "Nay," answered Kynon, "fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur's behest, in the first place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know." So Kai went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned bearing a flagon of mead and a golden goblet, and a handful of skewers, upon which were broiled collops of meat. Then they ate the collops and began to drink the mead. "Now," said Kai, "it is time for you to give me my story." "Kynon," said Owain, "do thou pay to Kai the tale that is his due." "Truly," said Kynon, "thou art older, and art a better teller of tales, and hast seen more marvellous things than I; do thou therefore pay Kai his tale." "Begin thyself," quoth Owain, "with the best that thou knowest." "I will do so," answered Kynon.
"I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no enterprise in the world too mighty for me, and after I had achieved all the adventures that were in my own country, I equipped myself, and set forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through the valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until mid-day, and continued my journey along the remainder of the valley until the evening; and at the extremity of a plain I came to a large and lustrous Castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. And I approached the Castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow curling hair, each with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in a garment of yellow satin, and they had gold clasps upon their insteps. In the hand of each of them was an ivory bow, strung with the sinews of the stag; and their arrows had shafts of the bone of the whale, and were winged with peacock's feathers; the shafts also had golden heads. And they had daggers with blades of gold, and with hilts of the bone of the whale. And they were shooting their daggers.
"And a little way from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and a mantle of yellow satin; and round the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of variegated leather, fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him, I went towards him and saluted him, and such was his courtesy that he no sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the castle except those who were in one hall. And there I saw four-and-twenty damsels, embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kai, that the least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou hast ever beheld in the island of Britain, and the least lovely of them was more lovely than Gwenhwyvar, the wife of Arthur, when she has appeared loveliest at the Offering, on the day of the Nativity, or at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armour; and six others took my arms, and washed them in a vessel until they were perfectly bright. And the third six spread cloths upon the tables and prepared meat. And the fourth six took off my soiled garments, and placed others upon me; namely, an under vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe, and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen; and I sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse, unharnessed him, as well as if they had been the best squires in the island of Britain. Then, behold, they brought bowls of silver wherein was water to wash, and towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a little while the man sat down to the table. And I sat next to him, and below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the table was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen; and no vessel was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of silver, or of buffalo-horn. And our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kai, I saw there every sort of meat and every sort of liquor that I have ever seen elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there than I have ever seen them in any other place.
"Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it would be more agreeable to me to converse than to eat any more, he began to inquire of me who I was. I said I was glad to find that there was some one who would discourse with me, and that it was not considered so great a crime at that Court for people to hold converse together. 'Chieftain,' said the man, 'we would have talked to thee sooner, but we feared to disturb thee during thy repast; now, however, we will discourse.' Then I told the man who I was, and what was the cause of my journey; and said that I was seeking whether any one was superior to me, or whether I could gain the mastery over all. The man looked upon me, and he smiled and said, 'If I did not fear to distress thee too much, I would show thee that which thou seekest.' Upon this I became anxious and sorrowful, and when the man perceived it, he said, 'If thou wouldest rather that I should show thee thy disadvantage than thine advantage, I will do so. Sleep here to-night, and in the morning arise early, and take the road upwards through the valley until thou reachest the wood through which thou camest hither. A little way within the wood thou wilt meet with a road branching off to the right, by which thou must proceed, until thou comest to a large sheltered glade with a mound in the centre. And thou wilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He is not smaller in size than two of the men of this world. He has but one foot; and one eye in the middle of his forehead. And he has a club of iron, and it is certain that there are no two men in the world who would not find their burden in that club. And he is not a comely man, but on the contrary he is exceedingly ill-favoured; and he is the woodward of that wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing around him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply to thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find that which thou art in quest of.'
"And long seemed that night to me. And the next morning I arose and equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through the valley to the wood; and I followed the cross-road which the man had pointed out to me, till at length I arrived at the glade. And there was I three times more astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld, than the man had said I should be. And the black man was there, sitting upon the top of the mound. Huge of stature as the man had told me that he was, I found him to exceed by far the description he had given me of him. As for the iron club which the man had told me was a burden for two men, I am certain, Kai, that it would be a heavy weight for four warriors to lift; and this was in the black man's hand. And he only spoke to me in answer to my questions. Then I asked him what power he held over those animals. 'I will show thee, little man,' said he. And he took his club in his hand, and with it he struck a stag a great blow so that he brayed vehemently, and at his braying the animals came together, as numerous as the stars in the sky, so that it was difficult for me to find room in the glade to stand among them. There were serpents, and dragons, and divers sorts of animals. And he looked at them, and bade them go and feed; and they bowed their heads, and did him homage as vassals to their lord.
"Then the black man said to me, 'Seest thou now, little man, what power I hold over these animals?' Then I inquired of him the way, and he became very rough in his manner to me; however, he asked me whither I would go? And when I told him who I was and what I sought, he directed me. 'Take,' said he, 'that path that leads towards the head of the glade, and ascend the wooded steep until thou comest to its summit; and there thou wilt find an open space like to a large valley, and in the midst of it a tall tree, whose branches are greener than the greenest pine-trees. Under this tree is a fountain, and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, so that it may not be carried away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and thou wilt hear a mighty peal of thunder, so that thou wilt think that heaven and earth are trembling with its fury. With the thunder there will come a shower so severe that it will be scarce possible for thee to endure it and live. And the shower will be of hailstones; and after the shower, the weather will become fair, but every leaf that was upon the tree will have been carried away by the shower. Then a flight of birds will come and alight upon the tree; and in thine own country thou didst never hear a strain so sweet as that which they will sing. And at the moment thou art most delighted with the song of the birds, thou wilt hear a murmuring and complaining coming towards thee along the valley. And thou wilt see a knight upon a coal-black horse, clothed in black velvet, and with a pennon of black linen upon his lance; and he will ride unto thee to encounter thee with the utmost speed. If thou fleest from him he will overtake thee, and if thou abidest there, as sure as thou art a mounted knight, he will leave thee on foot. And if thou dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest not seek it during the rest of thy life.'
"So I journeyed on, until I reached the summit of the steep, and there I found everything as the black man had described it to me. And I went up to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took the bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab; and thereupon, behold, the thunder came, much more violent than the black man had led me to expect; and after the thunder came the shower; and of a truth I tell thee, Kai, that there is neither man nor beast that could endure that shower and live. For not one of those hailstones would be stopped, either by the flesh or by the skin, until it had reached the bone. I turned my horse's flank towards the shower, and placed the beak of my shield over his head and neck, while I held the upper part of it over my own head. And thus I withstood the shower. When I looked on the tree there was not a single leaf upon it, and then the sky became clear, and with that, behold the birds lighted upon the tree, and sang. And truly, Kai, I never heard any melody equal to that, either before or since. And when I was most charmed with listening to the birds, lo, a murmuring voice was heard through the valley, approaching me and saying, 'Oh, Knight, what has brought thee hither? What evil have I done to thee, that thou shouldst act towards me and my possessions as thou hast this day? Dost thou not know that the shower to-day has left in my dominions neither man nor beast alive that was exposed to it?' And thereupon, behold, a Knight on a black horse appeared, clothed in jet-black velvet, and with a tabard of black linen about him. And we charged each other, and, as the onset was furious, it was not long before I was overthrown. Then the Knight passed the shaft of his lance through the bridle rein of my horse, and rode off with the two horses, leaving me where I was. And he did not even bestow so much notice upon me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me of my arms. So I returned along the road by which I had come. And when I reached the glade where the black man was, I confess to thee, Kai, it is a marvel that I did not melt down into a liquid pool, through the shame that I felt at the black man's derision. And that night I came to the same castle where I had spent the night preceding. And I was more agreeably entertained that night than I had been the night before; and I was better feasted, and I conversed freely with the inmates of the castle, and none of them alluded to my expedition to the fountain, neither did I mention it to any; and I remained there that night. When I arose on the morrow, I found, ready saddled, a dark bay palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet; and after putting on my armour, and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own Court. And that horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the island of Britain.
"Now of a truth, Kai, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so much to his own discredit, and verily it seems strange to me, that neither before nor since have I heard of any person besides myself who knew of this adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King Arthur's dominions, without any other person lighting upon it."
"Now," quoth Owain, "would it not be well to go and endeavour to discover that place?"
"By the hand of my friend," said Kai, "often dost thou utter that with thy tongue which thou wouldst not make good with thy deeds."
"In very truth," said Gwenhwyvar, "it were better thou wert hanged, Kai, than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain."
"By the hand of my friend, good Lady," said Kai, "thy praise of Owain is not greater than mine."
With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a little.
"Yes, Lord," answered Owain, "thou hast slept awhile."
"Is it time for us to go to meat?"
"It is, Lord," said Owain.
Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the King and all his household sat down to eat. And when the meal was ended, Owain withdrew to his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.
On the morrow, with the dawn of day, he put on his armour and mounted his charger, and travelled through distant lands and over desert mountains. And at length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had described to him; and he was certain that it was the same that he sought. And journeying along the valley by the side of the river, he followed its course till he came to the plain and within sight of the Castle. When he approached the Castle, he saw the youths shooting their daggers in the place where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow man, to whom the Castle belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had Owain saluted the yellow man than he was saluted by him in return.
And he went forward towards the Castle, and there he saw the chamber, and when he had entered the chamber he beheld the maidens working at satin embroidery, in chairs of gold. And their beauty and their comeliness seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to him. And they arose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon, and the meal which they set before him gave more satisfaction to Owain than it had done to Kynon.
About the middle of the repast, the yellow man asked Owain the object of his journey. And Owain made it known to him, and said, "I am in quest of the Knight who guards the fountain." Upon this the yellow man smiled, and said that he was as loth to point out that adventure to Owain as he had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain, and they retired to rest.
The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man was. And the stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than it had done to Kynon, and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed it to him. And Owain followed the road, as Kynon had done, till he came to the green tree; and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with the bowl upon it. And Owain took the bowl, and threw a bowlful of water upon the slab. And, lo, the thunder was heard, and after the thunder came the shower, much more violent than Kynon had described, and after the shower the sky became bright. And when Owain looked at the tree, there was not one leaf upon it. And immediately the birds came, and settled upon the tree, and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain, he beheld a Knight coming towards him through the valley, and he prepared to receive him; and encountered him violently. Having broken both their lances, they drew their swords, and fought blade to blade. Then Owain struck the Knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece and visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it wounded the very brain. Then the black Knight felt that he had received a mortal wound upon which he turned his horse's head, and fled. And Owain pursued him, and followed close upon him, although he was not near enough to strike him with his sword. Thereupon Owain descried a vast and resplendent Castle. And they came to the Castle gate. And the black Knight was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain; and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain's heels. And the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and part of the horse were without, and Owain, with the other part of the horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation. And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the gate, a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he beheld a maiden, with yellow curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and desired that it should be opened. "Heaven knows, Lady," said Owain, "it is no more possible for me to open to thee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free." "Truly," said the damsel, 'it is very sad that thou canst not be released, and every woman ought to succour thee, for I never saw one more faithful in the service of ladies than thou. As a friend thou art the most sincere, and as a lover the most devoted. Therefore," quoth she, "whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I will do it. Take this ring and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand; and close thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will conceal thee. When they have consulted together, they will come forth to fetch thee, in order to put thee to death; and they will be much grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the horseblock yonder; and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see thee; therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may know that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence, do thou accompany me."
Then she went away from Owain, and he did all that the maiden had told him. And the people of the Castle came to seek Owain, to put him to death, and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were sorely grieved.
And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and the maiden opened it, and they went in, and closed the door. And Owain looked around the chamber, and behold there was not even a single nail in it that was not painted with gorgeous colours; and there was not a single panel that had not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.
The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and put a towel of white linen on her shoulder, and gave Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen; and she brought him food. And of a truth, Owain had never seen any kind of meat that was not there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever found it in any other place. Nor did he ever see so excellent a display of meat and drink, as there. And there was not one vessel from which he was served, that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain ate and drank, until late in the afternoon, when lo, they heard a mighty clamour in the Castle; and Owain asked the maiden what that outcry was. "They are administering extreme unction," said she, "to the Nobleman who owns the Castle." And Owain went to sleep.
The couch which the maiden had prepared for him was meet for Arthur himself; it was of scarlet, and fur, and satin, and sendall, and fine linen. In the middle of the night they heard a woful outcry; "What outcry again is this?" said Owain. "The Nobleman who owned the Castle is now dead," said the maiden. And a little after daybreak, they heard an exceeding loud clamour and wailing. And Owain asked the maiden what was the cause of it. "They are bearing to the church the body of the Nobleman who owned the Castle."
And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the chamber, and looked towards the Castle; and he could see neither the bounds, nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets. And they were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on horseback and on foot; and all the ecclesiastics in the city, singing. And it seemed to Owain that the sky resounded with the vehemence of their cries, and with the noise of the trumpets, and with the singing of the ecclesiastics. In the midst of the throng, he beheld the bier, over which was a veil of white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it, and none that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful Baron.
Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with satin, and silk, and sendall. And following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair falling over her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a dress of yellow satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And it was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were not bruised, from the violence with which she smote her hands together. Truly she would have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she been in her usual guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the men, or the clamour of the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady, than he became inflamed with her love, so that it took entire possession of him.
Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. "Heaven knows," replied the maiden, "she may be said to be the fairest, and the most chaste, and the most liberal, and the wisest, and the most noble of women. And she is my mistress; and she is called the Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst slay yesterday." "Verily," said Owain, "she is the woman that I love best." "Verily," said the maiden, "she shall also love thee not a little."
And with that the maid arose, and kindled a fire, and filled a pot with water, and placed it to warm; and she brought a towel of white linen, and placed it around Owain's neck; and she took a goblet of ivory, and a silver basin, and filled them with warm water, wherewith she washed Owain's head. Then she opened a wooden casket, and drew forth a razor, whose haft was of ivory, and upon which were two rivets of gold. And she shaved his beard, and she dried his head, and his throat, with the towel. Then she rose up from before Owain, and brought him to eat. And truly Owain had never so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served.
When he had finished his repast, the maiden arranged his couch. "Come here," said she, "and sleep, and I will go and woo for thee." And Owain went to sleep, and the maiden shut the door of the chamber after her, and went towards the Castle. When she came there, she found nothing but mourning, and sorrow; and the Countess in her chamber could not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned came and saluted her, but the Countess answered her not. And the maiden bent down towards her, and said, "What aileth thee, that thou answerest no one to-day?" "Luned," said the Countess, "what change hath befallen thee, that thou hast not come to visit me in my grief? It was wrong in thee, and I having made thee rich; it was wrong in thee that thou didst not come to see me in my distress. That was wrong in thee." "Truly," said Luned, "I thought thy good sense was greater than I find it to be. Is it well for thee to mourn after that good man, or for anything else, that thou canst not have?" "I declare to heaven," said the Countess, "that in the whole world there is not a man to equal him." "Not so," said Luned, "for an ugly man would be as good as, or better than he." "I declare to heaven," said the Countess, "that were it not repugnant to me to cause to be put to death one whom I have brought up, I would have thee executed, for making such a comparison to me. As it is, I will banish thee." "I am glad," said Luned, "that thou hast no other cause to do so, than that I would have been of service to thee where thou didst not know what was to thine advantage. And henceforth evil betide whichever of us shall make the first advance towards reconciliation to the other; whether I should seek an invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord shouldst send to invite me."
With that Luned went forth: and the Countess arose and followed her to the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. And when Luned looked back, the Countess beckoned to her; and she returned to the Countess. "In truth," said the Countess, "evil is thy disposition; but if thou knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me." "I will do so," quoth she.
"Thou knowest that except by warfare and arms it is impossible for thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek someone who can defend them." "And how can I do that?" said the Countess. "I will tell thee," said Luned, "unless thou canst defend the fountain, thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the fountain, except it be a knight of Arthur's household; and I will go to Arthur's Court, and ill betide me, if I return thence without a warrior who can guard the fountain, as well as, or even better than, he who defended it formerly." "That will be hard to perform," said the Countess. "Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast promised."
Luned set out, under the pretence of going to Arthur's Court; but she went back to the chamber where she had left Owain; and she tarried there with him as long as it might have taken her to have travelled to the Court of King Arthur. And at the end of that time, she apparelled herself and went to visit the Countess. And the Countess was much rejoiced when she saw her, and enquired what news she brought from the Court. "I bring thee the best of news," said Luned, "for I have compassed the object of my mission. When wilt thou, that I should present to thee the chieftain who has come with me hither?" "Bring him here to visit me to-morrow, at mid-day," said the Countess, "and I will cause the town to be assembled by that time."
And Luned returned home. And the next day, at noon, Owain arrayed himself in a coat, and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they proceeded to the chamber of the Countess.
Right glad was the Countess of their coming, and she gazed steadfastly upon Owain, and said, "Luned, this knight has not the look of a traveller." "What harm is there in that, lady?" said Luned. "I am certain," said the Countess, "that no other man than this chased the soul from the body of my lord." "So much the better for thee, lady," said Luned, "for had he not been stronger than thy lord he could not have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be it as it may." "Go back to thine abode," said the Countess, "and I will take counsel."
The next day the Countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could not be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill. "Therefore," said she, "this is what I offer for your choice: either let one of you take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband from elsewhere to defend my dominions."
So they came to the determination that it was better that she should have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and, thereupon, she sent for the bishops and archbishops to celebrate her nuptials with Owain. And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.
And Owain defended the Fountain with lance and sword. And this is the manner in which he defended it: Whensoever a knight came there he overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth, and what he thus gained he divided among his barons and his knights; and no man in the whole world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus for the space of three years.
It befell that as Gwalchmai went forth one day with King Arthur, he perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gwalchmai was much grieved to see Arthur in this state; and he questioned him, saying, "Oh, my lord! what has befallen thee?" "In sooth, Gwalchmai," said Arthur, "I am grieved concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years, and I shall certainly die if the fourth year passes without my seeing him. Now I am sure, that it is through the tale which Kynon the son of Clydno related, that I have lost Owain." "There is no need for thee," said Gwalchmai, "to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for thou thyself and then men of thy household will be able to avenge Owain, if he be slain; or to set him free, if he be in prison; and, if alive, to bring him back with thee." And it was settled according to what Gwalchmai had said.
Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek Owain, and their number was three thousand, besides their attendants. And Kynon the son of Clydno acted as their guide. And Arthur came to the Castle where Kynon had been before, and when he came there the youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man was standing hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur he greeted him, and invited him to the Castle; and Arthur accepted his invitation, and they entered the Castle together. And great as was the number of his retinue, their presence was scarcely observed in the Castle, so vast was its extent. And the maidens rose up to wait on them, and the service of the maidens appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had ever met with; and even the pages who had charge of the horses were no worse served, that night, than Arthur himself would have been in his own palace.
The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the black man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented to him. And they came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the valley till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain, and the bowl, and the slab. And upon that, Kai came to Arthur and spoke to him. "My lord," said he, "I know the meaning of all this, and my request is, that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab, and to receive the first adventure that may befall." And Arthur gave him leave.
Then Kai threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a thunderstorm they had never known before, and many of the attendants who were in Arthur's train were killed by the shower. After the shower had ceased the sky became clear; and on looking at the tree they beheld it completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree, and the song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard before. Then they beheld a knight on a coal-black horse, clothed in black satin, coming rapidly towards them. And Kai met him and encountered him, and it was not long before Kai was overthrown. And the Knight withdrew, and Arthur and his host encamped for the night.
And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat upon the lance of the Knight. And Kai came to Arthur, and spoke to him: "My lord," said he, "though I was overthrown yesterday, if it seem good to thee, I would gladly meet the Knight again to-day." "Thou mayst do so," said Arthur. And Kai went towards the Knight. And on the spot he overthrew Kai, and struck him with the head of his lance in the forehead, so that it broke his helmet and the headpiece, and pierced the skin and the flesh, the breadth of the spear-head, even to the bone. And Kai returned to his companions.
After this, all the household of Arthur went forth, one after the other, to combat the Knight, until there was not one that was not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gwalchmai. And Arthur armed himself to encounter the Knight. "Oh, my lord," said Gwalchmai, "permit me to fight with him first." And Arthur permitted him. And he went forth to meet the Knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of honour which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyw, and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they charged each other, and fought all that day until the evening, and neither of them was able to unhorse the other.
The next day they fought with strong lances, and neither of them could obtain the mastery.
And the third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. And they were incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. And they gave each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were broken, so that they fell over their horses' cruppers to the ground. And they rose up speedily, and drew their swords, and resumed the combat; and the multitude that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. And had it been midnight, it would have been light from the fire that flashed from their weapons. And the Knight gave Gwalchmai a blow that turned his helmet from off his face, so that the Knight knew that it was Gwalchmai. Then Owain said, "My lord Gwalchmai, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the robe of honour that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms." Said Gwalchmai, "Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword." And with that Arthur saw that they were conversing, and advanced towards them. "My lord Arthur," said Gwalchmai, "here is Owain, who has vanquished me, and will not take my arms." "My lord," said Owain, "it is he that has vanquished me, and he will not take my sword." "Give me your swords,"said Arthur, "and then neither of you has vanquished the other." Then Owain put his arms around Arthur's neck, and they embraced. And all the host hurried forward to see Owain, and to embrace him; and there was nigh being a loss of life, so great was the press.
And they retired that night, and the next day Arthur prepared to depart. "My lord," said Owain, "this is not well of thee; for I have been absent from thee these three years, and during all that time, up to this very day, I have been preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst come to seek me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants have recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed."
And they all proceeded to the Castle of the Countess of the Fountain, and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet. And Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the Countess, to beseech her to permit Owain to go with him for the space of three months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the island of Britain. And the Countess gave her consent, although it was very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of Britain. And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he remained three years, instead of three months, with them.
And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerlleon upon Usk, behold a damsel entered upon a bay horse, with a curling mane and covered with foam, and the bridle and so much as was seen of the saddle were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his hand. "Thus," said she, "shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless." And she turned her horse's head and departed.
Then his adventure came to Owain's remembrance, and he was sorrowful; and having finished eating he went to his own abode and made preparations that night. And the next day he arose but did not go to the court, but wandered to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated mountains. And he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about with the wild beasts and fed with them, until they became familiar with him; but at length he grew so weak that he could no longer bear them company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came to a park that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a widowed Countess.
One day the Countess and her maidens went forth to walk by a lake, that was in the middle of the park. And they saw the form of a man. And they were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and touched him, and looked at him. And they saw that there was life in him, though he was exhausted by the heat of the sun. And the Countess returned to the Castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment, and gave it to one of her maidens. "Go with this," said she, "and take with thee yonder horse and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just now. And anoint him with this balsam, near his heart; and if there is life in him, he will arise through the efficacy of this balsam. Then watch what he will do."
And the maiden departed from her, and poured the whole of the balsam upon Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little way off, and hid herself to watch him. In a short time she saw him begin to move his arms; and he rose up, and looked at his person, and became ashamed of the unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the garments that were near him. And he crept forward till he was able to draw the garments to him from off the saddle. And he clothed himself, and with difficulty mounted the horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he was rejoiced when he saw her, and enquired of her, what land and what territory that was. "Truly," said the maiden, "a widowed Countess owns yonder Castle; at the death of her husband, he left her two Earldoms, but at this day she has but this one dwelling that has not been wrested from her by a young Earl, who is her neighbour, because she refused to become his wife." "That is a pity," said Owain. And he and the maiden proceeded to the Castle; and he alighted there, and the maiden conducted him to a pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire and left him.
And the maiden came to the Countess, and gave the flask into her hand. "Ha! maiden," said the Countess, "where is all the balsam?" "Have I not used it all?" said she. "Oh, maiden," said the Countess, "I cannot easily forgive thee this; it is sad for me to have wasted seven-score pounds' worth of precious ointment, upon a stranger whom I know not. However, maiden, wait thou upon him, until he is quite recovered."
And the maiden did so, and furnished him with meat and drink, and fire, and lodging, and medicaments, until he was well again. And in three months he was restored to his former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been before.
One day Owain heard a great tumult, and a sound of arms in the Castle, and he enquired of the maiden the cause thereof. "The Earl," said she, "whom I mentioned to thee, has come before the Castle, with a numerous army, to subdue the Countess." And Owain enquired of her whether the Countess had a horse and arms in her possession. "She has the best in the world," said the maiden. "Wilt thou go and request the loan of a horse and arms for me," said Owain, "that I may go and look at this army?" "I will," said the maiden.
And she came to the Countess, and told her what Owain had said. And the Countess laughed. "Truly," said she, "I will even give him a horse and arms for ever; such a horse and such arms had he never yet, and I am glad that they should be taken by him to-day, lest my enemies should have them against my will to-morrow. Yet I know not what he would do with them."
The Countess bade them bring out a beautiful black steed, upon which was a beechen saddle, and a suit of armour, for man and horse. And Owain armed himself, and mounted the horse, and went forth, attended by two pages completely equipped, with horses and arms. And when they came near to the Earl's army, they could see neither its extent, nor its extremity. And Owain asked the pages in which troop the Earl was. "In yonder troop," said they, "in which are four yellow standards. Two of them are before, and two behind him." "Now," said Owain, "do you return and await me near the portal of the Castle." So they returned, and Owain pressed forward until he met the Earl. And Owain drew him completely out of his saddle, and turned his horse's head towards the Castle, and, though it was with difficulty, he brought the Earl to the portal, where the pages awaited him. And in they came. And Owain presented the Earl as a gift to the Countess. And said to her, "Behold a requital to thee for thy blessed balsam."
The army encamped around the Castle. And the Earl restored to the Countess the two Earldoms he had taken from her, as a ransom for his life; and for his freedom he gave her the half of his own dominions, and all his gold, and his silver, and his jewels, besides hostages.
And Owain took his departure. And the Countess and all her subjects besought him to remain, but Owain chose rather to wander through distant lands and deserts.
And as he journeyed, he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was repeated a second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood; on the side of which was a grey rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was within the cleft. And near the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go thence, the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent sprang out, he struck him with his sword, and cut him in two. And he dried his sword, and went on his way, as before. But behold the lion followed him, and played about him, as though it had been a greyhound that he had reared.
They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it was time for Owain to take his rest, he dismounted, and turned his horse loose in a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights. And the lion disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a fine large roebuck. And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards the fire with it.
And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its flesh upon skewers, around the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion to devour. While he was doing this, he heard a deep sigh near him, and a second, and a third. And Owain called out to know whether the sigh he heard proceeded from a mortal; and he received answer that it did. "Who art thou?" said Owain. "Truly," said the voice, "I am Luned, the hand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain." "And what dost thou here?" said Owain. "I am imprisoned," said she, "on account of the knight who came from Arthur's Court, and married the Countess. And he stayed a short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the Court of Arthur, and has not returned since. And he was the friend I loved best in the world. And two of the pages in the Countess's chamber traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And I told them that they two were not a match for him alone. So they imprisoned me in the stone vault, and said that I should be put to death, unless he came himself, to deliver me, by a certain day; and that is no further off than the day after to-morrow. And I have no one to send to seek him for me. And his name is Owain the son of Urien." "And art thou certain that if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy rescue?" "I am most certain of it," said she.
When the collops were cooked, Owain divided them into two parts, between himself and the maiden; and after they had eaten, they talked together, until the day dawned. And the next morning Owain enquired of the damsel, if there was any place where he could get food and entertainment for that night. "There is, lord," said she; "cross over yonder, and go along the side of the river, and in a short time thou wilt see a great Castle, in which are many towers, and the Earl who owns that Castle is the most hospitable man in the world. There thou mayst spend the night."
Never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his lord, than the lion that night over Owain.
And Owain accoutred his horse, and passed across by the ford, and came in sight of the Castle. And he entered it, and was honourably received. And his horse was well cared for, and plenty of fodder was placed before him. Then the lion went and lay down in the horse's manger; so that none of the people of the Castle dared to approach him. The treatment which Owain met with there, was such as he had never known elsewhere, for every one was as sorrowful, as though death had been upon him. And they went to meat; and the Earl sat upon one side of Owain, and on the other side his only daughter. And Owain had never seen any more lovely than she. Then the lion came and placed himself between Owain's feet, and he fed him with every kind of food that he took himself. And he never saw anything equal to the sadness of the people.
In the middle of the repast the Earl began to bid Owain welcome. "Then," said Owain, "behold, it is time for thee to be cheerful." "Heaven knows," said the Earl, "that it is not thy coming that makes us sorrowful, but we have cause enough for sadness and care." "What is that?" said Owain. "I have two sons," replied the Earl, "and yesterday they went to the mountains to hunt. Now there is on the mountain a monster who kills men and devours them, and he seized my sons; and to-morrow is the time he has fixed to be here, and he threatens that he will then slay my sons before my eyes, unless I will deliver into his hands this my daughter. He has the form of a man, but in stature he is no less than a giant."
"Truly," said Owain, "that is lamentable. And which wilt thou do?" "Heaven knows," said the Earl, "it will be better that my sons should be slain against my will, than that I should voluntarily give up my daughter to him to ill-treat and destroy." Then they talked about other things, and Owain stayed there that night.
The next morning they heard an exceeding great clamour, which was caused by the coming of the giant with the two youths. And the Earl was anxious both to protect his Castle and to release his two sons. Then Owain put on his armour and went forth to encounter the giant, and the lion followed him. And when the giant saw that Owain was armed, he rushed towards him and attacked him. And the lion fought with the giant, much more fiercely than Owain did. "Truly," said the giant, "I should find no difficulty in fighting with thee, were it not for the animal that is with thee." Upon that Owain took the lion back to the Castle and shut the gate upon him, and then he returned to fight the giant, as before. And the lion roared very loud, for he heard that it went hard with Owain. And he climbed up till he reached the top of the Earl's hall, and thence he got to the top of the Castle, and he sprang down from the walls and went and joined Owain. And the lion gave the giant a stroke with his paw, which tore him from his shoulder to his hip, and his heart was laid bare, and the giant fell down dead. Then Owain restored the two youths to their father.
The Earl besought Owain to remain with him, and he would not, but set forward towards the meadow where Luned was. And when he came there he saw a great fire kindled, and two youths with beautiful curling auburn hair were leading the maiden to cast her into the fire. And Owain asked them what charge they had against her. And they told him of the compact that was between them, as the maiden had done the night before. "And," said they, "Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to be burnt." "Truly," said Owain, "he is a good knight, and if he knew that the maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her rescue; but if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with you." "We will," said the youths, "by him who made us."
And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that the lion came to Owain's assistance, and they two got the better of the young men. And they said to him, "Chieftain, it was not agreed that we should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend with yonder animal than with thee." And Owain put the lion in the place where the maiden had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones, and he went to fight with the young men, as before. But Owain had not his usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble; and he burst through the wall until he found a way out, and rushed upon the young men, and instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from being burned.
Then Owain returned with Luned to the dominions of the Countess of the Fountain. And when he went thence he took the Countess with him to Arthur's Court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.
And then he took the road that led to the Court of the savage black man, and Owain fought with him, and the lion did not quit Owain until he had vanquished him. And when he reached the Court of the savage black man he entered the hall, and beheld four-and-twenty ladies, the fairest that could be seen. And the garments which they had on were not worth four-and-twenty pence, and they were as sorrowful as death. And Owain asked them the cause of their sadness. And they said, "We are the daughters of Earls, and we all came here with our husbands, whom we dearly loved. And we were received with honour and rejoicing. And we were thrown into a state of stupor, and while we were thus, the demon who owns this Castle slew all our husbands, and took from us our horses, and our raiment, and our gold, and our silver; and the corpses of our husbands are still in this house, and many others with them. And this, Chieftain, is the cause of our grief, and we are sorry that thou art come hither, lest harm should befall thee.
And Owain was grieved when he heard this. And he went forth from the Castle, and he beheld a knight approaching him, who saluted him in a friendly and cheerful manner, as if he had been a brother. And this was the savage black man. "In very sooth," said Owain, "it is not to seek thy friendship that I am here." "In sooth," said he, "thou shalt not find it then." And with that they charged each other, and fought furiously. And Owain overcame him, and bound his hands behind his back. Then the black savage besought Owain to spare his life, and spoke thus: "My lord Owain," said he, "it was foretold that thou shouldst come hither and vanquish me, and thou hast done so. I was a robber here, and my house was a house of spoil; but grant me my life, and I will become the keeper of an Hospice, and I will maintain this house as an Hospice for weak and for strong, as long as I live, for the good of thy soul." And Owain accepted this proposal of him, and remained there that night.
And the next day he took the four-and-twenty ladies, and their horses, and their raiment, and what they possessed of goods and jewels, and proceeded with them to Arthur's Court. And if Arthur was rejoiced when he saw him, after he had lost him the first time, his joy was now much greater. And of those ladies, such as wished to remain in Arthur's Court remained there, and such as wished to depart departed.
And thenceforward Owain dwelt at Arthur's Court greatly beloved, as the head of his household, until he went away with his followers; and those were the army of three hundred ravens which Kenverchyn had left him. And wherever Owain went with these he was victorious.
And this is the tale of The Lady of the Fountain.
Peredur the Son of Evrawc
(Translation by Lady Charlotte Guest)
Earl Evrawc owned the Earldom of the North. And he had seven sons. And Evrawc maintained himself not so much by his own possessions as by attending tournaments, and wars, and combats. And, as it often befalls those who join in encounters and wars, he was slain, and six of his sons likewise. Now the name of his seventh son was Peredur, and he was the youngest of them. And he was not of an age to go to wars and encounters, otherwise he might have been slain as well as his father and brothers. His mother was a scheming and thoughtful woman, and she was very solicitous concerning this her only son and his possessions. So she took counsel with herself to leave the inhabited country, and to flee to the deserts and unfrequented wildernesses. And she permitted none to bear her company thither but women and boys, and spiritless men, who were both unaccustomed and unequal to war and fighting. And none dared to bring either horses or arms where her son was, lest he should set his mind upon them. And the youth went daily to divert himself in the forest, by flinging sticks and staves. And one day he saw his mother's flock of goats, and near the goats two hinds were standing. And he marvelled greatly that these two should be without horns, while the others had them. And he thought they had long run wild, and on that account they had lost their horns. And by activity and swiftness of foot, he drove the hinds and the goats together into the house which there was for the goats at the extremity of the forest. Then Peredur returned to his mother. "Ah, mother," said he, "a marvelous thing have I seen in the wood; two of thy goats have run wild, and lost their horns; through their having been so long missing in the wood. And no man had ever more trouble than I had to drive them in." Then they all arose and went to see. And when they beheld the hinds they were greatly astonished.
And one day they saw three knights coming along the horse-road on the borders of the forest. And the three knights were Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Geneir Gwystyl, and Owain the son of Urien. And Owain kept on the track of the knight who had divided the apples in Arthur's Court, whom they were in pursuit of. "Mother," said Peredur, "what are those yonder?" "They are angels, my son," said she. "By my faith," said Peredur, "I will go and become an angel with them." And Peredur went to the road, and met them. "Tell me, good soul," said Owain, "sawest thou a knight pass this way, either to-day or yesterday?" "I know not," answered he, "what a knight is." "Such an one as I am," said Owain. "If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee, I will tell thee that which thou askest me." "Gladly will I do so," replied Owain. "What is this?" demanded Peredur, concerning the saddle. "It is a saddle," said Owain. Then he asked about all the accoutrements which he saw upon the men, and the horses, and the arms, and what they were for, and how they were used. And Owain shewed him all these things fully, and told him what use was made of them. "Go forward," said Peredur, "for I saw such an one as thou enquirest for, and I will follow thee."
Then Peredur returned to his mother and her company, and he said to her, "Mother, those were not angels, but honourable knights." Then his mother swooned away. And Peredur went to the place where they kept the horses that carried firewood, and that brought meat and drink from the inhabited country to the desert. And he took a bony piebald horse, which seemed to him the strongest of them. And he pressed a pack into the form of a saddle, and with twisted twigs he imitated the trappings which he had seen upon the horses. And when Peredur came again to his mother, the Countess had recovered from her swoon. "My son," said she, "desirest thou to ride forth?" "Yes, with thy leave," said he. "Wait, then, that I may counsel thee before thou goest." "Willingly," he answered; "speak quickly." "Go forward, then," she said, "to the Court of Arthur, where there are the best, and the boldest, and the most bountiful of men. And wherever thou seest a church, repeat there thy Paternoster unto it. And if thou see meat and drink, and have need of them, and none have the kindness or the courtesy to give them to thee, take them thyself. If thou hear an outcry, proceed towards it, especially if it be the outcry of a woman. If thou see a fair jewel, possess thyself of it, and give it to another, for thus thou shalt obtain praise. If thou see a fair woman, pay thy court to her, whether she will or no; for thus thou wilt render thyself a better and more esteemed man than thou wast before."
After this discourse, Peredur mounted the horse, and taking a handful of sharp-pointed forks in his hand, he rode forth. And he journeyed two days and two nights in the woody wildernesses, and in desert places, without food and without drink. And then he came to a vast wild wood, and far within the wood he saw a fair even glade, and in the glade he saw a tent, and the tent seeming to him to be a church, he repeated his Paternoster to it. And he went toward it, and the door of the tent was open. And a golden chair was near the door. And on the chair sat a lovely auburn-haired maiden, with a golden frontlet on her forehead, and sparkling stones in the frontlet, and with a large gold ring on her hand. And Peredur dismounted, and entered the tent. And the maiden was glad at his coming, and bade him welcome. At the entrance of the tent he saw food, and two flasks full of wine, and two loaves of fine wheaten flour, and collops of the flesh of the wild boar. "My mother told me," said Peredur, "wheresoever I saw meat and drink, to take it." "Take the meat and welcome, chieftain," said she. So Peredur took half of the mat and of the liquor himself, and left the rest to the maiden. And when Peredur had finished eating, he bent upon his knee before the maiden. "My mother," said he, "told me, wheresoever I saw a fair jewel, to take it." "Do so, my soul," said she. So Peredur took the ring. And he mounted his horse, and proceeded on his journey.
After this, behold the knight came, to whom the tent belonged; and he was the Lord of the Glade. And he saw the track of the horse, and he said to the maiden, "Tell me who has been here since I departed." "A man," said she, "of wonderful demeanour." And she described to him what Peredur's appearance and conduct had been. "Tell me," said he, "did he offer thee any wrong?" "No," answered the maiden, "by my faith, he harmed me not. "By my faith, I do not believe thee; and until I can meet with him, and revenge the insult he has done me, and wreak my vengeance upon him, thou shalt not remain two nights in the same house." And the knight arose, and set forth to seek Peredur.
Meanwhile Peredur journeyed on towards Arthur's Court. And before he reached it, another knight had been there, who gave a ring of thick gold at the door of the gate for holding his horse, and went into the Hall where Arthur and his household, and Gwenhwyvar and her maidens, were assembled. And the page of the chamber was serving Gwenhwyvar with a golden goblet. Then the knight dashed the liquor that was therein upon her face, and upon her stomacher, and gave her a violent blow on the face, and said, "If any have the boldness to dispute this goblet with me, and to revenge the insult to Gwenhywvar, let him follow me to the meadow, and there I will await him." So the knight took his horse, and rode to the meadow. And all the household hung down their heads, lest any of them should be requested to go and avenge the insult to Gwenhwyvar. For it seemed to them, that no one would have ventured on so daring an outrage, unless he possessed such powers, though magic or charms, that none could be able to take vengeance upon him. Then, behold, Peredur entered the Hall, upon the bony piebald horse, with the uncouth trappings upon it; and in this way he traversed the whole length of the Hall. In the centre of the Hall stood Kai. "Tell me, tall man," said Peredur, "is that Arthur, yonder?" "What wouldest thou with Arthur?" asked Kai. "My mother told me to go to Arthur, and receive the honour of knighthood." "By my faith," said he, "thou art all too meanly equipped with horse and with arms." Thereupon he was perceived by all the household, and they threw sticks at him. Then, behold, a dwarf came forward. He had already been a year at Arthur's Court, both he and a female dwarf. They had craved harbourage of Arthur, and had obtained it; and during the whole year, neither of them had spoken a single word to any one. When the dwarf beheld Peredur, "Haha!" said he, "the welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc, the chief of warriors, and the flower of knighthood." "Truly," said Kai, "thou art ill-taught to remain a year mute at Arthur's Court, with choice of society; and now, before the face of Arthur and all his household, to call out, and declare such a man as this the chief of warriors, and the flower of knighthood." And he gave him such a box on the ear, that he fell senseless to the ground. Then exclaimed the female dwarf, "Haha! goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc; the welcome of Heaven be unto thee, flower of knights, and light of chivalry." "Of a truth, maiden," said Kai, "thou art ill-bred to remain mute for a year at the Court of Arthur, and then to speak as thou dost of such a man as this." And Kai kicked her with his foot, so that she fell to the ground senseless. "Tall man," said Peredur, "shew me which is Arthur." "Hold thy peace," said Kai, "and go after the knight who went hence to the meadow, and take from him the goblet, and overthrow him, and possess thyself of his horse and arms, and then thou shalt receive the order of knighthood." "I will do so, tall man," said Peredur. So he turned his horse's head towards the meadow. And when he came there, the knight was riding up and down, proud of his strength, and valour, and noble mien. "Tell me," said the knight, "didst thou see any one coming after me from the Court?" "The tall man that was there," said he, "desired me to come, and overthrow thee, and to take from thee the goblet, and thy horse and thy armour for myself." "Silence!" said the knight; "go back to the Court, and tell Arthur, from me, either to come himself, or to send some other to fight with me; and unless he do so quickly, I will not wait for him." "By my faith," said Peredur, "choose thou whether it be willingly or unwillingly, but I will have the horse, and the arms, and the goblet." And upon this the knight ran at him furiously, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, between the neck and the shoulder. "Haha! lad," said Peredur, "my mother's servants were not used to play with me in this wise; therefore, thus will I play with thee." And thereupon he struck him with a sharp-pointed fork, and it hit him in the eye, and came out at the back of his neck, so that he instantly fell down lifeless.
"Verily," said Owain the son of Urien to Kai, "thou wert ill-advised, when thou didst send that madman after the knight. For one of two things must befall him. He must either be overthrown, or slain. If he is overthrown by the knight, he will be counted by him to be an honourable person of the Court, and an eternal disgrace will it be to Arthur and his warriors. And if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and moreover, his sin will be upon him; therefore will I go to see what has befallen him." So Owain went to the meadow, and he found Peredur dragging the man about. "What art thou doing thus?" said Owain. "This iron coat," said Peredur, "will never come from off him; not by my efforts, at any rate." And Owain unfastened his armour and his clothes. "Here, my good soul," said he, "is a horse and armour better than thine. Take them joyfully, and come with me to Arthur, to receive the order of knighthood, for thou dost merit it." "May I never shew my face again, if I go," said Peredur; "but take thou the goblet to Gwenhwyvar, and tell Arthur, that wherever I am, I will be his vassal, and will do him what profit and service I am able. And say that I will not come to his Court, until I have encountered the tall man that is there, to revenge the injury he did to the dwarf and dwarfess." And Owain went back to the Court, and related all these things to Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, and to all the household.
And Peredur rode forth. And as he proceeded, behold a knight met him. "Whence comest thou?" said the knight. "I come from Arthur's Court," said Peredur. "Art thou one of his men?" asked he. "Yes, by my faith," he answered. "A good service, truly, is that of Arthur." "Wherefore sayest thou so?" said Peredur. "I will tell thee," said he; "I have always been Arthur's enemy, and all such of his men as I have ever encountered I have slain." And without further parlance they fought, and it was not long before Peredur brought him to the ground, over his horse's crupper. Then the knight besought his mercy. "Mercy thou shalt have," said Peredur, "if thou wilt make oath to me, that thou wilt go to Arthur's Court, and tell him that it was I that overthrew thee, for the honour of his service; and say, that I will never come to the Court until I have avenged the insult offered to the dwarf and dwarfess." The knight pledged him his faith of this, and proceeded to the Court of Arthur, and said as he had promised, and conveyed the threat to Kai.
And Peredur rode forward. And within that week he encountered sixteen knights, and overthrew them all shamefully. And they all went to Arthur's Court, taking with them the same message which the first knight had conveyed from Peredur, and the same threat which he had sent to Kai. And thereupon Kai was reproved by Arthur, and Kai was greatly grieved thereat.
And Peredur rode forward. And he came to a vast and desert wood, on the confines of which was a lake. And on the other side was a fair castle. And on the border of the lake he saw a venerable, hoary-headed man, sitting upon a velvet cushion, and having a garment of velvet upon him. And his attendants were fishing in the lake. When the hoary-headed man beheld Peredur approaching, he arose and went towards the castle. And the old man was lame. Peredur rode to the palace, and the door was open, and he entered the hall. And there was the hoary-headed man sitting on a cushion, and a large blazing fire burning before him. And the household and the company arose to meet Peredur, and disarrayed him. And the man asked the youth to sit on the cushion; and they sat down, and conversed together. When it was time, the tables were laid, and they went to meat. And when they had finished their meal, the man enquired of Peredur, if he knew well how to fight with the sword. "I know not," said Peredur, "but were I to be taught, doubtless I should." "Whoever can play well with the cudgel and shield, will also be able to fight with a sword." And the man had two sons; the one had yellow hair, and the other auburn. "Arise, youths," said he, "and play with the cudgel and the shield." And so did they. "Tell me, my soul," said the man, "which of the youths thinkest thou plays best." "I think," said Peredur, "that the yellow-haired youth could draw blood from the other, if he chose." "Arise thou, my life, and take the cudgel and the shield from the hand of the youth with the auburn hair, and draw blood from the yellow-haired youth if thou canst." So Peredur arose, and went to play with the yellow-haired youth; and he lifted up his arm, and struck him such a mighty blow, that his brow fell over his eye, and the blood flowed forth. "Ah, my life," said the man, "come now, and sit down, for thou wilt become the best fighter with the sword of any in this island; and I am thy uncle, thy mother's brother. And with me shalt thou remain a space, in order to learn the manners and customs of different countries, and courtesy, and gentleness, and noble bearing. Leave, then, the habits and the discourse of thy mother, and I will be thy teacher; and I will raise thee to the rank of knight from this time forward. And thus do thou. If thou seest aught to cause thee wonder, ask not the meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy to inform thee, the reproach will not fall upon thee, but upon me that am thy teacher." And they had abundance of honour and service. And when it was time they went to sleep. At the break of day, Peredur arose, and took his horse, and with his uncle's permission he rode forth. And he came to a vast desert wood, and at the further end of the wood was a meadow, and on the other side of the meadow he saw a large castle. And thitherward Peredur bent his way, and he found the gate open, and he proceeded to the hall. And he beheld a stately hoary-headed man sitting on one side of the hall, and many pages around him, who arose to receive and to honour Peredur. And they placed him by the side of the owner of the palace. Then they discoursed together, and when it was time to eat, they caused Peredur to sit beside the nobleman during the repast. And when they had eaten and drunk as much as they desired, the nobleman asked Peredur, whether he could fight with a sword? "Were I to receive instruction," said Peredur, "I think I could." Now, there was on the floor of the hall a huge staple, as large as a warrior could grasp. "Take yonder sword," said the man to Peredur, "and strike the iron staple." So Peredur arose and struck the staple, so that he cut it in two, and the sword broke into two parts also. "Place the two parts together, and reunite them," and Peredur placed them together, and they became entire as they were before. And a second time he struck upon the staple, so that both it and the sword broke in two, and as before they reunited. And the third time he gave a like blow, and placed the broken parts together, and neither the staple nor the sword would unite as before. "Youth," said the nobleman, "come now, and sit down, and my blessing be upon thee. Thou fightest best with the sword of any man in the kingdom. Thou has arrived at two-thirds of thy strength, and the other third thou has not yet obtained; and when thou attainest to thy full power, none will be able to contend with thee. I am thy uncle, thy mother's brother, and I am brother to the man in whose house thou wast last night." Then Peredur and his uncle discoursed together, and he beheld two youths enter the hall, and proceed up to the chamber, bearing a spear of mighty size, with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. And when all the company saw this, they began wailing and lamenting. But for all that, the man did not break off his discourse with Peredur. And as he did not tell Peredur the meaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask him concerning it. And when the clamour had a little subsided, behold two maidens entered, with a large salver between them, in which was a man's head, surrounded by a profusion of blood. And thereupon the company of the court made so great an outcry, that it was irksome to be in the same hall with them. But at length they were silent. And when time was that they should sleep, Peredur was brought into a fair chamber.
And the next day, with his uncle's permission, he rode forth. And he came to a wood, and far within the wood he heard a loud cry, and he saw a beautiful woman with auburn hair, and a horse with a saddle upon it, standing near her, and a corpse by her side. And as she strove to place the corpse upon the horse, it fell to the ground, and thereupon she made a great lamentation. "Tell me, sister," said Peredur, "wherefore art thou bewailing?" "Oh! accursed Peredur, little pity has my ill-fortune ever met with from thee." "Wherefore," said Peredur, "am I accursed?" "Because thou wast the cause of thy mother's death; for when thou didst ride forth against her will, anguish seized upon her heart, so that she died; and therefore art thou accursed. And the dwarf and the dwarfess that thou sawest at Arthur's Court were the dwarfs of thy father and mother; and I am thy foster-sister, and this was my wedded husband, and he was slain by the knight that is in the glade in the wood; and do not thou go near him, lest thou shouldest be slain by him likewise." "My sister, thou dost reproach me wrongfully; through my having so long remained amongst you, I shall scarcely vanquish him; and had I but continued longer, it would, indeed, be difficult for me to succeed. Cease, therefore, thy lamenting, for it is of no avail, and I will bury the body, and then I will go in quest of the knight, and see if I can do vengeance upon him." And when he had buried the body, they went to the place where the knight was, and found him riding proudly along the glade; and he enquired of Peredur whence he came. "I come from Arthur's Court." "And art thou one of Arthur's men?" "Yes, by my faith." "A profitable alliance, truly, is that of Arthur." And without further parlance, they encountered one another, and immediately Peredur overthrew the knight, and he besought mercy of Peredur. "Mercy shalt thou have," said he, "upon these terms, that thou take this woman in marriage, and do her all the honour and reverence in thy power, seeing thou hast, without cause, slain her wedded husband; and that thou go to Arthur's Court, and shew him that it was I that overthrew thee, to do him honour and service; and that thou tell him that I will never come to his Court again until I have met with the tall man that is there, to take vengeance upon him for his insult to the dwarf and dwarfess." And he took the knight's assurance, that he would perform all this. Then the knight provided the lady with a horse and garments that were suitable for her, and took her with him to Arthur's Court. And he told Arthur all that had occurred, and gave the defiance to Kai. And Arthur and all his household reproved Kai, for having driven such a youth as Peredur from his Court.
Said Owain the son of Urien, "this youth will never come into the Court until Kai has gone forth from it." "By my faith," said Arthur, "I will search all the deserts in the Island of Britain, until I find Peredur, and then let him and his adversary do their utmost to each other."
Then Peredur rode forward. And he came to a desert wood, where he saw not the track either of men or animals, and where there was nothing but bushes and weeds. And at the upper end of the wood he saw a vast castle, wherein were many strong towers; and when he came near the gate, he found the weeds taller than he had seen them elsewhere. And he struck the gate with the shaft of his lance, and thereupon behold a lean, auburn-haired youth came to an opening in the battlements. "Choose thou, chieftain," said he, "whether shall I open the gate unto thee, or shall I announce unto those that art chief, that thou art at the gateway?" "Say that I am here," said Peredur, "and if it is desired that I should enter, I will go in." And the youth came back, and opened the gate for Peredur. And when he went into the hall, he beheld eighteen youths, lean and red-headed, of the same height, and of the same aspect, and of the same dress, and of the same age as the one who had opened the gate for him. And they were skilled in courtesy and in service. And they disarrayed him. Then they sat down to discourse. Thereupon, behold five maidens came from the chamber into the hall. And Peredur was certain that he had never seen another of so fair an aspect as the chief of the maidens. And she had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been handsome, but was then so tattered, that her skin could be seen through it. And whiter was her skin than the bloom of crystal, and her hair and her two eyebrows were blacker than jet, and on her cheeks were two red spots, redder than whatever is reddest. And the maiden welcomed Peredur, and put her arms around his neck, and made him sit down beside her. Not long after this he saw two nuns enter, and a flask full of wine was borne by one, and six loaves of white bread by the other. "Lady," said they, "Heaven is witness, that there is not so much of food and liquor as this left in yonder Convent this night." Then they went to meat, and Peredur observed that the maiden wished to give more of the food and of the liquor to him than to any of the others. "My sister," said Peredur, "I will share out the food and the liquor." "Not so, my soul," said she. "By my faith but I will." So Peredur took the bread, and he gave an equal portion of it to each alike, as well as a cup full of the liquor. And when it was time for them to sleep, a chamber was prepared for Peredur, and he went to rest.
"Behold, sister," said the youths to the fairest and most exalted of the maidens, "we have counsel for thee." "What may it be?" she enquired. "Go to the youth that is in the upper chamber, and offer to become his wife, or the lady of his love, if it seem well to him." "That were indeed unfitting," said she. "Hitherto I have not been the lady-love of any knight, and to make such an offer before I am wooed by him, that, truly, can I not do." "By our confession to Heaven, unless thou actest thus, we will leave thee here with thy enemies, to do as they will with thee." And through fear of this, the maiden went forth; and shedding tears, she proceeded to the chamber. And with the noise of the door opening, Peredur awoke; and the maiden was weeping and lamenting. "Tell me, my sister," said Peredur, "wherefore dost thou weep?" "I will tell thee, lord," said she. "My father possessed these dominions as their chief, and this palace was his, and with it he held the best earldom in the kingdom; then the son of another earl sought me of my father, and I was not willing to be given unto him, and my father would not give me against my will, either to him or any earl in the world. And my father had no child except myself. And after my father's death, these dominions came into my own hands, and then was I less willing to accept him than before. So he made war upon me, and conquered all my possessions, except this one house. And through the valour of the men whom thou hast seen, who are my foster-brothers, and the strength of the house, it can never be taken while food and drink remain. And now our provisions are exhausted; but as thou hast seen, we have been fed by the nuns, to whom the country is free. And at length they also are without supply of food or liquor. And at no later date than to-morrow, the earl will come against this place with all his forces; and if I fall into his power, my fate will be no better than to be given over to the grooms of his horses. Therefore, lord, I am come to place myself in thy hands, that thou mayest succour me, either by taking me hence, or by defending me here, whichever may seem best unto thee." "Go, my sister," said he, "and sleep; nor will I depart from thee until I do that which thou requirest, or prove whether I can assist thee or not." The maiden went again to rest; and the next morning she came to Peredur, and saluted him. "Heaven prosper thee, my soul, and what tidings dost thou bring?" "None other, than that the earl and all his forces have alighted at the gate, and I never beheld any place so covered with tents, and thronged with knights challenging others to the combat." "Truly," said Peredur, "let my horse be made ready." So his horse was accoutred, and he arose and sallied forth to the meadow. And there was a knight riding proudly along the meadow, having raised the signal for battle. And they encountered, and Peredur threw the knight over his horse's crupper to the ground. And at the close of the day, one of the chief knights came to fight with him, and he overthrew him also, so that he besought his mercy. "Who art thou?" said Peredur. "Verily," said he, "I am Master of the Household to the earl." "And how much of the countess's possessions is there in thy power?" "The third part, verily," answered he. "Then," said Peredur, "restore to her the third of her possessions in full, and all the profit thou hast made by them, and bring meat and drink for a hundred men, with their horses and arms, to her court this night. And thou shalt remain her captive, unless she wish to take thy life." And this he did forthwith. And that night the maiden was right joyful, and they fared plenteously.
And the next day Peredur rode forth to the meadow; and that day he vanquished a multitude of the host. And at the close of the day, there came a proud and stately knight, and Peredur overthrew him, and he besought his mercy. "Who art thou?" said Peredur. "I am Steward of the Palace," said he. "And how much of the maiden's possessions are under thy control?" "One-third part," answered he. "Verily," said Peredur, "thou shalt fully restore to the maiden her possessions, and moreover thou shalt give her meat and drink for two hundred men, and their horses and their arms. And for thyself, thou shalt be her captive." And immediately it was done.
And the third day Peredur rode forth to the meadow; and he vanquished more that day than on either of the preceding. And at the close of the day, an earl came to encounter him, and he overthrew him, and he besought his mercy. "Who art thou?" said Peredur. "I am the earl," said he. "I will not conceal it from thee." "Verily," said Peredur, "thou shalt restore the whole of the maiden's earldom, and shalt give her thine own earldom in addition thereto, and meat and drink for three hundred men, and their horses and arms, and thou thyself shalt remain in her power." And thus it was fulfilled. And Peredur tarried three weeks in the country, causing tribute and obedience to be paid to the maiden, and the government to be placed in her hands. "With thy leave," said Peredur, "I will go hence." "Verily, my brother, desirest thou this?" "Yes, by my faith, and had it not been for love of thee, I should not have been here thus long." "My soul," said she, "who art thou?" "I am Peredur the son of Evrawc from the North; and if ever thou art in trouble or in danger, acquaint me therewith, and if I can, I will protect thee."
So Peredur rode forth. And far thence there met him a lady, mounted on a horse that was lean, and covered with sweat; and she saluted the youth. "Whence comest thou, my sister?" Then she told him the cause of her journey. Now she was the wife of the Lord of the Glade. "Behold," said he, "I am the knight through whom thou art in trouble, and he shall repent it, who has treated thee thus." Thereupon, behold a knight rode up, and he enquired of Peredur, if he had seen a knight such as he was seeking. "Hold thy peace," said Peredur, "I am he whom thou seekest; and by my faith, thou deservest ill of thy household for thy treatment of the maiden, for she is innocent concerning me." So they encountered, and they were not long in combat ere Peredur overthrew the knight, and he besought his mercy. "Mercy thou shalt have," said Peredur, "so thou wilt return by the way thou camest, and declare that thou holdest the maiden innocent, and so that thou wilt acknowledge unto her the reverse thou hast sustained at my hands." And the knight plighted him his faith thereto.
Then Peredur rode forward. And above him he beheld a Castle, and thitherward he went. And he struck upon the gate with his lance, and then, behold, a comely auburn-haired youth opened the gate, and he had the stature of a warrior, and the years of a boy. And when Peredur came into the hall, there was a tall and stately lady sitting in a chair, and many handmaidens around her; and the lady rejoiced at his coming. And when it was time, they went to meat. And after their repast was finished, "It were well for thee, chieftain," said she, "to go elsewhere to sleep." "Wherefore can I not sleep here?" said Peredur. "Nine sorceresses are here, my soul, of the sorceresses of Gloucester, and their father and their mother are with them; and unless we can make our escape before daybreak, we shall be slain; and already they have conquered and laid waste all the country, except this one dwelling." "Behold," said Peredur, "I will remain here to-night, and if you are in trouble, I will do you what service I can; but harm you shall not receive from me." So they went to rest. And with the break of day, Peredur heard a dreadful outcry. And he hastily arose, and went forth in his vest and his doublet, with his sword about his neck, and he saw a sorceress overtake one of the watch, who cried out violently. Peredur attacked the sorceress, and struck her upon the head with his sword, so that he flattened her helmet and her headpiece like a dish upon her head. "Thy mercy, goodly Peredur, son of Evrawc, and the mercy of Heaven." "How knowest thou, hag, that I am Peredur?" "By destiny, and the foreknowledge that I should suffer harm from thee. And thou shalt take a horse and armour of me; and with me thou shalt go to learn chivalry and the use of thy arms." Said Peredur, "Thou shalt have mercy, if thou pledge thy faith thou wilt never more injure the dominions of the Countess." And Peredur took surety of this, and with permission of the Countess, he set forth with the sorceress to the palace of the sorceresses. And there he remained for three weeks, and then he made choice of a horse and arms, and went his way.
And in the evening he entered a valley, and at the head of the valley he came to a hermit's cell, and the hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the morning he arose, and when he went forth, behold a shower of snow had fallen the night before, and a hawk had killed a wild fowl in front of the cell. And the noise of the horse scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted upon the bird. And Peredur stood, and compared the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood, to the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin which was whiter than the snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow appeared to be.
Now Arthur and his household were in search of Peredur. "Know ye," said Arthur, "who is the knight with the long spear that stands by the brook up yonder?" "Lord," said one of them, "I will go and learn who he is." So the youth came to the place where Peredur was, and asked him what he did thus, and who he was. And from the intensity with which he thought upon the lady whom best he loved, he gave him no answer. Then the youth thrust at Peredur with his lance, and Peredur turned upon him, and struck him over his horse's crupper to the ground. And after this, four-and-twenty youths came to him, and he did not answer one more than another, but gave the same reception to all, bringing them with one single thrust to the ground. And then came Kai, and spoke to Peredur rudely and angrily; and Peredur took him with his lance under the jaw, and cast him from him with a thrust, so that he broke his arm and his shoulder-blade, and he rode over him one-and-twenty times. And while he lay thus, stunned with the violence of the pain that he had suffered, his horse returned back at a wild and prancing pace. And when the household saw the horse come back without his rider, they rode forth in haste to the place where the encounter had been. And Peredur moved not from his meditation, on seeing the concourse that was around Kai. And Kai was brought to Arthur's tent, and Arthur caused skillful physicians to come to him. And Arthur was grieved that Kai had met with this reverse, for he loved him greatly.
"Then," said Gwalchmai, "it is not fitting that any should disturb an honourable knight from his thought unadvisedly; for either he is pondering some damage that he has sustained, or he is thinking of the lady whom best he loves. And through such ill-advised proceeding, perchance this misadventure has befallen him who last met with him. And if it seem well to thee, lord, I will go and see if this knight has changed from his thought; and if he has, I will ask him courteously to come and visit thee." Then Kai was wrath, and he spoke angry and spiteful words. "Gwalchmai," said he, "I know that thou wilt bring him because he is fatigued. Little praise and honour, nevertheless, wilt thou have from vanquishing a weary knight, who is tired with fighting. Yet thus hast thou gained the advantage over many. And while thy speech and thy soft words last, a coat of thin linen were armour sufficient for thee, and thou wilt not need to break either lance or sword in fighting with the knight in the state he is in." Then said Gwalchmai to Kai, "Thou mightest use more pleasant words, wert thou so minded; and it behooved thee not upon me to wreak thy wrath and thy displeasure. Methinks I shall bring the knight hither with me without breaking either my arm or my shoulder." Then said Arthur to Gwalchmai, "Thou speakest like a wise and prudent man; go, and take enough of armour about thee, and choose thy horse." And Gwalchmai accoutred himself, and rode forward hastily to the place where Peredur was.
And Peredur was resting on the shaft of his spear, pondering the same thought, and Gwalchmai came to him without any signs of hostility, and said to him, "If I thought that it would be agreeable to thee as it would be to me, I would converse with thee. I have also a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee to come and visit him. And two men have been before on this errand." "That is true," said Peredur, "and uncourteously they came. They attacked me, and I was annoyed thereat, for it was not pleasing to me to be drawn from the thought that I was in, for I was thinking of the lady whom best I love, and thus was she brought to my mind:--I was looking upon the snow, and upon the raven, and upon the drops of the blood of the bird that was killed upon the snow. And I bethought me that her whiteness was like that of the snow, and that the blackness of her hair and her eyebrows like that of the raven, and that the two red spots upon her cheeks were like the two drops of blood." Said Gwalchmai, "This was not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel if it were pleasant to thee to be drawn from it." "Tell me," said Peredur, "is Kai in Arthur's Court?" "He is," said he, "and behold he is the knight that fought with thee last; and it would have been better for him had he not come, for his arm and his shoulder-blade were broken with the fall which he had from thy spear." "Verily," said Peredur, "I am not sorry to have thus begun to avenge the insult to the dwarf and dwarfess." Then Gwalchmai marvelled to hear him speak of the dwarf and the dwarfess; and he approached him, and threw his arms around his neck, and asked him what was his name. "Peredur the son of Evrawc am I called," said he; "and thou, Who art thou?" "I am called Gwalchmai," he replied. "I am right glad to meet with thee," said Peredur, "for in every country where I have been I have heard of thy fame for prowess and uprightness, and I solicit thy fellowship." "Thou shalt have it, by my faith, and grant me thine," said he. "Gladly will I do so," answered Peredur.
So they rode forth together joyfully towards the place where Arthur was, and when Kai saw them coming, he said "I knew that Gwalchmai needed not to fight the knight. And it is no wonder that he should gain fame; more can he do by his fair words than I by the strength of my arm." And Peredur went with Gwalchmai to his tent, and they took off their armour. And Peredur put on garments like those that Gwalchmai wore, and they went together unto Arthur, and saluted him. "Behold, lord," said Gwalchmai, "him whom thou hast sought so long." "Welcome unto thee, chieftain," said Arthur. "With me thou shalt remain; and had I known thy valour had been such, thou shouldst not have left me as thou didst; nevertheless, this was predicted of thee by the dwarf and the dwarfess, whom Kai illtreated and whom thou hast avenged." And hereupon, behold there came the Queen and her handmaidens, and Peredur saluted them. And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him welcome. And Arthur did him great honour and respect, and they returned towards Caerlleon.
And the first night Peredur came to Caerlleon to Arthur's Court, and as he walked in the city after his repast, behold, there met him Angharad Law Eurawc. "By my faith, sister," said Peredur, "thou art a beauteous and lovely maiden; and, were it pleasing to thee, I could love thee above all women." "I pledge my faith," said she, "that I do not love thee, nor will I ever do so." "I also pledge my faith," said Peredur, "that I will never speak a word to any Christian again, until thou come to love me above all men."
The next day Peredur went forth by the high road, along a mountain-ridge, and he saw a valley of a circular form, the confines of which were rocky and wooded. And the flat part of the valley was in the meadows, and there were fields betwixt the meadows and the wood. And in the bosom of the wood he saw large black houses of uncouth workmanship. And he dismounted, and led his horse towards the wood. And a little way within the wood he saw rocky ledge, along which the road lay. And upon the ledge was a lion bound by a chain, and sleeping. And beneath the lion he saw a deep pit of immense size, full of the bones of men and animals. And Peredur drew his sword and struck the lion, so that he fell into the mouth of the pit and hung there by the chain; and with a second blow he struck the chain and broke it, and the lion fell into the pit; and Peredur led his horse over the rocky ledge, until he came into the valley. And in the centre of the valley he saw a fair Castle, and he went towards it. And in the meadow by the Castle he beheld a huge grey man sitting, who was larger than any man he had ever before seen. And two young pages were shooting the hilts of their daggers, of the bone of the sea-horse. And one of the pages had red hair, and the other auburn. And they went before him to the place where the grey man was, and Peredur saluted him. And the grey man said, "Disgrace to the beard of my porter." Then Peredur understood that the porter was the lion.--And the grey man and the pages went together into the Castle, and Peredur accompanied them; and he found it a fair and noble place. And they proceeded to the hall, and the tables were already laid, and upon them was abundance of food and liquor. And thereupon he saw an aged woman and a young woman come from the chamber; and they were the most stately women he had ever seen. Then they washed and went to meat, and the grey man sat in the upper seat at the head of the table, and the aged woman next to him. And Peredur and the maiden were placed together, and the two young pages served them. And the maiden gazed sorrowfully upon Peredur, and Peredur asked the maiden wherefore she was sad. "For thee, my soul; for, from when I first beheld thee, I have loved thee above all men. And it pains me to know that so gentle a youth as thou should have such a doom as awaits thee to-morrow. Sawest thou the numerous black houses in the bosom of the wood? All these belong to the vassals of the grey man yonder, who is my father. And they are all giants. And to-morrow they will rise up against thee, and will slay thee. And the Round Valley is this valley called." "Listen, fair maiden, wilt thou contrive that my horse and arms be in the same lodging with me to-night?" "Gladly will I cause it so to be, by Heaven, if I can."
And when it was time for them to sleep rather than to carouse, they went in to rest. And the maiden caused Peredur's horse and arms to be in the same lodging with him. And the next morning Peredur heard a great tumult of men and horses around the Castle. And Peredur arose, and armed himself and his horse, and went to the meadow. Then the aged woman and the maiden came to the grey man: "Lord," said they, "take the word of the youth, that he will never disclose what he has seen in this place, and we will be his sureties that he keep it." "I will not do so, by my faith," said the grey man. So Peredur fought with the host, and towards evening he had slain the one third of them without receiving any hurt himself. Then said the aged woman, "Behold, many of thy host have been slain by the youth; do thou, therefore, grant him mercy." "I will not grant it, by my faith," said he. And the aged woman and the fair maiden were upon the battlements of the Castle, looking forth. And at that juncture, Peredur encountered the yellow-haired youth and slew him. "Lord," said the maiden, "grant the young man mercy." "That will I not do, by Heaven," he replied; and thereupon Peredur attacked the auburn-haired youth, and slew him likewise. "It were better thou hadst accorded mercy to the youth before he had slain thy two sons; for now scarcely wilt thou thyself escape from him." "Go, maiden, and beseech the youth to grant mercy unto us, for we yield ourselves into his hands." So the maiden came to the place where Peredur was, and besought mercy for her father, and for all such of his vassals as had escaped alive. "Thou shalt have it, on condition that thy father and all that are under him go and render homage to Arthur, and tell him that it was his vassal Peredur that did him this service." "This will we do willingly, by Heaven." "And you shall also receive baptism; and I will send to Arthur, and beseech him to bestow this valley upon thee and upon thy heirs after thee for ever." Then they went in, and the grey man and the tall woman saluted Peredur. And the grey man said unto him, "Since I have possessed this valley I have not seen any Christian depart with his life, save thyself. And we will go to do homage to Arthur, and to embrace the faith and be baptized." Then said Peredur, "To Heaven I render thanks that I have not broken my vow to the lady that best I love, which was, that I would not speak one word unto any Christian."
That night they tarried there. And the next day, in the morning, the grey man, with his company, set forth to Arthur's Court; and they did homage unto Arthur, and he caused them to be baptized. And the grey man told Arthur that it was Peredur that had vanquished them. And Arthur gave the valley to the grey man and his company, to hold it of him as Peredur had besought. And with Arthur's permission, the grey man went back to the Round Valley.
Peredur rode forward next day, and he traversed a vast tract of desert, in which no dwellings were. And at length he came to a habitation, mean and small. And there he heard that there was a serpent that lay upon a gold ring, and suffered none to inhabit the country for seven miles around. And Peredur came to the place where he heard the serpent was. And angrily, furiously, and desperately fought he with the serpent; and at last he killed it, and took away the ring. And thus he was for a long time without speaking a word to any Christian. And therefrom he lost his colour and his aspect, through extreme longing after the Court of Arthur, and the society of the lady whom best he loved, and of his companions. Then he proceeded forward to Arthur's Court, and on the road there met him Arthur's household going on a particular errand, with Kai at their head. And Peredur knew them all, but none of the household recognized him. "Whence comest thou, chieftain?" said Kai. And this he asked him twice and three times, and he answered him not. And Kai thurst him through the thigh with his lance. And lest he should be compelled to speak, and to break his vow, he went on without stopping. "Then," said Gwalchmai, "I declare to Heaven, Kai, that thou hast acted ill in committing such an outrage upon a youth like this, who cannot speak." And Gwalchmai returned back to Arthur's Court. "Lady," said he to Gwenhwyvar, "seest thou how wicked an outrage Kai has committed upon this youth who cannot speak; for Heaven's sake, and for mine, cause him to have medical care before I come back, and I will repay thee the charge."
And before the men returned from their errand, a knight came to the meadow beside Arthur's Palace, to dare some one to the encounter. And his challenge was accepted; and Peredur fought with him, and overthrew him. And for a week he overthrew one knight every day.
And one day, Arthur and his household were going to Church, and they beheld a knight who had raised the signal for combat. "Verily," said Arthur, "by the valour of men, I will not go hence until I have my horse and my arms to overthrow yonder boor." Then went the attendants to fetch Arthur's horse and arms. And Peredur met the attendants as they were going back, and he took the horse and arms from them, and proceeded to the meadow; and all those who saw him arise and go to do battle with the knight, went upon the tops of the houses, and mounds, and the high places, to behold the combat. And Peredur beckoned with his hand to the knight to commence the fight. And the knight thrust at him, but he was not thereby moved from where he stood. And Peredur spurred his horse, and ran at him wrathfully, furiously, fiercely, desperately, and with mighty rage, and he gave him a thrust, deadly-wounding, severe, furious, adroit, and strong, under his jaw, and raised him out of the saddle, and cast him a long way from him. And Peredur went back, and left the horse and the arms with the attendant as before, and he went on foot to the Palace.
Then Peredur went by the name of the Dumb Youth. And behold, Angharad Law Eurawc met him. "I declare to Heaven, chieftain," said she, "woful is it that thou canst not speak; for couldst thou speak, I would love thee best of all men; and by my faith, although thou canst not, I do love thee above all." "Heaven reward thee, my sister," said Peredur, "by my faith I also do love thee." Thereupon it was known that he was Peredur. And then he held fellowship with Gwalchmai, and Owain the son of Urien, and all the household, and he remained in Arthur's Court.
Arthur was in Caerlleon upon Usk; and he went to hunt, and Peredur went with him. And Peredur let loose his dog upon an hart, and the dog killed the hart in a desert place. And a short space from him he saw signs of a dwelling, and towards the dwelling he went, and he beheld a hall, and at the door of the hall he found bald swarthy youths playing at chess. And when he entered, he beheld three maidens sitting on a bench, and they were all clothed alike, as became persons of high rank. And he came, and sat by them upon the bench; and one of the maidens looked steadfastly upon Peredur, and wept. And Peredur asked her wherefore she was weeping. "Through grief, that I should see to fair a youth as thou art, slain." "Who will slay me?" inquired Peredur. "If thou art so daring as to remain here to-night, I will tell thee." "How great soever my danger may be from remaining here, I will listen unto thee." "This Palace is owned by him who is my father," said the maiden, "and he slays every one who comes hither without his leave." "What sort of a man is thy father, that he is able to slay every one thus?" "A man who does violence and wrong unto his neighbours, and who renders justice unto none." And hereupon he saw the youths arise and clear the chessmen from the board. And he heard a great tumult; and after the tumult there came in a huge black one-eyed man, and the maidens arose to meet him. And they disarrayed him, and he went and sat down; and after he had rested and pondered awhile, he looked at Peredur, and asked who the knight was. "Lord," said one of the maidens, "he is the fairest and gentlest youth that ever thou didst see. And for the sake of Heaven, and of thine own dignity, have patience with him." "For thy sake I will have patience, and I will grant him his life this night." Then Peredur came towards them to the fire, and partook of food and liquor, and entered into discourse with the ladies. And being elated with the liquor, he said to the black man, "It is a marvel to me, so mighty as thou sayest thou art, who could have put out thine eye." "It is one of my habits," said the black man, "that whosoever puts to me the question which thou hast asked, shall not escape with his life, either as a free gift or for a price." "Lord," said the maiden, "whatsoever he may say to thee in jest, and through the excitement of liquor, make good that which thou saidst and didst promise me just now." "I will do so, gladly, for thy sake," said he. "Willingly will I grant him his life this night." And that night thus they remained.
And the next day the black man got up, and put on his armour, and said to Peredur, "Arise, man, and suffer death." And Peredur said unto him, "Do one of two things, black man; if thou wilt fight with me, either throw off thy own armour, or give arms to me, that I may encounter thee." "Ha! man," said he, "couldst thou fight, if thou hadst arms? Take, then, what arms thou dost choose." And thereupon the maiden came to Peredur with such arms as pleased him; and he fought with the black man, and forced him to crave his mercy. "Black man, thou shalt have mercy, provided thou tell me who thou art, and who put out thine eye." "Lord, I will tell thee; I lost it in fighting with the Black Serpent of the Carn. There is a mound, which is called the Mound of Mourning; and on the mound there is a carn, and in the carn there is a serpent, and on the tail of the serpent there is a stone, and the virtues of the stone are such, that whosoever should hold it in one hand, in the other he will have as much gold as he may desire. And in fighting with this serpent was it that I lost my eye. And the Black Oppressor am I called. And for this reason I am called the Black Oppressor, that there is not a single man around me whom I have not oppressed, and justice have I done unto none." "Tell me," said Peredur, "how far is it hence?" "The same day that thou settest forth, thou wilt come to the Palace of the Songs of the King of the Tortures." Wherefore are they called thus?" "The Addanc of the Lake slays them once every day. When thou goest thence, thou wilt come to the Court of the Countess of the Achievements." "What achievements are there?" asked Peredur. "Three hundred men there are in her household, and unto every stranger that comes to the Court, the achievements of her household are related. And this is the manner of it,--the three hundred men of the household sit next to the Lady; and that not through disrespect unto the guests, but that they may relate the achievements of the household. And the day that thou goest thence, thou wilt reach the Mound of Mourning, and round about the mound there are the owners of three hundred tents guarding the serpent." "Since thou hast, indeed, been an oppressor so long," said Peredur, "I will cause that thou continue so no longer." So he slew him.
Then the maiden spoke, and began to converse with him. "If thou wast poor when thou camest here, henceforth thou wit be rich through the treasure of the black man whom thou hast slain. Thou seest the many lovely maidens that there are in this Court; thou shalt have her whom thou best likest for the lady of thy love." "Lady, I came not hither from my country to woo; but match yourselves as it liketh you with the comely youths I see here; and none of your goods do I desire, for I need them not." Then Peredur came forward, and he came to the Palace of the Sons of the King of the Tortures; and when he entered the Palace, he saw none but women; and they rose up, and were joyful at his coming; and as they began to discourse with him, he beheld a charger arrive, with a saddle upon it, and a corpse in the saddle. And one of the women arose, and took the corpse from the saddle, and anointed it in a vessel of warm water, which was below the door, and placed precious balsam upon it; and the man rose up alive, and came to the place where Peredur was, and greeted him, and was joyful to see him. And two other men came in upon their saddles, and the maiden treated these two in the same manner as she had done the first. Then Peredur asked the chieftain wherefore it was thus. And they told him, that there was an Addanc in a cave, which slew them once every day. And thus they remained that night.
And next morning the youths arose to sally forth, and Peredur besought them, for the sake of the ladies of their love, to permit him to go with them; but they refused him, saying, "If thou shouldst be slain there, thou hast none to bring thee back to life again." And they rode forward, and Peredur followed after them; and, after they had disappeared out of his sight, he came to a mound, whereon sat the fairest lady he had ever beheld. "I know thy quest," said she; "thou art going to encounter the Addanc, and he will slay thee, and that not by courage, but by craft. He has a cave, and at the entrance of the cave there is a stone pillar, and he sees every one that enters, and none see him; and from behind the pillar he slays every one with a poisonous dart. And if thou wouldst pledge me thy faith to love me above all women, I would give the a stone, by which thou shouldst see him when thou goest in, and he should not see thee." "I will, by my troth," said Peredur, "for when first I beheld thee I loved thee; and where shall I seek thee?" "When thou seekest me, seek towards India." And the maiden vanished, after placing the stone in Peredur's hand.
And he came towards a valley, through which ran a river; and the borders of the valley were wooded, and on each side of the river were level meadows. And on one side of the river he saw a flock of white sheep, and on the other a flock of black sheep. And whenever one of the white sheep bleated, one of the black sheep would cross over and become white; and when one of the black sheep bleated, one of the white sheep would cross over, and become black. And he saw a tall tree by the side of the river, one half of which was in flames from the root to the top, and the other half was green and in full leaf. And nigh thereto he saw a youth sitting upon a mound, and two greyhounds, white breasted and spotted, in leashes, lying by his side. And certain was he that he had never seen a youth of so royal a bearing as he. And in the wood opposite he heard hounds raising a herd of deer. And Peredur saluted the youth, and the youth greeted him in return. And there were three roads leading from the mound; two of them were wide roads, and the third was more narrow. And Peredur inquired where the three roads went. "One of them goest to my palace," said the youth; "and one of two things I counsel thee to do; either proceed to my palace, which is before thee, and where thou wilt find my wife, or else to remain here to see the hounds chasing the roused deer from the wood to the plain. And thou shalt see the best greyhounds thou didst ever behold, and the boldest in the chase, kill them by the water beside us; and when it is time to go to meat, my page will come with my horse to meet me, and thou shalt rest in my palace to-night." "Heaven reward thee; but I cannot tarry, for onward must I go." "The other road leads to the town, which is near here, and wherein food and liquor may be bought; and the road which is narrower than the others goes towards the cave of the Addanc." "With thy permission, young man, I will go that way."
And Peredur went towards the cave. And he took the stone in his left hand, and his lance in his right. And as he went in he perceived the Addanc, and he pierced him through with his lance, and cut off his head. And as he came from the cave, behold the three companions were at the entrance; and they saluted Peredur, and told him that there was a prediction that he should slay that monster. And Peredur gave the head to the young men, and they offered him in marriage whichever of the three sisters he might choose and half their kingdom with her. "I came not hither to woo," said Peredur, "but if peradventure I took a wife, I should prefer your sister to all others." And Peredur rode forward, and he heard a noise behind him. And he looked back, and saw a man upon a red horse, with red armour upon him; and the man rode up by his side, and saluted him, and wished him the favour of Heaven and of man. And Peredur greeted the youth kindly. "Lord I come to make a request unto thee." "What wouldst thou?" "That thou shouldest take me as thine attendant." "Whom then should I take as my attendant, if I did so?" "I will not conceal from thee what kindred I am of. Etlym Gleddyv Coch am I called, an Earl from the East Country." "I marvel that thou shouldest offer to become attendant to a man whose possessions are no greater than thine own; for I have but an earldom like thyself. But since thou desirest to be my attendant, I will take thee joyfully."
And they went forward to the Court of the Countess, and all they of the Court were glad at their coming; and they were told it was not through disrespect they were placed below the household, but that such was the usage of the Court. For, whoever should overthrow the three hundred men of her household, would sit next the Countess, and she would love him above all men. And Peredur having overthrown the three hundred men of her household, sat down beside her, and the Countess said, "I thank Heaven that I have a youth so fair and so valiant as thou, since I have not obtained the man whom best I love." "Who is he whom best thou lovest?" "By my faith, Etlym Gleddyv Coch is the man whom I love best, and I have never seen him." "Of a truth, Etlym is my companion; and behold here he is, and for his sake did I come to joust with thy household. And he could have done so better than I, had it pleased him. And I do give thee unto him." "Heaven reward thee, fair youth, and I will take the man whom I love above all others." And the Countess became Etlym's bride from that moment.
And the next day Peredur set forth toward the Mound of Mourning. "By thy hand, lord, but I will go with thee," said Etlym. Then they went forwards till they came in sight of the mound and the tents. "Go unto yonder men," said Peredur to Etlym, "and desire them to come and do me homage." So Etlym went unto them, and said unto them thus,--"Come and do homage to my lord." "Who is thy lord?" said they. "Peredur with the long lance is my lord," said Etlym. "Were it permitted to slay a messenger, thou shouldest not go back to thy lord alive, for making unto Kings, and Earls, and Barons, so arrogant a demand as to go and do him homage." Peredur desired him to go back to them, and to give them their choice, either to do him homage, or to do battle with him. And they chose rather to do battle. And that day Peredur overthrew the owners of a hundred tents; and the next day he overthrew the owners of a hundred more; and the third day the remaining hundred took counsel to do homage to Peredur. And Peredur inquired of them, wherefore they were there. And they told him they were guarding the serpent until he should die. "For then should we fight for the stone among ourselves, and whosoever should be conqueror among us would have the stone." "Await here," said Peredur, "and I will go to encounter the serpent." "Not so, lord," said they; "we will go altogether to encounter the serpent." "Verily," said Peredur, "that will I not permit; for if the serpent be slain, I shall derive no more fame therefrom than one of you." Then he went to the place where the serpent was, and slew it, and came back to them, and said, "Reckon up what you have spent since you have been here, and I will repay you to the full." And he paid to each what he said was his claim. And he required of them only that they should acknowledge themselves his vassals. And he said to Etlym, "Go back unto her whom thou lovest best, and I will go forwards, and I will reward thee for having been my attendant." And he gave Etlym the stone. "Heaven repay thee and prosper thee," said Etlym.
And Peredur rode thence, and he came to the fairest valley he had ever seen, through which ran a river; and there he beheld many tents of various colours. And he marvelled still more at the number of water-mills and of wind-mills that he saw. And there rode up with him a tall auburn-haired man, in a workman's garb, and Peredur inquired of him who he was. "I am the chief miller," said he, "of all the mils yonder." "Wilt thou give me lodging?" said Peredur. "I will, gladly," he answered. And Peredur came to the miller's house, and the miller had a fair and pleasant dwelling. And Peredur asked money as a loan from the miller, that he might buy meat and liquor for himself and for the household, and he promised that he would pay him again ere he went thence. And he inquired of the miller, wherefore such a multitude was there assembled. Said the miller to Peredur, "One thing is certain: either thou art a man from afar, or thou art beside thyself. The Empress of Cristinobyl the Great is here; and she will have no one but the man who is most valiant; for riches does she not require. And it was impossible to bring food for so many thousands as are here, therefore were all these mills constructed." And that night they took their rest.
And the next day Peredur arose, and he equipped himself and his horse for the tournament. And among the other tents he beheld one, which was the fairest he had ever seen. And he saw a beauteous maiden leaning her head out of a window of the tent, and he had never seen a maiden more lovely than she. And upon her was a garment of satin. And he gazed fixedly on the maiden, and began to love her greatly. And he remained there, gazing upon the maiden from morning until mid-day, and from mid-day until evening; and then the tournament was ended, and he went to his lodging and drew off his armour. Then he asked money of the miller as a loan, and the miller's wife was wroth with Peredur; nevertheless, the miller lent him the money. And the next day he did in like manner as he had done the day before. And at night he came to his lodging, and took money as a loan from the miller. And the third day, as he was in the same place, gazing upon the maiden, he felt a hard blow between the neck and the shoulder, from the edge of an axe. And when he looked behind him, he saw that it was the miller; and the miller said to him, "Do one of two things: either turn thy head from hence, or go to the tournament." And Peredur smiled on the miller, and went to the tournament; and all that encountered him that day he overthrew. And as many as he vanquished he sent as a gift to the Empress, and their horses and arms he sent as a gift to the wife of the miller, in payment of the borrowed money. Peredur attended the tournament until all were overthrown, and he sent all the men to the prison of the Empress, and the horses and arms to the wife of the miller, in payment of the borrowed money. And the Empress sent to the Knight of the Mill, to ask him to come and visit her. And Peredur went not for the first nor for the second message. And the third time she sent a hundred knights to bring him against his will, and they went to him and told him their mission from the Empress. And Peredur fought well with them, and caused them to be bound like stags, and thrown into the mill-dyke. And the Empress sought advice of a wise man who was in her counsel; and he said to her, "With thy permission, I will go to him myself." So he came to Peredur, and saluted him, and besought him, for the sake of the lady of his love, to come and visit the Empress. And they went, together with the miller. And Peredur went and sat down in the outer chamber of the tent, and she came and placed herself by his side. And there was but little discourse between them. And Peredur took his leave, and went to his lodging.
And the next day he came to visit her, and when he came into the tent there was no one chamber less decorated than the others. And they knew not where he would sit. And Peredur went and sat beside the Empress, and discoursed with her courteously. And while they were thus, they beheld a black man enter with a goblet full of wine in his hand. And he dropped upon his knee before the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one who would not fight with him for it. And she looked upon Peredur. "Lady," said he, "bestow on me the goblet." And Peredur drank the wine, and gave the goblet to the miller's wife. And while they were thus, behold there entered a black man of larger stature than the other, with a wild beast's claw in his hand, wrought into the form of a goblet and filled with wine. And he presented it to the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one but the man who would fight with him." "Lady," said Peredur, "bestow it on me." And she gave it to him. And Peredur drank the wine, and sent the goblet to the wife of the miller. And while they were thus, behold a rough-looking, crisp-haired man, taller than either of the others, came in with a bowl in his hand full of wine; and he bent upon his knee, and gave it into the hands of the Empress, and he besought her to give it to none but him who would fight him for it; and she gave it to Peredur, and he sent it to the miller's wife. And that night Peredur returned to his lodging; and the next day he accoutred himself and his horse, and went to the meadow and slew the three men. Then Peredur proceeded to the tent, and the Empress said to him, "Goodly Peredur, remember the faith thou didst pledge me when I gave thee the stone, and thou didst kill the Addanc." "Lady," answered he, "thou sayest truth, I do remember it." And Peredur was entertained by the Empress fourteen years, as the story relates.
Arthur was at Caerlleon upon Usk, his principal palace; and in the centre of the floor of the hall were four men sitting on a carpet of velvet, Owain the son of Urien, and Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Howel the son of Emyr Llydaw, and Peredur of the long lance. And thereupon they saw a black curly-headed maiden enter, riding upon a yellow mule, with jagged thongs in her hand to urge it on; and having a rough and hideous aspect. Blacker were her face and her two hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch; and her hue was not more frightful than her form. High cheeks had she, and a face lengthened downwards, and a short nose with distended nostrils. And one eye was of a piercing mottled grey, and the other was as black as jet, deep-sunk in her head. And her teeth were long and yellow, more yellow were they than the flower of the broom. And her stomach rose from the breast-bone, higher than her chin. And her back was in the shape of a crook, and her legs were large and bony. And her figure was very thin and spare, except her feet and her legs, which were of huge size. And she greeted Arthur and all his household except Peredur. And to Peredur she spoke harsh and angry words. "Peredur, I greet thee not, seeing that thou dost not merit it. Blind was fate in giving thee fame and favour. When thou wast in the Court of the Lame King, and didst see there the youth bearing the streaming spear, from the points of which the drops of blood flowing in streams, even to the hand of the youth, and many other wonders likewise, thou didst not inquire their meaning nor their cause. Hadst thou done so, the King would have been restored to health, and his dominions to peace. Whereas from henceforth, he will have to endure battles and conflicts, and his knights will perish, and wives will be widowed, and maidens will be left portionless, and all this is because of thee." Then said she unto Arthur, "May it please thee, lord, my dwelling is far hence, in the stately castle of which thou hast heard, and therein are five hundred and sixty-six knights of the order of Chivalry, and the lady whom best he loves with each; and whoever would acquire fame in arms, and encounters, and conflicts, he will gain it there, if he deserve it. And whoso would reach the summit of fame and of honour, I know where he may find it. There is a Castle on a lofty mountain, and there is a maiden therein, and she is detained a prisoner there, and whoever shall set her free will attain the summit of the fame of the world." And thereupon she rode away.
Said Gwalchmai, "By my faith, I will not rest tranquilly until I have proved if I can release the maiden." And many of Arthur's household joined themselves with him. Then, likewise, said Peredur, "By my faith, I will not rest tranquilly until I know the story and the meaning of the lance whereof the black maiden spoke." And while they were equipping themselves, behold a knight came to the gate. And he had the size and strength of a warrior, and was equipped with arms and habiliments. And he went forward, and saluted Arthur and all his household, except Gwalchmai. And the knight had upon his shoulder a shield, ingrained with gold, with a fesse of azure blue upon it, and his whole armour was of the same hue. And he said to Gwalchmai, "Thou didst slay my lord by thy treachery and deceit, and that will I prove upon thee." Then Gwalchmai rose up. "Behold," said he, "here is my gage against thee, to maintain, either in this place or wherever thou wilt, that I am not a traitor or deceiver." "Before the King whom I obey, will I that my encounter with thee take place," said the knight. "Willingly," said Gwalchmai; "go forward, and I will follow thee." So the knight went forth, and Gwalchmai accoutred himself, and there was offered unto him abundance of armour, but he would take none but his own. And when Gwalchmai and Peredur were equipped, they set forth to follow him, by reason of their fellowship and of the great friendship that was between them. And they did not go after him in company together, but each went his own way.
At the dawn of day Gwalchmai came to a valley, and in the valley he saw a fortress, and within the fortress a vast palace and lofty towers around it. And he beheld a knight coming out to hunt from the other side, mounted on a spirited black snorting palfrey, that advanced at a prancing pace, proudly stepping, and nimbly bounding, and sure of foot; and this was the man to whom the palace belonged. And Gwalchmai saluted him. "Heaven prosper thee, chieftain," said he, "and whence comest thou?" "I come," answered Gwalchmai, "from the Court of Arthur." "And art thou Arthur's vassal?" "Yes, by my faith," said Gwalchmai. "I will give thee good counsel," said the knight. "I see that thou art tired and weary; go unto my palace, if it may please thee, and tarry there to-night." "Willingly, lord," said he, "and Heaven reward thee." "Take this ring as a token to the porter, and go forward to yonder tower, and therein thou wilt find my sister." And Gwalchmai went to the gate, and showed the ring, and proceeded to the tower. And on entering he beheld a large blazing fire, burning without smoke and with a bright and lofty flame, and a beauteous and stately maiden was sitting on a chair by the fire. And the maiden was glad at his coming, and welcomed him, and advanced to meet him. And he went and sat beside the maiden, and they took their repast. And when their repast was over, they discoursed pleasantly together. And while they were thus, behold there entered a venerable, hoary-headed man. "Ah! base girl," said he, "If thou didst think that it was right for thee to entertain and to sit by yonder man, thou wouldest not do so." And he withdrew his head, and went forth. "Ah! chieftain," said the maiden, "if thou wilt do as I counsel thee, thou wilt shut the door, lest the man should have a plot against thee." Upon that Gwalchmai arose, and when he came near unto the door, the man, with sixty others, fully armed, were ascending the tower. And Gwalchmai defended the door with a chess-board, that none might enter until the man should return from the chase. And thereupon, behold the Earl arrived. "What is all this?" asked he. "It is a sad thing," said the hoary-headed man "the young girl yonder has been sitting and eating with him who slew your father. He is Gwalchmai, the son of Gwyar." "Hold thy peace, then," said the Earl, "I will go in." And the Earl was joyful concerning Gwalchmai. "Ha! chieftain," said he, "it was wrong of thee to come to my court, when thou knewest that thou didst slay my father; and though we cannot avenge him, Heaven will avenge him upon thee." "My soul," said Gwalchmai, "thus it is: I came not here either to acknowledge or to deny having slain thy father; but I am on a message from Arthur, and therefore do I crave the space of a year until I shall return from my embassy, and then, upon my faith, I will come back unto this palace, and do one of two things, either acknowledge it, or deny it." And the time was granted him willingly; and he remained there that night. And the next morning he rode forth. And the story relates nothing further of Gwalchmai respecting this adventure.
And Peredur rode forward. And he wandered over the whole island, seeking tidings of the black maiden, and he could meet with none. And he came to an unknown land, in the centre of a valley, watered by a river. And as he traversed the valley he beheld a horseman coming towards him, and wearing the garments of a priest; and he besought his blessing. "Wretched man," said he, "thou meritest no blessing, and thou wouldest not be profited by one, seeing that thou art clad in armour on such a day as this." "And what day is to-day?" said Peredur. "To-day is Good Friday," he answered. "Chide me not that I knew not this, seeing it is a year to-day since I journeyed forth from my country." Then he dismounted, and led his horse in his hand. And he had not proceeded far along the high road before he came to a cross road, and the cross road traversed a wood. And on the other side of the wood he saw an unfortified castle, which appeared to be inhabited. And at the gate of the castle there met him the priest whom he had seen before, and he asked his blessing. "The blessing of Heaven be unto thee," said he, "it is more fitting to travel in thy present guise than as thou wast erewhile; and this night thou shalt tarry with me." And he remained there that night.
And the next day Peredur sought to go forth. "To-day may no one journey. Thou shalt remain with me to-day and to-morrow, and the day following, and I will direct thee as best I may to the place which thou art seeking." And the fourth day Peredur sought to go forth, and he entreated the priest to tell him how he should find the Castle of Wonders. "What I know thereof I will tell thee," he replied. "Go over yonder mountain, and on the other side of the mountain thou wilt come to a river, and in the valley wherein the river runs is a King's Palace, wherein the King sojourned during Easter. And if thou mayest have tidings anywhere of the Castle of Wonders, thou wilt have them there."
Then Peredur rode forward. And he came to the valley in which was the river, and there met him a number of men going to hunt, and in the midst of them was a man of exalted rank, and Peredur saluted him. "Choose, chieftain," said the man, "whether thou will go with me to the chase, or wilt proceed to my palace, and I will dispatch one of my household to commend thee to my daughter, who is there, and who will entertain thee with food and liquor until I return from hunting; and whatever may be thine errand, such as I can obtain for thee thou shalt gladly have." And the King sent a little yellow page with him as an attendant; and when they came to the palace the lady had arisen, and was about to wash before meat. Peredur went forward, and she saluted him joyfully, and placed him by her side. And they took their repast. And whatsoever Peredur said unto her, she laughed loudly, so that all in the palace could hear. Then spoke the yellow page to the lady. "By my faith," said he, "this youth is already thy husband; or if he be not, thy mind and thy thoughts are set upon him." And the little yellow page went unto the King, and told him that it seemed to him that the youth whom he had met with was his daughter's husband, or if he were not so already that he would shortly become so unless he were cautious. "What is thy counsel in this matter, youth?" said the King. "My counsel is," he replied, "that thou set strong men upon him, to seize him, until thou hast ascertained the truth respecting this." So he set the strong men upon Peredur, who seized him and cast him into prison. And the maiden went before her father, and asked him wherefore he had caused the youth from Arthur's Court to be imprisoned. "In truth," he answered, "he shall not be free to-night, nor to-morrow, nor the day following, and he shall not come from where he is." She replied not to what the King had said, but she went to the youth. "Is it unpleasant to thee to be here?" said she. "I should not care if I were not," he replied. "Thy couch and thy treatment shall be in no wise inferior to that of the King himself, and thou shalt have the best entertainment that the palace affords. And if it were more pleasing to thee that my couch should be here, that I might discourse with thee, it should be so, cheerfully." "This can I not refuse," said Peredur. And he remained in prison that night. And the maiden provided all that she had promised him.
And the next day Peredur heard a tumult in the town. "Tell me, fair maiden, what is that tumult?" said Peredur. "All the King's hosts and his forced have come to the town to-day." "And what seek they here?" he inquired. "There is an Earl near this place who possesses two Earldoms, and is as powerful as a King; and an engagement will take place between them to-day." "I beseech thee," said Peredur, "to cause a horse and arms to be brought, that I may view the encounter, and I promise to come back to my prison again." "Gladly," said she, "will I provide thee with horse and arms." So she gave him a horse and arms, and a bright scarlet robe of honour over his armour, and a yellow shield upon his shoulder. And he went to the combat; and as many of the Earl's men as encountered him that day he overthrew; and he returned to his prison. And the maiden asked tidings of Peredur, and he answered her not a word. And she went and asked tidings of her father, and inquired who had acquitted himself best of the household. And he said that he knew not, but that it was a man with a scarlet robe of honour over his armour, and a yellow shield upon his shoulder. Then she smiled, and returned to where Peredur was, and did him great honour that night. And for three days did Peredur slay the Earl's men; and before any one could know who he was, he returned to his prison. And the fourth day Peredur slew the Earl himself. And the maiden went unto her father, and inquired of him the news. "I have good news for thee," said the King; "the Earl is slain, and I am owner of his two Earldoms." "Knowest thou, lord, who slew him?" "I do not know," said the King. "It was the knight with the scarlet robe of honour and the yellow shield." "Lord," said she, "I know who that is." "By heaven," he exclaimed, "who is he?" "Lord," she replied, "he is the knight whom thou hast imprisoned." Then he went unto Peredur, and saluted him, and told him that he would reward the service he had done him, in any way he might desire. And when they went to meat, Peredur was placed beside the King, and the maiden on the other side of Peredur. "I will give thee," said the King, "my daughter in marriage, and half my kingdom with her, and the two Earldoms as a gift." "Heaven reward thee, lord," said Peredur, "but I came not here to woo." "What seekest thou then, chieftain?" "I am seeking tidings of the Castle of Wonders." "Thy enterprise is greater, chieftain, than thou wilt wish to pursue," said the maiden, "nevertheless, tidings shalt thou have of the Castle, and thou shalt have a guide through my father's dominions, and a sufficiency of provisions for thy journey, for thou art, O chieftain, the man whom best I love." Then she said to him, "Go over yonder mountain, and thou wilt find a Lake, and in the middle of the Lake there is a Castle, and that is the Castle that is called the Castle of Wonders; and we know not what wonders are therein, but thus is it called."
And Peredur proceeded towards the Castle, and the gate of the Castle was open. And when he came to the hall, the door was open, and he entered. And he beheld a chessboard in the hall, and the chessmen were playing against each other, by themselves. And the side that he favoured lost the game, and thereupon the others set up a shout, as though they had been living men. And Peredur was wroth, and took the chessmen in his lap, and cast the chessboard into the lake. And when he had done thus, behold the black maiden came in, and she said to him, "The welcome of Heaven be not unto thee. Thou hadst rather do evil than good." "What complaint hast thou against me, maiden?" said Peredur. "That thou hast occasioned unto the Empress the loss of her chessboard, which she would not have lost for all her empire. And the way in which thou mayest recover the chessboard is, to repair to the Castle of Ysbidinongyl, where is a black man, who lays waste the dominions of the Empress; and if thou canst slay him, thou wilt recover the chessboard. But if thou goest there, thou wilt not return alive." "Wilt thou direct me thither?" said Peredur. "I will show thee the way," she replied. So he went to the Castle of Ysbidinongyl, and he fought with the black man. And the black man besought mercy of Peredur. "Mercy will I grant thee," said he, "on condition that thou cause the chessboard to be restored to the place where it was when I entered the hall." Then the maiden came to him, and said, "The malediction of Heaven attend thee for thy work, since thou hast left that monster alive, who lays waste all the possessions of the Empress." "I granted him his life," said Peredur, "that he might cause the chessboard to be restored." "The chessboard is not in the place where thou didst find it; go back, therefore, and slay him," answered she. So Peredur went back, and slew the black man. And when he returned to the palace, he found the black maiden there. "Ah! maiden," said Peredur, "where is the Empress?" "I declare to Heaven that thou wilt not see her now, unless thou dost slay the monster that is in yonder forest." "What monster is there?" "It is a stag that is as swift as the swiftest bird; and he has one horn in his forehead, as long as the shaft of a spear, and as sharp as whatever is sharpest. And he destroys the branches of the best trees in the forest, and he kills every animal that he meets with therein; and those that he doth not slay perish of hunger. And what is worse than that, he comes ever night, and drinks up the fish pond, and leaves the fishes exposed, so that for the most part they die before the water returns again." "Maiden," said Peredur, "wilt thou come and show me this animal?" "Not so," said the maiden, "for he has not permitted any mortal to enter the forest for above a twelvemonth. Behold, here is a little dog belonging to the Empress, which will rouse the stag, and will chase him towards thee, and the stag will attack thee." Then the little dog went as a guide to Peredur, and roused the stag, and brought him towards the place where Peredur was. And the stag attacked Peredur, and he let him pass by him, and as he did so, he smote off his head with his sword. And while he was looking at the head of the stag, he saw a lady on horseback coming towards him. And she took the little dog in the lappet of her cap, and the head and the body of the stag lay before her. And around the stag's neck was a golden collar. "Ha! chieftain," said she, "uncourteously hast thou acted in slaying the fairest jewel that was in my dominions." "I was entreated so to do; and is there any way by which I can obtain thy friendship?" "There is," she replied. "Go thou forward unto yonder mountain, and there thou wilt find a grove; and in the grove there is a cromlech; do thou there challenge a man three times to fight, and thou shalt have my friendship."
So Peredur proceeded onward, and came to the side of the grove, and challenged any man to fight. And a black man arose from beneath the cromlech, mounted upon a bony horse, and both he and his horse were clad in huge rusty armour. And they fought. And as often as Peredur cast the black man to the earth, he would jump again into his saddle. And Peredur dismounted, and drew his sword; and thereupon the black man disappeared with Peredur's horse and his own, so that he could not gain sight of him a second time. And Peredur went along the mountain, and on the other side of the mountain he beheld a castle in the valley, wherein was a river. And he went to the castle; and as he entered it, he saw a hall, and the door of the hall was open, and he went in. And there he saw a lame grey-headed man sitting on one side of the hall, with Gwalchmai beside him. And Peredur beheld his horse, which the black man had taken, in the same stall with that of Gwalchmai. And they were glad concerning Peredur. And he went and seated himself on the other side of the hoary-headed man. Then, behold, a yellow-haired youth came, and bent upon the knee before Peredur, and besought his friendship. "Lord," said the youth, "it was I that came in the form of the black maiden to Arthur's Court, and when thou didst throw down the chessboard, and when thou didst slay the black man of Ysbidinongyl, and when thou didst slay the stag, and when thou didst go to fight the black man of the cromlech. And I came with the bloody head in the salver, and with the lance that streamed with blood from the point to the hand, all along the shaft; and the head was thy cousin's, and he was killed by the sorceresses of Gloucester, who also lamed thine uncle; and I am thy cousin. And there is a prediction that thou art to avenge these things." Then Peredur and Gwalchmai took counsel, and sent to Arthur and his household, to beseech them to come against the sorceresses. And they began to fight with them; and one of the sorceresses slew one of Arthur's men before Peredur's face, and Peredur bade her forbear. And the sorceresses slew a man before Peredur's face a second time, and a second time he forbad her. And the third time the sorceress slew a man before the face of Peredur; and then Peredur drew his sword, and smote the sorceress on the helmet; and all her head-armour was split in two parts. And she set up a cry, and desired the other sorceresses to flee, and told them that this was Peredur, the man who had learnt Chivalry with them, and by whom they were destined to be slain. Then Arthur and his household fell upon the sorceresses, and slew the sorceresses of Gloucester every one. And thus is it related concerning the Castle of Wonders.
The Dream Of Rhonabwy
(Translation by Lady Charlotte Guest)
Madawc the son of Maredudd possessed Powys within its boundaries, from Porfoed to Gwauan in the uplands of Arwystli. And at that time he had a brother, Iorwerth the son of Maredudd, in rank not equal to himself. And Iorwerth had great sorrow and heaviness because of the honour and power that his brother enjoyed, which he shared not. And he sought his fellows and his foster-brothers, and took counsel with them what he should do in this matter. And they resolved to despatch some of their number to go and seek a maintenance for him. Then Madawc offered him to become Master of the Household and to have horses, and arms, and honour, and to fare like as himself. But Iorwerth refused this.
And Iorwerth made an inroad into Loegria, slaying the inhabitants, and burning houses, and carrying away prisoners. And Madawc took counsel with the men of Powys, and they determined to place an hundred men in each of the three Commots of Powys to seek for him. And thus did they in the plains of Powys from Aber Ceirawc, and in Allictwn Ver, and in Rhyd Wilure, on the Vyrnwy, the three best Commots of Powys. So he was none the better, he nor his household, in Powys, nor in the plains thereof. And they spread these men over the plains as far as Nillystwn Trevan.
Now one of the men who was upon this quest was called Rhonabwy. And Rhonabwy and Kynwrig Vrychgoch, a man of Mawddwy, and Cadwgan Vras, a man of Moelvre in Kynlleith, came together to the house of Heilyn Goch the son of Cadwgan the son of Iddon. And when they came near to the house, they saw an old hall, very black and having an upright gable, whence issued a great smoke; and on entering, they found the floor full of puddles and mounds; and it was difficult to stand thereon, so slippery was it with the mire of cattle. And where the puddles were, a man might go up to his ankles in water and dirt. And there were boughs of holly spread over the floor, whereof the cattle had browsed the sprigs. When they came to the hall of the house, they beheld cells full of dust, and very gloomy, and on one side an old hag making a fire. And whenever she felt cold, she cast a lapful of chaff upon the fire, and raised such a smoke, that it was scarcely to be borne, as it rose up the nostrils. And on the other side was a yellow calf-skin on the floor; a main privilege was it to any one who should get upon that hide.
And when they had sat down, they asked the hag where were the people of the house. And the hag spoke not, but muttered. Thereupon behold the people of the house entered; a ruddy, clownish, curly-headed man, with a burthen of faggots on his back, and a pale slender woman, also carrying a bundle under her arm. And they barely welcomed the men, and kindled a fire with the boughs. And the woman cooked something, and gave them to eat, barley bread, and cheese, and milk and water.
And there arose a storm of wind and rain, so that it was hardly possible to go forth with safety. And being weary with their journey, they laid themselves down and sought to sleep. And when they looked at the couch, it seemed to be made but of a little coarse straw full of dust and vermin, with the stems of boughs sticking up there through, for the cattle had eaten all the straw that was placed at the head and the foot. And upon it was stretched an old russet-coloured rug, threadbare and ragged; and a coarse sheet, full of slits, was upon the rug, and an ill-stuffed pillow, and a worn-out cover upon the sheet. And after much suffering from the vermin, and from the discomfort of their couch, a heavy sleep fell on Rhonabwy's companions. But Rhonabwy, not being able either to sleep or to rest, thought he should suffer less if he went to lie upon the yellow calf-skin that was stretched out on the floor. And there he slept.
As soon as sleep had come upon his eyes, it seemed to him that he was journeying with his companions across the plain of Argyngroeg, and he thought that he went towards Rhyd y Groes on the Severn. As he journeyed, he heard a mighty noise, the like whereof heard he never before; and looking behind him, he beheld a youth with yellow curling hair, and with his beard newly trimmed, mounted on a chestnut horse, whereof the legs were grey from the top of the forelegs, and from the bend of the hindlegs downwards. And the rider wore a coat of yellow satin sewn with green silk, and on his thigh was a gold-hilted sword, with a scabbard of new leather of Cordova, belted with the skin of the deer, and clasped with gold. And over this was a scarf of yellow satin wrought with green silk, the borders whereof were likewise green. And the green of the caparison of the horse, and of his rider, was as green as the leaves of the fir-tree, and the yellow was as yellow as the blossom of the broom. So fierce was the aspect of the knight, that fear seized upon them, and they began to flee. And the knight pursued them. And when the horse breathed forth, the men became distant from him, and when he drew his breath, they were drawn near to him, even to the horse's chest. And when he had overtaken them, they besought his mercy. "You have it gladly," said he, "fear nought." "Ha, chieftain, since thou hast mercy upon me, tell me also who thou art," said Rhonabwy. "I will not conceal my lineage from thee, I am Iddawc the son of Mynyo, yet not by my name, but by my nickname am I best known." "And wilt thou tell us what thy nickname is?" "I will tell you; it is Iddawc Cordd Prydain." "Ha, chieftain," said Rhonabwy, "why art thou called thus?" "I will tell thee. I was one of the messengers between Arthur and Medrawd his nephew, at the battle of Camlan; and I was then a reckless youth, and through my desire for battle, I kindled strife between them, and stirred up wrath, when I was sent by Arthur the Emperor to reason with Medrawd, and to show him, that he was his foster-father and his uncle, and to seek for peace, lest the sons of the Kings of the Island of Britain, and of the nobles, should be slain. And whereas Arthur charged me with the fairest sayings he could think of, I uttered unto Medrawd the harshest I could devise. And therefore am I called Iddawc Cordd Prydain, for from this did the battle of Camlan ensue. And three nights before the end of the battle of Camlan I left them, and went to the Llech Las in North Britain to do penance. And there I remained doing penance seven years, and after that I gained pardon."
Then lo! they heard a mighty sound which was much louder than that which they heard before, and when they looked round towards the sound, they beheld a ruddy youth, without beard or whiskers, noble of mien, and mounted on a stately courser. And from the shoulders and the front of the knees downwards the horse was bay. And upon the man was a dress of red satin wrought with yellow silk, and yellow were the borders of his scarf. And such parts of his apparel and of the trappings of his horse as were yellow, as yellow were they as the blossom of the broom, and such as were red, were as ruddy as the ruddiest blood in the world.
Then, behold the horseman overtook them, and he asked of Iddawc a share of the little men that were with him. "That which is fitting for me to grant I will grant, and thou shalt be a companion to them as I have been." And the horseman went away. "Iddawc," inquired Rhonabwy, "who was that horseman?" "Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach."
And they journeyed over the plain of Argyngroeg as far as the ford of Rhyd y Groes on the Severn. And for a mile around the ford on both sides of the road, they saw tents and encampments, and there was the clamour of a mighty host. And they came to the edge of the ford, and there they beheld Arthur sitting on a flat island below the ford, having Bedwini the Bishop on one side of him, and Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw on the other. And a tall, auburn-haired youth stood before him, with his sheathed sword in his hand, and clad in a coat and cap of jet black satin. And his face was white as ivory, and his eyebrows black as jet, and such part of his wrist as could be seen between his glove and his sleeve, was whiter than the lily, and thicker than a warrior's ankle.
Then came Iddawc and they that were with him, and stood before Arthur and saluted him. "Heaven grant thee good," said Arthur. "And where, Iddawc, didst thou find these little men?" "I found them, lord, up yonder on the road." Then the Emperor smiled. "Lord," said Iddawc, "wherefore dost thou laugh?" "Iddawc," replied Arthur, "I laugh not; but it pitieth me that men of such stature as these should have this island in their keeping, after the men that guarded it of yore." Then said Iddawc, "Rhonabwy, dost thou see the ring with a stone set in it, that is upon the Emperor's hand?" "I see it," he answered. "It is one of the properties of that stone to enable thee to remember that thou seest here to-night, and hadst thou not seen the stone, thou wouldest never have been able to remember aught thereof."
After this they saw a troop coming towards the ford. "Iddawc," inquired Rhonabwy, "to whom does yonder troop belong?" "They are the fellows of Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Doerthach. And these men are honourably served with mead and bragget, and are freely beloved by the daughters of the kings of the Island of Britain. And this they merit, for they were ever in the front and the rear in every peril." And he saw but one hue upon the men and the horses of this troop, for they were all as red as blood. And when one of the knights rode forth from the troop, he looked like a pillar of fire glancing athwart the sky. And this troop encamped above the ford.
Then they beheld another troop coming towards the ford, and these from their horses' chests upwards were whiter than the lily, and below blacker than jet. And they saw one of these knights go before the rest, and spur his horse into the ford in such a manner that the water dashed over Arthur and the Bishop, and those holding counsel with them, so that they were as wet as if they had been drenched in the river. And as he turned the head of his horse, the youth who stood before Arthur struck the horse over the nostrils with his sheathed sword, so that, had it been with the bare blade, it would have been a marvel if the bone had not been wounded as well as the flesh. And the knight drew his sword half out of the scabbard, and asked of him, "Wherefore didst thou strike my horse? Whether was it in insult or in counsel unto me?" "Thou dost indeed lack counsel. What madness caused thee to ride so furiously as to dash the water of the ford over Arthur, and the consecrated Bishop, and their counsellors, so that they were as wet as if they had been dragged out of the river?" "As counsel then will I take it." So he turned his horse's head round towards his army.
"Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "who was yonder knight?" "The most eloquent and the wisest youth that is in this island; Adaon, the son of Taliesin." "Who was the man that struck his horse?" "A youth of froward nature; Elphin, the son of Gwyddno."
Then spake a tall and stately man, of noble and flowing speech, saying that it was a marvel that so vast a host should be assembled in so narrow a space, and that it was a still greater marvel that those should be there at that time who had promised to be by mid-day in the battle of Badon, fighting with Osla Gyllellvawr. "Whether thou mayest choose to proceed or not, I will proceed." "Thou sayest well," said Arthur, "and we will go altogether." "Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "who was the man who spoke so marvellously unto Arthur erewhile?" "A man who may speak as boldly as he listeth, Caradawc Vreichvras, the son of Llyr Marini, his chief counsellor and his cousin."
Then Iddawc took Rhonabwy behind him on his horse, and that mighty host moved forward, each troop in its order, towards Cevndigoll. And when they came to the middle of the ford of the Severn, Iddawc turned his horse's head, and Rhonabwy looked along the valley of the Severn. And he beheld two fair troops coming towards the ford. One troop there came of brilliant white, whereof every one of the men had a scarf of white satin with jet-black borders. And the knees and the tops of the shoulders of their horses were jet-black, though they were of a pure white in every other part. And their banners were pure white, with black points to them all.
"Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "who are yonder pure white troop?" "They are the men of Norway, and March the son of Meirchion is their prince. And he is cousin unto Arthur." And further on he saw a troop, whereof each man wore garments of jet-black, with borders of pure white to every scarf; and the tops of the shoulders and the knees of their horses were pure white. And their banners were jet-black with pure white at the point of each.
"Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "who are the jet-black troop yonder?" "They are the men of Denmark, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd is their prince."
And when they had overtaken the host, Arthur and his army of mighty ones dismounted below Caer Badou, and he perceived that he and Iddawc journeyed the same road as Arthur. And after they had dismounted he heard a great tumult and confusion amongst the host, and such as were then at the flanks turned to the centre, and such as had been in the centre moved to the flanks. And then, behold, he saw a knight coming, clad, both he and his horse, in mail, of which the rings were whiter than the whitest lily, and the rivets redder than the ruddiest blood. And he rode amongst the host.
"Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "will yonder host flee?" "King Arthur never fled, and if this discourse of thine were heard, thou wert a lost man. But as to the knight whom thou seest yonder, it is Kai. The fairest horseman is Kai in all Arthur's Court; and the men who are at the front of the army hasten to the rear to see Kai ride, and the men who are in the centre flee to the side, from the shock of his horse. And this is the cause of the confusion of the host."
Thereupon they heard a call made for Kadwr, Earl of Cornwall, and behold he arose with the sword of Arthur in his hand. And the similitude of two serpents was upon the sword in gold. And when the sword was drawn from its scabbard, it seemed as if two flames of fire burst forth from the jaws of the serpents, and then, so wonderful was the sword, that it was hard for any one to look upon it. And the host became still, and the tumult ceased, and the Earl returned to the tent.
"Iddawc, said Rhonabwy, "who is the man who bore the sword of Arthur?" "Kadwr, the Earl of Cornwall, whose duty it is to arm the King on the days of battle and warfare."
And they heard a call made for Eirynwych Amheibyn, Arthur's servant, a red, rough, ill-favoured man, having red whiskers and bristly hairs. And behold he came upon a tall red horse with the mane parted on each side, and he brought with him a large and beautiful sumpter pack. And the huge red youth dismounted before Arthur, and he drew a golden chair out of the pack, and a carpet of diapered satin. And he spread the carpet before Arthur, and there was an apple of ruddy gold at each corner thereof, and he placed the chair upon the carpet. And so large was the chair that three armed warriors might have sat therein. Gwenn was the name of the carpet, and it was one of its properties that whoever was upon it no one could see him, and he could see every one. And it would retain no colour but its own.
And Arthur sat within the carpet, and Owain the son of Urien was standing before him. "Owain," said Arthur, "wilt thou play chess?" "I will, Lord," said Owain. And the red youth brought the chess for Arthur and Owain; golden pieces and a board of silver. And they began to play.
And while they were thus, and when they were best amused with their game, behold they saw a white tent with a red canopy, and the figure of a jet-black serpent on the top of the tent, and red glaring venomous eyes in the head of the serpent, and a red flaming tongue. And there came a young page with yellow curling hair, and blue eyes, and a newly springing beard, wearing a coat and a surcoat of yellow satin, and hose of thin greenish-yellow cloth upon his feet, and over his hose shoes of parti-coloured leather, fastened at the insteps with golden clasps. And he bore a heavy three-edged sword with a golden hilt, in a scabbard of black leather tipped with fine gold. And he came to the place where the Emperor and Owain were playing at chess.
And the youth saluted Owain. And Owain marvelled that the youth should salute him and should not have saluted the Emperor Arthur. And Arthur knew what was in Owain's thought. And he said to Owain, "Marvel not that the youth salutes thee now, for he saluted me erewhile; and it is unto thee that his errand is." Then said the youth unto Owain, "Lord, is it with thy leave that the young pages and attendants of the Emperor harass and torment and worry thy Ravens? And if it be not with thy leave, cause the Emperor to forbid them." "Lord," said Owain, "thou hearest what the youth says; if it seem good to thee, forbid them from my Ravens." "Play thy game," said he. Then the youth returned to the tent.
That game did they finish, and another they began, and when they were in the midst of the game, behold, a ruddy young man with auburn curling hair and large eyes, well-grown, and having his beard new-shorn, came forth from a bright yellow tent, upon the summit of which was the figure of a bright red lion. And he was clad in a coat of yellow satin, falling as low as the small of his leg, and embroidered with threads of red silk. And on his feet were hose of fine white buckram, and buskins of black leather were over his hose, whereon were golden clasps. And in his hand a huge, heavy, three-edged sword, with a scabbard of red deer-hide, tipped with gold. And he came to the place where Arthur and Owain were playing at chess. And he saluted him. And Owain was troubled at his salutation, but Arthur minded it no more than before. And the youth said unto Owain, "Is it not against thy will that the attendants of the Emperor harass thy Ravens, killing some and worrying others? If against thy will it be, beseech him to forbid them." "Lord," said Owain, "forbid thy men, if it seem good to thee." "Play thy game," said the Emperor. And the youth returned to the tent.
And that game was ended and another begun. And as they were beginning the first move of the game, they beheld at a small distance from them a tent speckled yellow, the largest ever seen, and the figure of an eagle of gold upon it, and a precious stone on the eagle's head. And coming out of the tent, they saw a youth with thick yellow hair upon his head, fair and comely, and a scarf of blue satin upon him, and a brooch of gold in the scarf upon his right shoulder as large as a warrior's middle finger. And upon his feet were hose of fine Totness, and shoes of parti-coloured leather, clasped with gold, and the youth was of noble bearing, fair of face, with ruddy cheeks and large hawk's eyes. In the hand of the youth was a mighty lance, speckled yellow, with a newly sharpened head; and upon the lance a banner displayed.
Fiercely angry, and with rapid pace, came the youth to the place where Arthur was playing at chess with Owain. And they perceived that he was wroth. And thereupon he saluted Owain, and told him that his Ravens had been killed, the chief part of them, and that such of them as were not slain were so wounded and bruised that not one of them could raise its wings a single fathom above the earth. "Lord," said Owain, "forbid thy men." "Play," said he, "if it please thee." Then said Owain to the youth, "Go back, and wherever thou findest the strife at the thickest, there lift up the banner, and let come what pleases Heaven."
So the youth returned back to the place where the strife bore hardest upon the Ravens, and he lifted up the banner; and as he did so they all rose up in the air, wrathful and fierce and high of spirit, clapping their wings in the wind, and shaking off the weariness that was upon them. And recovering their energy and courage, furiously and with exultation did they, with one sweep, descend upon the heads of the men, who had erewhile caused them anger and pain and damage, and they seized some by the heads and others by the eyes, and some by the ears, and others by the arms, and carried them up into the air; and in the air there was a mighty tumult with the flapping of the wings of the triumphant Ravens, and with their croaking; and there was another mighty tumult with the groaning of the men, that were being torn and wounded, and some of whom were slain.
And Arthur and Owain marvelled at the tumult as they played at chess; and, looking, they perceived a knight upon a dun-coloured horse coming towards them. And marvellous was the hue of the dun horse. Bright red was his right shoulder, and from the top of his legs to the centre of his hoof was bright yellow. Both the knight and his horse were fully equipped with heavy foreign armour. The clothing of the horse from the front opening upwards was of bright red sendal, and from thence opening downwards was of bright yellow sendal. A large gold-hilted one-edged sword had the youth upon his thigh, in a scabbard of light blue, and tipped with Spanish laton. The belt of the sword was of dark green leather with golden slides and a clasp of ivory upon it, and a buckle of jet-black upon the clasp. A helmet of gold was on the head of the knight, set with precious stones of great virtue, and at the top of the helmet was the image of a flame-coloured leopard with two ruby-red stones in its head, so that it was astounding for a warrior, however stout his heart, to look at the face of the leopard, much more at the face of the knight. He had in his hand a blue-shafted lance, but from the haft to the point it was stained crimson-red with the blood of the Ravens and their plumage.
The knight came to the place where Arthur and Owain were seated at chess. And they perceived that he was harassed and vexed and weary as he came towards them. And the youth saluted Arthur, and told him that the Ravens of Owain were slaying his young men and attendants. And Arthur looked at Owain and said, "Forbid thy Ravens." "Lord," answered Owain, "play thy game." And they played. And the knight returned back towards the strife, and the Ravens were not forbidden any more than before.
And when they had played awhile, they heard a mighty tumult, and a wailing of men, and a croaking of Ravens, as they carried the men in their strength into the air, and, tearing them betwixt them, let them fall piecemeal to the earth. And during the tumult they saw a knight coming towards them, on a light grey horse, and the left foreleg of the horse was jet-black to the centre of his hoof. And the knight and the horse were fully accoutred with huge heavy blue armour. And a robe of honour of yellow diapered satin was upon the knight, and the borders of the robe were blue. And the housings of the horse were jet-black, with borders of bright yellow. And on the thigh of the youth was a sword, long, and three-edged, and heavy. And the scabbard was of red cut leather, and the belt of new red deer-skin, having upon it many golden slides and a buckle of the bone of the sea-horse, the tongue of which was jet-black. A golden helmet was upon the head of the knight, wherein were set sapphire-stones of great virtue. And at the top of the helmet was the figure of a flame-coloured lion, with a fiery-red tongue, issuing above a foot from his mouth, and with venomous eyes, crimson-red, in his head. And the knight came, bearing in his hand a thick ashen lance, the head whereof, which had been newly steeped in blood, was overlaid with silver.
And the youth saluted the Emperor: "Lord," said he, "carest thou not for the slaying of thy pages, and thy young men, and the sons of the nobles of the Island of Britain, whereby it will be difficult to defend this island from henceforward for ever?" "Owain," said Arthur, "forbid thy Ravens." "Play this game, Lord," said Owain.
So they finished the game and began another; and as they were finishing that game, lo, they heard a great tumult and a clamour of armed men, and a croaking of Ravens, and a flapping of wings in the air, as they flung down the armour entire to the ground, and the men and the horses piecemeal. Then they saw coming a knight on a lofty-headed piebald horse. And the left shoulder of the horse was of bright red, and its right leg from the chest to the hollow of the hoof was pure white. And the knight and horse were equipped with arms of speckled yellow, variegated with Spanish laton. And there was a robe of honour upon him, and upon his horse, divided in two parts, white and black, and the borders of the robe of honour were of golden purple. And above the robe he wore a sword three-edged and bright, with a golden hilt. And the belt of the sword was of yellow goldwork, having a clasp upon it of the eyelid of a black sea-horse, and a tongue of yellow gold to the clasp. Upon the head of the knight was a bright helmet of yellow laton, with sparkling stones of crystal in it, and at the crest of the helmet was the figure of a griffin, with a stone of many virtues in his head. And he had an ashen spear in his hand, with a round shaft, coloured with azure-blue. And the head of the spear was newly stained with blood, and was overlaid with fine silver.
Wrathfully came the knight to the place where Arthur was, and he told him that the Ravens had slain his household and the sons of the chief men of the island, and he besought him to cause Owain to forbid his Ravens. And Arthur besought Owain to forbid them. Then Arthur took the golden chessmen that were upon the board, and crushed them until they became as dust. Then Owain ordered Gwres the son of Rheged to lower his banner. So it was lowered, and all was peace.
Then Rhonabwy inquired of Iddawc who were the first three men that came to Owain, to tell him his Ravens were being slain. Said Iddawc, "They were men who grieved that Owain should suffer loss, his fellow-chieftains and companions, Selyv the son of Kyan Garwyn of Powys, and Gwgawn Gleddyvrudd, and Gwres the son of Rheged, he who bears the banner in the day of battle and strife." "Who," said Rhonabwy, "were the last three men who came to Arthur, and told him that the Ravens were slaughtering his men?" "The best of men," said Iddawc, "and the bravest, and who would grieve exceedingly that Arthur should have damage in aught; Blathaon the son of Mawrheth, and Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach, and Hyveidd Unllenn."
And with that behold four-and-twenty knights came from Olsa Gyllellvawr to crave a truce of Arthur for a fortnight and a month. And Arthur arose and went to take counsel. And he came to where a tall, auburn, curly-headed man was a little way off, and there he assembled his counsellors. Bedwini, the Bishop, and Gwarthegyd the son of Kaw, and March the son of Meirchawn, and Caradawc Vreichvras, and Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and Rhuvawn Pebyr the son of Prince Deorthach, and Rhiogan the son of the King of Ireland, and Gwenwynwyn the son of Nav, Howel the son of Emyr Llydaw, Gwilym the son of Rhwyf Freinc, and Daned the son of Ath, and Goreu Custennin, and Mabon the son of Modron, and Peredur Paladyr Hir, and Hyveidd Unllenn, and Twrch the son of Perif, and Nerth the son of Kadarn, and Gobrwy the son of Echel Vorddwyttwll, Gwair the son of Gwestyl, and Gadwy the son of Geraint, Trystan the son of Tallwch, Moryen Manawc, Granwen the son of Llyr, and Llacheu the son of Arthur, and Llawvrodedd Varvawc, and Kadwr Earl of Cornwall, Morvran the son of Tegid, and Rhyawd the son of Morgant, and Dyvyr the son of Alun Dyved, Gwrhyr Gwalstawd Ieithoedd, Adaon the son of Taliesin, Llary the son of Kasnar Wledig, and Fflewddur Fflam, and Greidawl Galldovydd, Gilbert the son of Kadgyffro, Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, Gwrthmwl Wledig, Cawrdav the son of Caradawc Vreichvras, Gildas the son of Kaw, Kadyriaith the son of Saidi, and many of the men of Norway, and Denmark, and many of the men of Greece, and a crowd of the men of the host came to that council.
"Iddawc," said Rhonabwy, "who was the auburn-haired man to whom they came just now?" "Rhun the son of Maelgwm Gwynedd, a man whose prerogative it is, that he may join in counsel with all." "And wherefore did they admit into counsel with men of such dignity as are yonder a stripling so young as Kadyriaith the son of Saidi?" "Because there is not throughout Britain a man better skilled in counsel than he."
Thereupon, behold, bards came and recited verses before Arthur, and no man understood those verses but Kadyriaith only, save that they were in Arthur's praise.
And lo, there came four-and-twenty asses with their burdens of gold and silver, and a tired wayworn man with each of them, bringing tribute to Arthur from the Islands of Greece. Then Kadyriaith the son of Saidi besought that a truce might be granted to Osla Gyllellvawr for the space of a fortnight and a month, and that the asses and the burdens they carried might be given to the bards, to be to them as the reward for their stay and that their verse might be recompensed during the time of the truce. And thus it was settled.
"Rhonabwy," said Iddawc, "would it not be wrong to forbid a youth who can give counsel so liberal as this from coming to the councils of his Lord?"
Then Kai arose, and he said, "Whosoever will follow Arthur, let him be with him to-night in Cornwall, and whosoever will not, let him be opposed to Arthur even during the truce." And through the greatness of the tumult that ensued, Rhonabwy awoke. And when he awoke he was upon the yellow calf-skin, having slept three nights and three days.
And this tale is called the Dream of Rhonabwy. And this is the reason that no one knows the dream without a book, neither bard not gifted seer; because of the various colours that were upon the horses, and the many wondrous colours of the arms and of the panoply, and of the precious scarfs, and of the virtue-bearing stones.
CERDIC AND ARTHUR
by
JOHN LESSLIE HALL
Hengist went off to All-Father's keeping,
Wihtgils's son, to the Wielder's protection,
Earl of the Anglians. From the east came, then,
Cerdic the Saxon a seven-year thereafter;
The excellent atheling, offspring of Woden
Came into Albion. His own dear land
Lay off to the eastward out o'er the sea-ways,
Far o'er the flood-deeps. His fair-haired, eagle-eyed
Liegeman and son sailed westwardly,
O'er the flint-gray floods, with his father and liegelord,
O'er the dashing, lashing, dark-flowing currents
That roll and roar, rumble, grumble
Eastward of Albion. Not e'er hath been told me
Of sea-goers twain trustier, doughtier
Than Cerdic and Cynric, who sailed o'er the waters
Valiant, invincible vikings and sea-dogs
Seeking adventure. Swift westwardly,
O'er the fallow floods, fared they to Albion,
Would look for the land that liegemen-kinsmen
Of Hengist and Horsa and high-mooded Aella
And Cissa had come to. Cerdic was mighty,
Earl of the Saxons. His excellent barks,
His five good floats, fanned by the breezes,
Gliding the waters were wafted to Albion,
Ocean-encircled isle of the sea-waves,
Delightsomest of lands. Lay then at anchor
The five good keels close to the sea-shore;
The swans of the sea sat on the water
Close by the cliff-edge. The clever folk-leader
Was boastful and blithesome, brave-mooded Saxon,
Said to his earlmen: "Excellent thanes
True-hearted, trusty table-companions,
See the good land the loving, generous
Gods have given you: go, seize on it.
I and my son have sailed westwardly,
To gain with our swords such goodly possessions
As Hengist and Aella did erstwhile win
On the island of Albion. On to the battle,
The foe confronteth us." Folk of the island,
Earlmen of Albion, angry-mooded, then,
Stood stoutly there, striving to hurl them
Off in the ocean east to the mainland,
Back o'er the billows. Bravely Albion's
Fearless defenders fought with the stranger
Then and thereafter: early did Cerdic
See and declare that slowly, bloodily,
And foot by foot, must the folk of the Saxons
Tear from the Welsh their well-lovèd, blithesome,
Beautiful fatherland. Brave were the men that
So long could repel the puissant, fearless
Sons of the Saxons that had sailed o'er the oceans
To do or to die, doughty, invincible
Earls of the east. The excellent kinsmen,
Father and son, scions of Woden,
Burned in their spirit to build in the south the
Greatest of kingdoms: 't was granted to Cerdic
To be first of the famous folk-lords of Wessex,
Land-chiefs belovèd; to lead, herald the
World-famous roll of the wise, eminent
Athelings of Wessex, where Egbert and Ethelwulf,
Alfred and Edward, ever resplendently,
Spaciously shine, shepherds of peoples,
Excellent athelings, and Athelstan, Godwin
And Harold the hero, helms of the Saxons,
Have their names written in record of glory
In legend and story, leaving their fame as an
Honor forever to England, peerless
Mother of heroes.--The men of the east
Slowly, bloodily builded a kingdom
Where Aesc and Aella not e'er had been able
To bear their banners, though both these athelings
Were in might marvellous, mood-brave, heroic
Leaders of liegemen.--Beloved of the Welsh
Was the atheling Arthur, excellent, valiant
Lord of the Silurians, land-prince, warrior
Famed 'mid the races. He rued bitterly
That father and son, Saxon invaders,
To the left and right were wresting, tearing
From races no few their fond-lovèd, blood-bought
Homesteads and manors, were hacking and sacking
Folk of the southland, and far westwardly
Had bitterly banished the best of the heroes
And earlmen of Albion. Arthur was mighty,
Uther Pendragon's offspring belovèd,
His fame far-reaching. Afar and anear then,
All men of Albion honored and loved him;
Sent over Severn beseeching the mighty
Silurian leader no longer to tarry
In crushing the foemen, but quickly to drive them
Back to their bottomless bogs in the eastward
O'er the rime-cold sea; said wailingly:
"The fierce, pitiless folk of the eastward,
Mighty, remorseless men of the waters,
Treacherous, terrible, will take speedily
Our name and nation, and naught will be left us
But to dare and to die." The doughty, invincible
Atheling Arthur, earl of Siluria,
Offspring of Uther, early was ready;
Feared not, failed not, fared on his journey
Seeking for Cerdic. Severn's waters
Saw him and laughed, little expecting
That Arthur the king and the excellent knights
Of the Table Round, with troopers a-many,
Would suffer the foemen to seize and possess the
Lands of Siluria, would let the remorseless,
Implacable, pitiless pagan and heathen
Sail over Severn; not soon did it happen
While Arthur the atheling his earth-joys tasted
Here under heaven. That hero was brave,
Great, all-glorious: God fought for him:
Nor Cerdic nor Cynric could soon injure that
Hero of Heaven; his horrible destiny
Wyrd the weaver wove in her eerie,
Mysterious meshes, mighty, taciturn
Goddess of gods: she gives whom she will to
Speed in the battle. Brave-mooded Arthur,
Offspring of Uther, was eager for glory,
Peerless of prowess: proudly, dauntlessly
Fought he for Albion. Not e'er heard I
Of better battle-knight, more bold, fearless,
That sun ever shone on: the sheen of his glory
With lustre illumined the land where his mother
Gave birth to the bairn; and broad, mighty,
Spacious his fame was; his splendid achievements
Were known to all nations. None could e'er dare to
Cope with that hero, till the conquering, dauntless
Earl of the Anglians, ever-belovèd
Founder of freedom and father of kings,
O'er the seas sailing, slowly, bloodily
Builded the best and broadest of kingdoms
Heroes e'er heard of. The heart of king Arthur
Was sad as he saw the Saxon invader
How, foot by foot, forward, onward,
He ever proceeded, eastward, westward,
Far to the north, founding and building
A kingdom and country to crush and destroy the
Land that he long had lived for, thought for,
Fiercely had fought for. Famed was Arthur,
Wide his renown; but Wyrd the spinster
Taketh no heed of hero or craven;
Her warp and her woof she weaveth and spinneth
Unmindful of men. The mighty war-hero,
Atheling Arthur, set out on his journey,
Laid down his life-joys; the belovèd folk-lord's
Feasting was finished. Unflinching, fearless,
Doomed unto death, dead on the battle-field
Fell the brave folk-prince. Foul was the traitor,
Hated of heroes. The hope of his countrymen
Sank into darkness; for dead was Arthur,
The last and the best and bravest of Albion's
Athelings of eld. Not ever thereafter
Could the Welshman withstand the sturdy, mighty
Tread of the Saxon as tramping, advancing,
Onward he went, eastward, westward,
Far to the northward: none withstood him,
Now Arthur was lifeless; he alone was able
To stay for a moment that sturdy, mighty,
Invincible march.--The valiant, doughty
Kinsmen of Cerdic, conquering earlmen,
Forward then bare bravely, unfalt'ringly,
Daringly, dauntlessly, the dragon of Wessex
Fuming and flaming; fearlessly bare it
Northward, eastward, on to the westward,
O'er Severn and Thames and Trent and Humber
And east oceanward, till all the great races
Of Albion's isle owned as their liegelords
The children of Cerdic, sire of kings and
Founder of freedom. Few among athelings
Were greater than he, gift-lord eminent,
Wielder of Wessex; the wise-mooded, far-seeing,
Brave-hearted folk-prince builded his kingdom
As a bulwark of freedom. His brave, high-hearted
Table-companions, trusty, faithful
Liegemen and thanes, leaped to his service
In peace and in war: well did they love him,
Bowed to his bidding; blithely followed him
Where the fight was fiercest; would fall in the battle
Gladly, eagerly, excellent heroes,
Ere they'd leave their dear lord alone on the battle-field,
Bearing unaided the onset of foes and
The brunt of the battle. The brave ones were mindful
Of the duties of liegemen; dastardly thought it
To flee from the field while their fond, loving
Leader and liegelord lingered thereon
Dead or alive; deemed him a nidering
Who stood not stoutly, sturdily, manfully
Close to his lord as he led in the battle,
Facing the foemen. The free-hearted earlmen
Minded the days when their dear-honored liegelord
Feasted the throngs of thanemen-kinsmen
In the handsomest of halls heroes e'er sat in
'Neath dome of the welkin. Well they remembered
How their lord lovingly lavished his treasures
On all earlmen older and younger,
Greater and lesser: 't were loathsomest treason
To leave such a lord alone in the battle,
With a foe facing him. The folk-ruler mighty
King-like requited them with costliest gems,
Most bountiful banqueting. The brave-hearted man
Builded his kingdom, broadly founded it
Northward, eastward, on to the westward,
South to the seaward. He said tenderly,
Cerdic discoursed, king of the Saxons,
Father of England: "Old, hoary is
Cerdic your king, kinsmen-thanemen,
Warriors of Wessex. Well have ye served me,
Ye and your fathers. I yet remember
How, ere age came on me, I ever was foremost
In deeds of daring, in doughty achievements,
In feats of prowess. I fought valiantly
Alone, unaided, with only my faithful,
Well-lovèd sword, and swept away hundreds
Of earlmen of Albion: now age, ruthless,
Horrible foe of heroes and warriors,
Hath marred my might, though my mood is as daring,
My spirit as stout and sturdy as ever
In years of my youth. I yearn in my soul, now,
To cross over Severn and cut into slivers
The wolf-hearted Welshmen. Well-nigh a forty
Years in their circuits have seen me a-conquering
Here under heaven: from hence, early
I go on my way. Woden will bid me
To the halls of Valhalla, where heroes will meet me,
Gladly will seat me 'mid the glory-encircled
Heroes of heaven. In my heart it pains me
To feel my war-strength fading and waning
And ebbing away. Would I might leap now
Like a king to the battle, not cow-like breathe out my
Soul in the straw. The son of my bossom,
Cynric my bairn, bravely will lead you
When I am no more: he ever hath proved him
A bold battle-earl. My blade I will give him,
Sigbrand my sword: he hath served me faithfully
Sixty of winters: well do I love him,
Bold-hearted battle-brand." The brave earlmen, then,
Shouted lustily, loudly commending
The words of good Cerdic. Cynric they loved, too,
Son of the hero; themselves had beheld him
How valiant, adventurous, invincible, king-like
He ever had borne him, since erst he landed
To fight, with his father, the fierce, implacable,
Wolf-hearted Welshmen: well did they love him,
And oft on the ale-benches earlmen asserted
That, when good king Cerdic, gracious, belovèd
Ward of the kingdom, went on his journey,
Laid down his life-joys, his liegefolk would never
Find them a folk-lord fonder, truer,
More honored of all men, than atheling Cynric
Surely would prove him. Shouted they lustily,
"Wes hael, wes hael! hero of Wessex,
Cerdic the conqueror," clanging their lances
And beating their bucklers, bellowed like oxen,
Blew in their shields, shouting, yelling
Glad-hearted, gleefully. The good one discoursed, then,
Cerdic the king said to his liegemen
(Henchmen all hearkened): "Hear ye, good troopers,
Of Sigbrand my sword. I said he was trusty,
And bitter in biting. I brought him to Albion
Far from the eastward. I fared, long ago,
East over Elbe and Oder and Weser
And thence to the northward, never wearying,
Greedy for glory; 'mid the Goths found it,
Old, iron-made, excellent sword-blade,
Weland his work. Well I remember
How I heard high-hearted heroes and athelings,
My true-hearted troopers, tell how a dragon,
His cave guarding, kept there a treasure
Age after age; how earls of the eastward
Said that Sigbrand, the sword-blade of Hermann,
Was kept in that cave covered with magic,
Encircled with sorcery, secretly guarded,
Bound with enchantments. I boldly adventured
A grim grapple with that grisly, terrible
Fire-spewing dragon, to fetch to the westward
The well-lovèd, warlike, wide-famous brand
Of Hermann the hero. I hied o'er the rivers
And off to the eastward: earls of those lands there
Laughed when they learned that a lad from the westward
Would dare the great dragon that had daunted their fathers
Five hundred winters. I fared eastward then,
Met with the monster, mightily smote him,
To earth felled him; flamings of battle
Horribly hurled he, hotly he snorted,
Would seethe me in poison. Wtih the point of my blade
I proudly did prick him. Prone he fell forward,
Dead lay the dragon. His den was no more
A horror to heroes; hastened I in, then,
To joy in the sight of jewels and treasures
And song-famous swords that had slept on the wall there
From earliest eras, edge-keen, famous,
Magic-encircled swords of the ancients,
Old-work of giants. With joy, saw I
World-famous Sigbrand, sword-blade of Hermann,
Men-leader mighty, matchless battle-knight,
Hero of Germany. I hastily seized it
All rusting to ruin; the rime-carved, ancient
Sword of the hero was soon hanging then
Safe at my side: it hath served me faithfully
Sixty of winters, well-tried, trusty
Friend-in-the-battle. When I fare, troopers,
Hence to Valhalla, high-hearted Cynric,
My fond-lovèd son, folk-lord of Wessex,
Will take up the brand borne by his father
And carve out a kingdom clean to the northward and
Wide to the westward; the Welshman will cower
And shudder and shake, as the shout of the Saxon
Frightens afresh forest and river
And meadow and plain. I shall pass on my journey
Early anon: old and hoary,
Death will subdue me. Dear young heroes,
Do as I bid ye. Bear ye onward
The banner of Wessex. Wyrd will help you
If doughty your valor. I dare to allege it,
That the gods have given this goodly, bountiful
Land of Albion to the liegemen and children
Of Cerdic the Saxon; seize, hold to it
Forever and ever. Ye early will see me
Lorn of my life-joys, lying unwarlike,
Dead in my armor. I urge you, good heroes,
To build me a barrow broad-stretching, lofty,
High on the cliff-edge, that comers from far
May see it and say that so did Angle-folk
Honor the atheling that erstwhile led their
Fathers of old in founding a kingdom."
Sir Tray: An Arthurian Idyl
by
General Edward Hamley
The widowed Dame of Hubbard's ancient line
Turned to her cupboard, cornered anglewise
Betwixt this wall and that, in quest of aught
To satisfy the craving of Sir Tray,
Prick-eared companion of her solitude,
Red-spotted, dirty-white, and bare of rib,
Who followed at her high and pattering heels,
Prayer in his eye, prayer in his slinking gait,
Prayer in his pendulous pulsating tail.
Wide on its creaking jaws revolved the door,
The cupboard yawned, deep-throated, thinly set
For teeth, with bottles, ancient canisters,
And plates of various pattern, blue or white;
Deep in the void she thrust her hookèd nose
Peering near-sighted for the wished-for bone,
Whiles her short robe of samite, tilted high,
The thrifty darnings of her hose revealed;--
The pointed feature travelled o'er the delf
Greasing its tip, but bone or bread found none.
Wherefore Sir Tray abode still dinnerless,
Licking his paws beneath the spinning-wheel,
And meditating much on savoury meats.
Meanwhile the Dame in high-backed chair reposed
Revolving many memories, for she gazed
Down from her lattice on the self-same path
Whereby Sir Lancelot 'mid the reapers rode
When Arthur held his court in Camelot,
And she was called the Lady of Shalott;
And, later, where Sir Hubbard, meekest knight
Of all the Table Round, was wont to pass,
And to her casement glint the glance of love.
(For all the tale of how she floated dead
Between the city walls, and how the Court
Gazed on her corpse, was of illusion framed,
And shadows raised by Merlin's magic art,
Ere Vivien shut him up within the oak.)
There stood the wheel whereat she spun her thread;
But of the magic mirror nought remained
Save one small fragment on the mantelpiece,
Reflecting her changed features night and morn.
But now the inward yearnings of Sir Tray
Grew pressing, and in hollow rumblings spake,
As in tempestuous nights the Northern seas
Within their caverned cliffs reverberate.
This touched her: "I have marked of yore," she said,
"When on my palfrey I have paced along
The streets of Camelot, while many a knight
Ranged at my rein and thronged upon my steps,
Wending in pride towards the tournament,
A wight who many kinds of bread purveyed--
Muffins, and crumpets, matutinal rolls,
And buns which, buttered, soothe at evensong;
To him I'll hie me ere my purpose cool,
And swift returning, bear a loaf with me,
And (for my teeth be tender grown, and like
Celestial visits, few and far between)
The crust shall be for Tray, the crumb for me."
This spake she; from their peg reached straightway down
Her cloak of sanguine hue, and pointed hat
From the flat brim upreared like pyramid
On sands Egyptian where the Pharaohs sleep,
Her ebon-handled staff (sole palfrey now)
Grasped firmly, and so issued swiftly forth;
Yet ere she closed the latch her cat Elaine,
The lily kitten reared at Astolat,
Slipt through and mewing passed to greet Sir Tray.
Returning ere the shadows eastward fell,
She placed a porringer upon the board,
And shred the crackling crusts with liberal hand,
Nor noted how Elaine did seem to wail,
Rubbing against her hose, and mourning round
Sir Tray, who lay all prone upon the hearth.
Then on the bread she poured the mellow milk--
"Sleep'st thou?" she said, and touched him with her staff;
"What, ho! thy dinner waits thee!" But Sir Tray
Stirred not nor breathed: thereat, alarmed, she seized
And drew the hinder leg: the carcase moved
All over wooden like a piece of wood--
"Dead?" said the Dame, while louder wailed Elaine;
"I see," she said, "thy fasts were all too long,
Thy commons all too short, which shortened thus
Thy days, tho' thou mightst still have cheered mine age
Had I but timelier to the city wonned.
Thither I must again, and that right soon,
For now 'tis meet we lap thee in a shroud,
And lay thee in the vault by Astolat,
Where faithful Tray shall by Sir Hubbard lie."
Up a by-lane the Undertaker dwelt;
There day by day he plied his merry trade,
And all his undertakings undertook:
Erst knight of Arthur's Court, Sir Waldgrave hight,
A gruesome carle who hid his jests in gloom,
And schooled his lid to counterfeit a tear.
With cheerful hammer he a coffin tapt,
While hollow, hollow, hollow, rang the wood,
And, as he sawed and hammered, thus he sang:
Wood, hammer, nails, ye build a house for him,
Nails, hammer, wood, ye build a house for me,
Paying the rent, the taxes, and the rates.
I plant a human acorn in the ground,
And therefrom straightway springs a goodly tree,
Budding for me in bread and beer and beef.
O Life, dost thou bring Death or Death bring thee?
Which of the twain is bringer, which the brought?
Since men must die that other men may live.
O Death, for me thou plump'st thine hollow cheeks,
Mak'st of thine antic grin a pleasant smile,
And prank'st full gaily in thy winding-sheet.
This ditty sang he to a doleful tune
To outer ears that sounded like a dirge,
Or wind that wails across the fields of death.
'Ware of a visitor, he ceased his strain,
But still did ply his saw industrious.
With withered hand on ear, Dame Hubbard stood;
"Vex not mine ears," she grated, "with thine old
And creaking saw!" "I deemed," he said, and sighed,
"Old saws might please thee, as they should the wise."
"Know," said the Dame, "Sir Tray that with me dwelt
Lies on my lonely hearthstone stark and stiff;
Wagless the tail that waved to welcome me."--
Here Waldgrave interposed sepulchral tones,
"Oft have I noted, when the jest went round,
Sad 'twas to see the wag forget his tale--
Sadder to see the tail forget its wag."
"Wherefore," resumed she, "take of fitting stuff,
And make therewith a narrow house for him."
Quoth he, "From yonder deal I'll plane the bark,
So 'twill of Tray be emblematical;
For thou, 'tis plain, must lose a deal of bark,
Since he nor bark nor bite shall practise more."
"And take thou, too," she said, "a coffin-plate,
And be his birth and years inscribed thereon
With letters twain 'S.T.' to mark Sir Tray,
So shall the tomb be known in after-time."
"This too," quoth Waldgrave, "shall be deftly done;
Oft hath the plate been freighted with his bones,
But now his bones must lie beneath the plate."
"Jest'st thou?" Dame Hubbard said, and clutched her crutch,
For ill she brooked light parlance of the dead;
But when she saw Sir Waldgrave, how his face
Was all drawn downward, till the curving mouth
Seemed a horseshoe, while o'er the furrowed cheek,
A wandering tear stole on, like rivulet
In dry ravine down mother Ida's side,
She changed her purpose, smote not, lowered the staff;--
So parted, faring homeward with her grief.
Nearing her bower, it seemed a sepulchre
Sacred to memory, and almost she thought
A dolorous cry arose, as if Elaine
Did sound a caterwauling requiem.
With hesitating hand she raised the latch,
And on the threshold with reluctant foot
Lingered, as loath to face the scene of woe,
When lo! the body lay not on the hearth,
For there Elaine her flying tail pursued,--
In the Dame's chair Sir Tray alive did sit,
A world of merry meaning in his eye,
And all his face agrin from ear to ear.
Like one who late hath lost his dearest friend,
And in his sleep doth see that friend again,
And marvels scarce to see him, putting forth
A clasping hand, and feels him warm with life,
And so takes up his friendship's broken thread--
Thus stood the Dame, thus ran she, pattering o'er
The sanded tiles, and clasped she thus Sir Tray,
Unheeding of the grief his jest had wrought
For joy he was not numbered with the dead.
Anon the Dame, her primal transports o'er,
Bethought her of the wisdom of Sir Tray,
And his fine wit, and then it shameful seemed
That he bareheaded 'neath the sky should go
While empty skulls of fools went thatched and roofed;
"A hat," she cried, "would better fit those brows
Than many a courtier's that I've wotted of;
And thou shalt have one, an' my tender toes
On which the corns do shoot, and these my knees
Wherethro' rheumatic twinges swiftly dart,
Will bear me to the city yet again,
And thou shalt wear the hat as Arthur wore
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship."
Whereat Sir Tray did seem to smile, and smote
Upon the chair-back with approving tail.
Then up she rose, and to the Hatter's went,--
"Hat me," quoth she, "your very newest hat;"
And so they hatted her, and she returned
Home through the darksome wold, and raised the latch,
And marked, full lighted by the ingle-glow,
Sir Tray, with spoon in hand, and cat on knee,
Spattering the mess about the chaps of Puss.
THE OPERA OF OPERAS;
OR,
TOM THUMB THE GREAT
ALTER'D FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF
TOM THUMB THE GREAT
And Set to Musick after the Italian Manner.
As it is Performing at the
New Theatre in the Hay-Market
by
ELIZA HAYWOOD AND WILLIAM HATCHETT
TOM THUMB was the Son of Gaffer Thumb , tho' some Authors assert, Thumb was not the Father's Name, but a Sirname given the Son from the Diminitiveness of his Stature, agreeable to a Wish his Parents made, that they might have a Son and Heir, tho' he were no bigger than their Thumb . Like another Homer , his Birth is much contended, and many claim the Honour of it. Some will have him of German Extraction, Others of French , but the most received Opinion is, that he was an Englishman , born of very honest, but simple Parents, living in the Reign of King Arthur , a British Monarch of the sixth Century, who was Chief General against the Saxons ; but whether ever Arthur existed, is a Point much controverted.
However that be, Tom Thumb is the Hero of the subsequent Opera, and Favourite of Arthur . He returns about this Time from the Wars, leading a Captive Giantess in Triumph. The King gives him a most gracious Reception, and in Recompence of his signal Services, bestows on him his Daughter the Princess Huncamunca in Marriage. At the same Time, his Majesty conceives a violent Passion for the fair Captive Glumdalca , whose Heart is already devoted to Tom Thumb . The Queen, who is likewise enamour'd of the Generalissimo Thumb , strenuously opposes the Match agreed to by the King, upon which a great Quarrel arises between their Majesties. On the other Hand, Lord Grizzle , a Courtier, is passionately fond of the Princess Huncamunca , whose Pretensions her Majesty seems to cherish, as a Means to frustrate the intended Nuptials, and thereby gratify her own Inclinations; but perceiving her Policy of espousing his Interest does not answer her Design, but on the contrary, adds Fewel to the enflam'd Grizzle , and makes him breathe nothing but Destruction on his Rival, she immediately breaks with Grizzle ; who, in Return, vows Revenge on Thumb , and also threatens to involve the Nation in the Disappointment of his Love.
Tom Thumb is not content to gain Glory only in the Field, but he likewise gives a singular Mark of Prowess, and Heroick Virtue, soon after his Arrival; for his Friend Noodle being arrested, he gallantly assails the Bailiff, and triumphant kills both him and his Follower.
Thumb's intended Spouse being of a Disposition, apt for the State of Matrimony, appears in a very sad, and languishing Condition, till the Proposition the King her Royal Father makes of a Husband, when her heavy Melancholy soon dissipates, and she is transported beyond Expression with the Idea of changing her Condition. Lord Grizzle paying his Respects at this Juncture, she faintly rejects his Suit, alledging her being promis'd to Thumb ; and Grizzle using the Rhetorick of a slighted Lover, detracting from his Rival's Merit, but above all urging his Insufficiency, she is overcome by his prevailing Arguments, and gives her Consent to marry him privately. Wing'd with the high Thoughts of Possession, Grizzle flies to fetch the Licence. In the mean Time Tom Thumb waits on the Princess to commence his Courtship. He makes some amorous Speeches, but is told by her Highness, that she is promis'd to another. Glumdalca , who thinks herself injur'd in her Love by Huncamunca , enters at this Crisis, and a Scene of Contention between the two fair Rivals ensues, but Glumdalca is defeated, Tom giving his Preference to Huncamunca . Glumdalca is left full of Fury and Resentment. The King, like a solitary Lover, throws himself in her Way, which occasions a Scene of Groans, finely wrought up.
Tom Thumb , who a little before found the Princess wavering in her Love, has now remov'd all her late Difficulties, and the Ceremony is perform'd, which puts an End to a Lover's Anxieties. Huncamunca soon after sees Grizzle , and tells thim that, rather than incur his Displeasure, she will marry him likewise; but the incens'd Grizzle rejects the Proposal with the greatest Contempt, and vows Destruction on Thumb , and the whole Kingdom, which puts Huncamunca in a terrible Pannick.
The Ghost of Gaffer Thumb appears to Arthur , who is foretold of the Rebellion of Grizzle . The Queen having some Presage of this in her Sleep, quits her Bed in Search of Arthur , when a Messenger arrives, who informs their Majesties that Grizzle is in Arms. Tom Thumb is appointed to go against him. Grizzle with the Rebels appear. Tom Thumb marching in Pursuit of them, is told by Merlin the Manner of his being begot, and withal shews him his Fate. The two Armies come to an Engagement. Glumdalca is slain by Grizzle , and he by Tom Thumb . The King causes Rejoicings to be made on this Success, but in the midst, a Messenger arrives, that brings Word of Tom Thumb 's being devour'd by a huge Red Cow, as he was bearing off Grizle 's Head to his Majesty. This News puts a Damp on the King's Liberality, and he is much in Wrath. The Queen stabs the Messenger, and like Children at the Play of Strike your next Neighbour , etc. they stab at one another all round.
But this Scene of Horror is soon transform'd. Tom Thumb by Conjuration, is emitted from the Belly of the Cow, and all the rest are rais'd to Life again, by Virtue of Merlin 's Wand, in perfect Harmony with each other.
Dramatis personae.
MEN.
KING ARTHUR.
TOM THUMB the Great.
GHOST of Gaffer THUMB.
Lord GRIZZLE.
MERLIN.
NOODLE,
DOODLE, } Courtiers.
FOODLE.
BAILIFF.
FOLLOWER.
PARSON.
WOMEN.
QUEEN DOLLOLOLLA.
HUNCAMUNCA her Daughter.
GLUMDALCA Captive Giantess.
CLEORA, } Maids of Honour.
MUSTACHA,
COURTIERS, GUARDS, REBELS, DRUMS, TRUMPETS, THUNDER AND LIGHTNING.
SCENE the Court of KING ARTHUR, and a PLAIN thereabouts.
THE OPERA OF OPERAS;
OR
Tom Thumb the Great.
ACT I. SCENE I.
SCENE, The Palace .
Enter Doodle, and Noodle.
RECITATIVO.
Doodle . Sure, such a day was never seen!
The sun himself on this harmonious day,
Shines like a beau in a new birthday suit;
All nature wears one universal grin.
Noodle. This day, O Doodle! doubtless is a day,
A day we never saw before.
The mighty Thumb , call'd Tom , victorious comes;
Millions of Giants , like as many Bees ,
Swarm round his chariot wheels,
Giants! to whom the Giants in Guild Hall
Are fools, are infant dwarfs.
They frown, they foam, they roar, while Tom ,
Regardless of their din, rides on.
AIR I.
So the Cock-Sparrow, at barn-door,
Huge flocks of Turkeys hops before;
The lubberd Red-Heads does despise,
Nor at their noisy gugling flies.
Doodle. 'Tis whisper'd in the books of all our sages,
This mighty little hero,
By Merlin 's art begot,
Has not a bone within his skin,
But is a lump of Gristle.
Noodle . Then 'tis a gristle of no mortal kind!
Doodle. Some god, O Noodle! stept into the place
Of gaffer Thumb , and more than half begot
This matchless warriour Tom .
Noodle . Sure he was sent express from Heav'n,
To be the pillar of our state
Tho' small his carcass be, so very small,
A chairman's Leg is more than twice as large,
Yet is his soul like any mountain big,
And as a mountain once brought forth a mouse,
So does this mouse contain a mighty mountain.
Doodle. Mountain indeed!
Noodle. But hark! [ Flourish. ]
Those trumpets speak the King's approach.
Doodle. He comes most luckily for my petition.
Enter King, Queen, Grizzle, and Doodle.
King. Let nothing but a face of joy appear;
The man who frowns this day shall lose his head,
That he may have no face to frown withal.
Smile Dollalolla --ha! what wrinkled sorrow
Hangs, sits, lies, frowns upon thy knitted brow.
Whence flow those tears fast down thy blubber'd cheeks,
Like a swoln gutter, gushing thro' the streets?
Queen. Excess of joy, folks say my lord,
Gives tears as certain as excess of grief.
King. If it be so, let all men cry for joy,
'Till my whole Court be drown'd with tears,
Nay, till they overflow my utmost land,
And leave me nothing
But a sea of tears to rule.
Doodle. My liege! I humbly petition-- [ Kneeling. ]
King. Petition me no petitions, Sir, to day;
Let other hours be set apart for business;
To day it is our pleasure to be drunk,
And this our queen shall be as drunk as we.
Queen. Already I am half seas over,
Yet let the cistern overflow
With goodRack punch--'fore George , I'll see it out--
Of Rum and Brandy I'll not taste a drop.
King. Tho' Rack in punch 10 s. be a quart,
And Rum and Brandy be no more than six,
Rather than quarrel, you shall have your will.
AIR II.
When your dames of superior class,
Submit to the pow'r of drams,
This virtue attends the kind glass,
It makes 'em as quiet as lambs.
If then without Brandy, or Rum,
Your Wives will not study to please,
Let 'em swill till they're tight as a drum
Or they'll live the longer to teaze.
But, ha! the warrior's come--the great Tom Thumb [ Trumpets.
The little hero-giant killing boy,
Preserver of my kingdom is arriv'd!
Enter Tom Thum.
With Officers, Prisoners, and Attendants.
O welcome! most welcome to my arms!
What gratitude can thank--away the debt,
Thy valour lays--upon me!
Queen. Oh! ye gods! [ Aside. ]
Thumb. When I'm not thank'd at all, I'm thank'd enough;
I've done my duty, and I've done no more.
Queen. Was ever such a god-like creature seen! [ Aside. ]
King. Thy modesty's a candle to thy merit;
It shines itself, and shews thy merit too--
But say, my Boy--
Where didst thou leave the Giants ?
Thumb. My liege, without the castle gates,
The castle gates too low for their admittance.
King. What look they like?
Thumb. Like nothing but themselves.
Queen. And sure thou'rt like to nothing but thyself. [ Aside. ]
King. Enough! the vast idea fills my soul.
I see them--yes, I see them before me--
The monstrous, ugly, barb'rous sons of whores!--
But, ha!
What finish'd piece of human nature strikes us!
Sure she was drawn by all the gods in council!
Who paus'd, and then cry'd out--this is a woman!
Thumb. Then, were the gods mistaken--
She's not a woman, but a giantess,
A High-German Giantess.
Glumdalca. We yesterday were both a queen and wife;
One hundred thousand Giants own'd our sway,
Twenty whereof were marry'd to ourself.
Queen. Oh! happy state of giantism!
AIR III.
Our Passions are of Giant kind,
And have to th' full as large a sense;
'Tis hard to one to be confin'd,
When with a score we could dispense.
Glumdalca. But then to lose full twenty in one day!
Queen. Madam, believe,
I view your sorrows with a woman's eye,
But be as patient as you can,
To morrow we will have our Grenadiers
Drawn out before you, when you may chuse
What Husband you think fit.
Glumdalca. Madam, I am your most obedient Servant.
King. Think, lovely princess, think this court your own,
Nor think my house an Inn, myself the landlord;
Call for whate'er you will, you'll nothing pay.
I feel a sudden pain within my breast;
Nor know I whether it proceeds from love,
Or only the wind-cholick--time must shew, [ Aside. ]
Oh! Tom ! what do we to thy valour owe?
Ask some reward, great as we can bestow.
Thumb. I ask not kingdoms, I can conquer those;
I ask not money, money I've enough;
If what I've done be call'd a debt,
Take my receipt in full--I ask but this;
To sun myself in Huncamunca 's Eyes.
King. Prodigious bold request!
Queen. Be still my Soul! } [ Aside. ]
Thumb. My heart is at the threshold of your Mouth,
And waits it's answer there.
King. It is resolved--the princess is your own.
Thumb. Oh! happy, happy, happy Thumb !
Queen. Consider, Sir,--reward your Soldiers merit,
But give not Huncamunca to Tom Thumb !
King. Tom Thumb !
Odzooks! my wide extended Realm
Knows not a name so glorious as Tom Thumb !
AIR IV
Your Alexander's, Scipio's,
Inferior are to Tommy,
While others brag of Mac's and O's,
Let England boast of Thummy.
A Title is an empty name,
Like many we have knighted;
His merit bids us aid his fame,
So Tom shall not be slighted.
Queen. Tho' greater yet his boasted merit was,
He shall not have my daughter, that is pos!
King. Ha! sayst thou Dollalolla?
Queen. I say he shan't.
King. Then, by our royal self we swear you lie
Queen. Who but a dog--who but a Dog
Wou'd use me thus?
But I will be reveng'd, or hang myself.
AIR. V.
Then tremble all, who ever weddings made,
But tremble more, who did this match perswade;
For riding on a Cat, from high I'll fall,
And squirt down royal vengeance on you all. [ Exit Queen.
Doodle. Her majesty, the queen, is in a passion.
King. Be she, or be she not--now, by ourself
We were indeed a pretty king of clouts,
To truckle to our consort's will,
AIR VI.
We politic Kings,
Know far better things
Than e'er to our consorts stoop;
For once you give way
To Petticoat sway,
You may for your Breeches go whoop.
Come Thumb --I'll to the girl, and pave thy way. [ Exeunt all but Grizzle.
Grizzle. Where are now thy glories, Grizzle ?
Where are the drums that waken'd thee to honour?
O, what art thou greatness?
A lac'd coat from Monmouth-street ,
Worn to day, put on anothers back to-morrow.
Yesterday as St. Paul 's high,
To day as Fleet-ditch low.
Enter Queen.
Queen. Teach me to scold, oh, Grizzle !
Mountain of treason! ugly as the devil!
Teach this confounded mouth
To spout forth words might shame
All Billingsgate to speak.
Grizzle. But first I beg to ask,
Wherefore my Queen wou'd scold?
Queen. Wherefore? oh! blood and thunder! han't you heard,
What ev'ry corner of the court resounds,
That little Tom will be a great man made?
Grizzle. I heard it, I confess.
Queen. Odsbobs! I have a mind to hang myself,
A grand-mother by such a rascal.
Sure, the King forgets
His mother put the bastard in a pudding,
And on a stile was drop'd?
O, good lord Grizzle ! can I bear
To see him from a pudding mount the throne?
Or can my Huncamunca bear
To take a pudding's offspring in her arms?
Grizzle. Oh, horror! horror!
Queen. Then rouse thy spirit--we may yet prevent
This hated Match.
Grizzle. We will, in spite of fate.
AIR VII.
The Spaniel, when bid, does obey,
And twenty fine tricks shew with all;
The Soldier's observant as Tray,
And both will come to a call.
The Lover's more fawning than these,
Or any Court Sycophant spark,
He'll shoot, fetch, and carry to please,
And all for a touch in the dark.
I'll tear the scoundrel into twenty pieces.
Queen. Oh, no! prevent the match, but hurt him not;
For tho' I shoud not like him for a son,
Yet can we kill the man that kill'd the Giants ?
Grizzle. I tell you, madam, it was all a trick;
He made the Giants first, and then he kill'd them.
Queen. How! have you seen no Giants ? are there not
Now in the yard, ten thousand proper Giants ?
Grizzle. I cannot postively tell,
But firmly do believe there is not one.
Queen. Hence! from my sight! thou traytor! hie away!
By all my stars! thou enviest Tom Thumb .
Go, sirrah! go! hie away! hie!
Thou art a setting dog! begone!
Grizzle. Madam, I go--
And Thumb shall feel the vengeance you have rais'd.
AIR VIII.
I'll roar, I'll rant, I'll rave;
I'll ride on clouds, thro' seas I'll swim,
I'll for the nation dig a grave,
And bury it for my whim [ Exit Grizzle.
Queen. Alack-a-day! oh! whither shall I go?
I love Tom Thumb , but must not tell him so;
For what's a woman when her virtue's gone?
A coat that's got no lace-wig out of buckle--
A stocking with a hole in't--I can't live
Without my virtue, or Tom Thumb :
Then let me weigh them in two equal scales;
In this put virtue, that Tom Thumb --
Alas! Tom Thumb is heavier than my virtue;
But hold!--cou'd I prevent the match,
And shou'd be left a widow,
Then Tom Thumb is mine.
AIR IX.
In that dear hope how many live?
I'm not the only one;
Oh! what wou'd some fine Ladies give
To have their husbands gone!
All things new,
Ever wanting;
Joys in view,
More enchanting;
'Tis the mode e'er husbands die,
To have another in one's Eye.
The End of the first ACT.
ACT II. SCENE I.
SCENE The Street.
Enter Bailiff and Follower.
RECITATIVO
Bailiff. Come, trusty follower, come on,
This day stand by me, and at night
Three double mugs of beer and beer expect--
This way must Noodle pass.
Follower. No more, oh, Bailiff ! ev'ry word
Inspires my soul with virtue.
Oh. I long to meet the fish, and nab him;
To lay arresting hands upon his back,
And nobly drag him to the spunging-house.
Bailiff. Oh! glorious thought!
But see our prey! let us retire-- [they go aside.
Enter Tom Thumb, and Noodle.
Thumb . O Noodle ! I am wondrous sick;
For tho' I love the gentle Huncamunca ,
Yet at the thought of marriage, I grow pale;
For oh!--
Noodle. Oh! what?
Thumb. My grand mamma hath often said,
Tom Thumb , beware of marriage!
Noodle. Cou'd you indeed the princess gain without,
I would not have you marry,
But Sir, be jealous of old women's sayings,
If they're against it, 'tis because they're past it.
Oh! think of all the joy your soul will have.
While on her panting breast, dissolv'd in bliss,
You pour out all Tom Thumb in every kiss.
Thumb. Oh! friend! thou fir'st my eager soul;
Spight of my grandmother, she shall be mine.
AIR X.
I'll hug, I'll eat her up with love,
Whole days, and nights and years
Our Bed shall be a shady grove,
A soft retreat from cares.
I will my loving gut so cram,
I never will give o'er,
Like baby, who at breast of Mam,
Tho' bursting, cries for more.
Noodle. Oh, Sir! this purpose of your soul [pursue.
Bailiff. Oh, Sir! I have an action against you.
Noodle. At whose suit?
Bailiff. At your Taylor 's Sir.
Thumb. Ha! dogs! arrest my friend before my face!
Take here your fees-- [ draws and stabs 'em both .
Bailiff. Oh! I'm slain!
Follower. And I also.
Noodle. Go both to hell like rascals as ye are.
Thumb. Thus perish all the bailiffs in the land.
AIR XI.
Come triumph, ye Debtors, a Bailiff, vile Foe,
I've genteely sent to th' Infernals below;
And tell me where else shou'd Bailiffs go,
Who Fiendlike infest this great Town?
Let all such rank weeds of the State go to pot,
May stewing and boiling fall out to their lot;
Without more ado pluck 'em up by the root,
We cannot destroy them too soon. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
HUNCAMUNCA'S Apartment.
HUNCAMUNCA, CLEORA, MUSTACHA.
Huncamunca. Give me some musick--see that it be sad. [ Solemn Musick.
Oh ! Thumb! Oh ! wherefore art thou Thumb?
Why not born of Royal Race?
Why had not mighty Bantam been thy Father ?
Or else the King of Brentford, Old, or New ?
Cleora. Madam, the King.
Enter the King.
King. Let all but Huncamunca leave the room. [ Exeunt Cleora and Mustacha.
Daughter, I have observ'd of late,
Some Grief unusual in your Countenance.
Say, what's the Cause?
Ha'n't you enough of Meat and Drink?
Huncamunca. Alas! my Lord, I value not myself,
That once I ate two fowls, and half a Pig;
Small is that Praise; but Oh! a Maid may want,
What she can neither eat or drink.
King. What's that?
Huncamunca. O spare my Blushes; but I mean a Husband.
King. If that be all, I have provided one;
A Husband great in Arms,
Whose Valour, Wisdom, Virtue, make a Noise,
Great as the Kettle-Drums of twenty Armies.
Huncamunca. Whom does my Royal Fater mean?
King. Tom Thumb.
Huncamunca. Is it possible?
King. A Country Dance of Joy is in your Face;
Your Eyes spit Fire, your Cheeks grow red as Beef.
Huncamunca. Yes, I will own, since licens'd by your Word,
I'll own Tom Thumb the Cause of all my Grief:
For him I've sighed, I've wept, I've gnaw'd my Sheets.
King. Then thou shalt gnaw thy Holland-Sheets no more,
A Husband thou shalt have to mumble now.
Huncamunca. O happy Sound.
AIR XII.
Long my Maiden head in keeping
I have had against my Will;
It has cost me much sad weeping,
Lest I should lead Apes in Hell.
I thank my Stars that Fright is over,
I shall try the Marriage-State;
Twenty sure deserves a Lover,
Or too hard's a Princess' Fate.
Oh! I am over-joy'd.
King. I see thou art.
This joyful News shall on our Tonge ride Post,
And we ourself will bear it to Tom Thumb .
AIR XIII.
Yet you that take a Hero in your Arms,
Can't hope t'engross him always by soft Charms:
Various his Duty, various his Delight;
Now is his turn to kiss, and now to fight;
And now to kiss again--so mighty Jove,
When with excessive thundering tir'd above;
Comes down to Earth--and takes a Bit--and then
Flies to his Trade of thundering back again. [ Exit King.
Enter Grizzle.
Grizzle. Oh! Huncamunca, Huncamunca , Oh!
Thy Breasts, like Kettle-Drums of Brass,
Beat loud Alarms of Joy;
As bright as Brass they are, and Oh! as hard.
Oh! Huncamunca ! Huncamunca , Oh!
Huncamunca. Ha! What Boldnes' this!
[Grizzle.] Yes, Princess, well I know your Rank;
But Love nor Meanness scorns, nor Grandeur dreads.
Love often Lords into the Cellar bears,
And bids as oft the Porter come up-stairs.
For what's too high for Love, or what too low?
Oh! Huncamunca ! Huncamunca , Oh!
Huncamunca. But granting all you say is true,
My Love, alas! is to another due.
In vain you come,
I'm promis'd to Tom Thumb .
Grizzle. And can you such a Durgen wed?
One fitter for your Pocket than your Bed?
Oh! fie! the puny Baby shun,
Or you will ne'er be brought to Bed of one.
Huncamunca. If what you say be true,
This Instant I renounce my Promise.
AIR XIV.
By Promise I'm no longer bound;
The strongest Vows must fall,
When once a seeming Man is found,
In fact, no Man at all.
Grizzle. Ah! sing that o'er again--let the
sweet Sound attend me as I fly
to Doctor's Commons for a licence.
Huncamunca. O no! lest some Disaster we shou'd meet,
'Twere better to be marry'd at the Fleet .
Grizzle. Forbit it, all ye Powers!
AIR XV.
To gain the lov'd, the beauteous Fair,
What various Dangers Man will run!
But when for Love your Women dare,
How greatly is he then outdone?
Be [t] ween two wide extremes all Women move,
And more than Man, they either hate or love.
They'll jump from Windows, run away,
They will employ their utmost Skill;
They'll marry, to prevent Delay,
Both when, and how, and where you will.
Between two wide Extremes all Women move,
And more than Man, they either hate, or love.
[ Exit Grizzle.
Enter Tom Thumb.
Thumb. Where's my Princess? where's my Huncamunca ?
Where are those Eyes, those Card-matches of Love,
That light up all with Love my waxen Soul?
Huncamunca. Oh! what is Musick to the Ear that's deaf?
Or a Goose-Pye to him that has no Taste?
What are these Praises now to me,
Since I am promis'd to another?
Thumb. Ha! promis'd?
Huncamunca. Too sure--'tis written in the Book of Fate.
Thumb. Then will I tear away the Leaf.
AIR XVI.
Fond to Madness,
Up to the Ears in whining Sadness,
'Sdeath! what's Fate to him that doats!
Pillag'd and robb'd,
Of one we love fobb'd,
I'd not be i' th' Filcher's Coats;
He that worships God of Love,
Minds not the Decrees of Jove.
Enter Glumdalca.
Glumdalca. I need not ask if you are Huncamunca .
Huncamunca. I am a Princess--and Thou--
Glumdalca. A Giantess; the Queen of those,
Who made and unmade Queens.
Huncamunca. The Man, whose chief Ambition is to be
My Sweetheart, has destroy'd these mighty Giants.
Glumdalca. Your Sweetheart?
Think you the Man, who once hath worn
My easy Chains, will e'er wear thine?
Huncamunca. Well may your Chains be easy,
Since try'd on twenty Husbands;
The Glove and Boot, pull'd on so many times,
May well set easy on the Hand or Foot.
Glumdalca. I glory in the Number.
Huncamunca. Let me view nearer what this Beauty is,
That captivates the Hearts of Men by Scores. [ holds a Candle to her Face.
O Heav'n! thou are ugly as the Devil.
Glumdalca. The best Shoes in your Shop you'd give
To be but half so handsome.
Huncamunca. Since you come to that,
I'll put my Beauty to the Test;
Tom Thumb , I'm thine, if thou wilt go with me.
Glumdalca. O! stay, and thou alone shalt fill
That Bed wehre twenty Giants us'd to lie.
Thumb. Alas! I ne'er can do the Work of twenty.
AIR XVII.
Madam, pray excuse the task,
Faith! I am unequal to't;
Some robuster Hero ask,
Who can better grant your Suit. [ Exeunt Thumb and Huncamunca.
Glumdalca. What, left! scorn'd, loath'd for such a Chit!
I feel a Storm arising in my Mind;
Tempests and Whirwinds rise, and rowl and roar;
I'm all a Hurricane, as if
The World's four Winds were pent within my Carkass.
Confusion! Horror! Murder! Guts and Death
Enter the King.
King. Sure never was so sad a King as I!
To love a Captive and a Giantess!
O Love! O Love! how great a King art thou!
O Glumdalca !
Glumdalca. What do I hear?
King. What do I see?
Glumdalca. Oh!
King. Ah!
Glumdalca. Ah! wretched Queen!
King. Oh! wretched King!
Glumdalca. Ah!
King. Oh! [ Exeunt.
Enter Tom Thumb, Huncamunca, and Parson
Parson. Happy's the wooing,
That's not long a doing,
And if I guess right,
Tom Thumb this Night
Shall give a Being to a new Tom Thumb .
Thumb. It shall be my Endeavor so to do.
Huncamunca. Oh fye! I vow you make me blush.
Thumb. It is the Virgin's Sign, and suits you well.
AIR XVIII.
But Blushes, these crimson Invaders,
O strange! are now criminal thought;
In Scandal and Censure the Traders,
Bye and bye will call Bussing a Fault.
And innocent Blush in us Lasses.
Is Virtue but at second-hand;
If we blush, we are told by these Asses,
It is because we understand.
RECITATIVO
Parson. Long may ye live, and love, and propagate,
Till the whole Land be peopled with Tom Thumbs .
AIR XIX.
So when the Cheshire- Cheese a Maggot breeds,
Another and another still succeeds:
By thousands and ten thousands they increase,
Till one continu'd Maggot fills the rotten Cheese.
Enter Noodle.
Noodle. Never was Court more Bedlam -like,
All things are so confus'd! The King's in Love,
The Queen is drunk, the Princess marry'd is.
Enter Grizzle.
Grizzle. O Noodle , hast thou Huncamunca seen?
Noodle. I've seen a thousand Sights to-day:
The King, the Queen, and all the Court are Sights.
Grizzle. But what of Huncamunca ?
Noodle. By this time she is marry'd to Tom Thumb --
Grizzle. My Huncamunca ?
Noodle. Your Huncamunca--
Tom 's Huncamunca-- Every Body's Huncamunca.
AIR XX.
Desp'rate is thy Case, I swear,
Women love not shill I, shall I;
Ten to one you lose the Fair,
If in Love-Affairs you dally.
There's a Crisis, which, when over,
Makes you certain of their State;
They will take the next new Lover,
And cry, sneering--You're too late.
Grizzle. If this be true, all Womankind are damn'd.
Noodle. If she be not, may I be so myself.
And see she comes to prove I'm not a Lyar.
Enter Huncamunca.
Grizzle. Where has my Huncamunca been?
See here the Licence in my Hand!
Huncamunca. Alas! Tom Thumb.
Grizzle. Why do you mention him?
Huncamunca. Ah, me! Tom Thumb .--
Grizzle. Ah, me! I see you're false, and I am curs'd.
Huncamunca. O be not hasty to proclaim your Doom,
My ample Heart for more than one has Room;
A Maid like me Heav'n form'd at least for two;
I marry'd him, and now I'll marry you.
AIR XXI
Prithee no frowning--let's have no resenting,
For both I've enough, if all thou didst know:
A Day or two hence you wou'd be repenting,
And wish I had kept two Strings to my Bow:
Grizzle. Ha! do'st thou own thy Falshod to my Face?
Think'st thou I am so base to share they Bed?
AIR XXII.
No,--no,--I will no Rival bear,
Nor unreveng'd the Willow wear.
Where's the puny modern Beau,
Can such Legs and Shoulders shew?
Modish Dame, two Lovers take,
I will have you all, or none,
But beware--the Court shall shake--
So you may go pick that Bone. [ Exit.
Huncamunca. O fatal Rashness! should his Fury slay
My hapless Bridegroom on his Wedding-Day,
I, who this Morn, of two chose which to wed,
May go again this Night alone to Bed.
AIR XXIII.
My Heart misgives me sadly!
Some Lovers wo'n't be Fools;
And Oh! I've acted madly,
To fall between two Stools!
Oh! wretched Situation!
By wishing more than one,
Oh! fatal Separation!
I shall be left with none.
End of the Second Act.
ACT III. SCENE I.
SCENE Arthur's Palace.
Ghost solus.
RECITATIVO.
Ghost. Hail! ye black horrors of mid-night's mid-noon!
You Fairies , Goblins , Bats , and Screech-owls hail!
And oh! ye mortal watch-men, whose hoarse throats
Th' immortal ghosts dread croakings counterfeit,
All hail!
Enter King.
King. What noise is this? what villain dares,
At this dread hour, disturb our royal walls?
Ghost. One who defies thy empty pow'r to hurt him.
King. Presumptuous slave! thou diest!
Ghost. Threat others with that word,
I am a Ghost , and am already dead.
King. Have at thee Man, or Ghost --
Thou fly'st! 'tis well-- [ Ghost retires.]
I thought what was the courage of a Ghost !
Yet dare not walk again within these walls
On pain of the Red-Sea ;
For if henceforth I ever find thee here,
Sure as a Gun I'll have thee laid.
Ghost. Were the Red-Sea , a Sea of Holland's-Gin ,
The liquor, when alive, I did detest,
Yet for the sake of Thomas Thumb ,
I wou'd be laid therein.
King. Ha! said you?
Ghost. Yes, my liege, I said Tom Thumb ,
Whose Father's Ghost I am,
Once not unknown to mighty Arthur ;
AIR XXIV.
I am a civil, friendly sprite,
And come not hither to affright:
I throw not topsy-turvy chairs,
Nor tables rumbling down the stairs;
Nor yet behind the Wainscot rap,
Nor sudden make the casement flap:
The doors not jar, nor curtains spread,
Nor peep I in at feet of bed.
King. 'Tis he--it is the honest gaffer Thumb ,
Oh! let me press thee in my eager arms,
Thou best of Ghosts! thou something more than Ghost!
But say, thou dearest air! oh! say, what dread
Important business sends thee back to earth?
Ghost. Oh! then prepare to hear--
Thy Subjects are in arms, by Grizzle led,
Intending to besiege thy royal palace.
King. Thou ly'st, and thy intelligence is false
Hence--or by all the torments of thy Hell ,
I'll run thee thro' the body, tho' thou hast none.
Ghost. Arthur , beware!--I must this moment hence,
Not frightened by thy voice, but by the cocks.
AIR XXV.
Slight not the warnings of us rambling sprites,
Sent, for your good, thro' air, on dismal nights;
Strive to avert thy yet impending Fate;
For kill'd to day, to morrow, care's too late. [Ghost exit.
King. Oh! stay! and leave me not 'twixt Hawk and Buzzard .
Enter Queen.
Queen. Oh! what's the cause, my Arthur , that you steal
Thus silently from Dollalolla 's breast?
Why dost thou leave me in the dark alone,
When well thou know'st, I'm so afraid of Sprites ,
I cannot sleep?
King. Prithee, Dollalolla , do not blame me;
I hop'd the fumes of last night's punch had laid
Thy lovely eye-lids fast--but oh! I find
There is no pow'r in dreams to quiet wives.
Queen. Think, what must be thy wretched wife's surprise,
When, stretching-out her arms to hold thee fast,
She folds her useless Bolster in her arms.
Think! think on that! oh think! think well on that.
AIR XXVI.
In bed we often lie awake,
We cannot always sleep;
When winds are high, and house does shake,
We gladly closer creep.
We simple women, when alone,
Are nat'rally afraid;
Least motion puts us in a swoon,
Except when dear's in bed.
King. Oh! didst thou know one quarter what I know,
Then wou'dst thou know--alas! what thou wou'dst know?
Queen. What can I gather hence? why dost thou speak
Like men who carry Raree-shows about,
Now you shall see, gentlemen, what you shall see?
Oh, tell me more, or thou hast told too much.
Enter Noodle.
Noodle. Long life attend your Majesties--
Lord Grizzle , with a bold, rebellious crowd,
Advances to the palace, storming loud,
Unless the princess be deliver'd strait,
And the victorious Thumb , without his pate, }
They are resolv'd to batter down the gate.
Enter Huncamunca.
King. See, where the princess comes! where is Tom Thumb ?
Huncamunca. Oh! Sir, about an hour and a half ago,
He sallied out to fag the Foe,
And swore upon his great, his warlike soul,
He'd make a Grizzle's Head a Nine-pin bowl.
Come, Dollalolla , Huncamunca , come,
Within we'll wait securely for brave Thumb .
Tho' Men and Giants shou'd conspire with Gods,
Yet he alone is equal to those odds.
Queen. He is indeed a Helmet to us all,
While he supports, we need not fear to fall.
AIR XXVII.
His Life to us is what of yore,
Was Pallas to the Trojan loons;
While that's preserv'd, the State may snore,
And safely we may spend our Crowns.
Best watch-men of a nodding State;
In this a monarch's wisdom lies,
To chuse such servants as are great,
And fit for ev'ry enterprise. [ Exeunt.
SCENE II. A PLAIN.
Enter Lord Grizzle, Foodle, and Rebels.
Grizzle. Thus far our arms with victory are crown'd;
For tho' we have not fought, yet we have found
No enemy to fight withal.
Foodle. And yet, methinks, we'd best avoid this day,
This first of April to engage our foes.
Grizzle. This day, of all the days of the year, I'd chuse;
God's? I will make Tom Thumb an April Fool.
Foodle. I'm glad to find our army is so stout.
Grizzle. What friends we have, and how we came so strong.
I'll softly tell you as we march along. [ Exeunt.
Thunder and Lightning.
Enter Tom Thumb, Glumdalca, cum suis.
Thumb. Is this the noise of thunder, or of coaches?
Hark! [Merlin calls from behind.
Merlin. Tom Thumb !
Thumb. What voice is this I hear?
Merlin. Tom Thumb !
Thumb. Again it calls.
Merlin. Tom Thumb !
Thumb. Thrice I've heard my name.
Appear, whoe'er thou art, I fear thee not.
Enter Merlin.
Merlin. Thou hast no cause to fear--I am thy friend--
Merlin by name, a conjuror by trade,
And to my art thou dost my being owe.
Thumb. How!
Merlin. Hear then the mystick getting of Tom Thumb .
AIR XXVIII.
His Father was a ploughman plain,
His mother milk'd the cow;
And yet the way to get a son,
This couple knew not how.
Until such time the good old Man,
To learned Merlin goes,
And there to him in great distress,
In secret manner shews;
How in his heart he wish'd to have
A child, in time to come,
To be his heir, tho' it might be
No bigger than his Thumb.
Of which old Merlin was foretold,
That he his wish shou'd have;
And so a son of stature small,
The charmer to him gave.
Thou'st heard the past, look,--up and see the future.
Thumb. Ha! my sense is in a wood:
See there, Glumdalca , see another me.
Glumdalca. O sight of horror! see you are devour'd
By the expanded jaws of a Red Cow .
Merlin. Be not dismay'd; for this heroic Act
Shall gain thee fame immortal;
Ages unborn shall warble this soft theme,
In tunefull Opera,
Exceeding far Hydaspes, Rosamond,
Camilla, or Arsinoe.
Thumb. Enough--let ev'ry warlike music sound,
We fall contented if we fall renown'd.
AIR XXIX.
To have my Actions in soft musick told,
What greater renown can I crave?
Oh! the pleasure 'will be, like the hero's of old.
To be ha, ha, ha'd, in my grave!
Lords suscribing gold galore;
Oh what clapping will be there!
Such a thundring loun Encore ,
As will make a dead man stare!
Enter Grizzle, Foodle, Rebels, on the other side of the Stage.
Foodle. At length, the enemy advances nigh,
I hear them with my ear, and see them with my eye.
Grizzle. Draw all your swords--for Liberty we fight,
And Liberty the mustard is of life.
Thumb. Are you the man, whom men fam'd Grizzle call?
Grizzle. Are you the much more fam'd Tom Thumb ?
Thumb. The same.
Grizzle. Come on--for Liberty I fight.
Thumb. And I for Love. [ A bloody engagement between the two armies here drums beating, trumpets sounding, thunder and lightning--they fight off and on several time--some fall--
Grizzle and Glumdalca remain.
Glumdalca. Turn, coward, turn, nor from a woman fly.
Grizzle. Away--thou art not worthy of my arm.
Glumdalca. Have at thy heart then--
Grizzle. Nay, then I thrust at thine.
Glumdalca. Too well you thrust, you've run me thro' the Guts.
Oh! I'm dead, but not with joy--
Grizzle. Then, there's an end of one.
Re-enter Thumb, etc.
Thumb. When thou art dead, then there's and end of two.
Villain!
Grizzle. Tom Thumb!
Thumb. Rebel!
Grizzle. Tom Thumb!
Thumb. Hell!
Grizzle. Huncamunca!
Thumb. Thou hast it there.
Grizzle. Too sure I have.
Thumb. To hell, thou rebel!
Grizzle. Triumph not, Thumb , nor think thou shalt enjoy
Thy Huncamunca undisturb'd--I'll send
My Ghost to fetch her to the other world;
It shall but bait at heav'n, and then return.
But ha! I feel death rummaging my spirits.
AIR XXX.
My body's like a bankrupt's shop,
My creditor is a cruel death,
Who puts to trade of life a stop,
And will be paid with this last breath;
Oh! [ groans and dies. ]
Thumb. With those last words he vomited his soul,
Which he hath voided in the devil's close-stool--
Bear off the body, and cut off the head,
For me to lug in triumph to the King--
Rebellion's dead, and now I'll go to break-fast.
AIR XXXI.
An artist who has overcome,
Antagonist at skittle-ground,
Withdraws unto some private room,
And smokes, and hands the full pot round.
We must take breath in all we do,
An interval whets appetite;
Unless we eat and drink, you know,
We cannot either love, or fight.
Enter King, Queen, Huncamunca, and Courtiers.
King. Open the prisons, set the wretched free,
And bid our Treasurer disburse six pounds
To pay their debts--come, sit we down;
Here seated let us view the dancers sports--
Bid them advance--this is the wedding-day,
Of Princess Huncamunca and Tom Thumb ;
Tom Thumb ! who wins two victories to-day,
And this way marches, bearing Grizzle 's head.
A Dance here.
Enter Noodle.
Noodle. Oh! monstrous! dreadful! terrible! oh! oh!
Deaf be my ears, for ever blind my eyes!
Dumb be my tongue! feet lame! all senses lost!
Howl Wolves! grunt Bears! hiss Snakes!
Shriek all ye Ghosts!
King. What does the blockhead mean?
Noodle. Only to grace my tale with decent horror:
Whilst from my garret, twice two stories high,
I look abroad to take the air,
I saw Tom Thumb attended by a mob;
Twice twenty shoe-boys, twice two dozen links,
Chairmen and porters, hachney-coachmen--whores,
Aloft he bore the grizly head of Grizzle ,
When on a sudden thro' the streets there came
A Cow , much larger than the usual size,
And in a moment--Oh! guess the rest
And in a moment, swallow'd up Tom Thumb !
King. Shut up again the prisons--bid my treasurer
Not give three farthings out--hang all the Culprits ,
Guilty, or not,--no matter--ravish virgins--
Go bid the school-masters whip all their boys;
Let lawyers, parsons, and physicians loose
To rob, impose on, and to kill the world.
Noodle. Her Majesty the Queen is in a swoon.
Queen. Not so much a swoon, but I have still
Strength to reward the messenger of ill news. [ Stabs him.
Noodle. Oh! I am slain.
Cleora. My lover's kill'd, and I revenge him so. [ Stabs the Queen.
Huncamunca. My mamma kill'd! vile murtheress! there. [ Stabs Cleora.
Doodle. This for an old grudge, to thy heart. [ Stabs Huncamunca.
Mustacha. And this I drive to thine,
O Doodle for a new one. [ Stabs Doodle.
King. Ha! murdress vile! take that. [ Stabs Mustacha.
And take thou this-- [ Kills himself and falls.
AIR XXXII.
A monarch, when his people's gone,
Wou'd look but awkward on a throne.
With pleasure then resign thy crown,
Since all they subjects are o'er thrown.
What signifies it to survive,
When only thou art left alive?
So!
Oh! [ Dies.
Enter Sir Crit-Operatical and Modely.
Modely. Well, Sir Crit-Operatical , how like you the Entertainment so far?
Sir Crit-Operatical. Faith, Sir, 'tis as pretty a Banquet of dead Bodies as a Sexton could wish, and Variety--but I hope Mr. Modely has a better Opinion of the Tenderness, as well as Regularity of my musical Disposition, than to imagine I can see such a stupid, irregular, and abominable Catastrophe, without Indignation.
Modely. Have Patience, till you see the Catastrophe.
Sir Crit-Operatical. I would be glad to know who ever saw an Italian Opera end tragically? By Gad, when we English imitate any Thing that's foreign, we do it so awkwardly! There's something of Whim in the Opera, but split me, this will infallibly damn it in the Eyes of all good Judges--I could almost cudgel the Rogue, that committed so unparallel'd a Blunder.
Modely. But good Sir Crit , keep your Temper till you see the Catastrophe.
Sir Crit-Operatical. Catastrophe! Why, the Actors are all dead, and unless the Author can give them a new Being, he will never be able to give his Opera another Ending.
Modely. But I hear they are not really dead.
Sir Crit-Operatical. How! not dead?
Modely. No, Sir; they are only inchanted; for you must know, Merlin interpos'd in their Fall, and intends, by Virtue of the same Magick Art, to make them all rise again, in Order to give a happy Conclusion to the Opera. And see--he comes.
Enter Merlin.
RECITATIVO.
Merlin. Sweet Goddess of inchanting Strains,
That steal'st, like Drink, into Men's Brains;
Great Trader in soft, melting, Wane;
Thou best of Cradles to our Care,
Lend thy harmonious Aid to free
From magick Spell this Company. [ solemn Music.
And first arise, thou fell--thou hideous Brute-- [ waves his wand.
Thou rav'nous Cow!--I do conjure thee to't.
A Red Cow appears. [ Curtain drops.
Now by emetick Power, Red Cannibal, [ waves his Wand.
Cast up thy Pris'ner, England's Hannibal .
Forth from her growling Guts, brave Worthy, come,
And be thyself--the Little Great TOM THUMB. [ he comes out of her Mouth, after which she disappears .
Now King, now Lords, now Commons, all arise; [ waves his Wand over each as he speaks.
Be loose your Tongues, and open all your Eyes;
Be chang'd from what ye were--let Faction cease,
And ev'ry one enjoy his Love in Peace! [ they rise up.
Sir Crit-Operatical. Wond'rous, astonishing Plot! more sudden than the Reprieve in the Beggars Opera --a Transformation exceeding all Transformation--even the Comical Transformation, or any in Ovid's Metamorphosis .
RECITATIVO.
King. O Dollalolla ! O my Queen!
Thou only art my Queen!
Queen. O Arthur ! O my King!
Thou only art my King!
Huncamunca. O TOM THUMB!
Thumb. O Huncamunca !
Grizzle. Rub well thy Eyes, O Grizzle , to see clear!
Hast thou been in the Moon, or in a Sleep?
That matters not, but this I know,
I've slept myself into a better Mood.
Pardon my late Rebellion, good my Liege--
Tom Thumb , be happy in thy Hunky 's Love--
O sweet Glumdalca ! could'st thou be so with me,
But half a Giant, yet an able Man.
Glumdalca. The Offer's kind, and not to be rejected
By one in my sad Case--a Stranger here--
Some hundred thousand Leagues, or more,
From any of my Giant Country-men.
AIR XXXIII.
Dimension, in Lovers, takes all knowing Lasses,
From twenty to thirty, or more;
But little or great, no matter, he passes
With longing Old Maids of two Score.
For be he short, or be he tall,
One's better, sure, than none at all.
Thumb. Rebellions' dead, tho' we are all alive;
Cur'd by a Miracle, by giving Life,
While others heal by taking it away--
Inchantment happy! Conjuror most blest!
Among the Faculty of Quacks the best.
DUETTE.
Thumb. Tell, Hunky , without feigning,
Dost thou longer like abstaining?
Huncamunca. View my eyes, and know my meaning.
Thumb. I see the lent of love is past;
Huncamunca. And yet I have not broke my fast;
Thumb. But soon you shall--I'm in the fit.--
Huncamunca. For what?
Thumb. To love.
Huncamunca. Then, prithee humour it.
Both. Ay, prithee let us humor it.
Huncamunca. But dear Tommy , prithee say,
Wilt thou never go astray?
Thumb. I'll be constant as times go;
I'll sup abroad a night or so.
Huncamunca. But what if I should do the same?
Thumb. You'd only do like modish dame.
Huncamunca. Pshaw! rather let us faithful prove;
Who shares a lover, does not love.
Both. Who shares a lover does not love.
King. Bravo! Bravissimo!
Thrice three! full nine times happy Arthur !
Shew me the King, who is so bless'd as I?
My Subjects now no longer by the ears,
But all shake hands, like friends, with one another.
CHORUS.
Let fierce animosities cease,
Let all marry'd couples agree,
Let each his own wife kiss in peace,
And end all their Cavils as we.
FINIS.
THE QUEST OF THE SANGRAAL
by
ROBERT S. HAWKER
The name Sangraal is derived from San , the breviate of Sanctus or Saint, Holy , and Graal , the Keltic word for Vessel or Vase. All that is known of the Origin and History of this mysterious Relique will be rehearsed in the Poem itself. As in the title, so in the Knightly Names, I have preferred the Keltic to other sources of spelling and sound.--R.S.H.
Ho! for the Sangraal! vanish'd Vase of Heaven!
That held, like Christ's own heart, an hin [1] of blood!
Ho! for the Sangraal! . . .
How the merry shout
Of reckless riders on their rushing steeds,
Smote the loose echo from the drowsy rock
Of grim Dundagel, thron'd along the sea!
"Unclean! unclean! ten cubits and a span, [2]
Keep from the wholesome touch of human-kind:
Stand at the gate, and beat the leper's bell,
But stretch not forth the hand for holy thing,--
Unclean, as Egypt at the ebb of Nile!"
Thus said the monk, a lean and gnarlèd man;
His couch was on the rock, by that wild stream
That floods, in cataract, Saint Nectan's Kieve: [3]
One of the choir, whose life is Orison.
They had their lodges in the wilderness,
Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea,
And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream:
So they unroll'd the volume of the Book,
And fill'd the fields of the Evangelist
With antique thoughts, that breath'd of Paradise.
Uprose they for the Quest--the bounding men
Of the siege perilous, and the granite ring--
They gathered at the rock, yon ruddy tor; [4]
The stony depth where lurked the demon-god,
Till Christ, the mighty Master, drave him forth.
There stood the knights, stately, and stern, and tall;
Tristan, and Perceval, Sir Galahad,
And he, the sad Sir Lancelot of the lay:
Ah me! that logan [5] of the rocky hills,
Pillar'd in storm, calm in the rush of war,
Shook, at the light touch of his lady's hand!
See! where they move, a battle-shouldering kind!
Massive in mould, but graceful: thorough men:
Built in the mystic measure of the Cross:--
Their lifted arms the transome: and their bulk,
The Tree, where Jesu stately stood to die--
Thence came their mastery in the field of war:--
Ha! one might drive battalions--one, alone!
See! now, they pause; for in their midst, the King,
Arthur, the Son of Uter, and the Night,
Helm'd with Pendragon, with the crested Crown,
And belted with the sheath'd Excalibur, [6]
That gnash'd his iron teeth, and yearn'd for war!
Stern was that look (high natures seldom smile)
And in those pulses beat a thousand kings.
A glance! and they were husht: a lifted hand!
And his eye ruled them like a throne of light.
Then, with a voice that rang along the moor,
Like the Archangel's trumpet for the dead,
He spake--while Tamar sounded to the sea.
"Comrades in arms! Mates of The Table Round!
Fair Sirs, my fellows in the bannered ring,
Ours is a lofty tryst! this day we meet,
Not under shield, with scarf and knightly gage,
To quench our thirst of love in ladies' eyes:
We shall not mount to-day that goodly throne,
The conscious steed, with thunder in his loins,
To launch along the field the arrowy spear:
Nay, but a holier theme, a mightier Quest--
'Ho! for the Sangraal, vanish'd Vase of God!'
"Ye know that in old days, that yellow Jew,
Accursèd Herod; and the earth-wide judge,
Pilate the Roman--doomster for all lands,
Or else the Judgment had not been for all,--
Bound Jesu-Master to the world's tall tree,
Slowly to die. . . .
Ha! Sirs, had we been there,
They durst not have assayed their felon deed,
Excalibur had cleft them to the spine!
Slowly He died, a world in every pang,
Until the hard centurion's cruel spear
Smote His high heart: and from that severed side,
Rush'd the red stream that quencht the wrath of Heaven!
"Then came Sir Joseph, hight of Arimathèe,
Bearing that awful Vase, the Sangraal!
The Vessel of the Pasch, Shere Thursday night,
The selfsame Cup, wherein the faithful Wine
Heard God, and was obedient unto Blood.
Therewith he knelt and gathered blessèd drops
From his dear Master's Side that sadly fell,
The ruddy dews from the great tree of life:
Sweet Lord! what treasures! like the priceless gems
Hid in the tawny casket of a king,--
A ransom for an army, one by one!
"That wealth he cherisht long: his very soul
Around his ark: bent as before a shrine!
"He dwelt in Orient Syria: God's own land:
The ladder foot of heaven--where shadowy shapes
In white appparel glided up and down.
His home was like a garner, full of corn,
And wine and oil; a granary of God!
Young men, that no one knew, went in and out,
With a far look in their eternal eyes!
All things were strange and rare: the Sangraal,
As though it clung to some ethereal chain,
Brought down high Heaven to earth at Arimathèe.
"He lived long centuries and prophesied.
A girded pilgrim ever and anon,
Cross-staff in hand, and, folded at his side,
The mystic marvel of the feast of blood!
Once, in old time, he stood in this dear land,
Enthrall'd--for lo! a sign! his grounded staff
Took root, and branch'd, and bloom'd, like Aaron's rod:
Thence came the shrine, the cell; therefore he dwelt,
The vassal of the Vase, at Avalon!
"This could not last, for evil days came on,
And evil men: the garbage of their sin
Tainted this land, and all things holy fled.
The Sangraal was not: on a summer eve,
The silence of the sky brake up in sound!
The tree of Joseph glowed with ruddy light:
A harmless fire, curved like a molten vase,
Around the bush, and from the midst, a voice:
Thus hewn by Merlin on a runic stone:--
Kirioth : el : Zannah : aulohee : pedah :
"Then said the shuddering seer--he heard and knew
The unutterable words that glide in Heaven,
Without a breath or tongue, from soul to soul--
"'The land is lonely now: Anathema!
The link that bound it to the silent grasp
Of thrilling worlds is gathered up and gone:
The glory is departed; and the disk
So full of radiance from the touch of God!
This orb is darkened to the distant watch
Of Saturn and his reapers, when they pause,
Amid their sheaves, to count the nightly stars.
"'All gone! but not for ever: on a day
There shall rise a king from Keltic loins,
Of mystic birth and name, tender and true;
His vassals shall be noble, to a man:
Knights strong in battle till the war is won:
Then while the land is husht on Tamar side,
So that the warder upon Carradon
Shall hear at once the river and the sea--
That king shall call a Quest: a kindling cry:
'Ho! for the Sangraal! vanish'd Vase of God!'
"'Yea! and it shall be won! A chosen knight,
The ninth from Joseph in the line of blood,
Clean as a maid from guile and fleshly sin--
He with the shield of Sarras; [7] and the lance,
Ruddy and moisten'd with a freshening stain,
As from a sever'd wound of yesterday--
He shall achieve the Graal: he alone!'"
"Thus wrote Bard Merlin on the Runic hide
Of a slain deer: rolled in an aumry chest.
"And now, fair Sirs, your voices: who will gird
His belt for travel in the perilous ways?
This thing must be fulfilled:--in vain our land
Of noble name, high deed, and famous men;
Vain the proud homage of our thrall, the sea,
If we be shorn of God. Ah! loathsome shame!
To hurl in battle for the pride of arms:
To ride in native tournay, foreign war:
To count the stars; to ponder pictured runes,
And grasp great knowledge, as the demons do,
If we be shorn of God:--we must assay
The myth and meaning of this marvellous bowl:
It shall be sought and found:--"
Thus said the King.
Then rose a storm of voices; like the sea,
When Ocean, bounding, shouts with all his waves.
High-hearted men! the purpose and the theme,
Smote the fine chord that thrills the warrior's soul
With touch and impulse for a deed of fame.
Then spake Sir Gauvain, counsellor of the King,
A man of Pentecost for words that burn:--
"Sirs! we are soldiers of the rock and ring:
Our Table Round is earth's most honoured stone;
Thereon two worlds of life and glory blend,
The boss upon the shield of many a land,
The midway link with the light beyond the stars!
This is our fount of fame! Let us arise,
And cleave the earth like rivers; like the streams
That win from Paradise their immortal name:
To the four winds of God, casting the lot.
So shall we share the regions, and unfold
The shrouded mystery of those fields of air.
"Eastward! the source and spring of life and light!
Thence came, and thither went, the rush of worlds,
When the great cone of space [8] was sown with stars.
There rolled the gateway of the double dawn,
When the mere God shone down, a breathing man.
There, up from Bethany, the Syrian Twelve
Watched their dear Master darken into day.
Thence, too, will gleam the Cross, the arisen wood: [9]
Ah, shuddering sign, one day, of terrible doom!
Therefore the Orient is the home of God.
"The West! a Galilee: the shore of men;
The symbol and the scene of populous life:
Full Japhet journeyed thither, Noe's son,
The prophecy of increase in his loins.
Westward [10] Lord Jesu looked His latest love,
His yearning Cross along the peopled sea,
The innumerable nations in His soul.
Thus came that type and token of our kind,
The realm and region of the set of sun,
The wide, wide West; the imaged zone of man.
"The North! the lair of demons, where they coil,
And bound, and glide, and travel to and fro:
Their gulph, the underworld, this hollow orb,
Where vaulted columns curve beneath the hills,
And shoulder us on their arches: there they throng;
The portal of their pit, the polar gate,
Their fiery dungeon mocked with northern snow:
There, doom and demon haunt a native land,
Where dreamy thunder mutters in the cloud,
Storm broods, and battle breathes, and baleful fires
Shed a fierce horror o'er the shuddering North.
"But thou! O South Wind, breathe thy fragrant sigh!
We follow on thy perfume, breath of heaven!
Myriads, in girded albs, for ever young,
Their stately semblance of embodied air,
Troop round the footstool of the Southern Cross,
That pentacle of stars: the very sign
That led the Wise Men towards the Awful Child,
Then came and stood to rule the peaceful sea.
So, too, Lord Jesu from His mighty tomb [11]
Cast the dear shadow of his red right hand,
To soothe the happy South--the angels' home.
"Then let us search the regions, one by one,
And pluck this Sangraal from its cloudy cave."
So Merlin brought the arrows: graven lots,
Shrouded from sight within a quiver'd sheath,
For choice and guidance in the perilous path,
That so the travellers might divide the lands.
They met at Lauds, in good Saint Nectan's cell,
For fast, and vigil, and their knightly vow:
Then knelt, and prayed, and all received their God.
"Now for the silvery arrows! Grasp and hold!"
Sir Lancelot drew the North: that fell domain,
Where fleshly man must brook the airy fiend--
His battle-foe, the demon--ghastly War!
Ho! stout Saint Michael shield them, knight and knave!
The South fell softly to Sir Perceval's hand:
Some shadowy angel breathed a silent sign,
That so that blameless man, that courteous knight,
Might mount and mingle with the happy host
Of God's white army in their native land.
Yea! they shall woo and soothe him, like the dove.
But hark! the greeting--"Tristan for the West!"
Among the multitudes, his watchful way,
The billowy hordes beside the seething sea;
But will the glory gleam in loathsome lands?
Will the lost pearl shine out among the swine?
Woe, father Adam, to thy loins and thee!
Sir Galahad holds the Orient arrow's name:
His chosen hand unbars the gate of day;
There glows that heart, fill'd with his mother's blood,
That rules in every pulse, the world of man;
Link of the awful Three, with many a star.
O! blessèd East! 'mid visions such as thine,
'Twere well to grasp the Sangraal, and die.
Now feast and festival in Arthur's hall:
Hark! stern Dundagel softens into song!
They meet for solemn severance, knight and king,
Where gate and bulwark darken o'er the sea.
Strong men for meat, and warriors at the wine,
They wreak the wrath of hunger on the beeves,
They rend rich morsels from the savoury deer,
And quench the flagon like Brun-guillie [12] dew!
Hear! how the minstrels prophesy in sound,
Shout the King's Waes-hael, and Drink-hael the Queen!
Then said Sir Kay, he of the arrowy tongue,
"Joseph and Pharaoh! how they build their bones!
Happier the boar were quick than dead to-day."
The Queen! the Queen! how haughty on the dais!
The sunset tangled in her golden hair:
A dove amid the eagles--Gwennivar!
Aishah! what might is in that glorious eye!
See their tamed lion [13] from Brocelian's glade,
Couched on the granite like a captive king!
A word--a gesture--or a mute caress--
How fiercely fond he droops his billowy mane,
And wooes, with tawny lip, his lady's hand!
The dawn is deep; the mountains yearn for day;
The hooting cairn [14] is husht--that fiendish noise,
Yelled from the utterance of the rending rock,
When the fierce dog of Cain barks from the moon. [15]
The bird of judgment chants the doom of night,
The billows laugh a welcome to the day,
And Camlan ripples, seaward, with a smile.
Down with the eastern bridge! the warriors ride,
And thou, Sir Herald, blazon as they pass!
Foremost sad Lancelot, throned upon his steed,
His yellow banner, northward, lapping light:
The crest, a lily, with a broken stem,
The legend, Stately once and ever fair ;
It hath a meaning, seek it not, O King!
A quaint embroidery Sir Perceval wore;
A turbaned Syrian, underneath a palm,
Wrestled for mastery with a stately foe,
Robed in a Levite's raiment, white as wool:
His touch o'erwhelmed the Hebrew, and his word,
Whoso is strong with God shall conquer man,
Coil'd in rich tracery round the knightly shield.
Did Ysolt's delicate fingers weave the web,
That gleamed in silken radiance o'er her lord?
A molten rainbow, bent, that arch in heaven,
Which leads straightway to Paradise and God;
Beneath, came up a gloved and sigilled hand,
Amid this cunning needlework of words,
When toil and tears have worn the westering day,
Behold the smile of fame! so brief: so bright.
A vast archangel floods Sir Galahad's shield:
Mid-breast, and lifted high, an Orient cruse,
Full filled, and running o'er with Numynous [16] light,
As though it held and shed the visible God;
Then shone this utterance as in graven fire,
I thirst! O Jesu! let me drink and die!
So forth they fare, King Arthur and his men,
Like stout quaternions of the Maccabee:
They halt, and form at craggy Carradon;
Fit scene for haughty hope and stern farewell.
Lo! the rude altar, and the rough-hewn rock,
The grim and ghastly semblance of the fiend,
His haunt and coil within that pillar'd home.
Hark! the wild echo! Did the demon breathe
That yell of vengeance from the conscious stone?
There the brown barrow curves its sullen breast,
Above the bones of some dead Gentile's soul:
All husht--and calm--and cold--until anon
Gleams the old dawn--the well-remembered day--
Then may you hear, beneath that hollow cairn,
The clash of arms: the muffled shout of war;
Blent with the rustle of the kindling dead!
They stand--and hush their hearts to hear the King.
Then said he, like a prince of Tamar-land--
Around his soul, Dundagel and the sea--
"Ha! Sirs--ye seek a noble crest to-day,
To win and wear the starry Sangraal,
The link that binds to God a lonely land.
Would that my arm went with you, like my heart!
But the true shepherd must not shun the fold:
For in this flock are crouching grievous wolves,
And chief among them all, my own false kin.
Therefore I tarry by the cruel sea,
To hear at eve the treacherous mermaid's song,
And watch the wallowing monsters of the wave,--
'Mid all things fierce, and wild, and strange, alone!
"Ay! all beside can win companionship:
The churl may clip his mate beneath the thatch,
While his brown urchins nestle at his knees:
The soldier give and grasp a mutual palm,
Knit to his flesh in sinewy bonds of war:
The knight may seek at eve his castle-gate,
Mount the old stair, and lift the accustom'd latch,
To find, for throbbing brow and weary limb,
That paradise of pillows, one true breast:
But he, the lofty ruler of the land,
Like yonder Tor, first greeted by the dawn,
And wooed the latest by the lingering day,
With happy homes and hearths beneath his breast,
Must soar and gleam in solitary snow.
The lonely one is, evermore, the King.
So now farewell, my lieges, fare ye well,
And God's sweet Mother be your benison!
Since by grey Merlin's gloss, this wondrous cup
Is, like the golden vase in Aaron's ark,
A fount of manha for a yearning world,
As full as it can hold of God and heaven,
Search the four winds until the balsam breathe,
Then grasp, and fold it in your very soul!
"I have no son, no daughter of my loins,
To breathe, 'mid future men, their father's name:
My blood will perish when these veins are dry;
Yet am I fain some deeds of mine should live--
I would not be forgotten in this land:
I yearn that men I know not, men unborn,
Should find, amid these fields, King Arthur's fame!
Here let them say, by proud Dundagel's walls--
'They brought the Sangraal back by his command,
They touched these rugged rocks with hues of God:'
So shall my name have worship, and my land.
"Ah! native Cornwall! throned upon the hills,
Thy moorland pathways worn by Angel feet,
Thy streams that march in music to the sea
'Mid Ocean's merry noise, his billowy laugh!
Ah me! a gloom falls heavy on my soul--
The birds that sung to me in youth are dead;
I think, in dreamy vigils of the night,
It may be God is angry with my land,
Too much athirst for fame, too fond of blood;
And all for earth, for shadows, and the dream
To glean an echo from the winds of song!
"But now, let hearts be high! the Archangel held
A tournay with the fiend on Abarim,
And good Saint Michael won his dragon-crest!
"Be this our cry! the battle is for God!
If bevies of foul fiends withstand your path,
Nay! if strong angels hold the watch and ward,
Plunge in their midst, and shout, 'A Sangraal!'"
He ceased; the warriors bent a knightly knee,
And touched, with kiss and sign, Excalibur;
Then turned, and mounted for their perilous way!
That night Dundagel shuddered into storm--
The deep foundations shook beneath the sea:
Yet there they stood, beneath the murky moon,
Above the bastion, Merlin and the King.
Thrice waved the sage his staff, and thrice they saw
A peopled vision throng the rocky moor.
First fell a gloom, thick as a thousand nights,
A pall that hid whole armies; and beneath
Stormed the wild tide of war; until on high
Gleamed red the dragon, and the Keltic glaive
Smote the loose battle of the roving Dane!
Then yelled a fiercer fight: for brother blood
Rushed mingling, and twin dragons fought the field!
The grisly shadows of his faithful knights
Perplext their lord: and in their midst, behold!
His own stern semblance waved a phantom brand,
Drooped, and went down the war. Then cried the King,
"Ho! Arthur to the rescue!" and half drew
Excalibur; but sank, and fell entranced.
A touch aroused the monarch: and there stood
He, of the billowy beard and awful eye,
The ashes of whole ages on his brow--
Merlin the bard, son of a demon-sire!
High, like Ben Amram at the thirsty rock,
He raised his prophet staff: that runic rod,
The stem of Igdrasil [17]--the crutch of Raun--
And wrote strange words along the conscious air.
Forth gleamed the east, and yet it was not day!
A white and glowing horse outrode the dawn;
A youthful rider ruled the bounding rein,
And he, in semblance of Sir Galahad shone:
A vase he held on high; one molten gem,
Like massive ruby or the chrysolite:
Thence gushed the light in flakes; and flowing, fell
As though the pavement of the sky brake up,
And stars were shed to sojourn on the hills,
From grey Morwenna's stone to Michael's tor,
Until the rocky land was like a heaven.
Then saw they that the mighty Quest was won!
The Sangraal swoon'd along the golden air:
The sea breathed balsam, like Gennesaret:
The streams were touched with supernatural light:
And fonts of Saxon rock, stood, full of God!
Altars arose, each like a kingly throne,
Where the royal chalice, with its lineal blood,
The Glory of the Presence, ruled and reigned.
This lasted long: until the white horse fled,
The fierce fangs of the libbard in his loins:
Whole ages glided in that blink of time,
While Merlin and the King, looked, wondering, on.
But see! once more the wizard-wand arise,
To cleave the air with signals, and a scene.
Troops of the demon-north, in yellow garb,
The sickly hue of vile Iscariot's hair,
Mingle with men, in unseen multitudes!
Unscared, they throng the valley and the hill;
The shrines were darkened and the chalice void:
That which held God was gone: Maran-atha!
The awful shadows of the Sangraal, fled!
Yet giant-men arose, that seemed as gods,
Such might they gathered from the swarthy kind:
The myths were rendered up: and one by one,
The Fire--the Light--the Air--were tamed and bound
Like votive vassals at their chariot-wheel.
Then learnt they War: yet not that noble wrath,
That brings the generous champion face to face
With equal shield, and with a measured brand,
To peril life for life, and do or die;
But the false valour of the lurking fiend
To hurl a distant death from some deep den:
To wing with flame the metal of the mine:
And, so they rend God's image, reck not who!
"Ah! haughty England! lady of the wave!"
Thus said pale Merlin to the listening King,
"What is thy glory in the world of stars?
To scorch and slay: to win demoniac fame,
In arts and arms; and then to flash and die!
Thou art the diamond of the demon-crown,
Smitten by Michael upon Abarim,
That fell; and glared, an island of the sea.
Ah! native England! wake thine ancient cry;
Ho! for the Sangraal! vanish'd Vase of Heaven,
That held, like Christ's own heart, an hin of blood!"
He ceased; and all around was dreamy night:
There stood Dundagel, throned: and the great sea
Lay, a strong vassal at his master's gate,
And, like a drunken giant, sobb'd in sleep!
2 The distance at which a leper was commanded to keep from every healthy person.
3 Or cauldron.
4 Routor, the red hill, so named from the heath which blossoms on the hill-side.
5 Logan, or shuddering stone. A rock of augury found in all lands, a relic of the patriarchal era of belief. A child or an innocent person could move it, as Pliny records, with a stalk of asphodel; but a strong man, if guilty, could not shake it with all his force.
6 A Hebrew name, signifying "champer of the steel."
7 The city of "Sarras in the spiritual place" is the scene of many a legend of mediaeval times. In all likelihood it was identical with Charras or Charran of Holy Writ. There was treasured up the shield, the sure shelter of the Knight of the Quest. The lance which pierced our blessed Saviour's side was also there preserved.
8 Space is a created thing, material and defined. As time is mensura motus , so is space mensura loci ; and it signifies that part of God's presence which is measured out to enfold the planetary universe. The tracery of its outline is a cone. Every path of a planet is a curve of that conic figure: and as motion is the life of matter, the whirl of space in its allotted courses is the cause of that visible movement of the sun and the solar system towards the star Alcyone as the fixed centre in the cone of space.
9 The "Sign of the Son of Man," the signal of the last day, was understood, in the early ages, to denote the actual Cross of Calvary; which was to be miraculously recalled into existence, and, angel-borne, to announce the advent of the Lord in the sky.
10 Our Lord was crucified with His back towards the east: His face therefore was turned towards the west, which is always, in sacred symbolism, the region of the people.
11 Our Lord was laid in His sepulchre with His head towards the west: His right hand therefore gave symbolic greeting to the region of the south; as His left hand reproached and gave a fatal aspect to the north.
12 The golden-hill, from brun , "a hill" and guillie , "golden:" so called from the yellow gorse with which it is clothed.
13 This appropriate fondling of the knights of Dundagel moves Villemarque to write, "qui me plaise et me charme quand je le trouve couché aux pieds d'Ivan, le mufle allongé sur ses deux pattes croisées, les yeux à demi-ouvert et revant."
14 See Borlase, bk. iii, ch. iii for "Karn-idzek:" touched by the moon at some weird hour of the night, it hooted with oracular sound.
15 Cain and his dog: Dante's version of the man in the moon was a thought of the old simplicity of primeval days.
16 When the cone of space had been traced out and defined, the next act of creation was to replenish it with that first and supernatural element which I have named 'Numyne.' The forefathers called it the spiritual or ethereal element, coelum ; from Genesis i. 2. Within its texture the other and grosser elements of light and air ebb and flow, cling and glide. Therein dwell the forces, and thereof Angels and all spiritual things receive their substance and form.
17 Igdrasil, the mystic tree, the ash of the Keltic ritual. The Raun or Rowan is also the ash of the mountain, another magic wood of the northern nations.
Legends/Sagas
KING ARTHUR'S WAES-HAEL
by
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
I.
Waes-hael for knight and dame!
O! merry be their dole;
Drink-hael! in Jesu's name
We fill the tawny bowl;
But cover down the curving crest,
Mould of the orient lady's breast.
II.
Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:
Drain ye the reeds for wine!
Drink-hael! the milk was hid
That soothed that Babe divine;
Hushed, as this hollow channel flows,
He drew the balsam from the rose.
III.
Waes-hael! thus glowed the breast
Where a God yearned to cling;
Drink-hael! so Jesu pressed
Life from its mystic spring;
Then hush, and bend in reverent sign,
And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.
IV.
Waes-hael! in shadowy scene,
Lo! Christmas children we;
Drink-hael! behold we lean
At a far Mother's knee;
To dream, that thus her bosom smiled,
And learn the lip of Bethlehem's Child.
QUEEN GUENNIVAR'S ROUND
by
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
I.
Naid for Grecian waters!
Nymph for the fountain-side!
But old Cornwall's bounding daughters
For gay Dundagel's tide.
II.
The wild wind proudly gathers
Round the ladies of the land;
And the blue wave of their fathers
Is joyful where they stand.
III.
Naiad for Grecian waters!
Nymph for the foutain-side!
But old Cornwall's bounding daughters
For gray Dundagel's tide.
IV.
Yes! when memory rejoices
In her long-belovèd theme,
Fair forms and thrilling voices
Will mingle with my dream.
V.
Naiad for Grecian waters!
Nymph for the foutain-side!
But old Cornwall's bounding daughters
For gray Dundagel's tide.
THE DOOM-WELL OF ST. MADRON
by
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
I.
"Plunge thy right hand in St. Madron's spring,
If true to its troth be the palm you bring:
But if a false sigil thy fingers bear,
Lay them rather on the burning share."
II.
Loud laughed King Arthur when-as he heard
That solemn friar his boding word:
And blithely he sware as a king he may,
"We tryst for St. Madron's at break of day."
III.
"Now horse and hattock, both but and ben,"
Was the cry at Lauds, with Dundagel men;
And forth they pricked upon Routorr side,
As goodly a raid as a king could ride.
IV.
Proud Gwennivar rode like a queen of the land,
With page and with squire at her bridle hand;
And the twice six knights of the stony ring,
They girded and guarded their Cornish king.
V.
Then they halted their steeds at St. Madron's cell:
And they stood by the monk of the cloistered well;
"Now off with your guantlets," King Arthur he cried,
"And glory or shame for our Tamar side."
VI.
'Twere sooth to sing how Sir Gauvain smiled,
When he grasped the waters so soft and mild;
How Sir Launcelot dashed the glistening spray
O'er the rugged beard of the rough sir Kay.
VII.
Sir Bevis he touched and found no fear:
'Twas a beniteé stoup to Sir Belvidere;
How the fountain flashed o'er King Arthur's Queen,
Say, Cornish dames, for ye guess the scene.
VIII.
"Now rede me my riddle, Sir Mordred, I pray,
My kinsmen, mine ancient, my Bien-aimé;
Now rede me my riddle, and rede it aright,
Art thou traitorous knave or my trusty knight?"
IX.
He plunged his right arm in the judgement well,
It bubbled and boiled like a cauldron of hell:
He drew and he lifted his quivering limb,
Ha! Sir Judas, how Madron had sodden him.
X.
Now let Uter Pendragon do what he can,
Still the Tamar river will run as it ran:
Let king or let kaisar be fond or be fell,
Ye may harowe their troth in St. Madron's well.
TRISTRAM OF THE WOOD
by
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE
Once, when the autumn fields were dim and wet,
The trumpets rang; the tide of battle set
Toward gray Broceliande, by the western sea.
In the fore-front of conflict grimly stood,
Clothed in dark armor, Tristam of the Wood,
And round him ranged his knights of Brittany.
Of lordlier frame than even the lordliest there,
Firm as a tower, upon his vast destrere ,
He looked as one whose soul was steeped in trance.
Ne'er spake nor stirred he, though the trumpet's sound
Echoed abroad, and all the glittering ground
Shook to the steel-clad warriors' swift advance;
Ne'er spake nor stirred he, for the mystic hour
Closed o'er him then; the glamour of its power
Dream-wrought, and sadly beautiful with love--
Love of the lost Iseult. In marvellous stead
Of thronging faces, with looks stern and dread,
Through the dense dust, the hostile plumes above,
He saw his fair, lost Iseult's passionate eyes,
And o'er the crash of lances heard her cries,
Shrill with despair, when last they twain did part.
While others thrilled to strife, he, thrilled with woe,
Felt his life-currents shuddering cold and low
Round the worn bastions of his broken heart.
Then rolled his way the battle's furious flood;
Squadrons charged on him blindly; blows and blood
Showered down like hail and water; vainly drew
The whole war round him; still his broadsword's gleam
Flashed in death's front, and still, as wrapped in dream,
He fought and slew, witting not whom he slew,
Nor knew whose arm had smitten him deep and sore--
So deep that Tristam never, never more
Shone in the van of conflict; but the smart
Of his fierce wound tortured him night and day,
Till, through God's grace, his life-blood ebbed away,
And death's sweet quiet healed his broken heart.
GUINEVERE: A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS
by
GRAHAM HILL
"We have hissed away Kingdoms and Provinces"
SHAKESPEARE.
"One life, one death,
One heaven, one hell, one immortality,
And one annihilation." -- SHELLEY.
CHARACTERS
ARTHUR . . . . King of England
MORDRED . . . Arthur's Nephew and Heir
LAUNCELOT . . . Knight to Guinevere
AGRAVAINE . . . Of Mordred's Faction
PATRISE . . . . A Knight of Ireland
MADOR . . . . Cousin to Patrise
GUINEVERE . . . Wife to Arthur
VIVIEN . . . . Wife to Mordred
ABBESS
KNIGHTS, SQUIRES, LADIES, NUNS, &c.
ACT I. SCENE I. In the Meadows near Camelot (Afternoon).
SCENE II. The same (Evening).
SCENE III. The same (Next Morning).
ACT II. A River Terrace, Westminster Palace.
ACT III. SCENE I. Guinevere's Apartments, Westminster Palace.
SCENE II. Interior of the Convent (Next Morning).
ACT I.
SCENE. -- A wooded spot in the meadows near Camelot. King Arthur and his Court, who are on their way to meet Guinevere, are arriving. The scene is full of movement and gaiety. From the distance, gradually growing louder and nearer, are heard sounds of cheering. It is late afternoon, and the scene is filled with the golden glow of the setting sun.
AGRAVAINE and VIVIEN converse apart. MORDRED , at a little distance, stands buried in moody thought. AGRAVAINE approaches MORDRED. VIVIEN joins them.
AGRA. My lord, thy moody visage would proclaim
Our cause as lost, while yet our spears are bright,
Our bodies whole, our helms without a dent.
[ The CROWD cheer in distance.
MORD. Like one struck blind I am grown wise in sound,
And pick my way by virtue of mine ears.
AGRA. The sightless needs must go with troubled gait,
But, having eyes, we hold our course unstayed,
And beat the craven earth till it resounds
Our praises unto Him that gave us sight.
MORD. He that may hear the thunder of the surf,
And feinting that he hears it not, finds death
In the chill, clinging fingers of the deep --
Deserves no better fate.
AGRA. Yet shall the deaf
Not meet his master in the brutish sea,
For by the magic of an eye, he holds
In leash the dripping jaws that spit at him,
White, stinging drops of frenzied impotence;
While from afar the poor blind hears the roar,
Which clogs his feet with chains of formless fear,
And smites his soul with devastating dread.
[ Cheers are heard again nearer.
MORD. But when the darkness falls all men are blind:
'Tis then the wise have counsel of their ears.
Ye hear these sounds; wouldst urge me to believe
They threaten naught of ill?
AGRA. Naught; save to those
That pale at forest echoings, and take
A mental ague from a creaking branch.
VIV. Mordred, these shoutings mean us good or ill
As we interpret them.
MORD. To me they mean
New foes made fast and unsured friends grown cold.
Wherever Arthur moves it is the same;
He has the trick of catching man's good will,
And bracing waverers. Let him but roam
This vasty, echoing England as he list,
And from Carlisle to sea-scarred Tintagil
The whole land would be ringing with his name.
AGRA. Cast off thy gloom, my lord; the public tongue
Is but a wanton, and is little famed
For constancy!
VIV. 'Tis true enough, my lord;
These throats that now shout "Arthur" would as lief
Suck wind enough to make the welkin ring
With cries of "Mordred" -- if they had a cause.
AGRA. And where shall better cause be found than in
The uncleared doubts of Arthur's ancestry?
He calls thee nephew, and in that bare word
Lies his sole claim and title to the crown.
What other proof can he produce save thee?
And if thou say'st he is no kin of thine,
Then art thou King in thine own lawful right.
VIV. While Merlin lived, his word did stand as good
As child-bed witnesses, but he is dead.
Who now shall challenge the compelling cry,
"This is no son of Uther -- not the King!"
MORD. That cry, my friends, was lisped by last year's leaves,
Which have no voice in this spring's forestry.
The rabble ask not how the King is bred,
Nor know, nor care. They love this man as man,
And, loving him, I do foresee a Queen,
A new bond 'twixt the people and the King;
A double cord where only one has been.
AGRA. Mark well my words: thy fears are placed amiss.
The King has thriven! Truly so -- but how?
By being ever at the people's beck,
Forswearing self and soft indulgencies
In ceaseless striving for the nation's weal.
He is their friend, their champion, their slave.
Let it be so! But will ye see the end
Of this so dear devotion? Then behold --
A Queen more beautiful than earth at dawn,
Fairer than moonlight as it steals its way
Through lattice op'nings to a bridal couch.
Trust me our model King shall not resist
A lure so sweet, but lend himself entire
To love's abandonments, until he finds
Duty, resolve, and Kingship fade away,
And leave him, stript of purpose and repute,
A prey to common outcry, and to us.
MORD. Yet was my plan more swift. With Launcelot
And numbers of our most feared knights away
In far Cameliard, or capering
Attendance on the homing Guinevere
In the long stages of their slow return;
With ferment in the West, and at the Court
No thought of pending harm -- We should have struck,
Suddenly and swift, on Westminster, before
The Queen's strong escort had rejoined the King.
AGRA. The time had been misjudged, and thy whole plan
Foredoomed to failure. Were we now to strike,
This crowd would forge an armour for the King
Of bodies interwoven, against which
All mortal blades were vincible. But wait
Until they see their idol dallying
In soft, assotted fondness on the Queen;
See him grown smooth with pleasuring and round
With table practices; show them a King
Unfaithful to the promise of his youth --
Then may we strike and have these mouthing churls
Not fronting us, but charging at our backs.
VIV. [ With eager curiosity. ] When didst thou see the lady Guinevere?
AGRA. 'Twas in her native land, Cameliard,
When I was hunting there an autumn since.
I saw the damsel oft, but wot I best
Of my first sight of her. 'Twas on a morn
All grey as agelong night. Upon the castle hill
Fierce shadows flung themselves, like shapeless beasts
Upon a dying foe, and earth lay stunned
'Neath their benumbing touch. When suddenly
The grey walls cleft and issued forth a maid --
A fair white maid with streaming hair of gold,
That brake upon her shoulders and flowed down,
A gleaming amber torrent, to her feet.
She seemed like sunlight glinting from a rock,
And where she walked the sombre earth was sewn
With a lithe-moving skein of gold.
MORD. Perdy!
But these same lily-maids in Nature's way
Develop dangerously. Shall we then
Stand idly by while Nature hatches us
New claimants for our crown?
VIV. Nay, have no fear
Of Nature, till thou need her tenderings.
I trust her least when she's at midwif'ry.
Quick to undo what is so hardly done,
Unmaking always swifter than she makes,
So loth to spare, so keen to seize again,
She covets life from life's first death-bought breath.
If I must take Dame Nature for my friend,
Give me suspense of her good services
Till I be harvesting.
AGRA. Ere Nature deals
Our cause a hurt in form of Arthur's heir,
We have large time to shape our plans.
VIV. And time
To act on them. Either appeal to might
And press the issue at the lance's point,
Or hold us still, what time our Royal prey,
Steeped in deep draughts of stupefying ease,
Sinks to that sleep which never is renewed.
AGRA. 'Tis as shall be, and being so, 'tis well.
MORD. [ Roused from a reverie, and angrily. ] 'Tis well, ye say! How well? I swear 'tis ill
Ye judge this priestly lord as some raw youth,
Fierce and incontinent from long restraint.
Ye know not Arthur well who judge him so.
The source of his famed purity is ice.
In time he may be thawed. What! Are we Gods
To sew the hours and reap the centuries?
A year at least 'twill take his pious eyes
To learn her charms. A further year ere yet
He soils his virgin conscience with desire.
God wot how long we bite our nails the while
He sways between desire and the desired.
Life is too short to wait for this green fruit
To ripe and fall, full rotten, in our palm.
God send him West to-night to quell the strife,
And I'll delay no longer than the dawn
To compass our bold ends by bolder means.
I'll waste no patience paltering with knots
That may be carved asunder at a blow;
Nor doze beside a snare while I have strength
To bring my quarry down in open fight.
[ Enter ARTHUR , with KNIGHTS and MESSENGER.
AGRA. Here Arthur comes. Methinks I'd liever wait
To pull his tusks, till that old boar was dead.
ARTH. [ To a MESSENGER.] My lords, we'll bide no more in this green spot
The coming of the Queen. If from Sir Bors
Or Launcelot come other messengers,
Let them attend at once.
[ Exit MESSENGER.
MORD. Hast news, my lord,
That bars our onward march?
ARTH. So much of news
That love's advance has ended in retreat.
Our toes are even turned upon our heels;
Our laggard tail has ta'en itself a head,
That points our duty far from our desires!
VIV. Sir King, 'tis easy seen some fresh unrest
Is tangled in the web of thy concerns.
ARTH. Our message still lacks answer from the Welsh.
With no alarm, but some uneasiness,
We question the intent of this delay.
Sir Bors is waiting at his charger's head,
One eye on us and one fixed on the West,
And cannot tell which whither he will ride.
While we, impatient to be on, must keep
In distance of his call. If we discharge
The short few miles that hold us from the Queen,
We put that distance 'tween us and the men
That may have need of me.
AGRA. 'Tis no light thing,
This task of royalty. It confiscates
All small prerogatives in man, and while
It lifts him to the mountain-top, it holds
Him fast, as in the cleavage of a rock.
The King scarce dares to call himself, or this
Or that -- husband or friend or lover -- but,
Removed from all such fond, enfeebling ties
Of heart and interest, must ever be,
And ever know himself to be -- the King!
ARTH. Yet would I not, for all it gave in ease
Or licence of life's liberties, renounce
One jot of the responsibility
That's vested in the crown. 'Tis privileged
For Kings to live and joy and suffer -- ay,
And when death comes, to meet it like a King.
Come, nephew; come, my Lady Vivien,
Who wilt be friend and kin to Guinevere;
I'd have thee know my purpose for the Queen,
Lest day should find us speeding to the West.
[ Exit ARTHUR and MORDRED. VIVIEN stands in deep thought.
AGRA. [ Significantly to VIVIEN.] A day will come we shall recall with smiles
These windy words of Sir Morality,
And judge poor Adam's fall with less contempt.
VIV. [ In a tone of earnest enquiry. ] Is she so beautiful, so wondrous fair,
That e'en the stainless Arthur shall forget
His conscience as he looks on her?
AGRA. So fair,
As he is man he cannot choose but look,
And as he looks, forget. And so forgetting, die.
Let us go chase our tails to Camelot!
[ Exit AGRAVAINE.
VIV. [ Meditatively. ]
And as he looks forget! [ With sudden animation. ]
But he? But Launcelot?
Shall she subdue the proud, responseless heart,
That has disdained a beauty not less rare?
Ah God! shall Launcelot withstand a snare
That threats the resolution of the King?
Yet I'll believe it not, till I have seen
With my own eyes. Till then I'll not believe.
[ Exit VIVIEN hurriedly.
SCENE II. -- The same.
The stage remains empty for some moments, and the sound of distant cheers shows that the retinue of KING ARTHUR is already well on the return journey. Presently, from the opposite direction, is heard the sound of MUSIC , and the cavalcade that is escorting GUINEVERE to CAMELOT make a leisurely appearance. The cavalcade crosses the stage on horseback and on foot. Their voices die away in the distance.
CHORUS.
Pink and white, O flower of Spring,
Spread a carpet fair and sweet,
Deck her progress to the King,
Drop to kiss her lily feet.
She is come, the bride of May,
Speed her to the morrow;
Sweet the May and sweet the day,
And sweet, more sweet, the morrow.
Pink and white above her head,
Curtain her till morning light,
Burst thy heart to strew her bed,
'Neath the canopy of night.
She is here, the bride of May,
Guard her to the morrow.
Sweet the May and sweet the day,
O haste the sweeter morrow.
[ During the singing of the latter part, off, GUINEVERE and LAUNCELOT enter.
GUIN. Tell me again, Sir Knight, of this great King
Whose bride I am to be. Unless, perchance,
I weary thee with ceaseless questionings.
LAUNC. My Queen, I doubt if aught remains untold;
But since what was to tell, was good to hear,
List once again of him that serves no lord
But conscience, and of all his Knights requires
But this -- that they revere their conscience as the King.
GUIN. Tell me, my lord, are all of Arthur's Court
Like unto thee in likeness to the King?
LAUNC. He has no like or similar, but is to men
Even as thou among the Queens of Earth.
GUIN. Ah no! I am of those that he transcends.
I tremble, but in lifting up mine eyes
To his high state. How shall he mate with one
Who draws her being from the lowly earth?
The sun is in my blood, and my poor heart
Is caught by every breath of life and swayed,
As leaves are lift and rustled by the breeze,
That wills nor works them harm. I have been taught
To love all that is worshipful and true,
Because 'tis good and not for conscience sake.
And must I now lay siege unto myself,
Usurp the guards that Nature gave, and arm
My heart with duty, and the law of Kings?
LAUNC. As truth's unconscious beauty is to thee,
Is conscience to the King -- no striving,
But the unstudied working of a mind
That dwells on none in search of littleness,
But holds all flesh in fair equality.
No maiden's heart could be more sure bestowed,
Nor maiden's faith find safer harbourage,
Than in the keeping of our England's King.
GUIN. Sir Knight, I like thy hymning of his praise,
And his great virtues may not plead in vain
The truage due to his nobility.
But for his Kingship, hast thou yet to learn,
For ev'ry maid there is but one true King?
He is not crowned with shout or gilded pomp,
Nor flashes to the sky from quick drawn steel,
The cartel of his liege's loyalty.
But on his throne, secure, inviolate,
The siege set up within a maiden's heart,
He reigns sole lord, and wields a sway supreme,
Unconscious of his own dear sovereignty.
LAUNC. If this be so, then must I hold myself
Most honoured among Knights, in that I bring
A Queen to grace our England: for the King,
A Kingdom fairer than men's eyes have seen.
GUIN. Hast thou, my lord, thy rightful Kingdom won,
Or is it still unsought for, undesired?
LAUNC. Kingdoms have come and gone and are forgot,
And thrones will fall before the thrones to be,
But beauty, labouring in joy, brought forth
One queen to stand as pattern for all time,
And at that birth fulfilled herself. So must
She barren be of Queens for evermore.
GUIN. [ Sadly. ] Long live thy Queen, Sir Knight, and long thy reign
In the rich kingdom of thy lady's heart.
LAUNC. Ah, deem me not so blest! The throne I sought
Is changed from throne to shrine at my approach,
And low before the saint that stands within,
Where I may never kneel, another kneels.
GUIN. I too can see, it must be with thine eyes,
That miscalled saint, that looks not down but forth,
From him that kneels to one that stands beyond.
LAUNC. I pray that God who fashioned love's sweet throne
In her pure heart, may furnish her the guard
To hold it 'gainst the base, usurping Knight,
Who, helplessly impelled to the attack,
Would rend the bonds that bind him to his friend,
Scatter like straws, love, loyalty and truth
And thrust himself, a traitor, on the throne.
GUIN. No traitor! He that conquers is the King.
No traitor, but the lord of his own realm.
LAUNC. [ As one reading his own impeachment. ]
Traitor to him, who, holding one his friend,
Did speed him forth to bring again his bride.
To him who clasped his hand long since, and vowed,
"Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death."
So dear he prized that trust, he had defied
Or love or hate to prove him what he is --
Traitor to self and faithless to his liege,
[ Turning to GUINEVERE directly. ]
False to the uttermost -- even to thee!
GUIN. O Launcelot, forbear! If this be true,
And thou art sunder'd from thy nobler self,
The sin is mine, the sinning and the shame.
My lord, I ask no vow, nor need a pledge
But this, in knowing thee, I surely know --
That not in Earth nor Hell, nor in high Heaven
Is found that spell could make thee false to me.
LAUNC. My Queen, I have no words to plead thy grace,
For fear has set a seal upon my mouth,
And love has fired my blood with treachery
And ravished all my senses of their worth.
For I that swore to slay or to be slain
In ward of thy fair name and fairest self,
Am shaming thee, in telling thee my shame.
Another day and I had held my peace!
Another day --
GUIN. So soon we are to part,
Another day!
LAUNC. To-morrow and the end!
GUIN. [ As one in a dream -- unheeding him. ] So soon it is that even as we stand
The morrow comes, the morrow and the end.
How swift it dies, the day that's born to die,
And spends all day a-dying.
LAUNC. O my Queen,
Hast thou no word for very pity's sake?
No murmur of forgiveness and farewell?
GUIN. No word but this -- this, that I must have died
Hadst thou kept silence! [ Quite simply. ]
For so it is to love.
LAUNC. [ Standing before her. ] Queen, if I have thy love, lift but thine eyes
That I may read thy heart. Thou lovest me?
[ She raises her eyes and he gazes into them. ]
God's miracle! [ He starts back in amazement. ] My face reflected deep
In wells of molten sky. [ With conviction. ]
Thou lovest me!
GUIN. Since first those dear-loved eyes communed with mine!
Since then, or ever then. My love was given
Ere thou didst look on me. When, as I stood
Close hidden by the arras in the hall,
I saw thee tower above my father's frame;
And as I linger'd there, mine arms crept up,
Crept softly up and met about thy neck,
My mouth was longing raised to touch thy mouth.
Why wast thou not the King, that all my days
I had been spared this vain attempt to wrest
Mine arms from off thy neck?
LAUNC. [ In desperation. ] Ah, hear me, Love --
Thou wilt be prized as wife has never been,
By one more great than earth has ever known.
True-hearted, gentle, constant as a rock,
He'll hold thee in a love that shall outlive
All things but love itself. [ Earnestly. ] God find my words
A passage to thy heart, and give me wit
To plead his cause aright.
GUIN. [ Vehemently. ] His cause? His cause?
'Tis not his cause but rather is it mine
Thou urgest with such ardent cruelty,
To teach my heart how desp'rate is its case.
God's pity at our need light on us all,
Since with such steadfastness as he shall love
Must I love thee, for ever, and in vain.
LAUNC. [ In a tone of guilty, triumphant resignation. ] Now, Love, I have nor trust nor plighted friend,
And hope of Heav'n is turned to Heav'n itself.
Nought have I left to pray for, having all
That heart can crave, or God in love can give.
[ He is still absorbed with guilty wonder at the inevitable, but she has accepted it without thought of shame or astonishment.
GUIN. I have known always that I had thy love:
Is't not strange, although thou saidst no word, I knew?
But while I was so sure, I could not rest
Till thou hadst told it over in my ear.
Each day I waited longing, and each night
I said, "To-morrow. He will speak to-morrow."
And then I cried a little quietly,
Nor could tell why, save that I loved thee so.
But on a night I thought, "He will not speak,"
And then the pain near made me cry aloud;
And now I think I ne'er shall weep again.
LAUNC. How shall I say all thy love holds for me?
GUIN. [ With a sigh of great contentment. ] Is it so much to thee, so very much,
That I do love thee?
LAUNC. 'Tis more than all the world!
I'd have thee in my heart, that come what will,
There is nought else to live for or to die.
I'd have thee in my arms, that quick or dead,
I am immortal grown, past touch of grief.
I think on thee till thinking is a pain,
And when I look on thee, the rebel blood
Mounts hotly to my cheek, and I am glad
That thou hast not the skill to read my heart.
GUIN. Nay, Love, blush not, lest thou would have me shame
To meet thy gaze. Hast thou one thought I may not share,
Or one desire in which I have no part?
This is our hour and life, poor life, that holds
For each and all but one such perfect hour,
Should close at its fulfilment. Just on hour
Close held in thy dear arms, is worth a world
Of lives where thou art not. For now I know
That I am mine own self, and I am thine;
Thine for thine own, and, without measure, thine.
LAUNC. O that we two, we two together now,
In this our hour, heart fiercely knit to heart,
And lip on lip inseparably sealed,
Might put to sea on life's receding tide,
And outward drifting, drifting, disappear
In th'illimitable ocean of our love.
[ A Pause. ]
LAUNC. Why was I born unless it was to love thee?
GUIN. Why have we met, if I was not to yield?
[LAUNCELOT catches GUINEVERE to his breast. Trembling but unresisting she lies in his embrace. The faint strains of a distant chorus is heard. Without a word they turn and he leads her slowly into the forest. During the foregoing, the sun has set, and the light has changed to a pearly grey. A nightingale has sung in the branches, and the moon has risen. As the lovers disappear into the forest, the moon passes behind a cloud and the scene becomes dark.
SCENE III. -- The same. In the interval of darkness the MUSIC denotes the passing of the night and dawning of day. When the sun rises on the scene, the KNIGHTS and LADIES and COMMONERS of England, gaily dressed, are awaiting the arrival of the QUEEN . During the singing of the Chorus, ARTHUR enters at back, attended by MORDRED, AGRAVAINE, VIVIEN, &c.
CHORUS.
Daughter of a warrior sire,
Bride of Arthur, England's Queen,
Speed thy coming, he is waiting,
All thy realm is waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the Queen.
Lark, from thy eminence swiftness implore her,
Pipe her a welcoming strain;
Are the miles many that stretch out before her
Or ride they behind in her train?
Look for pennons glancing bright,
Search the upland and the glen;
Is there yet no flash of light,
From the helms of armèd men?
Is she pricking o'er the plain,
Does she pierce the cover,
Rides she with impatient rein,
Glows she like a lover?
[ A flourish of trumpets is heard in the distance.
Guinevere, our Queen of May,
Fairest flesh that eye hath seen,
Welcome to our hearts to-day;
Bride of Arthur, England's Queen;
Speed thy coming, he is waiting,
All thy realm is waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the Queen!
[ A nearer flourish of trumpets is heard. The CROWD cheer. ARTHUR'S HERALDS reply with a trumpet peal. The CROWD is swayed by a wave of excitement. The last verse of the Chorus is repeated as the QUEEN'S retinue enters. LAUNCELOT , bareheaded, leads GUINEVERE 's horse. ALL uncover, and a murmur rises from the crowd, "The Queen!" VIVIEN presses forward to look at her as GUINEVERE dismounts.
MORD. [ To AGRAVAINE.] She's fair, but tired, and lacks a bridal air.
AGRA. Less tired, methinks, than sad, less sad than fair.
VIV. [ Bitterly, but with spontaneous admiration. ]
Ah God! How beautiful she is!
AGRA. How now?
Dost think such loveliness will be denied?
VIV. Will not, nor has been, since God gave men sight!
ARTH. [ To GUINEVERE.] Most noble maid, we do extend to thee
A threefold welcome. From our England's heart
Through England's mouth, in thee we proudly greet
Our royal bride, our mistress and our Queen.
GUIN. My liege, I do not fail in gratitude,
But words. My heart is eloquent of thanks,
My unaccustomed lips refuse to speak.
I thank thee none the less that only say
"I thank thee," and again, I thank thee well.
ARTH. Thy beauty multiplies thy gentle thanks
And makes my heart a vast acknowledgement
To God, who tuned my rough suit to thine ear.
[ To LAUNCELOT.] To thee, my prince of Knighthood and my friend,
I am too poor this service to requite;
For by this quest both Arthur and his realm
Rest in thy debt. And for this courtly deed
When men shall say "The Queen is come," will add,
"Safe brought by Launcelot;' and all our Knights,
That honour beauty and hold honour dear,
Shall drink to "Launcelot and Guinevere!'
[ Shouts of "Sir Launcelot," and a voice, "Launcelot and Guinevere."
ARTH. [ To GUINEVERE.] And thou, my Queen, wilt join thy might with mine,
To poise in place the keystone of this realm,
And make our isle the wonder of the world?
Too long have I, and with me, these ye see,
Striven without thee to complete our task;
But now, each resting upon each, shall we
Press gladly forward till the goal be won!
To England that I hold in trust for God,
I give no lesser trust, for unto her
I dedicate my Queen!
MORD. Long live the Queen!
[ There is a great shout of "Guinevere!" "Long live the Queen!" a braying of trumpets and waving of bare swords. Then the KNGHTS and LADIES approach and make their obeisances to the QUEEN. VIVIAN approaches LAUNCELOT.
VIV. Sir Launcelot, thy mein is less than kind,
And must belie thy heart, unless in truth
Regret doth mar thy quest's accomplishment.
LAUNC. Lady, my mein must wrong me woefully.
Glad am I to be back, for I am one
Whose feet can ne'er outrun his love of home.
Yet I am sad, as who is not, that sees
The friendship of a lifetime made as nought
By one bright swifture of a maiden's eyes?
VIV. Thou dost not want for friends!
LAUNC. Nor gratitude
For those who have me in regard. But friends
At best are but the pawns of circumstance;
Kings, Knights and Bishops, even gentle Queens
May lift a hand, and lo! the friend is gone.
VIV. Yet there are those who in regard for thee
Should suffer not or Arthur or his Court,
Husband nor friend nor Queen, to some between.
LAUNC. [ Meditatively. ] What friend is he that would in friendship's name
Prove traitor to his friend? What love is that,
Which ev'ry sacrifice that love can make
Shall cleanse not of a tittle of its shame?
VIV. Love shall be judged by nothing less than love,
Which justifies both love and hate and death.
LAUNC. [ Prophetically. ] Yet shall not justify nor thee nor me.
[ The CROWD about GUINEVERE and ARTHUR is broken up by the entrance of a MESSENGER with papers for the KING , who retires up stage, reads them, and consults with the NOBLES about him. VIVIEN goes up stage. GUINEVERE joins LAUNCELOT.
GUIN. O Launcelot, my mind is all distraught
And I am sick for healing solitude.
A sense of pending ill constraineth me
To flee from Fate and this grave, blameless King
That I may never love. Ah, dear my lord,
Tell me that even now 'tis not too late!
Some way there is, some means, no matter what,
In pity tell me it is not too late!
LAUNC. Alas! my Queen, there are nor ways nor means,
Thy father's word has gone from him, and now --
To turn back now, would put the King and him
And thee, to open shame.
GUIN. Speak not of shame!
Is there more deadly shame than this that burns
A lurid flame ever before mine eyes?
Ah, Love, forgive, I meant not to upbraid.
My mind is tortured by a strange new dread,
And I, that knew not love nor any fear,
Both love and am afraid. I fear the King,
And these cold watchful eyes that never close
Or wander from my face. I fear myself,
And thee, O thou I hold most dear, most dear,
I fear thee most of all.
LAUNC. Be comforted
A little while, and all these things will pass.
Walk not with fear for presently I go,
Alone with sin and sin's sweet memory
To hide us in some far, untrodden way,
Beyond the reach of envious eye and tongue.
GUIN. My Knight, while in thy heart my image lives,
Live on, that I, when thou art gone from me,
Shall joy that somewhere in this parting world
Is one that holds me ever in his love,
And knows me for his own.
LAUNC. All shall be well
When I am hence; yet I had never gone
Hadst thou less trust of me or I, less love.
GUIN. Ah, Love, this is our doom; the penalty
Of sin so dear that we may not repent.
And now, since Fate has spoken, stay no more,
Lest these farewells, repeated o'er, shall last
Till no farewell may be, but Love's fierce spark
Upbursting into flame unquenchable,
Shall light the face of Heaven with our shame.
[ There is a stir among the NOBLES who are gathered round the KING , and ARTHUR comes forward.
ARTH. My lords, this news is most malignly timed,
But thus it is: King Ryons of the Welsh
Has spurned our terms. The army of Sir Bors,
Hot to avenge this mischievious affront,
Impatient waits our order to advance.
So once again we'll buckle on our arms,
And ere we hang our shields on chamber walls,
To smoothly flatter a fair lady's charms,
We'll take the field against this rebel King.
LAUNC. My lord, if I may speak, thy place is here
Beside the Queen. I do beseech thy leave
To join my valiant kinsman, good Sir Bors,
And with him to the fight.
ARTH. Not so, my friend,
For thou art journey-worn and needs must rest.
Stay thou to guard the Queen; I would be sure
That she can take no harm while I am hence.
LAUNC. My liege lord, I have breathed too long a while
Soft perfumed airs, heard nought but honeyed sounds,
And journeyed daintily beneath fair skies;
I fret to hear again the battle's din,
The whistling arrow and the crash of arms.
My blood is hot for conflict, and my eyes
Are smarting with desire once more to peer
Into th' impenetrable face of death.
ARTH. Hast not enough of knightly worship won?
Go then; be thine the quest. Sir Messenger,
Speed straightly to Sir Bors that Launcelot
Will ride with him to-night into the West.
LAUNC. Tell him I follow hard upon thy heels,
With four-score knights!
[ Exit MESSENGER.
My lord, I thank thee well,
And will be found deserving of thy grace.
ARTH. No King was ever served by braver Knight,
Or more true friend. God keep thee in His care!
LAUNC. Farewell, my Liege. Farewell, my lady Queen.
ARTH. Farewell!
GUIN. God keep thee ever in His sight.
[ The CROWDS cheer and many KNIGHTS retire, followed by LAUNCELOT. The QUEEN stands in deep thought, gazing after LAUNCELOT. ARTHUR approaches GUINEVERE . She puts her hand in his and he leads her off.
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE. -- A terrace in the Palace of Westminster. A banqueting hall at the back is partitioned off by curtains stretched between stone pillars. The table in the inner hall is fully spread for feasting. At the back of this hall is a large, iron-barred window.
[SQUIRES and WAITING MAIDS lounge on the terrace. SERVING LADS carry dishes at intervals into the inner hall.
[SIR MORDRED and VIVIEN converse apart.
VIV. Go, get thee hence; no purpose can be served
By further tarrying. I have strawed well,
My lord, and the procreant seeds have struck
Deep in a rich and fertile soil. Do thou
Seek us out yeomen bred to scythe and flail,
While I keep ward beside the riping corn.
So fast it ripes. Ere thou return, I may
Have need to ply my sickle warily.
MORD. At once I go and come again with speed.
The Western firmament is streaked with red,
Reflected from fierce forges, where our men
Fashion new glaives against the harvesting.
The enterprise gains ground, and at our need
These palsied Knights are witched into unrest,
And fret themselves with wasting discontent.
Arthur himself scents mischief, yet it seems
He nothing knows of what these others see,
Between the Queen and his most trusted Knight.
VIV. It is not what they see, but what they hear,
And hearing they think they see -- they know not what!
Nor rightly understand what they do hear.
MORD. They make the fair Queen's frailty a cloak
For their own wantonness, yet seek to rend
The very rag they take to shelter them.
She may be frail, I know not, she is fair,
And beauty will be served though Heav'n itself
Contest the first place in a husband's thought.
Wot ye I told they wit not Arthur well,
Who thought to see him bind this scarf of love
So tight about his trunk, that it would turn
His blood to syrup, or make weak his step,
Or lengthen out his slumbers by an hour.
He uses beauty to adorn his crown,
And treats love as an altar ornament.
Lips in his creed were only made for pray'rs,
And bodies for anointing. Is it strange
If Guinevere rebels against a creed
So coldly pure?
VIV. Thy judgment speaks the man;
Too graced with mercy to condemn her quite,
Too wise to count her guiltless. List to me --
In twice two months since Launcelot returned,
Dight in new honours and the sheen of war,
The twain have met but twice. Once weeks ago,
And once again to-day.
MORD. Yet in my ear
Mean murmurs have grown great with certainty.
VIV. The loud re-echoings of whispered hints
Projected by a glance. Mute suspicionings
Borne on the breath of envy. But I will swear
I know not man nor woman, no nor love,
If love has called them not or called in vain.
[ Enter PATRISE and MADOR . The former is talking earnestly, and in a low tone, to his companion.
MORD. Seest thou bluff Mador and that Knave, Patrise,
The Court's recording devil? How comes he
So distant from his house at such an hour?
VIV. He is included of some score of guests,
The lesser Knights of Arthur's fellowship,
Who feast anon with Guinevere.
MORD. Methinks
He comes to feast with a most fasting face.
VIV. A useful rogue that loves a secret well,
And shares it gladly; that envies no man
Save his hidden thoughts --
MORD. And ponders human hearts
As thieves may puzzle o'er a well-keyed chest.
He does not lack suspicion of our plans,
And has such purpose in his pick-lock eyes,
At his approach I cover up my mind
With generous resolves, nor dare unmask,
Till he be gone again.
VIV. Be reassured,
He wills to serve our cause.
MORD. If wittingly,
Mistrust him with the zeal of Holy Church.
VIV. Nay, thou dost push thy ready doubts too far,
I trust all thieves to steal, all snakes to bite.
[ Regarding Patrise fixedly. ]
Mark well his mood, how stealthily he speaks,
'Tis like he mutters treason of the Queen.
MORD. [ Ironically. ] 'Tis like geese cackle and the full kine low;
Each to its note; the cuckoo's not for him
That seeks enchantment in a lullaby.
VIV. [ Ignoring MORDRED's irony. ] I chanced upon him even in the hour,
Straining his yellow eyes across the mead
On one who ever stopped to gather up
This flower or that, and lay them presently
On one, who bent her face upon the gift,
As if to search its sweetness with her lips.
For one was Launcelot and one --
MORD. Let be!
Sir Patrise is most zealous for the King,
And sniffs for treason as a dog for rats.
I hate the dog!
VIV. And he hates us no less.
Yet have no fear of him. 'Tis somewhere writ
A goodlier man once took a most grave harm
For no worse matter than a lust of fruit.
MORD. Thou second Eve, what thought is in thy mind?
VIV. A thought of poison and of sudden death.
Leave him to me. I have a plan by which
The Queen shall taste the venom of his spleen;
Leave him to me!
MORD. Yet would I know thy plan --
If it be shrewd.
[ Other GUESTS begin to assemble. A SERVING LAD crosses stage bearing a dish of apples. VIVIEN stops him and points to the fruit.
VIV. What dainties have ye here?
SERVANT. Sweet apples, lady, purveyed by the Queen,
For one especial lord, who loves fruit well;
A Knight of Ireland who is named Patrise.
VIV. 'Tis well remembered.
[ The SERVANT exits through curtains.
VIV. [ To MORDRED.] Is the plan not shrewd?
Patrise is for the King. For that he dies.
Moreover, he suspects the Queen. For that
She has small cause to hold him dear. So then,
Did he mischance on poison at this feast,
The rest will have it that he took his death
For braving the distemper of the Queen.
No more. The guests arrive. Thy work is hence.
Farewell!
MORD. Farewell! Be close with Agravaine;
He comes from thee to us, and back again,
With all our plans and purpose fair agreed.
I go to say a prayer for Patrise's soul.
[ Exit MORDRED. VIVIEN walks with him up stage and stands gazing after him.
MAD. Why goes the foxy Mordred in such haste,
Is he not bidden to our lady's feast?
1ST KNIGHT. It seems not so; yet our fair Queen must spread
Her favours far, or ever I should be
Included of her guests.
MAD. Or I again,
What worship have I won to be so graced?
PAT. When me our lady named, I had a thought
My ears were playing me a knavish trick,
Or I was taken for -- some other Knight.
[ The other KNIGHTS nod their heads knowingly, and exchange understanding looks. VIVIEN comes down stage to PATRISE , who walks a little apart.
VIV. I think I could divine the name of that,
-- Some other Knight.
PAT. 'Twould be more strange to find
My lady saw no further than the King!
VIV. It may be she is blest with younger sight.
PAT. Or puts her eyes to better purposes.
VIV. The good King's eyes are ever inward turned,
To sentinel his conscience. While with us --
PAT. Lady, I have a dainty conscience, too;
'Tis much concerned of late about our feast.
MAD. A conscience that can treat its stomach fair,
Is a wise friend, to be consulted oft.
VIV. The great Patrise is faint for apple fare,
'Tis called a lover's fancy.
PAT. Is it so?
Then unto apples do I render thanks,
That I am eased of love.
VIV. Ungallant Knight,
Go, eat thy fill, sith thou wouldst liever eat
Than love.
MAD. I care not if 'tis meat or fruit,
Or only love, so we may something eat.
1ST KNIGHT. Perdy! How then?
Shall we go seek the Queen? Which one of ye
Will mind her of her breach of memory?
[ Several KNIGHTS make a movement as if they would act on the suggestion.
PAT. My lords, if go ye will, rub well your eyes;
The world is full of unexpected sights.
[ The KNIGHTS hesitate and question one another with their eyes apprehensively. MADOR would prevent PATRISE from saying more.
PAT. There is no dial where I have lately been,
And e'en the sun must stand to serve --
[ At this moment the curtains of a side entrance are thrown back and GUINEVERE 's arrival is announced.
HERALD. The Queen!
[ Enter GUINEVERE.
[ The KNIGHTS are confused by the suddenness of the announcement, but GUINEVERE does not at once observe their embarrassment. She is in a happy mood, and carries a posy of wild flowers.
GUIN. Good greeting all, Sir Knights. If I be late,
I bear with me a conscience offering,
To 'suage the wrath of injured appetites.
[ Noticing their silence and their fixed gaze upon her. ]
But wherefore do ye gaze so fixedly
Upon my blooms? Why dumb? Is't wonderful
To find fresh blossoms in a woman's hands?
Indeed, they are but weeds, and may be touched
With safety. Ye look on me reproachfully,
As on a child caught bird-nesting. Be sure
I have left many more as gay as these,
Did ye know where to seek them.
[GUINEVERE has been distributing the flowers among the KNIGHTS. She offers one to PATRISE , who affects not to see it.
PAT. [ In an ominous tone that is almost a challenge. ] I know my Queen!
[A sudden hush falls over the company, and ALL watch GUINEVERE and PATRISE anxiously.
GUIN. [ Surprised. ] What thou, Sir Knight! We know thee learned in fruit,
But did not guess thee versed in floral lore.
PAT. I know at least the mead in which they grow,
Still I did see thee pluck them.
GUIN. [ In a confusion she is unable to entirely disguise. ] I saw not thee.
PAT. Nay, lady, thou hadst eyes for nought beside
-- Thy flowers!
[ The menace in his tone and manner is unmistakable. The KNIGHTS are astonished at his daring, and they do not fail to notice the trepidation displayed by the QUEEN . She recovers her composure only by an evident effort.
GUIN. 'Twas even so, my lord, and here
Ye reap the harvest of my wrapt intent.
[ With assumed gaiety of manner. ]
But, sirs, the hour to feast is overpast,
And ye would feign to be served. I do but crave
A mirror and a moment's confidence,
To learn if I be decked for such good company.
[ The curtains of the inner hall are thrown aside and the KNIGHTS disappear slowly within. GUINEVERE , whose gaze is searching for somebody among the pages, intercepts LAUNCELOT'S PAGE , as he is crossing the stage.
GUIN. [ To PAGE.] Art thou not one that serves Sir Launcelot?
PAGE. Ay, Madam, I am to him now.
GUIN. Stay not,
But to him speedily and speak him thus:
The Queen doth pray he come to her forthwith,
Full armed for journeying. Be instant, boy,
And speak the message to him privily.
[ Exit PAGE. GUINEVERE exits into inner hall among her GUESTS.
[VIVIAN approaches PATRISE and MADOR , who are among the last to enter.
VIV. Sir Knight, that nimble tongue of thine will wag
Thy body into trouble. Have a care
How thou provoke the anger of a Queen!
PAT. [ Contemptuously. ] What have I done that savours of offence?
What said, could kindle wrath in innocence?
VIV. [ To MADOR.] Sir Mador, bid thy cousin heed my words.
Do thou remember them!
[ Exeunt ALL KNIGHTS into banqueting hall. The curtains are drawn.
[VIVIEN , alone, creeps to curtains and stands listening. Then comes down stage.
VIV. If this so well approvèd plot misfalls,
There is no death in drugs, nor pow'r in hate,
Nor honey in revenge. I fear it not!
That choleric, rash, babbling fool, Patrise
Will to his apples soon, and then -- farewell, Patrise;
While all eyes shall be bent upon the Queen.
It is a fearsome thing, this hooded death,
A terror that men shrink from. With the dread
Of death upon their tongues, men lock their jaws,
Nor ope them, till the creeping enemy
Is found and exorcised with whips of flame.
[ Exit VIVIEN.
[ Enter GUINEVERE from the inner hall, from which sounds of voices and laughter are heard. She is greatly agitated.
GUIN. Why comes he not? What mischief hinders him?
Each moment is in labour with the word --
The fatal word that would communicate
This ardent scandal to my lord the King.
His honour hangs upon a sidling glance,
A loose, unmannered smile, a careless shrug
Of scornful shoulders. The air is feverish
With becks and nods and understanding looks,
And eloquent with meaning stillnesses.
[ARTHUR crosses the stage in earnest talk with some venerable COUNSELLORS , who carry papers in their hands. On seeing GUINEVERE , he motions them to proceed and joins the QUEEN.
ARTH. Thou wait'st for me, my Queen?
GUIN. Ay, my good lord,
For whom I wait so often and so long.
ARTH. Fair wife, I have but one un'suaged desire,
That I may alway hold me at thy side.
But thou, King's wife and daughter of a King,
Dost know that kingly offices must come
'Fore everything, and even thee before.
GUIN. Yet, knowing this, 'tis not less hard to yield
All that a woman longs for, for the sake
Of Government; to live estranged from love,
And yearn in vain for those small tenderings,
That, costing nothing, are beyond all worth
In 'complishing a woman's happiness.
ARTH. Nay, not estranged, albeit our love lacks
The full expression and the constant glow
That lesser lovers share. Yet wit we well
'Tis but the puny weeds of love that spread
Their pretty blossom to the common view;
While ours, deep-rooted, shall eternal live
When meaner loves lie dead.
GUIN. [ Bitterly. ] All love must die
The meaner with the great; the love that dares,
The love that is ashamed; the unrevealed;
False love and true; the love that is fulfilled,
And that which long outlives its benefice,
And that which is unblossomed ere its prime;
Blest love or shameful -- it is only love
And when it dies -- 'tis dead.
ARTH. [ Reproachfully. ] We, too, my Queen,
We two belong, by right, to England first.
Yet art thou dearer to me than my life,
For thou art part of life's appointed work,
A purpose greater than myself and which,
Save for thy sweet, sustaining sympathy,
Had failed of its attainment. Forget awhile
That thou art Arthur's bride. As England's Queen
Thy name shall live in ages yet unborn,
'Mong people that will neither ask nor care,
Whose wife thou chanced to be. Enough for them
Twin toilers we in this great sunlit world,
This pleasant vineyard of our Father Christ,
Who gives to each his true apportioned task;
To me, the brunt of battle and the storm,
To thee, the higher and the holier work
Of thy pure life, and blessful influence.
[ Sounds of wild confusion, anger and alarm are heard in the inner hall, and the KNIGHTS presently issue forth on to the terrace, half-leading, half-carrying PATRISE , who is dying. The stage is filled with angry KNIGHTS.
PAT. [ To the QUEEN.] Queen, thou hast worked thy will.
[ He falls to the ground. ] E'en now I die. [ Dies. ] [ An apple rolls from his hand. ]
MAD. [ Bending over the body of PATRISE.] O deed of shame and infamy accursed,
God in Thy mercy take him into rest.
[ALL stand for a moment with bowed heads. Then MADOR springs up beside the body, and securing the poisoned apple holds it aloft.
My lord the King, of this so trait'rous deed
I do impeach the Queen, and claim the right
Due to my murdered kinsman and our state.
[ The KNIGHTS reveal their suspicion and ill-will towards the QUEEN by angry glances and deep-murmurings. GUINEVERE recoils, stunned by the charge.
GUIN. This charge is false, I wot not what it means;
I do protest I had no part or thought
In compassing the end of this brave Knight.
And thus I do report myself to God.
MAD. My lord, I charge this treason on the Queen.
'Twas at her feast, and by her own desire
He tasted of the fruit, placed cunningly
Against his hand. God wot he had no time
To thank the Queen for her most gracious thought,
But fell on silence suddenly.
GUIN. Sir Knight,
You do your honoured self and him deep wrong
To put upon me such a shameful charge.
What cause had I to wish thy kinsman dead?
MAD. Madam, 'tis not for me to read thy mind.
He was full keen in sighting and in speech;
'Tis like that he both saw and said too much
To win the favour of a Queen. But by High God,
I charge thee with the making of this death,
And on my body claim to prove my words.
[ The KNIGHTS renew their angry murmurs against the QUEEN.
ARTH. Sir Knight, I have no knowledge of this feud,
But none that sue for justice of the King
Appeal in vain. Full justice thou shalt have,
And this my Queen whose honour is distained,
Shall by the issue of the joust abide,
As should the lowliest lady of my court.
Arm thee at once, Sir Knight, and take thy stand
Within the lists, there presently to meet
The Knight accepted champion of the Queen.
[ Exit MADOR.
[ To the KNIGHTS.] My lords, which one of ye will dare to put
His body at the need of Guinevere,
And answer for her to this frenzied Knight?
[ The KNIGHTS turn their eyes from his gaze and none answers the KING , who looks from one to the other in anger and amazement.
Choose ye in haste, my lords, lest Mador deem
We have no Knight will pledge his chivalry
To clear her name of this disparagement.
[ARTHUR exits.
[PRIESTS enter to take charge of the body of PATRISE . Some KNIGHTS bear away the corpse; the rest follow.
[ Exeunt OMNES. The QUEEN gazes around in wonder and great fear as each KNIGHT avoids her eye and slinks away.
[ When they are all gone LAUNCELOT is discovered standing in the background, fully armed. GUINEVERE , who is watching the departing KNIGHTS , does not at first see him, and she utters a wail of despair.
GUIN. Alone! alone! 'Mid all the press, not one
Will couch a lance to save me from my doom!
[ She turns slowly and catches sight of LAUNCELOT . His visor is down, his shield is without a device, the familiar lions have been removed from his vestments. He raises his visor as he comes forward. GUINEVERE utters a cry of joy and relief.
GUIN. O love, true Knight, and ever loyal friend,
Hast thou heard aught of this most dread mischance,
The death, the charge, and all that has befell?
LAUNC. All has been told me, and I come, to crave
At thy dear hands one favour for the last;
That I may still this slander in his throat,
And break a spear, the last, for thy sweet sake.
GUIN. Alas, my Knight, but that has passed, which robs
My utter hopelessness of thy strong aid:
Our love is spied on and envenomed tongues
Have named us both. Think not of me, but fear
For him, whose honour like a torch burnt low,
Is kept alight at peril to the hand.
Did these dread lords descry thee in the lists,
So well they will I find a shameful death,
In their blind anger they would not forbear
To blazon their suspicions to the King,
And he, with us, should know peace nevermore.
LAUNC. Not so, my Queen, for I have banishèd
The lions from my shield. Bereft of name
And barren of device, I take the lists.
It is my fate, to-day thy fair fame rests
Upon the prowess of an unknown Knight,
And I forego the worship of my life --
To risk my poor self proudly in thy cause
Before the eyes of all men, and of God.
[LAUNCELOT kneels at her feet. Silently and with tearful emotion she takes her scarf and binds it about his helm.
GUIN. Once more thou perilest thy life for mine?
LAUNC. Nay, Queen, my life was ended in the hour.
I go to clear thy name and then -- [ He rises. ]
GUIN. For thee,
My Knight and my true friend, the endless road
That bears thee ever from my heart. For me
A life all loveless and alone, until the end.
Yet for a breath return, that from thy hands
I'll take again this life I would not have,
Take one last look on thee, one last embrace,
One kiss -- the last! O God, the very last!
LAUNC. My Queen, there is no law beyond thy wish.
[LAUNCELOT kneels again, kisses her hand, draws down his visor, and exits.
[ The QUEEN sinks upon a couch in an attitude of utter hopelessness and misery. Presently a fanfare of trumpets is heard in the distant meadows. The QUEEN rouses herself and springs to her feet.
GUIN. The challenge of Sir Mador! O my lord,
My love, spur fast that all the world may know
One Knight there is, rests faithful to the Queen.
[ Another fanfare of trumpets is heard and the sound of cheering.
He comes! The people cheer -- they know not whom.
And now they rock impatiently the while
The heralds cry aloud the shameful charge,
And make my name a mouthful for the mob.
[ She stands with her hands pressed over her closed eyes. ]
Ah, Love! I see it all, and thee. How still
Thou art and terrible. Thy jaws are set,
Thy fingers bite the shoulder of thy spear,
And all thy face is white with blanching rage.
And now an ecstasy of tenderness
Has swept thy heart -- a swift, untamed desire
To strain me in the shelter of thine arms,
And shield me, on thy breast, against the world.
[ Another and louder fanfare of trumpets is heard. GUINEVERE rushes to the window.
Ah God! that note -- the signal for the fight!
God keep thee, yet not any fear have I
What may befall. For death is but to die, --
So easy will it be to die with thee.
[ Another trumpet blast. GUINEVERE strains her ears to learn what has occurred, and struggles to control the emotion that sways her. There is a dull sound of cheering. She walks mechanically to some arms hanging on the wall, takes a dagger, crosses nearer to the window and holds herself more rigidly. The cheering crowd draws nearer and the cry is faintly heard, "The Unknown!" "The Unknown!" She presses her hands which clasp the dagger to her breast. Then she staggers to the window and clings to the iron lattice for support. Again and more clearly are the cries heard for "The Unknown!" In a voice of joy and gratitude she cries:
O God be thanked! He lives! He lives! He lives!
[ She throws up her hands as she says this, and the dagger falls to the ground. Again she clings to the window for support. The cheering draws nearer. GUINEVERE's hands relax their hold on the lattice and she drops in a heap under the window.
[VIVIEN emerges noiselessly from the concealment of the curtains. She throws one meaning look on the unconscious body of GUINEVERE as she passes and exits. The cheering CROWD is now almost at the walls.
CURTAIN.
ACT III.
SCENE I. -- Guinevere's apartments in the Palace at Westminster. The sleeping chamber is curtained off at back. There are benches draped with silks and rugs.
[GUINEVERE is sitting with her back to the audience, reading. VIVIEN , who is in attendance, is embroidering and watching her mistress. There is a noise as of KNIGHTS returning from the chase. The KING enters with his SQUIRE , who takes his cloak, spear, etc., and goes up stage where he converses idly with VIVIEN.
GUIN. [ Rising, and rather wearily. ] Greeting, my Lord; has fortune mocked the chase
That ye repair to us thus soon?
ARTH. Thus soon!
The phrase doth argue cheerfulness of mind,
And weary hours made light with busyness!
GUIN. Is it already late?
ARTH. 'Tis late enough,
For those that mark time's passage by the glass.
The day that 'scaped so gladly from the night,
And joyed in freedom and the sun's high noon,
Already tires of its brief liberty
And creeps again into the friendly dark.
The boar has joined himself unto the night,
That old-time enemy of man, that turns
Our sharpest spears to bulrushes, and makes
All paths a maze and a bewilderment.
VIV. 'Tis in the night, my Lord, that vaunting man
Is worse advantaged than his meanest foe;
Then, like a child whose candle is outblown,
He quails at sense of his sheer helplessness.
ARTH. He hunts too long that hunting still is caught. [ With an ominous tone in his voice. ]
There is a time for pressing and for pause,
A time when man must glance from left to right,
If that he still does lead in the pursuit,
Or if pursued, to learn from whom he flees.
GUIN. What mean these words, my Lord? What humour strikes
That unaccustomed, harsh chord in thy voice?
Is it some danger that thou ponderest?
ARTH. Danger? why no, 'twas but a whimsy thought;
My mind in idleness goes gathering
'Midst vague, unformed, unfashionable doubts;
What doubts and why and whence, I wit not well,
Nor doubt there is no reason for my doubts.
GUIN. [ Regarding him anxiously. ] Yet thy calm face, that once was wont to be
A re-assurance, now is ruffled o'er
With gusts of care and little questionings.
ARTH. Nay, mark it not,
But sing to me some comforting conceits.
GUIN. [ Hastily. ] Nay, my good Lord.
ARTH. What! Hast thou not one song
That can confirm the comfort of a crown,
Or reconstruct for doubling royalty
Its image as a thing to be desired?
GUIN. [ With increasing distress. ] My Lord, my Lord, I have no heart for song,
Nor stomach for the feast. I prithee of
Thy gentleness --
ARTH. Nay, pray me not, my Queen,
When did I ever urge thee 'gainst thy wish?
The chilling fear, stern pencil's legacy,
Is on thee yet, and thy sweet woman's heart,
So unfamiliar with the thought of ill,
Still throbs with recollection. Have thy wish!
'Tis in man's temper to forget the throes
Of ancient peril; once 'tis overborne
'Tis then no more than it had ever been.
So all new trouble finds him void of fear.
For Nature wraps a smooth forgetfulness
Of danger close about his head, and through
The rift left cunningly, he only marks
The course stretched out before him, and beyond,
The goal already crowned with victory.
But woman ne'er out-distances her grief;
It runs before to mock the day, and makes
The future dread with instant menaces
Of repetition of the past's unrest.
GUIN. Shall I outlive the thought that I am called
Destroyer of good Knights? that I was charged
Of robbing one, of God's fair gift of life?
Or that, because of me, another Knight
Rendered his life, unasked, into God's hands?
There are some griefs defy forgetfulness!
ARTH. Think not that any dies, until his death
Is prospered by the countenance of God.
Man dies not when he wills, but as God lists,
Nor no man kills unauthorised of Him.
GUIN. Still may one grieve to be the instrument
Of doom -- to stand for all men as a sign
Of God's incarnate wrath.
VIV. Nay, Guinevere,
To me, thy lot is not to mourn that death
By thee has ta'en a pair of lusty knights,
But that by God's good grace, and with the aid
Of the stout sinew of a knightly arm,
Thou livest still.
ARTH. He reapeth as He wills,
'Tis not for us to question where He takes,
Or where His mercy spares.
[ To his SQUIRE.] How comes it, Sir,
I have not yet the knowledge I required
Of that unknown and valorous good Knight
That did maintain the cause of Guinevere,
And made of her accuser and his charge
A stark and bleeding stillness?
SQUIRE. Sir King, we have
No tidings of him either good or ill,
Save that he went, low-bending, wounded-wise,
Upon his horse, as one that goes to death;
And all our seeking for him has been vain.
ARTH. It much repents me that he 'voided us,
Ere we had seen his hurt or learnt his name,
Or thanked him for his knightly services.
VIV. Had Launcelot been here this search had not
Proved profitless, for he doth know the wood
Both far and near. There's not a depth of it
Could hide a man, or quick or dead, so close
He'd find him not.
ARTH. Had Launcelot been here
The unknown Knight had still been unbeknown,
For Launcelot is own Knight to the Queen;
No lesser man for her had couched a lance,
Had Launcelot been here. Why was he hence?
What sudden quest did spirit him away
Without a word of warning or farewell,
And masks him from us so relentlessly?
[ Then, with more sternness in his voice. ]
Did no quick instinct mind him of his oath,
Or warn him thou had chanced on evil days?
That he should fail me, he that never yet
Has failed, nor faltered in a single pledge
By which friend seals himself to friend! And yet --
It cannot be. There's nought of earth could make
Disruption 'twixt the King and Launcelot!
GUIN. [ With nervous agitation. ] My Lord, thy riddles are beyond my wit;
My mind is subject to some sickly spell,
That stands revealed in sharp impatiences,
And aftermaths of impotent regrets.
ARTH. Poor troubled one, I will not vex thy mind
With selfish confidence, or magnify
The burden of thy fears. Forgive me, Love; [ He bends down and kisses her on the forehead. ]
Farewell!
GUIN. Farewell, my Lord.
ARTH. God send thee sleep.
[ Exit ARTHUR in troubled thought. VIVIEN lingers in the background.
GUIN. [ Fearfully, to herself. ] Had he remained, my sore, guilt-stricken soul
Must have unveiled its bitterness in cries,
And those fierce tears that flow but to condemn.
VIV. [ Coming forward. ] Madam, is it thy will I wait?
GUIN. Nay, nay!
Get thee to feasting. I would be alone.
[ Exit VIVIEN.
GUIN. [ Springing up, and with an intenseness of bitterness and suppressed agitation. ] His words search out my bosom like a shaft
Loosed by the aimless fingers of the blind.
Poor witless shaft, poor bosom, and poor blind!
What curse is on me that I may not have
My joy in him? that all his boasted parts --
His vast unselfishness, his noble faith,
His very purity so clear and cold --
Strike me with ceaseless terror and alarm
And ev'ry agony save that of love;
And make my wifely vows, my ev'ry thought
A treason and a shriveless infamy?
[ She takes from the breast of her gown the scarf given to LAUNCELOT and presses it to her lips.
Within an hour he will have come and gone
And I shall be alone for evermore.
O God, in pity grant he will be gone,
Vouchsafe me brief forgetfulness of self;
Lest losing him, I lose my reason's crown
And with love's speeding words, I bid him stay!
[ She stands a moment in an attitude of prayer, then retires into her chamber.
[ Enter VIVIEN and AGRAVAINE in cautious conversation. The latter's dress bears signs of travel.
VIV. Here may we rest a moment undisturbed;
Arthur is busy feasting, and the Queen
Hath urged a sickness, and is gone to rest.
Thou say'st that Launcelot will void the realm,
But hast good grounds for such belief?
AGRA. As good
As eye and ear can prove them, for in truth
The wound he had of Mador is made whole;
To-night he gets him to his own far land.
VIV. To-night?
AGRA. This very night. [VIVIEN remains deep in thought. ] Methinks my news,
Is scarce as welcome as it well deserves.
VIV. So he is not yet gone, I am content.
Hast thou none other news?
AGRA. Of Launcelot?
VIV. Ay, of him!
AGRA. None, save Sir Mordred's spies report
He passes from this island over seas,
In secret, and attended by his kin.
It was for this we tarried, witting well
The danger that some news of us might come
To Arthur's ears, but still we made no sign.
'Twere better for our cause they were away
Than that the fight already were half won.
VIV. [ As if to herself. ] This very night! The warning comes so late!
Yet is there time for him to come, and time
Perchance, to go again.
AGRA. Nay, Queen!
VIV. [ Still communing with herself. ] Perchance,
To go again!
AGRA. To go indeed, if thou
Dost speak of Launcelot. The King it is,
The noble Mordred, that will come to crown
His Queen at Westminster.
VIV. [ Not regarding him. ] To crown his Queen.
AGRA. To-morrow shall thy triumph be complete,
Thy dearest vengeance shall be realised.
And, in the mean, thy husband greets thee thus:
Place guards of trusty friends, thou knowest whom,
At every gate and charge them on their lives
That no one shall have ingress to the King.
Fail not in this, for on it must depend
The issue and completion of our plans.
VIV. [ Gathering her energies. ] Go, tell my husband he shall be obeyed,
In ev'ry point.
AGRA. Nay, Madam, with thy leave
I am constrained to bring thee to his camp.
The road is perilous.
VIV. For those that ride
In glittering, agressive suits of mail,
A vaunting menace to night's folded ease,
All paths are perilous.
AGRA. 'Twas Mordred's will
That I should ride with thee.
VIV. Say to my lord
I'll come attended by my woman's wit,
And gain in safety what I lose in state.
AGRA. Lady, I dare intreat thee --
VIV. Say no more!
This is no time for question or reply.
I have a matter here brooks no delay,
Nor can be trusted to another hand.
The matter presses, and thy tarrying
Endangers all. Tread warily, and if
Thou chancest upon anyone, say naught,
See naught. Thou shalt know all before the morn:
Be swift and secret.
[VIVIEN hurries AGRAVAINE from the apartment. When he is gone her manner changes, and in her mind hate and self-interest struggle for the mastery.
VIV. Be swift, but what's to do?
'Tis sure that if to-night he goes, to-night
He comes. Yea, he would come, although the way
Were held against him by a hundred spears;
He'd hew a passage through the world in arms
For that last dear embrace, and that last kiss,
Which by the livig God shall be the last.
She shall not look upon his face again.
Yet hers he is. To-morrow she shall die.
Yet will he still be hers -- in life or death,
In peace or shame, for ever, only, hers.
Yet could I stamp upon her spotless brow
The brand of shame, and show her to the world
Stripped of her robes of prizèd innocence,
Naked in sin for all eyes to behold.
It were so easy done, yet I forsee
The mischief it might work to our designs.
'Twere sweet, but if in grasping at revenge,
I fill this sleeping atmosphere with storm,
Delay Sir Launcelot and his fierce kin,
Rouse in resistance this ensurèd Court,
And in the great upheaval, lose a crown?
My crown 'gainst her unmasking! If I dared!
I dare not, yet for this would I dare much.
O if I dared!
[ She is roused from her deliberations by the sound of GUINEVERE moving in her chamber. For a moment she stands with her eyes riveted on the curtain of the QUEEN'S room. Then she exits stealthily.
[ Enter GUINEVERE. She has been weeping.
GUIN. O for a love that wars not with its longings,
A purer love unsullied of desire.
Great spirit and immortal soul of me,
How frail thou art, how wholly weak beside
The longings of this little mortal flesh!
This would I have, the safety of his arm,
The benediction of his grave, slow smile,
The human lips that chide and praise and press --
[ Enter LAUNCELOT. GUINEVERE stretches out her hands to him. Their eyes are fixed on one another. LAUNCELOT advances to her as one in a dream and their hands meet. GUINEVERE trembles at his touch and sinks on to a couch. LAUNCELOT kneels beside her, and the QUEEN , taking his head between her hands, presses it against her bosom. For a moment or two they are silent.
GUIN. Farewell, my own true Knight; yet not farewell,
For neither time nor the estranging seas
Can separate thee from my love of thee. [ He rises and stands before her. ]
LAUNC. My Queen, thy will has ever been my law,
And at thy word, O Love, more dear than life,
More precious than my honour -- [ He stops, labouring to suppress his emotion. ]
GUIN. [ Rising and with forced composure. ] Love of mine,
As mine thou art and all compassionate,
Be very strong for me. Now fold me once,
Once close about from grief and grievous things;
Then let the night, the night that is so long,
Close in on us -- we two that love so well. [ He takes her in his arms. ]
LAUNC. Farewell, my Queen; the moon has sullen grown,
Bare are the branches where the May has been.
Farewell! How drear it sounds, familiar and old,
As some new sorrow that is long fore-known.
Loudly, yet all in vain, the echoes ring,
"Farewell!" "Farewell!" As dream sounds in a dream,
They are bereft of tone and meaningless.
Farewell! To leave thee! See thee never more!
To listen for the voice I shall not hear;
To live long years and never cease to yearn,
What nevermore shall be!
GUIN. [ Bitterly. ] Do I not know?
Am I not woman that I should be spared
One drop of sorrow's cup? Too well I know,
And in the knowledge is my most dear dread.
Not brave am I, but blest in my great need,
On thee to lean, and unto thee to yield
My love, myself, and my fond helplessness.
LAUNC. How helpless I that falter at thy touch,
And reel upon the thought of leaving thee!
GUIN. As thine I am, deal with me in thy might,
And save me from myself. For his great sake
That made thee knight -- for him --
[ She sinks upon her knees beside the couch, unable to say more.
LAUNC. [ Awakened to his duty by her appeal. ]
For his great sake
O God, O Thou that doest all things well,
Dispose of us aright. For his great sake --
[GUINEVERE lifts her face in mute supplication.
O Love, and Life, and Soul of me -- Farewell!
[ The last word bursts from him in a sob of anguish. He stoops and folds GUINEVERE for a moment in a passionate embrace. Then he releases her suddenly and rushes to the door by which he entered. It is bolted.
[ At the same moment a loud knocking is heard at the opposite door and the voice of the KING calls on them to open.
[LAUNCELOT returns silently to GUINEVERE and raises her to her feet. As silently she takes her stand beside her lover. The uproar outside grows louder. LAUNCELOT unsheathes his sword as the door is beaten down and ARTHUR enters, followed by a crowd of KNIGHTS , bearing torches which fill the stage with a blaze of light. VIVIEN , who accompanies the KING , glances from him to the lovers with hate and triumph gleaming in her eyes. For some moments ARTHUR stands without speaking, stunned by the discovery.
VIV. My lord, did I not bear thee good report?
Or is this not the trusted Knight,
Thou didst lament an hour ago?
[ The KING does not heed her. ]
LAUNC. [ Moving a step towards the KING]
Sir King --
ARTH. [ With a majestic gesture. ] Nay, do not stir; a moment hold you still.
The end is come, and my poor reason strays
Amid the wreckage of this stricken thing
That was the King. Now are all dear hopes dead,
And all I thought so near has taken wings
And fled beyond the reach of human hands!
O ne'er was sin in such brave guise arrayed,
Or vileness dight in such pure loveliness.
Unto ye two I plighted love and faith,
Into your hands, as 'twere a ball, I placed
My England's honour. Ye have let it fall,
And I have lived to see it in the dust.
Was it so mean a thing, so slight a trust,
That ye, my wife and my most trusted Knight --
Twin sources of the strength on which I leaned --
Should by your sinning make an endless shame
To all my hopes, and in the making lend
Your honoured names to foul disloyalty?
God's mercy on our land, the end is near,
Now noble knights betray their sacred trust,
And Queens discard their vows of chastity,
And virtue bleaches on the sands of shame.
The sword is bared again, red burns the sun,
The old sore of corruption gapes afresh,
"The Kingdom backward reels into the beast,"
And all's undone that never was done true.
LAUNC. [ In cold, measured tones. ] As Guinevere has ever been to me,
My lady and my lord's most noble Queen,
I swear the only mischief to atone
Is that embraced in thy rash calumny.
ARTH. [ Contemptuously. ] Sir Knight, that quick flung charge of calumny
Is ever ready in a traitor's mouth.
LAUNC. Sir King, I swear again and then no more.
For naught of evil was I summoned here,
Nor aught of evil stayed me. This I swear.
[ With sudden heat. ] My Liege, thou ever hast been overkind
With those that murmured treason 'gainst the Queen,
And now 'tis in my mind that on a day
I fought her fight whilst thou stood idly by,
Immovable, austere, and dark of brow,
As questioning the merits of the charge.
GUIN. [ Breaking in between them and speaking with gathering emphasis as she proceeds. ] My lords, my husband and my friend, no more --
Dispute no more, but let there be an end.
My life is not so sweet I shrink from death,
Nor death so bitter that I long to live.
I make sore dole that some would have me dead,
But hug the joy that one for me would die.
And yet I lie not when I say ye lie
In charging me with shame! I had been dead,
So long ago, but for the friend that thrust
His loyal body 'twixt me and the flame.
My lords, which errant of ye all did hold
By Guinevere, when danger lit her sky?
These lips are red with blood he shed for me,
And yet I lie not, saying that ye lie!
Since first I came, my heart has ever roamed
Loveless through Arthur's halls, and quite alone,
While he was near that loved me as his soul.
Love is not shame, nor lack of love a crime;
I speak God's truth, and tell ye that ye lie!
ARTH. No more! I'll hear no more! Take her away!
[ A loud disturbance is heard without, and a voice crying, "My Lord the King! Bring me to the King!"
What noise is that?
1ST KNIGHT. Some messenger, my Lord.
[ Enter a MESSENGER , breathless and dishevelled with hard riding. He bursts through the throng and kneels before the KING. VIVIEN starts at his entrance as if she realises that SIR MORDRED 's plot has failed through her neglect in placing guards at the doors. She edges into the background.
MESSENGER. My liege, I come to thee with evil news.
ARTH. Ill tidings come amain. Whence? Whence? Be brief!
MESSENGER. I fled the camp of Mordred and King Mark.
1ST KNIGHT. Of Mordred and King Mark?
2ND KNIGHT. What meaneth this?
3RD KNIGHT. Are they allied?
4TH KNIGHT. What brings Mark from the West?
MESSENGER. My lord, false Mordred and King Mark are joined,
They camp from Westminster not twenty miles,
And traitor Knights of thine own fellowship --
Won by great promises of gain, and tales
Of weakness, treachery and sin at Court --
Are hasting to their ranks. This very night
At rise of moon, they move to the attack.
ARTH. [ In ringing tones of strong excitement. ] Now by God's rood what make of man art thou
That dares miscall such lusty tidings bad?
To arms, my lords; in blood and not in rheum,
We'll drown the mem'ry of our royal shame.
No more ye fight for Arthur and a cause,
But for your homes and children and your lives.
True Knight and traitor, we'll ride heel to heel,
And fall like vengeance on this rebel crew,
To die -- God's pity, if we may! -- to die,
Hot with the sweat of bloody victory.
[ To GUINEVERE -- in cold, passionless tones. ]
And thou, bide thou within the holy house,
Until the threated danger shall be past.
If I shall die, live on; but wit ye well
Ye have no cause to pray that I shall live.
GUIN. [ In clear, commanding tones. ] My liege, I still am Queen, and I demand
By right as Queen -- I do not ask a boon --
That word be sent me of this coming fight.
ARTH. The right is thine. The news shall reach thee straight.
Shrive thee and be anealed. Thy destiny
Will be between the lips of him that comes,
And on his tongue shalt thou find life or death.
GUIN. I am content. One lord of all thy court
Thou counted worthy to escort thy bride
To Camelot. I will abide thy choice.
Send him again to me, that I may learn
My doom from him whom thou didst one time bless
In bringing me -- my Knight, Sir Launcelot.
SCENE II. -- The Chapel of the Convent. Before an altar the NUNS are going through their morning devotions. Day is breaking, but the place is dimly lit with candles upon the altar, etc. The service is Lauds, and the NUNS are chanting the Benediction.
[ Enter GUINEVERE suddenly, interrupting the chant. She approaches the ABBESS.
GUIN. Good Mother, have ye aught of tidings yet?
No swifting harbinger of ill? No word
By one brought early wounded to thy care?
Or have ye that of news ye fear to speak?
Ah! hide it not, but give me dear relief
From this incertitude!
ABBESS. Have patience, child!
GUIN. These mocking fears are flames within my brain,
And I would fly this maddening suspense,
E'en to the solace of dread madness' self.
ABBESS. We have heard nothing, but the secret night
Shall find its silence broken by new day.
'Tis woman's lot to suffer and to wait;
Compose thyself to patience and to rest.
GUIN. To rest! There is no more of rest in earth
For Guinevere, that is herself a cause
Of fiery turmoil and the world's unrest.
ABBESS. My daughter, when the tidings come, they shall
Be brought thee. Doubt it not. Whate'er it be,
We will hold nothing back. Go thou apart
And lay thy heavy burden on the Lord.
GUIN. Ah! Drive me not away to be alone!
I'll make no sound. Let me remain to hear
Thy prayers, and pray for me that cannot pray.
ABBESS. Daughter, we pray for thee unceasingly,
That God in His good time will lift His hand
And stay thy heart with praise and penitence.
[ The NUNS resume their chanting. The rising sun slowly illumines the scene. The sound of a horse galloping is presently heard. GUINEVERE leaps to her feet and rushes to the ABBESS.
GUIN. [ Fiercely. ] Hearken! O hearken! Will ye never cease?
I hear the music of a horse's hoofs.
'Tis one with news; he halteth at the door.
Speak, Mother, speak, and bid them let him in!
[ The doors are thrown open, letting in more light. Enter LAUNCELOT'S PAGE, travel-stained and distressed.
[ To PAGE with eager intensity. ]
Speak, Sir, what tidings do ye bring?
PAGE. [ Tongue-tied, with emotion. ] Madam --
GUIN. [ Feverishly. ] Stay not to pick thy words. There is no tongue
Can pluck the bitterness from woe, or weave
A vestment to make fair, grief's nakedness.
What is thy news?
PAGE. Madam, the day is ours.
Sir Morded is among the dead.
GUIN. Yes! Yes!
Thou seest how we hang upon thy words!
Tell on!
PAGE. Would God there were no more to tell!
GUIN. [ Frantic with impatience. ] Sir, must we wait till thou art grown a man,
To learn thy news? Or would'st thou have us tear
The tidings from thy craven tongue?
PAGE. Lady,
Our sovereign lord, King Arthur, is no more!
[GUINEVERE is stunned by the news, and stands for a moment overcome. The ABBESS goes to her.
ABBESS. He has said, I am thy refuge and thy strength.
The Lord that gives, the Lord that takes away,
Have thee in His grace.
[GUINEVERE scarcely heeds the ABBESS, but turns again to PAGE.
GUIN. And he, thy master,
How fares Sir Lancelot? Is he of those
That live?
PAGE. He follows with what speed he may.
GUIN. He lives! He lives!
PAGE. Lives, Madam, but is like to die.
GUIN. To die? Ah no! He lives! Thou saidst he lives.
PAGE. He took a hurt intended for the King,
Upon whose shoulder as a shield he hung
Throughout the fight.
[GUINEVERE trembles and sways. The ABBESS puts her arms about her. The chant is resumed. Presently there are more sounds without, and LAUNCELOT enters, supported between TWO KNIGHTS. He is in full armour save for his helm. He is dazed with loss of blood, and his sight is failing.
LAUNC. Gently, fair Sirs; the road
Is all composed of unremembered turns,
And this new darkness maketh all things strange.
GUIN. [ With a great sob. ] Ah God! he comes to die!
LAUNC. I heard a voice
Of one afar; a voice made sweet with tears.
Am I not near the Queen?
[GUINEVERE crosses over to LAUNCELOT.
GUIN. Aye, Launcelot,
I am that Guinevere that was the Queen.
LAUNC. The fight is done, my Queen. The realm is safe,
But he, the King --
GUIN. I have been told. And thou --
Where is thy wound?
LAUNC. [ In a far-away voice. ] He spake no word, but died
All silently, as men might die in dreams.
GUIN. [ To the supporting KNIGHTS.] Sirs, bear him tenderly, and set him free
From the misprized enchantment of his mail.
[ To LAUNCELOT.] Art thou sore hurt? Yet is there ease in store;
Thou wilt bide here till I shall make thee whole.
LAUNC. [ Recovering himself. ] My Queen, I may not stay at thy command.
I must go hence, at once, to join the King.
'Tis said by ghostly men that all will be
Fair equals in the beautiful beyond.
'Tis false! I have no equal there or here;
For I have prest my mouth upon thy mouth,
And touched thy golden head, and felt thy heart
Beat strong beneath the worship of my hand.
[ The QUEEN weeps. ]
Weep not, my Queen, but give me leave to go.
[LAUNCELOT steps forward from between the KNIGHTS that support him and falls with a heavy crash of armour to the ground. GUINEVERE makes a movement to go to him, but the ABBESS restrains her.
LAUNC. How shall he wish to live, that in one hour
Has lived out all the joy of all the world?
Yet would I crave another boon -- that I
Might touch again thy hand before I go.
[GUINEVERE moves again to him, and again the ABBESS seizes her arm to restrain her.
ABBESS. Rash Queen, would'st burn eternally for him?
GUIN. [ Shaking off her restraining hand. ] For him, or with him, would I burn for ever!
[ The NUNS shrink back from her in horror.
GUIN. This love is mine; I have nought else to give
But this, my deathless love, this frailty
That moves me e'en against the will of God,
And fills my heart with eager sacrifice.
[GUINEVERE goes to LAUNCELOT, who is supported against the knee of one of his KNIGHTS, and bends over him.
LAUNC. O Guinevere, 'tis not to die I grieve,
But to die thus, and leave to thee the shame.
GUIN. Beloved, if this love were only mine,
I had been dead of shame ere now; but if
Some smallest part of it belong to thee,
O deck me bride-wise in the web of it,
Or hang it for a charm upon my breast.
LAUNC. [ In a low voice of one dying. ] The sin so sweet that we may not repent,
The love that suffers all things. O my Queen,
Thou makest death more sweet to me than life.
GUIN. [ Kneeling and holding him in her arms. ]
O my dear lord, we love not as we would,
But as love comes to us, and as love wills.
Never for us the unpleasant ways of love,
Ours but to love. So soon the end has come,
But sithen there could be no other end,
What matter if it come or then or now?
Together we go forth into the night;
Let me hold fast thy hand, be close to thee,
Lest in the fearsome passage of the dark
I lose thee, and should be afraid. In life,
In death, we are together still,
My heart upon thy true heart beats its last.
[ The full-risen sun sheds a golden glory on the lovers. GUINEVERE strains him to her breast and kisses his mouth. His body quivers for an instant, then his mailed hand slips from her shoulder and falls to the ground.
GUIN. Not yet, O God! The time is not quite yet!
[ Still pressing him to her, she raises the lifeless arm and replaces it about her neck. Then she falls lifeless across his body. The NUNS close the heavy door, shutting out the sunshine.
[ At the back of the stage, like a vision, a tableau is shown of the Meadows near Camelot, with the effect of waning moonlight, as at the close of the Second Scene in the First Act. The figures of LAUNCELOT and GUINEVERE are revealed; his arm is about her, and her head rests against her shoulder. Slowly they disappear into the forest -- the moon passes behind a cloud. The entire stage becomes dark.
CURTAIN.
LAUNCELOT AND GAWAINE
by
RICHARD HOVEY
Two women loved a poet. One was dark,
Luxuriant with the beauty of the south,
A heart of fire--and this one he forsook.
The other slender, tall, with wide gray eyes,
Who loved him with a still intensity
That made her heart a shrine--to her he clave,
And he was faithful to her to the end.
And when the poet died, a song was found
Which he had writ, of Launcelot and Gawaine;
And when the women read it, one cried out:
"Where got he Launcelot? Gawaine I know--
He drew that picture from a looking-glass--
Sleek, lying, treacherous, golden-tongued Gawaine!"
The other, smiling, murmured "Launcelot!"
THE QUEST OF MERLIN
A PRELUDE
by
RICHARD HOVEY
Interior of a cavern in the bowels of the earth, beneath Mount Hecla. Huge rock-fragments, amid which twists tortuously a great root of the tree Yggdrasil. A flickering flame, by the light of which are seen the NORNS , colossal but shadowy shapes, about a gigantic but indistinct Loom. Dull, heavy sounds, out of which arises a strange music, which resolves itself continually into imperfect harmonies, which leave the heart in unrest. A sense of striving and struggle beats through the music.
THE NORNS . We are the Recorders!
We are the Finishers!
Nothing we initiate;
All things we fulfil.
Odin initiates
And Freyja and Loki,
Divine Balder and the other Immortals.
Whatsoever they begin,
Relentlessly we fulfil.
Ye, too, O men, are as gods;
Ye are free and the free create;
Ye have part in the Imperishable.
Ever as ye follow the Beautiful,
Shall the worm transfigure itself
And the new-born god appear.
But over your destinies we sit in doom;
Whatsoever ye begin,
Relentlessly we fulfil.
Think and we seize the thought;
Act and the deed once done
Sinks into our iron hands.
Only the unthought thought, O man,
Is thine own and the deed forborne.
Thou canst neither love nor doubt
But the doubt and the love alike
Pass into the infrangible weft of the world
That we weave with inexorable fingers.
We are the Queens of Time,
And, while Time is, we endure.
With the calm of the Empyrean
We mix not, neither dwell we therein;
But over the shifting
Our shuttles are inflexible.
God having given us Time,
Over Time we are greater than God.
We are the Finishers.
[ A low, foreboding roll of thunder.-- MERLIN appears on a jutting crag in the cave, with a forked wand in his hand.--The flame flashes into sudden brilliancy, sharply defining the rocky walls of the cavern, but at once sinks back into its former weak and flickering indistinctness.--The NORNS remain motionless, noting none of these things, nor do they actually perceive MERLIN at any time .]
MERLIN . Hail!
Ye monstrous Glooms!
Formless Forms!
Known and Unknown!
To what avail
Through strifes and storms,
Athwart the Sea that bellows and booms
In the ear
With the threatening of dire dooms,
Strove I once alone
In the starless vast of the night of fear,
Dread Queens, to behold your throne?
Lo, all that passes
From your touch takes shape,
Yet in you I find not any shape at all.
Dimly the dusk glasses
To the view
Shadows that fall
Into the Void; the Verities escape.
Without you seeing is not nor thought,
But you--
Woe! I discern you not.
URD. Sisters, how should a man's eyes see the Void?
VERDANDE . Shadows of clouds he scans on a searchless sea.
SKULD . Between two Deeps a film of mist that shifts!
MERLIN . Shadowy ones!
Ye whom my eyes have seemed to see
Many times in the weary years!
Deeper and darker the riddle appears;
Muddier the river runs.
What are ye, Darknesses? Whence have ye risen?
Are ye or seem ye? What is it to seem or to be?
With the same awe I re-behold you
As when I first clave o'er the unroadwayed sea
And through the cavernous darks of Hecla's womb
The way to Odin's tomb--
To your earth-bound prison.
VERDANDE . The shuttle flies. The noise of men far off
Breaks faintly on our ears like a distant surf.
MERLIN . Prison, I call it, I hold you--
You, the Resistless, Monarchs of Days--
As verily slaves as we.
Slaves of the stone sceptre your own hands wield
Over the weirds of the world--
Or of some mightier Silence whose ways
I find not without me revealed
Nor within me enfurled.
URD . I hear a voice above the noise of men,
Like a bird's thin shriek shrilling o'er the surf.
MERLIN . Ever thus!
I pass and return,
But ye remain ever the same.
I see the weft wax and the pale flame burn;
I hear the dark words and ominous:
But never to me ye turn;
Me ye call not by name.
SKULD . The surf booms on, the billows break and cease,
And the gull's cry dissolves into the wind.
MERLIN . Answer my thought!
Ye have answered before,--
So mightily wrought
My strenuous lore.
By the wand in my hand
I command you to show
All the veils may conceal,
That it ails me to know.
Man and wife, is it weal?
Man and wife, is it woe?
Ye see not the wand;
Ye see not the mage:
As two straws in your hand
Are the fool and the sage.
Ye know not I utter;
Ye know not ye heed;
But the words that ye mutter
Shall answer my need.
Speak!
VERDANDE . Woe to the maiden, for her doom is dark!
SKULD . Woe to the knight! His thread is stained with blood.
URD . Woe to the Prince! For a witless fault great woe!
MERLIN . Alas! for all mortals
Sorrow sits waiting.
Man, hesitating,
Into the Future peers.
From the dark portals
Issue the Fears.
VERDANDE . Weal for the lovers, after many days!
URD . Ay, but they first shall sail a bitter sea!
SKULD . Weal for the King, but not till the kingdom pass!
MERLIN . Weal and woe!
A dark saying!
Yeaing and naying!
How shall I know?
URD . The seer and the seeing and the seen--
Are not these three things known and yet unknown?
VERDANDE . To live is better far than not to live--
Yea, and to live is worse than not to live.
SKULD . The womb--the tomb--and each of these is all--
And he that acts, is wise and is unwise.
MERLIN . A womb and a tomb!
No more?
VERDANDE . Who weds this woman hath a royal wife.
URD . Behold the man she loves, a king of men!
SKULD . Each man must choose his wife and bide his lot.
MERLIN . She loves the Prince!--
A queenly one!--
Whom else should he wed?
Who else should share his throne?
Daughters of Time! ye speak and convince.
I have chosen a way to tread.
URD . Marriage the calm gods give, a crown of life;
Marriage we give, not they, a kissing curse.
MERLIN . A rhymeless Rune--
Is and Is Not.
Solve me the riddle!
Is there no overword?
VERDANDE . Darkness and light ring round the globe of things,
And each pursues the other as it flies.
MERLIN . Know ye the wand?
With the wand I compel you.
SKULD . A Dragon slaying forever a deathless Queen!
There is no wit in us to make this clear.
MERLIN . Not in you?
Where then? In myself?
[ He strikes his own forehead with the wand.-- A black formless mark appears on his brow.--He falls in a swoon. ]
THE NORNS . Over the Loom
Brooding and bending,
Weave we the ending,
Self-decreed doom,
A robe for repayment.
Hands from the Nowhere
Reach the threads here to us.
Hands only appear to us.
Knowing not the Living Ones,
Weave we their raiment.
He who beholds us,
Seeing no others
Timeless and Free,
Knows us and knows us not--
But finds not the Mothers.
Into the void deeps,
Blackness of Darkness
Above and about him,
Dizzily down
Falls he forever.
[ As the NORNS sing, the scene becomes more and more indistinct, until, at the last stanza, their words issue from utter darkness.--A confused sound, like a low rumbling. Then a clear tenor voice is heard singing: " Nonne anima plus est quam esca; et corpus plus quam vestimentum?"-- A ray of light breaks through the darkness, and now the song of the SYLPHS is heard. The light grows brighter, until, when the SYLPHS cease singing, the scene is completely illuminated.--It is a grove, with a Greek temple in the background. MERLIN lies, still in his swoon, upon the ground.-- The NORNS have disappeared, and beautiful figures, in classic drapery, pass in and out among the trees. ]
SYLPHS . The fleet wind's footing
Is light on the roses.
Wherever he goes is
The lilt of his luting,
Sweet, sweet.
The little green apples
He sways and swings.
The leaves are a-quiver,
Touched by his wings.
The cheek of the river
Dimples and dapples,--
Sweet, sweet.
The light mist-wreathing
Is drifted and thinned.
The lark flies flinging
His song on the wind.
The wind with his singing
Mingles its breathing,--
Sweet, sweet.
There is no one wisteth
The way that it goeth.
The wind bloweth
Whither it listeth,--
Sweet, sweet.
GNOMES [ beneath, unseen ]. Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
In the earth below,
Like worms that coil
In a slow turmoil,
We huddle and struggle
And delve and toil.
Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
Merrily O!
Under the ground,
Clogged and bound,
We strive and strain
To be rid of the chain,
As a caged beast rages
To roam again.
Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
For the brooks to flow!
Hear ye us? Hark!
We're at work in the dark,
And in and out
We burrow about
Amid caves and graves
With a song and a shout--
Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
For the trees to grow!
The old earth
Hears our mirth
As a thing astir
In the womb of her,
A boding of birth
And a harbinger.
Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
For the flowers to blow!
NAIADS [ in a stream in the background ]. Maidenly strong,
With a joyous song,
Very merrily is the river as it ripples along.
The vales are voicing
A great rejoicing;
Earth laughs with flowers as the sky with morn,
For a child is born,
For a child is born.
Sing softly.
From sky and earth
Is the river's birth--
O the gentle joy of the river's mirth!
There is never a staying
In all its playing--
Waylaying and straying from morn to morn--
For a child is born,
For a child is born.
Sing softly.
Who knows--who knows
Why the river flows?
Coming and going--what comes and goes?
There is no resting
In all its hasting.
What is it that ripples and leaps along
With a glad, sweet song,
With a ceaseless song?
Sing softly.
ANGELS [ above, in a burst of sunlight ].
Glory to God in the highest!
Osanna! Osanna!
Behold, His dwelling is the Sun
And the glory thereof His open doors.
He and the blue of heaven are one
And the Sea's dædal-paven floors.
He is the Beholden;
With Him to be is to be seen;
Without Him spring were never green
Nor autumn golden;
By Him the nerves of sight are stirred;
Beside Him there is nought but Night;
He uttereth His eternal word,
"Let there be light," and there is light.
Glory to God in the highest!
Osanna! Osanna!
[ The ANGELS disappear, soaring upward; the NAIADS sink under the waters; and the SYLPHS fade into the air. ]
MERLIN [ awakening ]. Sweet goddess, raise thy veil! . . . A dream, a dream!
Methought that I was in the utter night.
So black it was, sight was not, nay, nor thought--
Only a sense of falling. Suddenly
A great light shone about me and a form,
As of a potent goddess, moved across
The circle of my sight. Queen-like, she wore
A threefold crown, and in her hand she kept
A mirror wherein, wonderfully glassed,
Meseemed I saw the mystery of things--
Wried in a sort but rimmed about with wonder.
And by her side there crawled a shackled slave
That kissed the mirror. From her head there fell
A veil that clad whatever form she bore
In awful folds, so that I could not see
If she were fair or foul. Yet from her gait
A sound came singing, as it were the voice
Of many dulcimers. Whereat I cried
Aloud and woke. . . What vale is this? The leaves
Show not the tiniest mote-fleck of decay.
Each little grass-blade--ay, the very mushrooms,
Perfect as in a poet's thought of them!
My boyhood's dream of what the world might be!
Ah me! I dream still. This is a sweet nothing--
The phantasmagory of a thought-crazed brain.
I am too old to cheat myself with dreams.
I have dropped my plummet into the great deeps,
But nowhere found I this. This is a dream. . .
What eyes are those that peer between the leaves
With laughter in their looking? Do I see
Or do I dream I see brown beautiful arms
And breasts half-hidden by the russet gown,
A-shift like jack-a-lanterns in the trees?
DRYADS [ half-seen in the trees ].
See the queer old fellow
With the moss-gray beard!
His eyes are bleared
And his skin is yellow.
Prying and peering--
Hist! Hark!
He can hardly see,
For his eyes grow dark;
And the voice of a tree
Is too fine for his hearing.
For him, when blossoms are blowing,
No fruitage appears.
Deaf are his ears
To the music of growing.
The leaf in the flower,
The flower in the fruit,
The fruit in the seed
And the seed in the root!
There is only the need
Of the eye and the hour.
Come and catch us, Grizzle!
Why stand a-gaze?
Take the sunshiny ways!
Quit the fog and the drizzle!
Break the split wand
And be done with the magic!
Know thyself truly,
Half-silly, half-tragic!
Only shown wholly
To the Lover we stand.
MERLIN . Something is stirring in the leaves, but what
My old eyes grow too misty to make out.
I catch a sound of singing, but the words
Escape me. Alas! the wisdom of the old
Is like a miser's hoard--laid up with toil
To lavish on a mistress--she being dead,
The old man counts his useless treasure over,
More joyless that it once had brought such joy.
[ Enter a rout of FAUNS , crowned with ivy and vine leaves, and dancing and singing to the sound of their tambourines. As they sing, they make mops and mows at MERLIN .]
FAUNS . Hear the crickets chirrup!
Jolly little fellows!
Summer's in the stirrup
In his reds and yellows.
The bumble-bee hangs over
The honey-hearted clover--
Lazy, drunken rover!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
Foxes in the poultry-yard,
Making free with chickens!
Crows in the cornfield,
Scratching like the dickens!
[ Enter PAN and SATYRS , with Pan-pipes. ]
PAN . Pipe! pipe!
For it's merry to live in the shade--
To lunch on the hillside under the trees,
To munch lush figs and oranges
And crunch fat pig-nuts, lying at ease,
Looking over the summer seas.
SATYRS . Pipe! pipe!
For it's merry to live in the shade!
FAUNS and SATYRS [ softly, as PAN pipes .]
Hist! list!
While the great god Pan pipes sweetly.
Whist! all whist!
His fingers ripple featly
Over the oaten keys--
A noise as of many trees
And of all sweet sounds together,
Brooks that laugh in the intervales,
Birds and bees in the dreaming dales
The cool breeze whispering low all-hails
Over the sunlit heather
In the sleepy summer weather.
Hist! hist!
[ PAN sits by the river, surrounded by SATYRS . The FAUNS gather about MERLIN . The scene becomes cloudier. ]
BASSARIDS [ without ].
On the height to-night--
Speed the news, speed the news!
Sting and smite
The wind with a tempest of shrill halloos!--
When the lynx is abroad and the red moon shines
Through the rents in the roof of the raftered pines,
And the black clouds rise from the muttering east
And the hot winds storm from the tremulous south,
There shall be the pale foam of passionate faces a-surge
With a sea-like iterant urge,
Round the fire and the feast,
And the red blood shall be smirched on the blood-red mouth
Haloo! Halloo!
There's a feast afoot.
The torrent howls like a hungry brute
And the owls shriek--Tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
FAUNS [ about MERLIN ].
Tickle his ear!
Tickle his nose!
Hey, old wrinkle-face, isn't it queer?
Sneeze, now--sneeze--ah!---there she goes!
[ Enter BASSARIDS , with cymbals, noisily. As they sing, BACCHUS appears in a car drawn by leopards. He is surrounded by MÆNADS , bearing beakers of wine. ]
BASSARIDS. Hark! the lean wolf yelps!
And his eyes are red balls in the dark;
And the whine of the she-bear's whelps
Wails on the wind--hark!
Hasten, Sun, to the dolphining west!
Speed, black Night, from the hooded east!
Bring to our nostrils the smell of the feast!
Bring the locks unbound and the limbs released
And the tigerish lover that bites the breast!
The torn red flesh and the beakers of blood!
And the riot and rush through the maddening wood!
Hark! the wolf! U-lu-lo! U-lu-lo!
BACCHUS . Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Set the goblets ringing!
Clink, clink! clink, clink!
Hail, the laughter-bringing!
Wine that makes the blood beat fast
And sets the senses tingling!
How the world goes reeling past
To the wine-cups jingling--
Reeling, wheeling round about,
In and out, to and fro!--
The trees spin with us in our rout
And leap as long ago--ho, ho!
And leap as long ago
They jigged it to Amphion's lyre--
Wine and Song have one desire.
MÆNADS . Wine, ho! Clink, clink!
--The goblets chime.
Wine, ho! Drink, drink!
So we conquer time.
Time lies drunk among the reeds,
Sleeping off his evil deeds.
BACCHUS . Let the future brood and bode
Let the past go spinning!
Pluck the roses by the road,
You'll find them worth the winning.
Let the tipsy days go by,
Take their gifts! Let them go!
Laugh back at the laughing sky,
And when the storm-winds blow--ho, ho!
And when the storm-winds blow,
Outdin the thunder-throated skies
With tumult of your revelries!
MÆNADS . Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Through the veins a-laughing,
Like a sparkle on the flow
Of the upland brooks that go
Seaward wavering--swift, slow!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
The god pours out his life-blood so
That madmen may be quaffing.
[ The SATYRS , BASSARIDS , and FAUNS crowd about BACCHUS and produce cups which they fill from his exhaustless wine-skins. The FAUNS drag MERLIN to the centre and crown him with vine-leaves. The MÆNADS caress him and ply him with wine. ]
MÆNADS . Come, old wherefore-seeker,
Let the Fates go flying!
See within the beaker
Joy imprisoned lying,
Like a sunbeam taken
In a rougish eye!
Drink! let life awaken
And grave-mold wisdom die!
Thought is gray and life is green--
These are what men choose between.
FULL CHORUS . Wine, ho! wine, ho!
See it foam and flash--yeo-heigh!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Let the cymbals clash!
The deep hill-gorges
Buffet back our orgies.
The heart throbs quicker, quicker,
With a lightning-leap of mirth,
As the madness of the liquor
Turns the blood to flaming ichor
And makes music of the earth.
See the crags shake to and fro,
Toppling to the lake below!
Wine, ho! wine, ho!
Yeo-heigh! merrily, merrily.
A FAUN . Thy lips are teasing to be kissed.
A MÆNAD . Kiss me, then, but catch me first.
A SATYR . Love dries up my throat like thirst.
Let me clasp thee as I list!
A BASSARID . The swift fire slays me.
SATYR . Joy! she wavers
Another FAUN . Leave us, goat-heels! She's for me.
BASSARID . Fight it out! We like to see
Battles for our favors.
FAUNS and SATYRS . The garments slipping in the dance
Show here a breast and there a thigh.
BASSARIDS . The wild beast glares in every glance.
MÆNADS . There are shady coverts nigh.
[ Exeunt FAUNS and SATYRS tumultuously, chasing MÆNADS and BASSARIDS . BACCHUS , laughing, follows them leisurely in his car. MERLIN attempts to follow, but falls tipsily. The scene lightens. ]
PAN . O river rippling at my feet
Among the reeds and rushes!
O leaves that lisp applause to greet
The thrilling of the thrushes!
Some prescience of the reedy life hushes the noisy stream,
And whispering leaf to leaf, the listening bushes of bird-songs dream. [ Exit PAN .
ANGELS [ above, unseen ].
The Lord God is a God of the living.
To the works of His word
The Lord's heart is not chary of giving
The life-blood of the Lord.
Through the manifold forms of His moulding
It streams, and its working is rife,
Forever enfleshed and unfolding--
Life, life!
Though the beast rend his fellow asunder
And the hawk on the slain lark feeds,
He hath made them whose voice is the thunder
And He knoweth His deeds.
Without night were no dawn
And day were not known to be day.
But what eye understands?
Who knoweth His way?
Tiger and fawn
Alike are the work of His hands.
Yea, Darkness He maketh and Strife,
Who is Light and Love;
And Death hath He wrought, who is Life;
And Change, who sits changeless above.
But under the earth and the heaven
The arms that uphold them abide,
And Death shall be slain, say the Seven
That stand by His side.
[ A pause . Enter MAB and FAIRIES .]
FAIRIES . With the pallid lunar dawn
Trip we forth from Avalon,
And our mirth
Ripples o'er the dreaming earth.
Over hill and valley dancing
Goes the tinkling of the beat
Of our many-twinkling feet
And the sound is as the glancing
Of moonlight on the lake.
Then when only watch-dogs wake,
Though the gates be kept and barred,
It goes hard
But we mock both bars and keepers,
And the sleepers
Rouse not for the silvery din
Of our noisy coming-in.
Or in the glen,
Far from the haunt of men,
Where the solemn owls protest
At our every light-heeled jest,
Like the stupid-wits they are,
With a hoot,
There our mischief is afoot,
And the twinkle of each star
Laughs back at us from afar.
[ A dance of FAIRIES .]
MAB . Quick, fairies, to the river and scoop up
With shell-like hands a shower of watery pearls
To sprinkle on this ancient tippler here.
A FAIRY . What see I here? Am I so beautiful?
My Queen, look how the water glasses us.
[ The FAIRIES are absorbed in the contemplation of their reflection in the water. Enter PUCK and GOBLINS ; afterward OBERON , TITANIA , and the ELVES .]
GOBLINS . In the night,
Guided by uncertain torches
That affright
Luck-belated travellers,
We delight
To pass beyond the porches
Of the templed universe,
To explore with midnight lore
Secrets hidden from the sun--
To seek the many in the one--
Whether the elements be four
Or more--
How the rose blooms and grows,
With what blood its petal glows--
What meat doth it eat
In the eyeless underground.
Sure, some rare thing's to be found,
If we could but fathom it.
So we delve in doleful places
For its traces,
Where the dead lie inurned
And the paint rots from fair faces,
And the armor crumbles with rust,
And the body is returned
To its elemental dust.
PUCK . Ugk-gnn! Ugk-gnn! What a lugubrious chant!
You're not a whit better than so many frogs
That croak at eve in some o'ershadowed pool.
Why, what a mumbling is here of churchyards! Bats' blood!
We're in Avalon now. Be a little gayer. Surely,
We haven't entirely forgotten to be merry.
For my part, I have small taste for skulls, unless
They be sawn across and mounted for drinking-cups.
Give me a pumpkin every time, with holes
For eyesockets and nostrils, and a candle
To make you think the Devil himself is in it.
[ The GOBLINS have begun suddenly to dig in the ground. Out of it they produce a shining metal .]
GOBLINS . Lo, here! Behold
What the earth doth hold!
Out of the clay
A brightness we bring,
Better than gold,
To the air and the day.
It is moonlight made
A substantial thing--
A splendor laid
Under the dark mould,
By witless gnomes in the days of old.
[ As the GOBLINS throw the metal up out of the earth, the ELVES take it and build of it a bridge over the stream. ]
ELVES . We travel with a little pack
Of wonder-tools upon each back,
As light as any feather;
We have a happy, handy knack
Of putting this and that together.
We spin the film of gossamer
The woodsman brushes from his face;
We weave the cobweb's airy lace
No gust can rend, a breath may stir;
We raise the mushroom's gay pavilion,
And duskier toadstools by the million;
We contrive the chestnut-burrs,
Craftiest artificers.
One is nothing if another
Be not by to make it more:
Brother atom knows its brother:
Two and two are more than four.
Give us tools and give us stuff--
We'll make contrivances enough.
PUCK . Bah! You play the sage detestably.
Now, here's one, lying by his trunk,
Proves his wisdom incontestably,
Getting sapiently drunk.
And in that condition, he perceives that marvellous structure you are so proud of, but as a thin line of light in the eastern sky, though it is already high noon. To the inspired vision of this bacchanalian wisdom here, everything is upside down, the trees gambol and pirouette, and the unintelligent ripples wink gravely and confidentially. He sees our heads where our heels are, and our heels where our heads are, our virtues as vices, and vice versa .
Rogues true and heroes scurvy--
So the world goes topsy-turvy.
TITANIA . Mocker of the elfin tribes,
Cease,
Prithee, thy ungentle gibes.
I will bring the man release.
Mortal, who with weak sight still
To discern the true art fain,
I alone have will and skill
To clear the cobwebs from the brain.
Let the perfume of this flower,
Stealing to the seat of sense,
Free the spirit from their power
By its holy influence.
And yet I know that thou wilt spin
Still subtler films when these be gone,
To wrap the vacant vision in
And dim the light of Avalon.
OBERON . Where's Ariel? His wand shall change
This structure that my elves have wrought,
To something far beyond their thought,
It is a miracle so strange.
PUCK . You never do a thing yourself.
But some poor devil of an elf
Is made through weary leagues to beat
His wings or run on restless feet,
While you lie dreaming in the wood,
Lapped in inactive lassitude,
Wrapped like Morgana in the mist--
Sometimes I think you don't exist.
OBERON . Whimsiest of the fairy brood,
I cannot scold you if I would.
But keep a rein on what you say;
When I command, even you obey,
Who more than all delight to shirk.
I give the law, ye do the work.
[ ARIEL has appeared on the bridge, which is completed. ]
ARIEL . Far away I heard your call,
Lord and master of us all.
By your wishing I was caught
In the shadow-land of thought,
Where the midnight and the day
Mingle in a twilight gray,
Through which wander here and there
Wondrous fantasies of air,
Throngs of thewless Anakim,
Cities half-discerned, and dim
With a rosy veil of mist
Spreading into amethyst.
There that golden country lies,
Sometimes seen of mortal eyes
As a vision in the skies.
Wretches in the desert straying
See its silver fountains playing,
Hasten forward to their slaying;
For the hungry lion lies
Couched beneath the brazen skies,
And the vision faints and dies.
And the simple sailor flees
From the trancèd ships he sees,
Glamour of diableries.
But the graybeards smile and say,
"Arthur's sister, Morgan Fay,
Is in elfinland at play.
Trust her not, for she entices
Sagest wits with her devices.
Lo, this is not what it seems."
--Yet it ne'er could haunt their dreams,
If it did not somewhere stand
On the firm unshifting land.
Thence I come and thither go.
Master, what you will I know,
And I do your bidding--so!
[ He touches the bridge with his wand. It is transfigured and becomes the rainbow-bridge, Bifrost, reaching from earth to heaven. The entire fairy rout march up and out of sight, singing. ]
[ Enter APHRODITE and the LOVES .]
LOVES . Dædal-throned, imperishable Aphrodite!
Child of Zeus, O thou of the many-colored
Spirit, crafty-hearted, devising twofold,
Slayer and savior!
Who shall praise thee? Who shall be found whose fingers
Now may strike the Lesbian lute to greet thee
When thou leav'st the Paphian myrtle-coverts,
Yoking thy chariots
Lesbos-ward to cleave the dissolving ether?
Only inarticulate wild sea-voices
Sound, O sea-born Love, where thy lost sweet singer
Drifts with the sea-tides.
Yet thy lips are sweet as of old with laughters,
Time grows gray, but still in thy golden tresses,
Sunlight lurks and loiters, thou Queen forever,
Deathless and ageless!
[ The VALKYRS appear, descending Bifrost .]
VALKYRS . Ho, for the harrying
And havoc of battle!
The crush of the conflict!
The clashing of spears!
Ho, for the hero!
Many and mighty
The foemen that meet him,
A white-hot mass
Of hammered metal!
Weapon and warrior
Welded in the war-forge!
So they surround him,
But he, heavy-handed,
Hacking them dauntlessly,
Does them to death.
We from Valhalla
Hasten and hover
Over the war-valley,
Heartening the heroes.
Ho, for the strong man,
Stout-hearted in strife,
Overthrown but unthralled,
Overborne but unbroken,
Daring and doing,
Mighty of will!
LOVES . What strange goddesses these, slender, with streaming hair,
Clean-limbed, vigorous, tall, fair as the pine is fair?
Lithe, strong, virginal forms treading with martial gait
Down yon sevenfold arch, resolute, stern, elate?
Lo, their helmets upcast splendors that stream to heaven,
Seven lights from the bridge, up from the helmets seven!
Conquest sleeps in their eyes, victory binds their brows,
Strength lies still on their lips, waiting till wars arouse.
Whence and why do they come, halting before our Queen?
What have we for their wills, passionless and serene?
Yet are they wondrous fair, fair in a sweet, strange wise,
With the sunlight in their hair and the blue sky in their eyes.
VALKYRS . Lo, the Goddess we seek!
The Queen from the South!
Lo, her delicate cheek!
Her adorable mouth!
Her eyes that are limpid with laughters, and sparkle as springs never dried by a drouth!
O gentleness, bending
With royal reserve!
O queenliness blending
With langours that swerve
Down the sweep of the lines of imperial limbs, that, stately and splendid of curve,
Rise poised like the calla,
Superb in its grace!
The gods in Valhalla,
O Queen, are a-gaze
With the rapture of rumors that reach them and rouse them to look on the light of thy face!
Come, then, and o'er us
Thy radiance throw!
In the heart of our chorus
Let love lie aglow,
As the breath of the brief northern summer that wakens the May-flowers under the snow.
APHRODITE . Maidens and gods and messengers of gods,
I see you fair and goodly and made bright
With flashing armor and with floating hair.
Not otherwise of old I saw the queen,
Hippolyta, whom yet for all her spears
I made to follow where at first she fled,
Compelling to rebellious loyalty,
Subduing her proud will to Theseus' love,
Even as the smiling of the sun subdues.
For strength is good, but strength that knows not love
Is as a random archer in the dark,
And many shafts are shot whose flight is vain,
And some work evil. Yet not this alone--
Ye bring me gifts as I bring gifts to you.
Love without will and might of the strong arm
Is bitterness and ashes of dead fruit.
Be my attendants, then; I need your spears.
LOVES and VALKYRS . Throw open your arms, O Valhalla!
Cry out and rejoice!
For she comes with the sunlit hair
And the face divinely fair,
And the brook-soft voice;
And a whisper of lutes is heard,
The rustle of unborn leaves in the air
And the song of an unseen bird.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the Queen of Love shall come in,
With the steel of the north in her hand
And the heart of the south within;
And the snow shall melt from the frozen land,
And the summer leaves be green.
Lift up your heads, O ye gates,
And the Queen of Love shall come in!
[ Exeunt, singing, over the bridge Bifrost. ]
[ Enter ARGENTE and eight MAIDENS , crowned with wreaths and carrying garlands in their hands. ]
MAIDENS . Rosebuds and apple-blossoms!
Fairer than they seem!
In our hair and in our bosoms
Lying in a dream!
Living and dreaming--
Visionless and mute--
Underneath their simple seeming
Lurketh flower and fruit.
Denying and averring
As yet they do not know--
Only an unconscious stirring
Where the thought shall grow.
Dreams of joy and sweetness
Fill each rosy leaf,
And the yearning for completeness
Is a dream of grief.
Wise without intellection,
Dreaming toward their fate,
Perfect in their imperfection,
Let them wait--
Let them wait.
MERLIN . If that thou be a spirit, or a dream,
Or but a wonder of sweet maidenhood,
I know not. But, I pray thee, maid or dream
Or spirit, be as gracious as thy looks.
I am a man much worn with years and sorrows.
Hither have I come I know not how, and where
I am I know not. Guide me hence, I pray,
--Or, since thou seemest attended as a queen,
Bid one of these thy servants go with me
And set my foot upon some way that leads
To many-towered Camelot. There I dwell
And serve King Arthur, counselling his reign.
ARGENTE . Thou sayest; I am a queen. But I reign not in the fashion that thou deemest;
Neither are these servants, but my kinswomen, among whom I am crowned by love only,
Service with service exchanging, their least with my most counted equal.
One, not unknown to thee, Merlin, is near, the ninth of my maidens,
And she, when she cometh, shall conduct thee whithersoever thou wilt. The way is
Not long to the battlements of Camelot, though long from Camelot hither.
MERLIN . I know not how thou knowest my name, and yet
With many marvels I am so distraught
That I no longer gape at anything.
What art thou, lady, and what place is this?
ARGENTE . I am the Lady of the Lake, and this is the valley of Avalon.
The violets of spring and the roses of summer and the fruitage of autumn
Here burgeon together, and the North here mingles with the South and is lost in it
As a lover is that lingers in the arms of his mistress till he swoons and is one with her.
Once hitherto hast thou seen me, O Merlin, when Nimue the water-witch
Sent thee with Arthur to the lake-shore, for a gift that should gain him his kingdom;
And there clave through the sheen of the shield that the lake holds up to the heaven
An arm for the boss of it that bare the great brand, Excalibur, and brandished it;
And Arthur with a cry sprang down to the shore where a light skiff lay for his using
And leaped to the oars, and the boat shot forward like the darting of a kingfisher,
Swift-sent by the urge of his eagerness out into the serene fire-splendor,
Till it stopped in the centre a-quiver as a arrow is that strikes in a target.
Then from my hands he received it.--But lo, she comes--Nimue!
[ Enter NIMUE .]
Hail, sister!
NIMUE . Hail, my Queen!
MERLIN . What, the beautiful Nimue!
NIMUE . Welcome to Avalon, Master!
MERLIN . O lady, I should rather do
Thee reverence. Alas, what kingship sits
In these gray hairs? Master? The child treads firmlier
Over rough ways; but I, the seer, am blind
And grope and stumble like a man in the dark.
NIMUE . Ay, but if thou stumblest in paths where another would perish--!
Blind? Rather say keen-eyed as the hunter that follows
The fleet-foot goat on the mountain, till, lost in the cloud-mist,
Sheer at his feet gulfs gaping, he stops in amazement,
Dizzy and doubting--but another had never dared climb there.
MERLIN . Thy words are like a wood-brook in my ears.
But, gentle lady, I am sick at heart:
Increase of knowledge increaseth mysteries;
And, knowing much, I know that I know nothing.
NIMUE . Yet something I hold it, being man, to put question as thou
To the gods, though the gods render answer in riddles.
MERLIN . Ah, me!
Too well I know the bridgeless vast between
The most high gods and men. Let but these limbs
Be once more lithe and tense, and so endure--
These smouldering eyes flame with immortal fire--
What do I say?--Make the soul young again
To tread with step perennially light
The ways of thought and passion, and o'erleap
The hedges and the dykes of circumstance--
There were the god-like!--then I might dare think . . .
Of what is less than a day-defeated dream.
NIMUE . Why breakest thou so suddenly off, too modest?
Dreams are from God. So oft is an oracle spoken.
MERLIN . Thy words are as a lure to the fatal springe
Of mine own folly. Nimue, Nimue! . . .
First time I saw thee, 't was in a frail skiff
Among the water-lilies of the lake--
Standing upright, borne on without wind or oar,
As if the spirit of the flowers had risen
Over them in a mist and, floating there,
Rounded at last to definite shape--in thee.
Since then at night I have seen thee by my bed
And in the day--But I have not been a fool.
Mere man am I and weak with years, nor choose,
Leaping at godhood, to fall back to earth,
Crippled and bleeding.
NIMUE . Manhood is godhood in germ--
Aught less is brutishness. Anywise, whoso would win,
Be it godhood or devilhood, must leap.
MERLIN . I have talked face to face
With gods and demons, and have dared to seek
The awful cavern of the Norns and held
Strange questionings with them; yet none the less
I know myself--mere man. Not mine to hope
Youth and the goal, the joy of mastership,
The poise of achievement--these are for the gods.
ARGENTE . Thou camest from Hecla hither?
MERLIN . Ay, but by some strange route I know not of.
NIMUE . Dark riddles speak they, the sullen-muttering Norns.
Why wouldst thou scan their searchless mysteries?
ARGENTE . Concerning what didst thou demand of them?
MERLIN . Of Arthur and the maiden, Guenevere.
ARGENTE . Seeks Arthur, then, a queen?
MERLIN . He would be wed.
ARGENTE . Beware lest he find a queen, but not a wife!
Let him not marry her, Merlin!
Ah, woe! I see a great woe in the land.
MERLIN . Shall all his might be lost with which he strove,
Building the mightiest throne in the round world,
The noblest--for failure of a hand to keep
His conquests? For a child is as oursleves,
Renewed, corrected, wiser for our lives,
Achieving wholly where we partly failed.
ARGENTE . With much devising we shall change no whit
What God shall do with that which we have done.
MERLIN . What, shall our labors fail?
ARGENTE . The kingdom shall pass utterly.
But he, the king, shall wear a greater crown.
MERLIN . Knowing all this, why questionest thou me?
ARGENTE . Yon world of days and nights where Arthur lives,
I know but as thou knowest.
MERLIN . Over it they rule,
The Norns, the unfaltering.
Why keepest thou me here, then
With empty words?
ARGENTE . O weak in wisdom!
Knowest thou not, then, that here
Thou, too, wert born.
Camelot? The world? A dream,
Wherein thou movest about
Amid thin apparitions!
NIMUE . Here, here, O Merlin,
Delights await thee,
Soft lips that smite and sweet hands that kiss,
Love that decays not,
Joy that delays not,
Thought that grows thing
Without groaning, a gladsome travailing.
MERLIN . O subtly fair and beautifully wise,
With what device wouldst thou ensnare my mind?
ARGENTE . Understandest thou not?
Thou, who art subtle beyond thought!
NIMUE . O slow of faith!
Lo, I invite thee
Out of the shadows
To the firm and the free.
ARGENTE . I charge thee, as thou wouldst avert great woe,
Let not the king take Guenevere to wife.
MERLIN . Wouldst thou be mightier than the Norns?
ARGENTE . Over the beginnings
They have no power.
Theirs but to conclude.
MERLIN . Who shall persuade their wills?
Who shall unspeak their words?
ARGENTE . Even thou understandest not as yet their speech.
MERLIN . A brittle anchor is thought;
But the storm bellows and ramps and the gods in heaven are earless.
Weak as it is, I cast it out to the tide.
NIMUE . Yet are there winds that blow to a secure haven.
ARGENTE . Wilt thou trust the hope of the world to a slender cord?
MERLIN . Nay, what seems best to my divided soul,
That must I do, let it be well or ill.
ARGENTE . Ai, ai!
The fate of the king, the grandly-defeated!
For over many ways he toils, with hope
High-set, to find a darkness and a chasm.
MERLIN . What ill is this, whereof she prophesies?
ARGENTE . Woe, woe!
The dream of the new earth
Is broken and shattered.
It drives before the wind
As torn clouds after the spent storm.
MERLIN . What shall endure? For, although one should build
Upon a rock, there is the earthquake. Ay,
The earth itself shall be cast as straw in the fire,
And there shall none know where in the trackless gulfs
Of interstellar darkness, thundering,
It charioted once its swift predestined way.
ARGENTE . Ah me!
A blessed lot is the lily's in the lake,
That waits the rounding of its circled life
Without the sense of unfulfilled desire.
MAIDENS . Comfort thee, O our Queen!
The best is yet unseen.
Even we, as the earth-born,
See not the very end
To which our footsteps tend,
Through tears and mirth borne.
This use may lie in sorrow,--
To drive the soul to strive and strain,
Building its vast and sunsetless to-morrow,
To escape to-day's intolerable pain.
If to all grief a sweet surcease were given,
How should the spirit unfold to larger scope?
Why should we strive for heaven,
If earth fulfilled our hope?
[ ARGENTE and the maidens have withdrawn a little space .]
MERLIN . O Nimue, had it been but possible,
That thou an earthly maiden, I a lad,
With nought to know or to forbode beyond
The thoughts that stir the thrushes in the coverts--!
O Age! what better boon hast thou to bring
Than love and song? But Arthur waits for me,
And what should I, an old man, have to do
With dreams of a completion for myself
Who daily weaken toward the undoing of all
The half-wrought in me--death. Elsewhere I look
To find the fruit grown ripe that fell in me,
Blasted in flower-time. Arthur waits for us.
NIMUE . Be it so, then. I summon my ministers. --Ho!
Arise, ye that turmoil beneath there!--Yet once again
I shall pass from thy sight as the violet light on the sea
When the sun sinks into a cloud.--Arise, ye starvelings!--
But, oh, my master and lord!
Thou shalt hear in the teasing of leaves stirred by the wind,
In the lisp of the lake through the reeds and the swan's harsh cry,
Made strangely, mournfully sweet in the cool and the dusk
As it comes from afar o'er the waters, a message of me;
For I wait for thee--there in the reeds!
As a glen in the woodland waits, with the touch of the sun
Slant-struck through the leaves on the brook and the grasses (a throstle
A-lilt in the bush), till the man, world-weary, appearing,
Worn with contention and evil, rests in her arms,
And his fever is cooled and his limbs wax youthful and strong,
And the sin is cleansed from his soul and the mist from his eyes,
And the bird in his heart wakes, singing of love and peace.--
Arise, I say, monsters!
Arise! Earth waits and the carrion of earth!
Hunger ye not?
[ The ground opens and flames appear. Through the opening a car rises, drawn by dragons. NIMUE enters the car and extends her hand to MERLIN who follows her. The car rises into the air and disappears in the distance .]
ARGENTE . With grinning jaws
They gape horridly,
Bearing him back where body and soul
Gnaw juiceless bones continually.
Jag-toothed dragons, shutting and opening your eyes
With hideous slowness!
In my soul, too, is a hunger.
Ai, ai!
The bite of the tooth in flesh that cannot waste!
MAIDENS . Comfort thee, O our Queen!
Sorrow is dear to the wise,
Who know that Love is leading,
And believe--for have they not seen?
Mystery of mysteries!
The crowned brow is bleeding.
ARGENTE . Alas, my sisters! you are good to me.
Your presence is as starlight to my spirit.
Your words are as a bird's song in the trees
When all the woodland sorrows under clouds.
I know the end is sweet--I see it plain,
As the jay yonder the bough to which it flies.
But oh, the way is long and the heart weak!
Is the physician's wound less sore
Because his cunning knows that it will heal?
The fallen warrior
With the broken shaft of the spear driven as a nail
Through muscle, sinew, bone, lung, heart--
Feels he not, though Valhalla open
And the Valkyrs wait with cup and crown,
Sharp anguish, intolerable gaspings that pierce
Each with keen torture the frayed nerves, killing him
A hundred times for once?
Ai, ai!
It is not all a good to see the things
That shall be. He that will soar to topmost heaven,
Must plunge, too, down to the voiceless lowest of hell.
Ye shall not know the good without the evil,
Saith the Lord God.
Ai, ai! I see the maiden stand in the choir.
The royal robes are girt upon her. Priests
And choristers intone monotonously.
The sunlight falling bloodily through the panes,
Is dim and thick with incense. The King comes!
I see him take her fatal hand in his.
Otototoi! The breath of the god
Tingles on my forehead!
My flesh quivers with its power!
The dread that hung over me sunders as a cloud.
A sunlit garden--lay this behind the gloom?
And he--is he my fear?
Beautiful as Balder he stands by the beautiful queen,
High-thoughted, kingly as a cedar.
From the high hills the woe cometh,
A desolating avalanche! . . . .
The scabbard, Arthur!
Quick! The intriguing fingers close on it.
Awake! The sword itself is less precious. Ah! . .
Woe! woe!
The stark bodies of the slain!--
Spare me, Spirit that overbroods me!
I endure not the vision!
I am slain with intense whirling of tumultuous life!
Back, bodeful clouds! Once again, as with inrolling waters,
Engulf the insufferable sight!
Otototoi!
The din of shields and the shouts of the warriors!
The death-birds hovering afar off! . . . .
Where is he, my king, my beloved?
Over the sea-like sparkle of shields I seek him--in vain.
Ah, ah!
There, in the crest of the war-surf--
Arthur, Arthur!
He struggles toward the treacherous chief. Their swords clash.
O valiant prince! O misbegotten traitor! . . . .
He falls--the King! the King!
The battle sweeps away like a black cloud.
What, ho! a rescue! knights! Kaye! Bedevere!
Quick! To the lake! to the lake!
Arthur, I wait for thee!
[ She falls back exhausted and is surrounded by her maidens, screening her from sight .]
MAIDENS . Comfort thee, O our Queen!
Through warring and woe
The man and the woman
Build heaven for themselves.
From the deeps where it delves
Uplifted, the human
Soars to the divine,
Though the void intervene.
Pierce through the veils and lo,
The sevenfold light of the shrine!
[ Exeunt slowly, singing .]
ANGELS [ above ]. Holy! holy! holy!
Which wert and which art and which shalt be,
World without end! Alleluia!
In Thyself is the end
And the cause of Thy being,
O Thou beyond name!
In the mystery of Thy seeing,
The eye and the vision blend.
'Mid the shifting and fleeing
Thou abidest the same.
Death and birth
Are the garments of Thee!
The seed and the bud;--
But ere these is the thought of a tree.
Behold, the bread of the earth
And the wine of the sea
Are Thy body and blood.
Love, which is light,
Brings to earth the far sun.
Love, which is life,
Blood-red through Thy body doth run.
Love, which is spirit, shall smite
Thought and thing into one,
As a man and a wife.
Holy! holy! holy!
Which art in all and through all and beyond all!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
THE LAST LOVE OF GAWAINE
by
RICHARD HOVEY
You will betray me--oh, deny it not!
What right have I, alas, to say you nay?
I, traitor of ten loves, what shall I say
To plead with you that I be not forgot?
My love has not been squandered jot by jot
In little loves that perish with the day.
My treason has been ever to the sway
Of queens; my faith has known no petty blot.
You will betray me, as I have betrayed,
And I shall kiss the hand that does me wrong.
And oh, not pardon--I need pardon more--
But in proud torment, grim and unafraid,
Burn in my hell nor cease the bitter song
Your beauty triumphs in forevermore.
THE MARRIAGE OF GUENEVERE
A TRAGEDY
by
RICHARD HOVEY
PERSONS:
ARTHUR, King of Britain.
MERLIN, his Counsellor.
Knights of the Round Table :
GODMAR, the Lord Marshal,
LAUNCELOT DU LAC,
ECTOR DE MARIS, Brother of Launcelot,
LIONEL, and BORS DE GANYS, Cousins of Launcelot
GALAHAULT,
LADINAS DE LA ROUSE,
KAYE, Lord Seneschal of the Palace,
LEODEGRANCE, King of Cameliard.
PEREDURE, his Son, a Poet.
PUBLIUS, Ambassador from Rome.
PRYDERI, a Leech.
DAGONET, a Jester.
GAWAINE, a lad, son of Morgause.
BORRE, a child, illegitimate son of Arthur.
CAMALDUNA, Queen of Cameliard.
GUENEVERE, her Daughter, afterward Queen of Britain.
MORGAUSE, Arthur's sister, Queen of Orkney.
LIONORS, mother of Borre.
Knights, Ladies, Ambassadors, Heralds, Pages, Watch-
men, Attendants, etc.
Scene. --Britain.
Time.-- May and June.
ACT I.
SCENE I.-- In the edge of a wood a cavalcade has dismounted and the horses are tethered among the trees. In the background MERLIN sits alone on a high place, looking at the towers of Cameliard, which are seen hazily in the distance. A group of Knights, seated in the foreground under a large oak tree, have just ended their repast and the attendants bring them beakers of wine. In this group may be noted SIR LIONEL, SIR ECTOR DE MARIS, SIR BORS DE GANYS, and SIR GALAHAULT. KING ARTHUR and SIR LAUNCELOT walk apart in private talk.
ECTOR. Thou hast not loved, Sir Bors.
LIONEL. But I love, cousin--
As fair a maid as e'er wore taffeta.
By the Round Table, lords, I think no knight
A truer lover! Yet hold I with my brother,
Friendship is nobler.
ECTOR. Were thy lady here,
Thou durst not say it.
LIONEL. Why, who tells truth to women?
They love us better for a soft deceit
And feed on lies like sweetmeats.
ECTOR. There are friends
Who play the rogue too and are branded false.
But false in love too often is a jest
Or flaunts itself for virtue. Still my faith is
That loyal love is the most goodly fruit
That grows out of men's hearts.
BORS. But loyal friendship,
A fruit let fall by angels out of heaven,
A thing to die for!
GALAHAULT. Ay, at need; but love
A thing to live for--this is bitterer.
LIONEL. Call you life bitter?
GALAHAULT. Is the rind so sweet?
I can conceive a man so weary of life
That he would quaff mandragora to the drains
As revellers drink wine. Do you conceive,
His nearest friend beseeching, such a man
Would forego his carouse? But if his love
Came to him saying "Live, for I bid thee live,"
Though life and love alike were bitterness,
He would pour out the sweet death in the dust.
BORS. Love seeks a guerdon; friendship is as God,
Who gives and asks no payment.
GALAHAULT. Tut, ye are boys.
Ye deem of love as children play at arms
And wit not what a slain man is. Heard ye
Never of Arcite and of Palamon
That were good knights of old and as true friends
As e'er faced death together? Yet one day,
Seeing a fair lady in a garden close,
They fell a-wrangling. Faith, they were as twins,
Inseparate from the womb; and yet swift love,
In less space thatn a man might look and say
"Lo there!" hath sundered them.
BORS. Look where the King
And Launcelot walk together. Think you that they
Would fall out for a girl?
GALAHAULT. Strange things ere now
Have happened and the memory of men
Outlived them. Yonder, dreaming in the sun,
Behold the towers of Cameliard! Think you
The King, for love of Launcelot, would yield
The white enlacing arms of Guenevere,
Who waits there for the splendor of his coming
To make her Queen of Britain?
LIONEL. Launcelot would,
If he were Arthur and Arthur Lancelot.
And yet I think that Arthur's love is thin
And substanceless to that which Launcelot
Bears the mysterious Lady of the Hills
Whom none have ever seen.
GALAHAULT. No fickle lover
Can prove the glory and the might of love.
The King has loved--and more than twice, I think.
LIONEL. Ay, he has been a gay dog in his day.
BORS. He is the sun. If there be spots in him
I will not look upon them.
LIONEL. Nay, brother,
God shield I speak ill of the King. No man
This side of dotage loves him more than I.
I spoke of trivial faults. What one of us,
Unless it be yourself or Launcelot,
Hath not the like to answer? Even the tale
The common tongue hath of the Queen of Orkney--
How is it more? They knew not of the bond
That made their sin more than the heat of youth
Might--
BORS. Hush! it is half treason but to think
What we give words to.
ECTOR. Morgause, the Queen of Orkney!
A strange dark woman!
GALAHAULT. But a beauteous one.
[ The Knights rise at the approach of the King. ]
ARTHUR. We almost touch our journey's end, my lords.
Expected joy is like a maid that nears
With coy delay and timorous advance,
Eluding our stretched hands. So have I thought
To-day would never reach us; yet it dawns.
And ere the sun sets in the western sea,
Your swords shall serve a Queen.
ECTOR. Long live the Princess!
LIONEL. But not as princess long! Long live the Queen!
A beaker to the bride!
ALL. Long live the Queen!
[ Enter a LADY, attended by a DWARF. She throws
herself at the King's feet .]
LADY. If ever you inclined your ear to sorrow,
Be pitiful and hear me!
ARTHUR. Pray you, rise.
LADY. Nay, I will statue here until you grant my prayer.
ARTHUR. You wrong yourself. What is your grief?
LADY. Far back within the impenetrable hills
The mighty Turquine dwells--of those fierce tribes
Who yet acknowledge not our Saviour Christ
But worship barbarous and obscure gods,--
A wicked knave!--a cruel, treacherous villain!--
One whose delight is chiefly to work wrong
To all that call on Mary and her Son!
This unbelieving dog in his foul lair
With momentary tortures racks the bones
Of my true lover. Me, as well, he seized
And set his love on me--if that be love
Which such a beast so names--and swore an oath
To bind us each, if I received him not,
And make my living lord the pillow to
His savage purpose. But I, by God's help,
Beguiled him and escaped; and with this weak
But faithful servitor, through lidless nights
And days that burned like fever in my brain,
Lurked in the caverns of the hills and made
The wild goats my companions.--Now, for thine oath's sake
And in the name of all fair ladies wronged,
O King, I cry you, do me right.
ARTHUR. Now by
My sword Excalibur, it were great shame
Forever to all knighthood if thy plight
Went unredressed. But I have that in hand
To-day which more imports me than the wrongs
Of all the world. To-day I take a wife.
It were a great dishonor if the feast
Were furnished and bridegroom came not. Therefore
Set on with us to Cameliard. To-morrow
We will set forth with all our chivalry
To hawk at this foul quarry.
LADY. Oh, my lord,
Think how each lapsing moment the quick groans
Of my chained lover clamor for release.
Wilt thou be like that recreant who said,
"I have a wife and therefore cannot come,"
When the Lord of Heaven bade him? Nay then, I see
You are even as other men, whom I had thought
To be almost divine. I know I come
Unseasonably. Grief hath, my lord, a license
To overpass the bounds of courtesy.--
Oh, is there none in all this chivalry
To piece his prayers to mine?
LAUNCELOT. My lord the King,
I claim this quest. Go you to Cameliard
And have no care at heart. I, with three others,
Will seek and slay this Turquine, and set free
His mangled captives.
LADY. Thou and but three else?
LAUNCELOT. It is sufficient.
LADY. Alas, you do not know
The peril of the enterprise!
ARTHUR. Fear not.
It is Sir Launcelot of the Lake. He wonts not
To fail of his pledged word.--My Launcelot,
I had wished that you should be on my right hand;
But since it may not be--Our Lady speed you!
LAUNCELOT. Amen. Fair joy be to your bridal, Arthur!
Farewell!--Now who's with me!
LIONEL. I.
BORS. I.
ECTOR. And I.
LADY. You are brave men. Come victory or defeat,
I am bound to you forever.
LAUNCELOT. Nay, we do
No more but our mere duties. Lead us on.
I know the mountain paths of old. Armor
And steeds would cumber us. We'll go afoot,
Armed no more heavily than now we stand.
Farewell, my liege! And farewell, gentlemen!
We'll drink your healths ere long in Camelot.
[ Exeunt LANCELOT, BORS, ECTOR, LIO-
NEL, the LADY, and the DWARF.]
ARTHUR. Ah, Galahault, with fifty men like that,
I would shape this old world like a putty-ball.--
Set on to Cameliard.
[ Enter a MESSENGER.]
MESSENGER. My lord the King!
King Mark of Cornwall has renounced his fealty
And with a mighty army is encamped
Upon your borders. Sir Godmar, the Lord Marshal,
Has ta'en the field against him, but beseeches
You haste to his relief.
ARTHUR. Now, by my crown,
I will not go. The heavens conspire to block
My progress to the towers that hold my bride.
But stood the Archangel Michael in the way,
This marriage should not wait. We will go on;
To-morrow morn is time enough for Mark.
Sir Galahault, our Queen shall be your charge
Until these wars are over. Come, set on!
[ While the cavalcade is preparing to move
the scene closes. ]
SCENE II.-- A rocky pass in the mountains. Enter
LAUNCELOT, BORS, LIONEL, ECTOR, the LADY,
and the DWARF.
LAUNCELOT. Let me rest here a moment. Nay, go on;
I shall o'ertake you ere you gain the crest.
Cousin, a word with you.
[ Exeunt all but BORS and LAUNCELOT.]
What blessed chance
Has led me hither?
BORS. Cousin, you called me back.
LAUNCELOT. Why, but to have you with me, Bors. This place
Is like a sudden scene of other days
That starts up in the middle of a dream;
BORS. Have you been here ere now?
LAUNCELOT. Ay, and that time
Would stand erect and vivid in my brain
Though all the other puppets of the past
Reeled into smoke. This is the very spot.
I lay here, cousin, even here where this gaunt bramble
Still tugs a meagre life out of the cleft
Where it is rooted,--faint almost to death;
For I had struggled through these cruel hills
Three days without a crust, and my head swam
And my legs wavered under me and would not
Bear me upright. Down these precipitous crags
And o'er these dizzy ledges I could pass
No more than I could leap across yon gulf,
And I lay down and thought of death, as of
A gulf into whose blackness one might leap
And fall forever. A long time lay I so,
Too weak to struggle with impending doom,
And death seemed like to yawn and swallow me.
BORS. And yet you are not dead. How 'scaped you, then?
LAUNCELOT. God sent a blessed angel to my aid.
There on the peak beyond the gulf I saw her,
Standing against the sky, with garments blown,
The mistress of the winds! An angel, said I?
God was more kind, he sent a woman to me.
BORS. The Lady of the Hills!
LAUNCELOT. Ay, so I call her,
For other name I know not.
BORS. The unknown lady,
Whom you have made more famous than a queen!
Here saw you her the first time?
LAUNCELOT. And the last time.
She was attended by a motley Fool,
Who stretched his hand and pointed where I lay.
She saw me and in pity of my case
Sent Master Dagonet--so the Fool was called
But he nowise would tell the lady's name--
To help me down the pass. But she went on
Alone across the summits of the hills
Like some grand free Diana of the North
And passed out of my sight, as daylight fades
Out of the western sky. But I no more
Was faint, and went my way, considering.
BORS. But could you nowise find out who she was?
LAUNCELOT. Nowise, for Merlin met me thereupon,
And brought me suddenly to Camelot,
Where I was knighted. I had fain delayed
But boy-like shamed to say wherefore my heart
Hung back toward the hills. And so I passed
Away from her and never saw her more.
BORS. Even here it was you saw her?
LAUNCELOT. Ay, even here.
BORS. Why, then, should you not meet her here again?
LAUNCELOT. The hope of that is as the morning-star,
The messenger of dawn. And in good sooth
I have a feeling in my heart that soon
My long and lightless service shall have end
And I shall serve her seeing. But our friends
Await us. I shall serve my lady better
With noble actions than with idle dreams.
[ Exeunt. ]
SCENE III.-- Cameliard. The Palace of Leode-
grance. A chamber hung with rich embroider-
ies. At the centre a wide entrance with heavy
curtains, which conceal a corridor. At the
upper right corner a window opening on a bal-
cony which overlooks the sea. GUENEVERE is
seated before this window with a harp.
GUENEVERE. [ Sings ]. The flower-born Blodueda,
Great joy of love was hers;
Now lonely is the life she leads
Among the moonlit firs.
The white enchantress, Arianrod,
The daughter of King Don,
Hath hidden in a secret place
And borne a goodly son.
But he shall have nor name nor arms
Wherewith to get him fame,
Unless his mother's heart relent
And give him arms and name.
Twice hath she cursed him from her heart--
Twice and yet once again,
That he shall never take a wife
Of all the seed of men.
Yet all unwitting she gave him arms,
When the foe was in the land;
And all unwitting a goodly name,
Llew of the Steady Hand.
And Gwydion, the son of Don,
Hath wrought with mighty charms
A mystery of maidenhood
To lie within his arms.
He took the blossoms of the oak
And the blossoms of the broom
And the blossoms of the meadow-sweet
And fashioned her therefrom.
Of all the maidens on the earth
She was by far most fair,
And the memory of the meadow-sweet
Was odours in her hair.
But she hath given her heart away
To the stout lord of Penllyn,
And he is slain by Cynvael's banks,
Betrayed by all his kin.
And oh, and she were light of heart
Had they but slain her so!
In likeness of a mournful owl,
She grieves her nightly woe.
The motherless Blodueda
Shall never find release;
From eve till morn she makes her moan
Among the moonlit trees.
[ While GUENEVERE sings , MORGAUSE has entered,
unperceived .]
MORGAUSE. It is a sad song for a bride to sing.
GUENEVERE. I did not know that anyone was near.
MORGAUSE. I did not mean to be an eavesdropper,
But as I entered I was charmed to silence
And could not break in on so sweet a sound
Before the singer ceased.
GUENEVERE. I thank you, madam;
I am not in the mood for compliments to-day.
MORGAUSE. Not to-day of all days in the year,
In which the sun shines on you as a bride?
Fair weather weddings make fair weather lives.
GUENEVERE. I care not much for omens.
MORGAUSE. Come, sweetheart,
There is a time to mask and to unmask,
And on a wedding morn the light of joy
Should frolic on the face as in the heart.
The courtiers will set up a silly tale
That this alliance is against your will.
GUENEVERE. But I do nothing, save of my free will;
Let the vain gossips babble as they please.
MORGAUSE. I have just come from the Great Hall. You'll have
A royal ritual, sweetheart,--such a retinue
Of dames and damosels, barons and knights,
As Cæsar's self could hardly muster in Imperial Rome.
GUENEVERE. Is Peredure without?
MORGAUSE. Gods, hear this woman! I tell her of her wedding;
She answers me--"Is Peredure without?"
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Now what would Arthur say
To find himself so hindward in your thoughts?
GUENEVERE. Peredure is not like my other brothers,
Wolf-eyed, thick-bearded, fond of dealing blows.
There's something of the woman in his nature
That makes his manliness a finer thing.
He has the courage of a gentle heart--
MORGAUSE. And he writes the prettiest rhymes that ever were
About some marvellous woman that he loves
But whom he dare not woo. Poor boy, when he
Is older, he will find the woman lives not
Too virtuous to be flattered by a conquest.
I left him in the throng about the throne
With such a woful look upon his face,
As if the rhymes of his last virelay
Were all at loggerheads.
GUENEVERE. Does he not go
With us to Camelot?
MORGAUSE. 'T is so determined.
I marvel that Sir Launcelot is not here.
A month ago, ere I left Camelot
To seek a friend where I must find a sister,
It was supposed that Launcelot would be
The chief of Arthur's groomsmen. Arthur and he
Are like two almonds in a single shell
That silly maids make matron wishes on.
GUENEVERE. I had a strange dream yesternight. Methought
An unknown knight stood by my bed, and as
I lay spell-bound in dim bewilderment,
Cried "I am Launcelot!"--and I awoke.
MORGAUSE. He came, then, in a dream. I thought he would not
Be so discourteous as to keep away entirely.
GUENEVERE. Why talk ye all of Launcelot?
His fame spreads westward over Wales like dawn.
MORGAUSE. He has the reputation of all virtue.
GUENEVERE. And does his reputation top himself?
MORGAUSE. Sometimes a bonfire imitates the dawn.
GUENEVERE. Sometimes, too, dawn is taken for a bonfire;--
I care not. Dawn or bonfire, it is nothing to me.
MORGAUSE. Nor to me neither, but I chafe
To hear the gabble that they make about him.
Why, child, the world is gone mad at his heels!
They tell of valor that despises odds,
And courtesy that throws prudence to the drains--
Such tales they tell of him! And as for women,
There is not maid nor wife in Camelot
Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet.
And yet they say he takes no fruit of it
But is as spotless as Saint Dorothy--
With such a tittle-tattle of his purity!--
Bah, when the King and he are in one cry!
GUENEVERE. [ rises ]. What do you mean?
MORGAUSE. Oh, nothing--I mean nothing.
Your husband is no worse than other men.
The Lady Lionors has a little boy,
But, though he certainly looks like the King--
GUENEVERE. Why do you tell me this?
MORGAUSE. You must know some time
What you had better learn from friends than foes.
You are leaving now the world of fairy tales,
Where all the men are true of heart and chaste
And all the women chaste and true of heart.
You enter now the world in which we live;
You'll find it peopled in another fashion.
Here comes a very wise philosopher--Ask him.
[ Enter DAGONET.]
GUENEVERE. How now, sir? You look soberly.
DAGONET. I? I am as merry as a skull, and that is always grinning, as you would see if you could but look beneath the skin.
GUENEVERE. A grim jest, sirrah.
DAGONET. Ay, it is ill jesting at a wedding. Aristophanes himself, who first wore motley, would go hang for lack of a laugh. For your good unctuous jest must have a soil of light hearts or it will not grow; and there is a predisposition at weddings to solemnity.
GUENEVERE. Nay, now you are out; for a wedding is a joyous matter.
DAGONET. But no laughing matter, my lady. For various wise philosophers have observed that in moments of most exquisite pleasure the expression of the face is solemn. What signifies a wedding? Harmony. Now the essence of a jest is contradiction, but that comes after the wedding. So no more jests from me, my lady, till you have done with eating green cheese, which is excellent diet for the moonstruck--but I prefer Stilton.
MORGAUSE. Tell us, then, good Dagonet, what is the most pregnant occasion of jesting.
DAGONET. A funeral, for the long faces of the company provoke the merry devil in the brain as inevitably as a Puritan calls out mockery from the reprobate. I have known an accidental rasp on a viol to set all the mourners--except the paid ones--in a titter.
[ Sings .] With ribald chalkings on his coat
Sir Pompous struts the street,
And wanton boys put walnut-shells
On stately Tabby's feet.
Ri fol de riddle rol.
GUENEVERE. Make jests at my funeral, I prithee, Dagonet.
DAGONET. Death himself is the greatest jester. He is the farce that follows all tragedies. For is it not supremely ridiculous that I myself, about whom to-day the universe revolves, may to-morrow be reduced to the level of Alexander or any common dead body?
MORGAUSE. Do you make yourself greater than Alexander, Fool?
DAGONET. Ay, or any other corpse, for I am alive and "a dead lion"--But the worms have eaten that, too. But here come the King and Queen. I was sent to announce them, but these lofty matters have made me forget my duty. Philosophy will undo me yet.
[ Enter LEODEGRANCE, CAMALDUNA, PRYDERI,
MERLIN, GALAHAULT, and Attendants .]
MERLIN. May Britain find its peace in you, my child.
I have given my life to make a State. I found
The Saxons ravaging our fields, our King
The traitor Vortigern, within ourselves
Each petty lord in arms against his neighbor,
And man to man belligerent. But I
Shall leave my country one, victorious,
Organic and at peace. And in the top
Of this great arch of empire you are set
A keystone, that it may not fall, when Arthur
And I take our supporting hands away.
Your destiny is glorious, to be
Mother of kings and mother of a realm.
GUENEVERE. And mother of my people, sir, I trust.
GALAHAULT. The homage duty soon must pay my queen,
Beauty compels beforehand to the woman.
GUENEVERE. You use fair words at Camelot, my lord;
Our mountain courtiers have a blunter speech.
MERLIN [ to Morgause ]. Still where the quarry is the falcons fly.
MORGAUSE. This riddle has no key. Why do you speak,
If you desire not to be understood?
MERLIN. I wish and I wish not to be divined,
And you divine me and divine me not.
For you are not so subtle as you think
Nor half so simple as you would be thought.
[ Returns to the King. GUENEVERE, MOR-
GAUSE, GALAHAULT, and DAGONET walk
apart and after a little go out upon the bal-
cony.
LEODEGRANCE. Why interchange you with the Queen of Orkney
These hostile brows?
MERLIN. Though she be Arthur's sister,
Near is too near, unless--
LEODEGRANCE. I understand you.
Happy is the man in whose own household lurks
No secret enemy to undermine
His purpose and his joy. But she will make
No mischief here. My girl feels honor keenly
And will not stoop to listen to intrigue.
MERLIN. I doubt it not. The very waywardness
That rumor speaks of her, shows a great soul,
That feels too prisoned even upon a throne.
CAMALDUNA. Indeed, she is not like a common girl,
And I could never make her do as others.
LEODEGRANCE. Wild as the sea-mew, restless of restraint,
She roams the jutting capes of Cameliard,
Like some strange dweller of the mountain winds,
Half kelpie and half woman. The highlander,
Chasing the roe o'er cliff and chasm, has often
Seen her lithe form rise from the treeless crag
Like smoke from a hunter's fire, and crossed himself,
Thinking he saw a creature not of earth.
MERLIN. I know her kind. It is a temperament that suffers and achieves.
CAMALDUNA. A little girl,
She frighted the nurses more with her strange thoughts
Than ever they her with bogles. I remember
Her creeping from her bed once in midwinter
To ask if moonbuds only bloomed at night
That dead men, when they leave their graves to walk,
Might have their flowers also like the living.
PRYDERI. As the young limbs enlarge, the bones will ache;
Our oldwives call such ailments "growing pains."
What our young princess needs is that her thoughts
Be drawn away from looking on herself.
The duties and responsibilities
That push us from our dreams and make us sane
By contact with the solid stuff of life,
These things a woman finds in household cares.
The wife and mother has no time to break
The wings of girlish thoughts with idle beating
Against the bars of Fate. Our princess, too,
Must bear the dignity of greater burdens,
Which for a soul imperious is good fortune.
Therefore, as a physician, who must watch
Both mind and body as they interact,
I have prescribed this marriage as a medicine.
LEODEGRANCE. This counsel of our wise and learned leech
Inclined us much to urge on Guenevere
A speedy yes to Arthur's suit. At first
She was, indeed, rebellious to our wish
And marriage thoughts were wormwood to her will.
Nathless I was unwilling to assert
My power as King and father to compel
Her course; for still I find the easy yoke
The popular. Yet, short of straight command,
The Queen and Pryderi,--and I myself,--
Have day and night reiterated words,
Soliciting with cogent argument,
Till she consented. She herself now chooses
The man of all men I would have her lord.
For I have not forgotten how King Arthur
With Ban and Bors routed my enemies
And with their triple armies saved my crown.--
Go, call the princess hither. Yet in sooth,
What should an old man say to a young maid?
The Queen shall speak to her. Madam, we shall
Withdraw and leave her to your tutelage.
GUENEVERE. You called me, sire.
LEODEGRANCE. To say farewell, my child,
Before I yield thee to thy bridegroom's arms.
Our Lady Mary keep thee! Come, my lords.
MERLIN. I wish you greatness, lady.
MORGAUSE. And I goodness.
PRYDERI. I health and length of days.
GALAHAULT. I happiness.
[ Exeunt LEODEGRANCE, MERLIN, PRYDERI,
MORGAUSE, and GALAHAULT.]
DAGONET. And I a light heart and an easy palfrey that the way may seem short to Camelot.
[ Sings .] Merrily canter on through life
And joy shall be your store,
But if you ride a trotting nag
Your buttocks will be sore.
Ri fol de riddle rol.
[ Exit. ]
CAMALDUNA. So far, my daughter, you have walked your way,
Self-willed, imperious, like a wanton child
That will not let her parents hold her hand,
Yet knows them near to save her if she fall.
Now they will not be near, and you may find
That freedom lays a weight upon our souls
That often we would like to shift to others.
I fear that counsel is poured out on you
Like an effectless wind; yet hear my words.
Take you no woman in your confidence,
But seem to do so. Each has her own ends,
And would betray you seventy times over,
And yet, repulsed, her selfishness through pique
May aggravate to active enmity.
Speak freely, but say little. Do not strive
Too far to outshine the ladies of the court
In jewelled ornaments and regal garb;
They'll hate you for it. Be profuse of favors;
They cost you little and will buy you hearts.
Yet do not play the braggart with your bounty--
Scorn lies beneath too much magnificence--
But always give as if the gifts were trifles
To eyes that see to whom the gifts are given.
All women are your natural enemies;
Think your end gained if they refrain from hate,
But seek your friends among the other sex.
Men have no quarrel with your eminence;
Your glory with their glory does not war,
But each may gain some splendor from the other.
Therefore, they may be faithful; but admit them
Only to antechamber of your thoughts,
That their imagination may have scope
To fashion a dream-Guenevere to serve.
Not what we are but what men deem of us,
Is the true prince. Be faithful to your husband,
Yet not so servient as to jade his fondness.
Let him be often foreign to your life
That he may feel your lack and woo you over.
Be not too common to him. Hold him off
That you may bind him to you. For in him
Your domination lies. See that he has
No friend that is not yours, no counsellor
Whose secret thoughts are not your interests.
Be chaste as snow in heart as well as deed;
One spark of love may light a fire to burn
The edifice of your greatness to an ash.
Nor be contented with the innocent fact
But make your seeming lock the lips of slander.
And yet you may have lovers if you will;
The more the better, so you love not them.
For till we yield we are our lovers' tyrants,
But afterward their slaves. Remember this.
GUENEVERE. Pray you, a little space alone, good mother.
[CAMALDUNA kisses Guenevere, and then goes
out .]
Why, what a thing is woman! She is brought
Into the world unwelcome. The mother weeps
That she has born a daughter to endure
A woman's fate. The father knits his brows
And mutters "Pish, 't is but a girl!" A boy
The very hounds had bayed for with delight.
Her childhood is a petty tyranny.
Her brothers cross her; she must not resist,--
Her father laughts to see the little men
So masterful already. Even the mother
Looks on her truculent sons with pride and bids
Her yield, not thwart them--"You are but a girl."
A girl!--and must give way! She must be quiet,
Demure--not have her freedom with the boys.
While they are running on the battlements,
Playing at war or at the chase, she sits
Eating her heart out at embroidery frames
Among old dames that chatter of a world
Where women are put up as merchandise.
--Oh, I have slipped away a thousand times
Into the garden close and scaled the wall
And fled from them to freedom and the hills.
And I have passed the women in the fields,
With stupid faces dulled by long constraint,
Bowing their backs beneath the double burden
Of labor and unkindness--all alike,
Princess and peasant, bondslaves, by their sex!
Ah, the gray crags up whose sheer precipices
I have so often toiled, to throw myself
Panting upon their crests at last and lie
For whole long afternoons upon the hard
Delicious rock in that sweet weariness
That follows effort, with a silent joy
In obstacles that I could overcome.
They never called me girl, those mighty peaks!
They knew no sex,--they took me to their hearts
As if I were a boy. Oh, the wild thrill
That tingled in the veins, when the strong winds
Came howling like a pack of hungry wolves
That make the wintry forests terrible
Beneath the Norland moon! "Shriek on," I cried,
"Rave, howl, roar, bellow, till your split your throats!
You cannot mar the pinnacled repose
Of these huge mountain-tops. They are not women!"
Why, what an idle rage is this! Am I
The Guenevere those still grand mountains know?
This is a bridal garment that I wear.
I am another Guenevere, a thing--
I know not what. I go to a new life.
I have ordered a new pair of manacles.
Arthur? As well Arthur as another--
I care not. If I must, I must. To live
The old life is no longer tolerable.
[ Enter PEREDURE.]
My brother! You have come to see my gown.
Is it not beautiful? And see, this diadem
To show I--
PEREDURE. Guenevere! How is it with you?
GUENEVERE. Why, as it should be with a bride. It seems
You ask strange questions, brother. I had thought
I should be greeted with felicitations.
They say, a maid upon her wedding morn
Is timorous, fluttered, casts regretful eyes
--Or so she fancies--on her maidenhood,
And yet is glad withal. Seem I not so,
My brother? Am I--?
PEREDURE. All's not well with you.
You seem as one that in a waking dream
Does--what, she knows not--with mechanic limbs.
My sister, dost thou act of thy free will?
GUENEVERE. Who acts so? Life and custom close us in
Between such granite walls of circumstance
That, when we choose, it is not as we would
But between courses where each likes us not.
No, Peredure, it is not by constraint,
Save of the iron skies, I meet my lot.
I have not chosen it, but I accept it.
PEREDURE. Think well. Once done, this cannot be undone.
You love not Arthur. This is not the face
Of one that hastens to her lover's arms.
Think you that you will ever love him?
GUENEVERE. Love?
I have heard of it. Poets sing of it.
It must be a strange thing, this love.
PEREDURE. Alas,
If thou shouldst learn what thing it is too late!
Girl, knowest thou what marriage means? Oh, if
When once the fatal ring is on thy finger,
Thou shouldst encounter some one who should kindle
Thy latent heart to flame. To be caressed
When thou art cold--this is a bitter thing.
But to be fondled by an unloved hand,
When all the soul is in another's arms--
That were a horror and a sacrilege.
GUENEVERE. I shall not love. But sometime I must wed.
It is the law for women that they marry;
Else they endure a scorned inactive fate,
Unwelcome hangers-on at others' tables.
Besides, a girl's life is a cabined one;
A married woman has a wider scope.
She, too, is chained but with a longer tether;
She moves in the great world, and by that craft
God gives to creatures that have little strength,
May leave her impress on it. As for Arthur,
He is a very princely gentleman,
One whom at least I never shall despise.
PEREDURE. Men say he is the crown of chivalry,
The pattern of the virtues of a knight.
But should he cloud the clear sky of thy life,
I should ne'er pardon him.
GUENEVERE. My brother!
PEREDURE. Dear,
I fear that Arthur ne'er will know as I
The gentleness of this imperious spirit.
I have asked Morgause much--
GUENEVERE. I hate that woman.
PEREDURE. Oh, say not so, she is so fair! O sister,
I did not think to tell thee of my sorrows
At such a season. When I spoke of love
And pleaded with thee to have fear of it,
I had good reason for my earnestness.
I know myself too well the hopeless woe
Of love debarred, against which Fate is set.
I love Morgause--
GUENEVERE. Morgause? The Queen of Orkney?
The wife of Lot?
PEREDURE. Ay, Guenevere, even so--
I love her. I would give my hopes of heaven
To press my lips against that flower-like mouth
And call her mine! Ay, I would die to feel
Once on my cheek the swan-soft touch of hers!
But I must make a dungeon of my heart
To hide my love in like a malefactor,--
Or like some hapless prisoner of state
Who ne'er did wrong but must be shut from the sun
For the realm's safety and in some dark cell
Is numbered with the dead. Oh, think of this
And do not build a prison for thyself
From whose barred windows thou may'st sometime see
Love beckoning to thee when thou canst not come!
There is no sorrow like a love denied
Nor any joy like love that has its will.
Oh, keep thy feet unbound to follow Love
When he shall come to lead thee to his rest!
Keep thy hands free to take his proffered gifts,
Thy heart unbound by barriers that prevent
The joy he would, but for our blindness, bring
To make a rapture and a song of life!
Believe--
GUENEVERE. You talk of songs and raptures! Go
Back to your poetry, you child of dream!
Life is to be supported, not enjoyed.
PEREDURE. Oh, no! it is to be enjoyed. Why else
Should God have made the world so beautiful?
And yet for me the glory of the hills,
The beauty of the sky's dissolving blue,
And all the woven magic of the grass
Have dulled their loveliness, and all their splendor
Cannot arouse again the ancient thrill.
There is a grayness over all the world.
Love is not to be mocked at, Guenevere.
Take heed! Look in thy heart, and be assured
That thou hast read it rightly. If a doubt,
If but the faint foreboding of a scruple
Be there, delay, break off this rash--
GUENEVERE. Too late!
[ The curtains at the centre are drawn apart, re-
vealing a company of ladies in festal attire,
with garlands, etc. A distant sound of
chanting. ]
See where my bridesmaids wait with wreaths of roses
To lead me to the altar and the prince.
PEREDURE. Is it a triumph or a sacrifice?
GUENEVERE. God knows! For me, I have chosen to go this course,
And I will keep to it till the event.
Exit with bridesmaids .]
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE I.-- Camelot. The gardens . MORGAUSE,
PEREDURE, LIONORS, GAWAINE, DAGONET,
KAYE, and others.
MORGAUSE. The day is dull. Shall we have music?
KAYE. Ay, a rousing song!
LIONORS. He's all for tavern catches
Or martial strains of braggadocio.
DAGONET. It is the finitude of his wit, whereof he has neither enough to be merry without drinking nor to be silent when drunk.
KAYE. Drunk, varlet?
DAGONET. If I called it a finer name, you would not follow me.
LIONORS. Nay, for that would be false manners. Would you have the nobleman follow the fool?
DAGONET. No more than I would have the ass follow the driver. Let me but carry the whip and he shall take precedence as much as he will.
MORGAUSE. Peredure, is there not a madrigal
Knocking against your heart to be let out?
Our idleness feeds on the empty day
As a chameleon on the air. Come, sing
And give us richer nurture.
PEREDURE. As you will.
There is a story written in this book
Of two young lovers in far Italy
And how they dreamed away a summer noon
Upon the Arno. Reading this but now,
I fell a-dreaming, I was in the boat,
And round my neck her wondrous arms were thrown--
And then, I scarce know how, the song was made.
[ Sings .] Love me!
I care not for this one brief hour
If blue calm smile or tempest lower
Above me.
I care not though the boat sink now
If only thou
Wilt love me.
Kiss!
Ah sweet, what joy in fame or years
Or yellow gold? Life burns through tears
For this.
Ah, what though God should cast away
The world to-day!
Kiss!
GAWAINE. A silly song! That's not the way to love.
MORGAUSE. What do you know of love, Gawaine?
GAWAINE. Enough to know that it is a silly song, my mother.
MORGAUSE. Are you but sixteen and know love already?
[ Enter PUBLIUS and LADINAS.]
The age has grown so forward that our children
Will make us grandams ere our heads are gray.--
You join us late, Sir Ladinas.
LADINAS. Royal Orkney,
The courtesy of Camelot to a guest
Must be my plea. Lord Publius comes from Rome
With weighty missives from the Emperor.
While he awaits the King's return from Cornwall,
He must not sigh for the Campagna.
MORGAUSE. Welcome.
Will you make one of our too idle party?
We have been merry with inconsequences,
Tossing our empty fancies back and forth
Like shuttlecocks, for wantonness. I fear
You are too serious for these bagatelles.
PUBLIUS. Let me not spoil your entertainment, madam.
So many fair young faces are about me,
Such a spring-burst of beauty and of youth,
I shall grow young myself for sympathy.
GAWAINE [ apart to LIONORS]. What an old flub!
[ Aloud .] Now, madam, if you like, I'll sing a song I learned the other day
And wager twenty pounds against a shilling
Mine is the better love-song of the two.
MORGAUSE. What say you, ladies? Shall this fledgling sing?
LIONORS. I am sure he will sing well.
GAWAINE [ apart to LIONORS.] I'll pay that speech
With twenty kisses for a word to-night.
[ Sings . MORGAUSE, PUBLIUS, and LADINAS
converse apart earnestly .]
It was a sonsie shepherd lass
So early in the morning
That tripped across the dewy grass
And tossed her curls for scorning.
But ere she passed the brook, she cast
A look across her shoulder
That made the pitapats come fast
And yet my heart grew bolder.
A look, a smile, a jest, a sigh,
A kiss and, ere we're madder,
A glance to see that no one's nigh--
And this is Cupid's ladder.
LIONORS. Oh, fie! It is a jade's song. Naughty boy,
You must be good or you'll be sent to bed.
DAGONET. [ to Peredure ]. She cries "boy" too loudly. Oh, la la! Ostriches, ostriches!
MORGAUSE. Come, let's to tennis. [ To Peredure .]
Will you play with me?
DAGONET. [ aside ]. Ay, that he will, and lose the game too, for all your faults.
[ Some play and the others gather about as spectators. ]
LADINAS. [ to Publius ]. What think you? Have I not achieved an ally of great price?
PUBLIUS. It is well done. And no one of the court
Suspects you are Rome's secret emissary?
LADINAS. Suspect a Knight of the Round Table? They would
As soon suspect the blessed angels.
PUBLIUS. Yet
There was a Lucifer--
LADINAS. No more of that!
I do not mean to sell my contraband
For barren rank or tinsel decorations.
I am no barbarous chieftain of the Zaire
To trade my ivory for a string of beads.
I must have money; you must make me rich
Beyond the power of prodigality
To dissipate--rich, rich; the rest is toys
For babes to play with!
PUBLIUS. You shall have your will.
But say what motive pricks the Queen of Orkney?
LADINAS. She hates the King as none can hate but they
Who once have loved. It is the tale that ere
The mystery of Arthur's parentage
Was by his mother's oath made clear, he fought
With Lot of Orkney and defeated him.
Then came this queen, Morgause, the wife of Lot,
And Arthur's sister, but they knew it not;
And Arthur was enamoured, nor was she
Unwilling. And, indeed, men say a child
Was born and hidden somewhere in the hills,
And that by him his father shall be slain.
And others say the King is free from stain,--
None knows. But't is most certain that they loved;
And still the Queen of Orkney will not think
That Arthur is her brother, but believes
That for the crown he cast her love away.
Judge how she hates him.
PUBLIUS. And you love this woman?
LADINAS. Ay, as the lost knight in the hollow hill
Loves Venus! [....] See you the fair lady yonder,
Who leads the stripling prince, Gawaine, at heel
Like a pet greyhound?
PUBLIUS. Well, and what of her?
LADINAS. Her name is Lionors, and of old time
She was the mistress of the King; but now
The Queen of Orkney keeps her in her train
That she may flaunt in Guenevere's proud face
Her bridegroom's old adulteries.
MORGAUSE. Love game!
It is the set, my lord. [ A trumpet without .]
PUBLIUS. Is it a herald of the King's return?
LADINAS. He will not come so soon. We shall have time
To spread a snare that he cannot escape,
Though how is all uncertain yet.
[ Enter GALAHAULT.]
GALAHAULT. Good news! Ladies, glad news! Sir Launcelot is returned.
SEVERAL. What say you? Launcelot?
GALAHAULT. Launcelot and his kinsmen,
Lionel and Ector and the good Sir Bors.
[ Enter LAUNCELOT and BORS.]
MORGAUSE. All honor to the realm's pre-eminent knight,
Returned, I doubt not, from a glorious quest!
Honor and welcome to the good Sir Bors!
LAUNCELOT. Thanks, gentle lady. Joy be with you all!
Where is the King?
DAGONET. Welcome to Camelot--
To my new capital of Foolery!
LAUNCELOT. What, Dagonet! [ Aside .] The Fool!
Where is the lady?
DAGONET. You have too good a memory, sir, for a man of place. But, indeed, I knew not it was you when I saved you. Nathless, without me you had not done these great deeds; ergo you must have done them with me. Now see what it is to be modest; I had no idea I was a man of this mettle.
MORGAUSE. [ aside ]. What's this? What's this?
LAUNCELOT. Now, by my sword, I am
Right glad to see your merry face again.
Where is the King?
DAGONET. Why, I am king now and these are my subjects. See you not how, like good courtiers, they mimic me?
KAYE. How do we mimic you, sirrah?
DAGONET. Marry, by making fools of yourselves.
LADINAS. The King, sir, is in Cornwall at the wars.
LAUNCELOT. I am right sorry that he is not here,
For since I set my face toward Camelot,
For joy that I should see him I have been
Light-hearted as a boy. I would clasp hands
And wish him happiness with his young bride!
The rumor of her beauty has gone out
From end to end of Britain. I have heard
She moves among our gardens like a dream
Of empired loveliness in far Cathay.
Lead me to her, Sir Galahault. I must
Do homage to my queen. Ah, gentle lady--
She shall not find in Camelot, I swear,
A heart more leal to her than Launcelot's.
Henceforth I'll wear no colors in the lists
But those of Arthur's bride.
[ Enter GUENEVERE and LADIES. She stops in the
centre, looking at LAUNCELOT.]
Dear Galahault,
'T is my first duty both to king and friend
To lay my good sword at his lady's feet.
Lead me to her--
Bors! Galahault! Is it--? It is--
GALAHAULT. The Queen!
LAUNCELOT. I shall be leal to her indeed. Just God!
[ He recovers himself. As he steps forward
with GALAHAULT toward the QUEEN the
scene closes .]
SCENE II.-- The Apartments of GALAHAULT. En-
ter LAUNCELOT, GALAHAULT, and BORS.
BORS. Prithee, Galahault, a stoup of wine! I have the dust of seven kingdoms in my throat.
GALAHAULT. Some wine, ho!
BORS. What, Launcelot, not a word? I have not seen thee so cast down since Ector was taken captive by that rude infidel, Sir Turquine, whom thou slew'st.
[ Enter a SERVANT with wine .]
What, man, gladden thy heart with this.
[ Drinks .]
LAUNCELOT. I think that wine will never be aught but bitter to me again, and that I shall hate the perfume of flowers and the melody of lutes and mandolins as long as I live. Oh, my friends, I am but the husk of what I was, and all that was savory in me is consumed.
[ Exit SERVANT with cups, etc .]
BORS. Thou'st not been thyself since we were presented to the Queen. I mind me now how thou didst start then and heave thy sides, as if thou'dst seen a spirit. What--Galahault--is't possible?
GALAHAULT. O Bors, Bors, Bors, the maids of Camelot
Say rightly that thou hast not loved; for else
His sorrow were no riddle.
BORS. Nay, to me
A riddle darker with increasing light.
What, is the Lady of the Hills forgot?
Have human hearts no stronger faith? For I
Had looked to thee, O cousin, as the type
Of faith. Wilt thou betray the King, thy friend,
Even in thought?
LAUNCELOT. Peace, peace! What ails that I
Should e'er be false to Arthur? Rest you safe,
I have no lady if it be not she
Whom I have called the Lady of the Hills.
BORS. Nay, cousin, use me frankly.
LAUNCELOT. Betray the King?
Thou talkest of thou knowest not what. Is't possible
That I betray the King?
BORS. What name was it
You gave the jester that we met below?
GALAHAULT. What, here? His name is Dagonet. The Queen
Brought him with her from Cameliard.
BORS. The Queen?
Dagonet? By heaven it is as clear as noon.
This is the very Fool that saved his life
For he did call him Dagonet that day
He told the story to me. And the Queen,
The Queen herself's the Lady of the Hills.--
Thou lovest her.
LAUNCELOT. Ay, as the lost love heaven!
BORS. Alas, I pity thee; thy stars are evil.
But thou art noble and wilt not forget
Thy triple duty, God, the King, thy friend.
LAUNCELOT. Duty? The word is colder than the moon.
Thou art an icy counsellor. Dost think
That love will, like a hound that licks my hand,
Down at my bidding? Nay, thou hast not loved,
Nor dost not know that when Love enters in,
He enters as a master, not a slave.
GALAHAULT. True, Launcelot, Love is tameless as wild beasts.
Chains for his limbs but leave his spirit more free
To think the thing it may not act. Hunger
Is his best nourishment and he grows apace
Upon starvation. If he die at all,
He dies of surfeit, not of abstinence.
BORS. But shall our champion of an hundred fights,
Whose name is one with valor's be o'erthrown
By an effeminate longing, like a girl?
GALAHAULT. Speak not in scorn of love, Sir Bors. There are
But two things under heaven unconquerable
And certain, Love and Death.
[ Enter a PAGE.]
PAGE [ to LAUNCELOT]. My lord, your brothers
Have sent to seek you.
LAUNCELOT. Good, my cousin Bors,
Go thou for me; I cannot see them now;--
I have no heart.
BORS. Go, tell them I come quickly.
[ Exit PAGE.]
You will be your great self and turn this love,
If it be true that't will not be cast out,
To something high and noble. It may be,
As I can hardly think but that you live
Under some special warrant, that God means
You should do great deeds in your lady's name,
And in the chronicles of Time be set
For an example to the yet unborn
How love may cast out love's disloyalties,
And lovers, marvelling at such sacrifice,
Shall say, "So loved the good knight Launcelot."
[ Exit .]
LAUNCELOT. "The traitor Launcelot!" for I hear them now,--
Cold, scornful voices of futurity
That speak so cruel-calmly of the dead!
Oh, Galahault, for love of my good name
Pluck out your sword and kill me, for I see
Whate'er I do, it will be violence--
To soul or body, others or myself.
You will not? It would be a kindly deed.
--And yet I saw her first. What right had he
To steal her from me? I have served her well
Two years, laid all my laurels at her feet,
Won all my victories in her sweet name,
Though yet I knew it not. What right had he--?
Nay, nay, she loves him--who could love him not?--
And I shall hate him, hate my dearest friend,
Because--oh, God! oh, God!
GALAHAULT. Why grieve so soon?
You know not yet if she denies your love.
What if she should not?
LAUNCELOT. Galahault! You make
My poor head dizzy with quick-coming hopes.
What!--you mean?--it cannot be--
GALAHAULT. Why not?
She does not love the King; of that I am certain.
Sure, you are worth the love of any woman,
Were she ten times a queen!
LAUNCELOT. She does not love him?
Are you sure, sir? Are you sure? I dare not hope it.
GALAHAULT. She is as virgin of the thought of love
As winter is of flowers.
LAUNCELOT. But he loves her;
And it would rive his heart. He is my friend,--
Think, Galahault, my friend!
GALAHAULT. Love knows no friend
Nor foe save friends and foes to his desire.
Seek not to palter with him, for he is
More tyrannous than Nero in his cups.
He will endure no bargains, so much love
And so much virtue. You must yield him all
Or he'll not grant you anything. What profits
The King if for his sake you let all slip?
Why, that were chivalry run mad, for though
She love not you, she ne'er will love the King.
Seek other rivals, for not all the charms
Of Merlin and the Lady of the Lake
Would now avail to quicken in her lone heart
A pulse of love for Arthur. Did she hate him,
That might turn love; but when a husband seems
A mere indifferent covenanted thing,
She's like to love the Devil sooner. And can
You calmly think that even your friend of friends,
Lacking her heart, should call her body his,
Should sting that throat with kisses and--?
LAUNCELOT. Damnation!
Her body?
GALAHAULT. Ay, I said so.
LAUNCELOT. Not if he
Were fifty friends or fifty hundred kings!
GALAHAULT. Why, now you are a lover. Come with me.
The Queen is in the orchard.
LAUNCELOT. Galahault!
GALAHAULT. Look through the casement here.
See where she walks,
As if a rose grew on a lily's stem,
So blending passionate life and stately mien.
How like a lioness she steps and pauses,
With grand, slow-moving eyes--
LAUNCELOT. No more! no more! [ Exeunt .]
SCENE III.-- A Bower in the Gardens. GUENE-
VERE and LADIES.
GUENEVERE. You may withdraw, ladies.
[ Exeunt LADIES.]
They did him wrong
Who called him but the goodliest of men,
For he is like a god. What did she say?
"There is not maid nor wife in Camelot
Whose heart is not a spaniel at his feet."
Oh, I should hate them if they loved him not,
And hate them that they love him. What if he hide
Unworth behind that fair exterior!
And shall he add me to his list of slaves?
Yet, though I hate myself that am so cheap,
And love myself that he should be so dear,
And am a thousand things at once, each eyewink
In arms against its neighbor--what should I do,
If he--? I am too poor a thing to live,
And yet so happy that I am so poor!
And yet so wretched that I am so happy!
Why, had he laughed into my startled eyes
And asked "Dost thou adore me?" I had lacked
Power to keep back the "Yes" within my soul.
Or had he clutched my wrist and pulled me to him
And bade me love him, there before them all,
I would have put my lips up for a kiss.
...Yonder he comes. Why should he seek me out?
I am nought to him, one of a thousand women
Whose lives have crossed his somewhere and then passed
Into the dark. His Queen--a stupid word!
His Queen, when he may hear the lightest wish
Some other utters, as a Queen's command?
No Queen at all, unless his Queen in all!
I will not love--and he shall never know.
I would I had not sent my maids away.
I lie; I am glad they are not here. I felt
That he was coming when I bade them go.
[ Enter LAUNCELOT.]
Does he do reverence to the Queen or me?--
Good-morrow, sir. You like our gardens, too.
'T is a sweet place; June lays her heart bare here
And sighs her soul out through the passionate air.
LAUNCELOT. There is no garden like it in the world.
GUENEVERE. I did not guess you were so fond of gardens.
I thought of you with lance and battle-axe
In the forefront of war--yet not as one
That kills his fellows with a savage joy--
But with pale brow where anger never writ
His ugly name in frowns.
LAUNCELOT. You thought of me?
GUENEVERE. Who does not think of you? Your fame is blown
Further than Cameliard.
LAUNCELOT. And you thought of me
As hard and cruel?
GUENEVERE. Never for a breath!
And yet I did not think that you would feel
The strange delicious sweet of such a place.
LAUNCELOT. I never felt it as I do to-day,--
Though I remember, when I was a boy,
There was a beautiful lady who would come
Across the lake and take me in her skiff
And tell me wondrous tales, tales which still make
A low confusèd murmur in my brain
Like the vague undertone of many bees.
I called her "fairy mother" then, but now
Men tell me that she was that Nimue,
The Lady of the Lake, whom Merlin loves.
I know not. I remember only how
I leaned my head over the boat's edge, looking
Deep through the water to another sky,
So clear the water was; and, as I leaned,
My soul went swooning down that crystal space,
Down, down forever, till sinking seemed to turn
To rising, with the sky not far away.
GUENEVERE. Tell me more of your life. You must have seen
So much in its young course--have done so much.
LAUNCELOT. Nay, little that I can remember. I am
Strangely unable to distinguish one
Good or ill hap out of the blur of things,
Battles and tourneys, one much like the other,
And lost already in the murmurous past.
I feel as if I were just born to-day
With life before me like this summer air,
Hushed, as in waiting for a bird to sing,
Who yet delays, and all is fresh and fair,
And hope stands flushing like a rosy boy
Upon a threshold which he fears to cross.
But what I fear or what I hope, indeed
I hardly know--and yet I hope and fear.
GUENEVERE. But surely some recognizable peak
Soars up among the mountains of your deeds
That you can show me.
LAUNCELOT. Indeed there is a height
So near me that it shuts out all my life;
But I have not attained it. One event
I well remember, but it was a vision,
Not an achievement. That was when I first
Beheld you.
GUENEVERE. Have you seen me, then, before?
And you remember it and I forget?
LAUNCELOT. I should have died of faintness in the hills
If you had not stood by.
GUENEVERE. What, were you he
Whom Dagonet the Fool saved?
LAUNCELOT. I am he.
GUENEVERE. How strangely are the threads of life inwoven!--
Yet since you will not tell me of your deeds,
Tell me at least for whom you do them.
LAUNCELOT. Ah, me!
GUENEVERE. I know that for some dame or damosel
You do them. Tell me, by the faith you owe me,
Who is the lady? For I know thou lovest.
LAUNCELOT. Say that I do so, were it not far better
That this new birth had never been conceived;
Since even while I babble of its joy,
Grief glooms above it like the shadow of death?
GUENEVERE. What part hath grief in thee, Sir Launcelot?
I might as soon paint sorrow on the face
Of blessed Michael standing in the sun.
LAUNCELOT. Queen, that I love is true; and love should be
More joy on earth than Michael hath in heaven.
But I have been too much beloved of Fortune;
And she hath dowered me with all goodly gifts
Only in the end to turn them to a gibe.
For all my feats of arms were done for you,
And if you love me not, it had been better
My mother died a maid--and should you love,
Which yet I dare not hope, our lives must be
Like outcast angels, glorious with shade,
A bitter gladness and a radiant woe.
Ay, for 't is you I love. Love leaped to life
Within me when I saw you in the hills,
As Saint John leaped within his mother's womb
When Mary drew near, childing of the Christ.
Speak to me! Will you outstare marble? God!
I say, I love you. See, I crawl to you!--
I pray you pardon me. I see you are
Too merciful to speak. I give you pain;--
I have spoken wildly. Fare you well! I will not--
[ Rushes off .]
GUENEVERE. He loves me! Oh, how good it is to draw
Deep breaths of this rich-scented air. The odor
Seems to pass into me. Does love transfigure
The world like this? Nay, then it is a god,
That's certain.
[ Enter GALAHAULT at the back among the trees .
LAUNCELOT follows him, beseeching .]
LAUNCELOT. Oh, be silent for my sake
Or I shall die of shame.
[ Throws himself on his face under a willow in
the background. ]
GALAHAULT [ advancing ]. O cruel Queen!
What have you done to my poor friend? Look where
He lies upon his face and heaves his sides,
Like a dumb animal hurt unto death.
Oh, what a loss were there, if he indeed,
Pierced with your scorn, should die!
GUENEVERE [ musing, unconscious of GALAHAULT'S presence .] The greater loss
Were mine. O heart, my heart, rememberest thou
What he has said?
GALAHAULT. What?
GUENEVERE. If his words be true,
He has done all his deeds of arms wherewith
The sky's blue concave rings, for me, me only.
GALAHAULT. He may well be believed, for as he is
Of all men the most valiant, so he hath
A truer heart than others.
GUENEVERE. They say well
That he of all men is most valourous,
For he has done such doughty feats of arms
As no knight else. And this, all this he did
For me.
GALAHAULT. Why, then, you should be pitiful.
GUENEVERE. How pitiful, in sooth? The cliffs and crags
Of Cameliard have left me ignorant
Of much, I doubt not, that our Camelot dames
Suck with their mother's milk. But yesterday
Love was to me an idle poet's song.
GALAHAULT. This is not yesterday; for now you know
How more than all fair women he loves you,
How more than his life, yes, more than his own soul;
And that for you he has done more than knight
Did ever yet for lady.
GUENEVERE. More indeed
Than I can ever merit. Could he ask
Anything of me that I could deny?
--But he has asked me nothing. Only he is
So sorrowful that it is marvellous.
GALAHAULT. Then heal that sorrow, madam, for you may.
GUENEVERE. He asked me nothing.
GALAHAULT. Nor would ever ask,
Love is so fearful when it is new-born.
But I plead for him. This is what he would,--
That you should love him and retain him ever
To be your knight, and that you should become
His loyal lady for your whole life long.
Grant this and you will make him richer far
Than if you gave the world.
GUENEVERE. I have given him all
The world I have, the world of my own thoughts,
Desires and aspirations, hopes and fears.
--You see, I trust you, sir. I know not how
You come upon my dream, like a strange shape
That casts a shadow where no shadows are.
But you are here, although you be but thickened
Out of the air before me, as my thoughts
In like wise now round to a definite orb.
I know that he is mine and I all his,
And that you somehow, strangely, have been part
Of things ill done and mended.
LAUNCELOT. No, I dream.
It is not she that speaks. Dear God, if this
Be but a dream, oh let me die and find
That heaven is just to dream forever thus.
GALAHAULT. Gramercy. Now 'tis fit you enter on
Love's service. Kiss him once before me, madam,
For the beginning of true love.
GUENEVERE. Those yonder, sure,
Would marvel much that we should do such deeds.
GALAHAULT. No one will see. [ Turns away .]
GUENEVERE. And if they did?--Why, Launcelot,
You tremble like a leaf. Will you not kiss me?
Are you afraid? Nay, then I will kiss you.
[ She takes him by the chin and kisses him .]
CURTAIN.
ACT III.
SCENE I.-- Camelot. Gallery and portico in the apartments of the Queen of Orkney, overlooking a great water. LIONORS and BORRE.
BORRE. Mamma, I like to talk to you about Gawaine.
LIONORS. Why, darling?
BORRE. Because you hold me close to you,
And kiss me so.
LIONORS. My little innocent wisdom!
BORRE. Gawaine never kisses me. And yet he is kind;
He gives me sweets and--Oh, mamma, look! look!
The moon--how big it is! It comes right up,
Right up out of the mere, just like Gawaine
When he is swimming. You know, he plunges under
And then his head comes up 'way over yonder,
And then he shakes the drops out of his hair
And wipes his eyes with his fingers. The moon is bald
Like poor old Hugh the gardener. That's why
The water doesn't stick to it.
LIONORS. [ kissing him ]. Sweetheart! See
How still the moonlight lies upon the water!
BORRE. It's like a silver road.
LIONORS. How would you like
For you and me to go out hand in hand
As we do i' the meadows, and pluck those flowers
That grow on the waves by moonlight, and so go on
And on and on until we came to Fairyland?
BORRE. I'm 'fraid we'd get our feet wet.
LIONORS. I'm afraid we might.
BORRE. But what's a road for, if you mayn't walk on it?
Mamma, I don't think it's a road at all;
It's a river.
LIONORS. A river, love?
BORRE. A river of shine;
The fairies go swimming in 't.
[ Enter PEREDURE.]
LIONORS. Good even, sir.
The Queen of Orkney is engaged within.
So please you wait with me a little while,
She'll see you presently.
PEREDURE. I will remain;
You are very gracious.--Well, my little dreamer!
What are you thinking of, with your great brown eyes
Looking so wistfully on the mere? Come, kiss me.
What do you see out there?
BORRE. My lord, who lives
I' the sea?
PEREDURE. Why, the fishes, Borre.
BORRE. And the old crabs
With their great ugly claws--I know. But I think
A princess lives there in a crystal palace,
All white and cool, with crabs to guard the gates.
That's why their arms are so long, you know--to catch
The robbers with.
PEREDURE. Are there robbers in the sea?
BORRE. Oh, yes! that's such a pretty story. Mamma,
Tell it to him--you know, the one you told
Last night--about the water-kelpies that tried
To steal the princess' treasure.
LIONORS. Some other time, Sweetheart.
BORRE. Oh, please, mamma, please tell it!
LIONORS. Not
To-night, dear. It grows late, and it is time
For little folk to be abed. Come, Borre,
We'll go find nurse.--Excuse me, pray, my lord;
I will return soon.
BORRE. I don't want to go;
I am not sleepy.
PEREDURE. Let me carry him.
Wouldn't you like a ride upon my shoulder?
That's it. Now we go. Lead on, my lady.
BORRE. Hey!
[ Exeunt LIONORS, PEREDURE, and BORRE.]
[ Enter MORGAUSE and PUBLIUS.]
PUBLIUS. If it be true, as you suspect--
MORGAUSE. No fear!
You are very wise and subtle, good my lord,
But trust a woman's wit as subtler still
Where woman's heart's at question. You were there;
Your eyes were fixed, as all eyes, on the Queen;
Yet you nor no man there saw what I saw.
I tell you, when a woman's eyes are lit
With such a light as that I saw in hers
The while she gazed at Launcelot, 'tis small matter
Whether she flinch or falter to the world--
She loves.
PUBLIUS. Well, let us grant, then, that she loves;
You women sometimes prove absurdly right,
And I incline to trust you. But the King
Will ask more solid proofs.
MORGAUSE. And he shall have them!
Ay, if I pull the ruin on myself,
I'll find the engines somewhere to upheave
The pillars of his peace. Oh, he doth vex me
Beyond endurance with that calm of his,
That silly satisfaction on his face,
As if he were some god, forsooth, and deigned
To live with men as a sun might deign to shine.
PUBLIUS. Do not forget the most important thing,
That Launcelot must quarrel with the King;
For thence I see a great advantage grow
For Rome, and you will not forget, I hope,
That Cæsar's vantage wins for Arthur's ruin.
I do not ask you why you hate the King;
Work for my ends and I will work for yours.
MORGAUSE. Agreed. But we must cast our lines for proofs,--
And yonder comes an angle for my hook.
Withdraw, my lord; leave me alone with him.
PUBLIUS. My humble duty, madam.
[ Exit .]
[ Enter PEREDURE.]
MORGAUSE. Peredure!
It is kind in you to come to me, my lord.
Sit by me here. I am sad to-night and know not
What 'tis oppresses me.
PEREDURE. Would that I had
The power to shield off sorrow from you, madam!
MORGAUSE. Why, would you use it if you had, my lord?
A little thing might do it for the nonce,
But yet I fear me you would scruple.
PEREDURE. Scruple?
I am no coward; I would die to serve you.
MORGAUSE. I know you are no coward, and I think
You are indeed my friend.--Too much of this!
You are a poet. Sing me a sweet song,
Whose music may caress my painèd heart.
PEREDURE. Lend my your cithern, lady.
MORGAUSE. Who says now
That I am not the royalest queen alive,
That have a king's son for my troubadour?
PEREDURE [ sings ].
You remind me, sweeting,
Of the glow,
Warm and pure and fleeting,
--Blush of apple-blossoms--
On cloud-bosoms,
When the sun is low.
Like a golden apple,
'Mid the far
Topmost leaves that dapple
Stretch of summer blue--
There are you,
Sky-set like a star.
Fearful lest I bruise you,
How should I
Dare to reach you, choose you,
Stain you with my touch?
It is much
That you star the sky.
Why should I be climbing,
So to seize
All that sets me rhyming--
In my hand enfold
All that gold
Of Hesperides?
I would not enfold you,
If I might.
I would just behold you,
Sigh and turn away,
While the day
Darkens into night.
MORGAUSE. You sigh, my lord. Did not the lady yield,
After so sweet a plaining in her ear?
...Methinks I had not been so obdurate.
To give unsought is sweetest to the giver.
Love such as yours, that asks no recompense,
Pleads for that reason more persuasively.
...Men love not often so--in Camelot.
PEREDURE. The beautiful lady of my soul, for whom
My song was made, knows not my love for her.
The greatest happiness that I can hope
Is to sing for her, sitting at her feet,
As I do now at yours. I dare not vex
Her spirit with the story of my love,
Lest I should lose the little bliss I have
Nor gain no greater neither.
MORGAUSE. You are too fearful.
Who would not throw a bit of glass aside
To win a diamond? You cheat yourself
With the vain semblance of a love, my lord.
Be bold and snatch the real. Why, who knows
But that your lady pines to yield herself
As you to win her?
PEREDURE. Oh, do not stir up
The devil in my soul! There is a chasm
Between our ways.
MORGAUSE. And will you let her droop
And die, poor lady, dreaming that her life
Is wasted ointment spilt out on the floor,
When but a word were Siloam to her eyes
To let her see she had poured a priceless chrism
Over the very body of Love? If she
Were I and spoke to you as I do now,
How would you answer her?
PEREDURE. Upon my knees.
Forgive me, my beloved.
MORGAUSE. What do you mean?
PEREDURE. That you indeed are she.
MORGAUSE. Alas, alas!
What must you think? Indeed I knew not this.
PEREDURE. Oh, kill me with your hands, not with your grief.
Oh love, love, love, I ne'er had thus offended,
But all my brain was whirling with your words.
MORGAUSE. We are most fortunate and unfortunate.
PEREDURE. And dost thou love, then, too?
MORGAUSE. I have loved thee long.--
Why do you tremble so? Surely it is
No sin that we should love.
PEREDURE. Can that be sin
Which makes me greater-hearted than before?
MORGAUSE. Why do you stand apart? Let me lean on you.--
Oh, take me in your strong arms, Peredure!
Surely it is no sin for us to kiss.
PEREDURE. God help me, I scarce know where sin begins;
For I am caught up in a wind of passion
That sweeps me where it will.
[ The tinkling of a lute without. ]
MORGAUSE [starting ]. It is not safe
For you to be found here so late. I hear
My women with their lutes. Nay, do not go--
Nay, but you must--but first one kiss, my love.--
Give me the key to your secret door. I'll come
To you; we shall be more secure than here.
PEREDURE. Come quickly, then, or I shall scarce believe
But I have slept i' the moonlight and seen visions.
--Yet one more kiss, as sweet as the perfume
Of sandal burning in a darkened room!
I am drunk with this new joy.
MORGAUSE. Within two hours.
PEREDURE. I live not till you come.
MORGAUSE. Oh, leave me, leave me!
You will be found. Farewell!
PEREDURE. Love, love! [ Exit .]
MORGAUSE. This key
Shall unlock more secrets than a secret door.
[LADINAS climbs up from below with a lute.
The scene closes. ]
SCENE II.-- A street in Camelot. Enter THE
WATCH.
FIRST WATCHMAN. I say it and I say it again, that the King hath the strongest arm in the kingdom.
SECOND WATCHMAN. Not a doubt of that!
THIRD WATCHMAN. Our King be a powerful fighter.
FOURTH WATCHMAN. Not but I think our Owen, the blacksmith, would run him hard.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Oh, you think, do you? You're a fine one to think. Owen, the blacksmith!
THIRD WATCHMAN. They as thinks, goes to hell; leastwise Father Aurelian says so.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Owen, the blacksmith!
FOURTH WATCHMAN. Well, I suppose a blacksmith may have muscle in his arm, as well as a king.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Ah, there you goes a-supposing. The King, sir, is the King, and is not to be supposed.
THIRD WATCHMAN. Ay, 'tis a hanging matter to suppose the King--except for the Pope. The Pope can suppose anything.
FIRST WATCHMAN. You go too much to the priests, David. Father Aurelian knows not everything, though I will not deny that he can say mass quicker than any priest in Camelot. The Pope cannot touch the King except in the way of cursing, and it's not likely the Holy Father would curse anybody--unless he were mightily provoked.
SECOND WATCHMAN. That's true, neighbor.
FIRST WATCHMAN. The King is the head in things temporary, and the Pope in things spirituous.
SECOND WATCHMAN. And that's true, too.
FIRST WATCHMAN. And I say again, the King is the strongest man in the kingdom. Before he was crowned, the pulled the great sword out o' the stone at Canterbury, where it was fast stuck, so that all the nobles in Britain had tugged away at it and none o' them so much as budged it. And they say the devil put it there, but that is not likely, for the Archbishop said that whoever should pull it out should be king, and it's not to be be believed that the Archbishop would meddle with the devil. Well, at last the King came, but he was not King then, but no matter for that; and he heaved away at it and out it came so sudden that away went His Majesty heels over head backward and was near to break 's neck. And they call the place Arthur's Feat to this day, because there Arthur lost his feet. And I say, the King is the strongest man in Britain.
THIRD WATCHMAN. But that was a magic sword; it vanished afterward.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Magic! Poh, David, you'll believe anything.
THIRD WATCHMAN. If it did not vanish, where is it now? Answer me that.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Masters, we are set here to apprehend benefactors. But I take it that no benefactors will be in the street at this hour, for there is a law that no one be abroad after nine o' the clock but the King's watch. Let us go into Master Howell's tavern. If there be any benefactors they will be there.
FOURTH WATCHMAN. Ay, we'll go have a pot of ale. But we must come back anon, for there might be honest men abroad.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Truly, and if any honest men be stirring, they will take it ill that the watch be not by to protect them.
THIRD WATCHMAN. But 'tis against the law to be out at this time o' the night; and can a man be a true man and break the law?
FIRST WATCHMAN. In a case of necessity he may, for necessity knows no law. And I feel myself a pressing necessity now for strong waters. Come, masters. [ Exeunt .]
[ Enter GUENEVERE, disguised as a Page, and GAL-
AHAULT.]
GUENEVERE. Pray, how much farther is it? We have come
A long way from the palace.
GALAHAULT. We have but
To cross the little bridge beyond and pass
Under the row of willows to the left,
And we are there. It is a place I built
Some years ago when I had use for it.
But now the flowers have sown themselves at will
And the wild vines, untrimmed, have overflowed
The trellises and run along the ground,
Tangled with violets, and hollyhocks
Start straight and sudden in the very walks.
The simple people of the neighborhood
Say it is haunted, having no way else
To explain infrequent lights and seldom signs
Of habitation in such solitude
Yet though it has a barbarous outside,
You'll find within that all has been made ready
Even for a queen's sojourn.
GUENEVERE. I thank you, sir.
How looked he when you left him?
GALAHAULT. Why, as one
Who is about to die and has seen heaven
Opening before him.
GUENEVERE. But did he send no word?
Oh, pardon me, I have lost all my pride,
And I must hear you speak of him.
WATCH [ within .]. Ho, there!
GALAHAULT. Stand close, it is the watch;--and speak no word,
But keep your face in shadow.
[ Enter the WATCH.]
FIRST WATCHMAN. Stand all together that they may not rush upon us suddenly and overpower us. --Who goes there?
GALAHAULT. What, old Griffith! What do you mean, you old oracle? Do you forget me?
FIRST WATCHMAN. Bless us, masters, if it be not the Prince! I hope your Highness will pardon me. Now who'd a-thought 't 't would a-been your Highness? Ah, your Highness knows what's what, a-going about in the night, when all honest folk is a-bed. But it's not for me to say when your Highness should go in or come out. And I hope your Highness will not forget the watch.
GALAHAULT [ throwing purse ]. Drink my health, Griffith,--you and your fellows. And if you get very drunk, I'll see you are none the worse for it. Come, boy.
[ Exeunt GALAHAULT and GUENEVERE.]
SECOND WATCHMAN. What did he give you?
FIRST WATCHMAN. Gold! Ah, there's a prince for you, he is! I have carried him home drunk these many times. He knows what belongs to a gentleman. And did you hear what he called me? An oracle. That's as much as to say, a man of parts. Mark Antony was an oracle-he that killed Cæsar in the play. He killed him oracularly.
FOURTH WATCHMAN. Not a one of you had come back but for me. You were so thirsty you could see naught but the tavern window.
FIRST WATCHMAN. Never you mind. We'll have a drink now as is a drink-and none the worse for waiting and letting our mouths water. [ Exeunt. ]
SCENE III.- Merlin's Tower . MERLIN. Enter
DAGONET, unperceived .
MERLIN. Burn, burn, ye leaping flames! And yet in vain.
Ye cannot burn away the prison-bars
That gaol my soul from knowledge. Yet burn on;
A little and a little still I learn.
Yet all the knowledge man can win avails
But to avoid the shock of mighty forces
Which he can neither deviate nor control.
I look out on the rushing of the world
As one who sees the gloom of swirling waters
In the abyss of midnight. On they sweep,
Fatal, resistless, plunging as one mass
From turbulence to booming turbulence.
Whence? Whither? Ye occult unconscious Powers!
How shall I call upon you? By what names?
What incantations?-Fool, what do you here?
DAGONET. Father Merlin, when will the devils appear?
MERLIN. What mean you, Fool?
DAGONET. Were you not conjuring? I cry you mercy, I thought it was an invocation to Flibbertigibbet. Sir Kaye says that Asmodeus was your father, but the Devil himself will be saved ere his wits stop leaking.
MERLIN. I do not take that. How should his wits leak?
DAGONET. Marry, I am sure his brain's cracked. He put me in the pillory the other day for making a jest that passed his understanding, but he will be pilloried with my jest long after I have ceased jesting with his pillory.
MERLIN. What, were you in the pillory, Dagonet?
DAGONET. Long enough to feel an imaginary ruff about my neck still. But by the intercession of the Queen, I was delivered. I hope her issue may be nobler.
MERLIN. Her issue? Where is the sequence in this?
DAGONET. That if her issue be no nobler than mine, it will be something scrofulous, for I was delivered of a galled neck. Father Merlin, can you undo a spell as well as contrive one?
MERLIN. Why, Fool?
DAGONET. The Prince of Cameliard is bewitched; he does nothing but sigh.
MERLIN. Why, you should be the physician to heal him of that ailment. For what purpose else does the King keep you?
DAGONET. Nay, the jester is a physician that heals none but the well. The sick will have none of him, neither the sick in body nor in wit nor in heart; for the sick in their bodies desire the sympathy of long faces; and the sick in their wits think they are mocked, because they do not understand what is said; and the sick in their hearts speak another language-laughter is bitterness to them and their recreation is in groans. And Prince Peredure is in the third of these categories,--he is in love. Indeed, Father Merlin, he is past my medicining, and I would you would cure him.
MERLIN. Would you have me cure youth of love?
Then I were a magician indeed.
And yet I know, in part, of what you speak;
And I would counsel you, good Dagonet,
To have an eye upon the Queen of Orkney.
She works with devious indirections, and
This love of Peredure may be to her
A point to rest the lever on, wherewith
She pries at greater matters. Come with me;
I have employment for you. 'T works so, does't?
Fate lays on her a bitter-hearted life;
Even as long ago I prophesied
That woe should whelm her past all woman's woe,
And woe past woman's from her heart should flow
To whelm the world-and Time unwinds it so.
[ Exeunt .]
SCENE IV.- A forsaken garden . LAUNCELOT.
LAUNCELOT. It is the hour; and yet they do not come.
The sentinels grow drowsy at their posts;
And the wind rustles through the moonlit leaves
Like one that tosses on a sleepless bed
And wishes for the dawn. The shadows sleep,
Silent as time, beneath the silent stars;
And distant dogs behowl the loneliness.
O Moon, look down and lead my love to me!...
Sir Galahault! Sir Galahault! I wonder
If it were wise to trust to you so far.
Nay, 't is unknightly in me to misdoubt
So true a heart. Who else but he had made
The evil fortune of my love his own
And dared for me all I myself can dare?
And yet to take my joy within his doors,
With secret entrance like a midnight thief,--
It irks me. Bah, I am a fool! What's place
Or time, when I clasp hands with Guenevere?
To look into her eyes is to forget
That space exists, beyond her circling arms!
Hark! did I hear the rustle of a cloak?
Or was 't the wind i' the lilacs?
[ Enter GALAHAULT.]
Galahault!
Alone?
GALAHAULT. Are you alone? And is all safe?
For what I bring with me is worth all Britain.
LAUNCELOT. All Britain? All the world!
[ Enter GUENEVERE.]
My queen! my queen!
GUENEVERE. Sir Galahault, needs must that once you loved.
'T is some lost lady's memory, sure, that stirs
Your will to do these gentle deeds.
GALAHAULT. I know
Love is the one intelligible word
Life utters.-But I pray you, pardon me [ smiling ],
I know, besides, that though you throw an alms
Of kind thoughts to a man whose life is lived,
The fleet-foot hours are restless to become
Spendthrift of richer treasure. Fare you well!
I will not irk you with a formal leave. [ Exit .]
GUENEVERE. Now!
LAUNCELOT. Heart to heart!
GUENEVERE. Oh, do not jar with speech
This perfect chord of silence!-Nay, there needs
Thy throat's deep music. Let thy lips drop words,
Like pearls, between thy kisses.
LAUNCELOT. Thy speech breaks
Against the interruption of my lips,
Like the low laughter of a summer brook
Over perpetual pebbles.
GUENEVERE. Nay but, love,
It is the saucy pebbles that provoke
The brook's discourse; for, where the bed is smooth,
The waters glide as silent as a Dryad
That disappears among the silent trees.
LAUNCELOT. And so our kisses still provoke our speech.
GUENEVERE. Why, if the night must first be smooth of kisses,
I fear that I shall talk until the dawn.
LAUNCELOT. Alas, that dawn should be so soon!
GUENEVERE. We will
Divide each moment in a thousand parts,
And every part a pearl; and they shall make
A rosary of little lucent globes,
Innumerous as the dewdrops of the dawn:
And, counting them, night shall seem infinite.
LAUNCELOT. Yet even now we count them, and they pass.
Sit, Guenevere, here where the moonlight laughs
Across your hair, and the night wind may touch
Your throat and chin, as I do now.
GUENEVERE. O love,
My lips will weary you, too often kissed.
LAUNCELOT. Why, then the night will weary of the moon.
GUENEVERE. But I'll be strange and chide; and then a cloud
Will pass between you and the moon.
LAUNCELOT. Nay, then
The moon will 'broider with her light the cloud,--
And I will kiss again, to hear your chiding.
GUENEVERE. My voice will weary you, too rarely still.
LAUNCELOT. Then will the leaves grow weary of the wind.-
Hark, how they laugh into each other's ears
And whisper secrets for pure merriment!
GUENEVERE. My love will weary you, too undisguised,
Too wild, too headlong, too unlimited!
LAUNCELOT. Then God will weary of the joy of heaven!
O love, in whom even Love's perversity
Is lovely! O chameleon-colored heart!
Look, I have seen a sky at sunset lapse
From gold and flame to misted violet
And through a thousan shifting colors more,
Olive and pearl and myriad hues of rose,
Each lovelier than the last. Even such a sky
Thy heart is.
GUENEVERE. Then must thou be like the sun,
For from his kiss the sky takes on her hue.
And surely, if the sun took human shape,
He would become even such a man as thou,
My live Apollo! Spendthrift of thy brightness!
--Nay, let us stay awhile yet, for the night
Doth seem attunèd to our hearts and they
Incorporate with the night. Was e'er befoe
Such rapture in the air?
LAUNCELOT. O teasing Queen!
You slip through my desires and glide away
As a seal swims. Ah, why will you be coy?
Yet coy or bold, each shifting mood you wear
More than the last entrains.
GUENEVERE. I give you all;
I am no niggard to keep something back.
But yet, I pray you, stay a little while.
There is a sweetness in all things that pass;
We love the moonlight better for the sun,
And the day better when the night is near;
The last look on a place where we have dwelt
Reveals more beauty than we dreamed before,
When it was daily. This is my last hour
Of girlhood; and, although the wider days
Bring greater guerdons and more large delights,
Yet this one thing they shall not bring again.
Love, yet a little while!
LAUNCELOT. Your girlhood, say you?
GUENEVERE. I know not how to tell you-
The morn that followed on my wedding night,
War called the King to Cornwall,--since which hour
I have not seen him.-That one night, indeed,
We lay down side by side;--but, seeing I shrank
And shook as one that fears she knows not what,
The King unsheathed his sword Excalibur
And placed it for a sign between us twain,
--And all night long the sword divided us.
LAUNCELOT. Mine, mine, all mine!
GUENEVERE. All thine, my Launcelot,
Body and soul! My husband!
LAUNCELOT. Ay, dear wife,
Although the cowled monastic trees have been
The only priests of our great bridal.
GUENEVERE. Husband!
I laugh into your hair with the mere joy
Of saying it over so...The wicked stars
Are twinkling with a mischievous delight
To spy on us.
LAUNCELOT. Then are they like you now,
The roguery of heaven. Anon, you'll change
And be its splendor and its mystery.
Let us go in; I have seen you as a vision
Of morning in the hills, and as a Queen,
And as the dainty mimicry of a boy;
But I would see you grand and undisguised
And clothed upon with moonlight and sweet air.
[ They enter the house. Then all is silent, save
for a rustle of wind in the leaves and the
voice of a distant watchman, calling the
hour. A nightingale begins to sing in the
thicket .]
CURTAIN.
ACT IV.SCENE I.- The Same. Enter LAUNCELOT and
GUENEVERE.
LAUNCELOT. It is the morning star that hangs so high;
Love, you must leave me.
GUENEVERE. Must I so indeed?
How can I leave you?-For I live in you.
You are the only concord in my life;
Without you I am but a jarring note
And all the world mere noise.
LAUNCELOT. No, leave me not.
What though the world outcast us! We will be
A world unto ourselves. Let Britain sink
Beneath the Atlantic and the solid base
And universal dome of things dissolve
And like the architecture of a cloud
Melt in the blue inane! You are my country,
My world, my faith, my rounded orb of life.
GUENEVERE. Without you life would be but breathing death.
LAUNCELOT. Oh, we will find some island in the seas,
Some place forsaken of the unjust world,
A larger image of this garden here,
Where nature's luxury and Art's decay
Proclaim emancipation-
GUENEVERE. There's no such place.
The greedy world would rush in at your heels
And turn your paradise into a mart.
Nay, you were right, and I must leave you, love,
And ere yon pale streaks ripen into rose,
Resume the Queen. But yet one breath beneath
These morning-cool old elms before we part,
One last love-dreaming!-How can I be sure
Thou lovest me? Is life so generous of joy?
LAUNCELOT. Oh, look in my true eyes and say
If thou canst doubt me!
GUENEVERE. Nay, I doubt thee not.
If I had doubted, could I thus have stolen
At midnight in a shameless page's suit
And-oh, thou knowest I could not!
LAUNCELOT. Sweet and true!
GUENEVERE. I feel as if I had put off the Queen
With the Queen's robes and had become your page.
LAUNCELOT. You are my Queen, whatever garb you wear,
And I your knight forever. But, thus clad,
A thousand beauties are revealed, before
Known only to surmise, or by foreknowledge
That every beauty must be yours divined.
Ay, cover 't with thy cloak! The prettiness
O' the action o'er-repays my beggared eyes,
Robbed of the treasure of that loveliness.
GUENEVERE. For thy delight, love, I will dress me so
Ten times a day-but never as a mask
Again. Why wouldst thou send Sir Galahault
To bring me here?
LAUNCELOT. For thy security.
Here we are free from Argus-eyed intrigue.
GUENEVERE. I like it not-or rather would not like it,
Were I not too content to let my head
Lie on your shoulder here-so-while Time seems
To pause awhile and dream, beholding us.
It is too much as if we shrank some peril;
And I would shrink from nothing. Prithee, love,
Henceforward let us meet without these shifts.
LAUNCELOT. O royal-hearted!
GUENEVERE. Sweet, you hurt me.
LAUNCELOT. Nay,
I would not hurt you. I would have my love
A furnace fiery as the orient king's,
But you should walk in it and be unharmed.
GUINEVERE. Was ever woman loved as you love me?
LAUNCELOT. I think there never was; 't is something new
Whereof I am discoverer. [ Exeunt among the trees .]
SCENE II.- The adjacent country. Before the tent
of Arthur . ARTHUR and GODMAR.
GODMAR. Sire!
ARTHUR. What is it, Godmar?
GODMAR. From the crest
Of yonder hill one can see Camelot.
ARTHUR. A forced march would have brought us there to-day;
But to what end? The soldiers are fatigued.
GODMAR. Sire, we have marched but fifteen miles to-day.
We started late and are already camped
While it is hardly afternoon. Besides,
The camp is careless as a hunt.
ARTHUR. What then?
GODMAR. You will destroy all discipline.
ARTHUR. No, Godmar.
They have earned a little ease; let them enjoy it.
For tension unrelieved relieves itself
And is ne'er taut again. Let them have time
To talk and tell old stories in their tents
And they'll forget their hardships, and each soldier
Will presently begin to find himself
Of moment to the State, no mere machine
Useful and used as bows and catapults,
But personal; and Britain thus will grow
A thing wherein he hath a stake himself,
And he will fight the better and submit
More willing to her rule in that his will
By head and heart alike is reinforced.
Have couriers been sent forward?
[ Enter MERLIN.]
GODMAR. One at dawn
And one when we encamped.
ARTHUR. How camest thou here?
MERLIN. On no enchanted steed; a plain mule brought me.
I set out when your messenger arrived
This morning. I have tidings you must hear
Before your entry.
ARTHUR. Well.
MERLIN. The Emperor
Has sent a special envoy to your court,
Whose undivulged commission, though with care
And shrewdly hid, I have smelled out. In brief,
Rome sends to bully you with warlike threats
To pay the tribute.
ARTHUR. You are my counsellors;
What are your minds on this?
GODMAR. I am for war.
Here is occasion for new victories
And a world-wider glory. For my part,
I think that peace is when the nation sleeps
And when it wakes, that's war. For men in peace,
Lacking brave emulation and the zeal
Of a great cause, fall to their petty ends
And, letting their high virtues atrophy,
Wallow in lust and avarice, till the heart
And nobler functions rot away and leave
A people like an oyster, all stomach.
Our men are bold with long success, valiant,
Well-disciplined, far better warriors
Than Roman libertines, and mercenaries
That fight with half their hearts. The cause is just;
For while Rome kept her legions in the land,
Defending us from the sea-robbing Jutes
And Saxons and against the mountain hordes
Of barbarous Picts, there was a show of reason
Why she should tax us; now we stand alone
And ask and yield no favors.
MERLIN. Nor would I
Advise your Majesty to yield an inch
To this preposterous impudence. And yet
Delay advantages the crescent power,
And we are growing stronger every year
And Rome declining. If we match her now,
Ere long we'll have the odds. Her boundless wealth
Gives her resources which our general
Too lightly weighs. Nor should we overrate
Our own security. We are one in rule
But not in spirit yet, and local feeling
Still outruns national. The Jutes in Kent
Are yet a daily threat. Therefore, my liege,
My counsel is that we meet words with words,
Gain time to expel the aliens from our shores
And discord from our hearts. Indeed I think
The glory of your reign will more consist
In leaving to the world a living State
Than in your victories. And what most imports you
Is to secure by wise executive
The unity and welfare of the realm.
ARTHUR. You have each spoken well, but I incline
To Godmar's thought. You, Merlin, know full well
The unity of Britain is the heart
And purpose of my life; but I conceive
This war will make the country more at one
Than all our statecraft, for old enmities
Will melt away into one common heart
When Britons fight against a common foe.
Besides, you shall yourself be deputy
At Camelot, and our home management
Shall be no loser. For the Jutes in Kent,
We'll make them our allies, confirm their lands
In fealty to ourself and win them over
With promises o' the richer spoils of Rome.
For I intend to sack her opulent towns
And pay my soldiers from their treasuries;
And this sea-people will supply me ships
And sailors cunning in sea-faring war.
And, more than this, I have ancestral claims
To the imperial crown. We'll not return
Until the Pope has crowned me Emperor.
GODMAR. No man on earth save Arthur, King of Britain,
Could wield so glorious an enterprise.
ARTHUR. What say you, Merlin?
MERLIN. 'T is a noble plan,
Better than mine though something hazardous,
And for a lesser captain foolhardy.
And yet it has a weakness, for I fear
The greatening power and riches of the Jutes.
If Britain ever fall, 't will be by them.
ARTHUR. They are too dangerous to be enemies;
They must be friends.
MERLIN. My liege, a word with you in private.
GODMAR. Sire, permit that I withdraw. [ Exit .]
ARTHUR. What bitter news now, Merlin?
MERLIN. Be prepared
For any unexpected blow you will.
I fear your sister has some plot in hand
Which I have not unravelled.
ARTHUR. Morgause again?
I have a senseless superstitious dread
That from her comes my ruin;--but that's a dream.
I'll not be goblin-ridden. Come within
The tent and tell me more of your suspicion.
[ Exeunt .]
SCENE III.-- Camelot. Night. The Gardens.
Through the trees the towers and battlements.
Enter MORGAUSE and LADINAS from opposite
sides, meeting.
MORGAUSE. Well?
LADINAS. I have seen them.
MORGAUSE. Seen them?
LADINAS. From the arbor
I watched them as they strolled; yet too far off
To hear their words-and yet their words were sweet.
I could tell that although I heard them not,
They leaned so to each other, like a pair
Of rutting deer that rub their heads together
Before they couple. What they said, no doubt,
Had made a pretty song for the King's ear,
Could it have been re-worded.
MORGAUSE. Was this all you saw?
LADINAS. Be patient. I have not done yet.
I saw them kiss-and Launcelot looked about
With guilty fear, but Guenevere looked not
But hung upon him motionless and dumb,
Reckless of all the world. Much more I saw,
But to be brief-at last, after what words
I know not, they departed, she with head
Erect, poised firmly on her royal throat,
But he with wild eyes and a haggard face.
I followed them. They went in by the wicket
O' the private stairway of the Queen's apartments.
MORGAUSE. What say you? In broad noon?
LADINAS. Ay, in broad noon.
At least, she sins with royal carelessness.
MORGAUSE. Her royal carelessness! Her royal throat!
Is she the only queen, then, in the world?
Doth she bewitch you, too? Where got she drugs
To make men love her? Do you find her fairer?
Beware, La Rouse! You know how I can hate.
LADINAS. Fairer? There are three fair ladies in the world,
Iseult of Ireland, Guenevere, and thou-
And thou art first among them. I will not
Deny how beautiful she is, my queen-
Thou art the fairer that she is so fair.
MORGAUSE. Leave courtly phrases till another time.
What did you when her royalty had passed
Into the palace?
LADINAS. I bethought me then
Of Peredure's apartments and the key.
I had no thought to find an use so soon
For that-love-trinket. I ensconced myself
Behind a pillar in the gallery
That overlooks the window of the Queen,--
MORGAUSE. And there you saw--?
LADINAS. Enough! Not all I would,--
There was a tantalizing incompleteness
In what I saw; something, indeed, as when
One thinks one sees more than one really does
When the wind frolics with the petticoats.
And yet I saw enough to make the Queen
A laughter and a byword to the world.
MORGAUSE. Ha, ha, ha!
So then my virtuous brother will receive
A douse of dirty water for a welcome,
When he returns to-morrow morn. The pomp
Of his victorious arms will only serve
To pageant out his shame.
LADINAS. I have set down
A formal notice with the Seneschal
That at high noon to-morrow, when the King
Ascends the throne in the Great Hall to hear
The grievances and quarrels of his knights
And render justice, I shall then appear
And in the presence of the court "impeach
Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady
Of the Most Knightly and Christian Fellowship
Of the Round Table, et cetera , of treason
To the most gracious person of the King
And to the safety of the realm, in living
In shameless license with Sir Launcelot;
And also I impeach for the same cause
Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban-"
MORGAUSE. Spare me the legal rigmarole. By this,
The noise is bruited over the whole palace.
LADINAS. Be sure of that; Sir Kaye will never keep
So rare a bit of scandal to himself.
MORGAUSE. Why, then we have won the throw. Oh, Ladinas,
You have done that to-day that shall shake thrones!
Launcelot will not tamely yield himself;
Still less will he sit by and see his leman
Dragged from him to the stake. This work of ours
Casts Britain to the pit for the beasts of war
To glut their bloodthirst on.-What's that to us?
This upstart Queen and that false-hearted prig
Who calls himself her husband and my brother-
She lied, my mother, when she said she bore him!
And, if he be her husband, what proves that
But that he is a perjurer?-If she 'scape,
He may be slain; and if they live, the shame
Will daub them till they die. In any case
I have revenge. I could carouse to-night
Till the elves startled in the glens to hear
The echo of my revelry. Come, kiss me!
Oh, Ladinas, I am drunk with merriment.
Again! again! My blood is flames of fire.
LADINAS. Your lips burn and your cheeks are hot. Morgause!
My pantheress! My splendid devil!
[ Enter MERLIN.]
MORGAUSE. Beware!
MERLIN. You need no mock propriety. I am
Too gray for envy and too well aware
Of what you do for this play of concealment.
And other things I know; be warned in time,--
Let your intents take wing.
MORGAUSE. You are too late.
Go to Sir Kaye and ask the news of him.
I do not fear you, Merlin.
MERLIN. Fear you God?
MORGAUSE. God cheated me-you know of what I speak.
I am his enemy as He is mine.
[ Exeunt MORGAUSE and LADINAS.]
DAGONET [ springing up from behind a clump of bushes ]. Poor God! Oh, Father Merlin, such roguery as I have overheard! But I will tell you anon, for now I must see whither they are going. [ Exit .]
[ Enter KAYE, GAWAINE, and PEREDURE.]
KAYE. It is even as I tell you, gentlemen. Sir Ladinas has accused the Queen of high treason, for amours with Sir Launcelot.
PEREDURE. Impossible! He dare not.
KAYE. The indictment was placed in my hand not above an hour ago. God knows how 't will all end.
PEREDURE. By heaven, he is not chary of his life!
GAWAINE. I say 't is an outrage. What an if it were true? They are the royalest pair in Christendom; 't is shameful to seek to dishonor them.
PEREDURE. True? Why, you lily-livered boy, you dare
To hint it? By all the saints, if you were not
Your mother's son, that word had been your last.
[ A light appears in a window above .]
GAWAINE. I pray you, pardon me; she is your sister.
I had forgot it. But I mean to say
That, were Sir Launcelot guilty twenty times,
He doth as far this Ladinas o'erpeer
As mountains anthills. Fie, a worm, a snail!
KAYE. 'T is most deplorable. Let us bring the news
To Galahault and the others.
[ Exeunt KAYE and GAWAINE.]
MERLIN. Prince, do you see the light in yonder casement?
PEREDURE. It is the chamber of the Queen of Orkney.
What of it?
MERLIN. Would you know who has set on
This foul conspiracy against the Queen,
Make you that light your searchlamp.
PEREDURE. What, you mean--?
MERLIN. I mean that if you follow up my clue
To thread the meaning of this labyrinth,
'T will draw you, like a moth, into that flame.
I mean that in that dark unriddled heart
That beats beneath the beauteous breasts of Orkney,
Lies like a cancer the true reason why
Your sister's fame is smirched.
PEREDURE. By heaven, 't is false!
As soon the rosy labor of the dawn
Might bring forth darkness. Now, by all hell's fiends
Unless I meet an enemy ere long
Beside old age and boyhood, I shall break
My sword against the senseless stones! What, she?
MERLIN. Alas, I pity you, but truth will not;
It is the truth. [ Exit .]
PEREDURE. By the five wounds of Christ,
It is the foulest lie that e'er was told.
--Lamp of my soul, behind yon lattice lies
More mystery, more beauty, more delight
Than grizzled Merlin with his lapse of years
Has ever dreamed of. There's more credit writ
In thy dear smile than all his subtleties.
Ah, opal-hearted! Now she doth unclothe
The solemn sweep of her majestic limbs,
The mystery of her awful loveliness;
And draws the curtains of her couch about her
As some earth-goddess of old northern tales
Might draw the heavy drapery of the night.
[ Enter DAGONET.]
DAGONET. My lord!-My lord!-Even her casement throws him into a catalepsy. Now what brew hath the witch borrowed from Circe, that this poor poet should be transformed into an ass? What ho, my lord!
PEREDURE. Is it you, Dagonet?
DAGONET. Like a chair in a dark room; you wish I were out of the way. ( Aside ). Oh, that I were anything but what I am, the bearer of ill news! I could wish I were a dog, a mongrelly cur, with somebody kicking me. ( Aloud ). Are you brave, my lord?
PEREDURE. Brave?
DAGONET. I know you are as quick in a quarrel as a Spaniard, and will whip out your rapier on less provocation than any man at the court. But are you brave?
( Sings ) For there are worser ills to face
Than foemen in the fray;
And many a man has fought because-
He feared to run away.
Ri fol de riddle rol.
Are you brave, sir?
PEREDURE. Sure, the fool's mad. Good Dagonet, I am not in the humor for these fopperies.
DAGONET. Said I not that I was in the way? But, cry you mercy now, would you not thank even a joint-stool, if barking your shins against it saved you from a stumble into the kitchen water-butt?
PEREDURE. Past doubt, Dagonet. What have I to do with this?
DAGONET. Prithee, bark your shins against me, then, and save yourself from drowning, for the butt that lies in your path is bottomless.
PEREDURE. I am in a mood to be exasperated by trifles. If you have ought to me, say it; if not, pray leave me to myself.
DAGONET. Indeed I have something to say, but I know not rightly how to go about it. Sir, you are in love-
PEREDURE. Zounds!
DAGONET. And I would not have you made the tool of an unworthy woman.
PEREDURE. Why, you piebald rascally slave-
DAGONET. Be patient with me, sir; and if I do not prove your love a lewd trickster and traitress, beat me from here to Orkney and back again.
PEREDURE. Lewd?-traitress?-Oh, Christ in heaven! You rogue! you varlet! do you dare--?
DAGONET. Hear me, for I swear I speak no more but the truth! Sir, I have loved you since you were a child on my knee and used to play with my bauble for a toy. Do you think I would tell you so bitter a thing for wantonness?
PEREDURE. Nay, it cannot be but you are abused; some villain, some scurvy rancorous villain hath abused you-but 't was I he aimed at with his knavery. Who was it, Dagonet? Tell me and if I do not run him through with my sword as I would a snake-My god, if I do not find some tangible enemy, I shall burst my heart.
DAGONET. An I thought my eyes were such rascals as you have called them, I would pluck them out. Oh, my lord, tear this false woman out of your heart. She is not worthy that you grieve for her.
PEREDURE. What, will you persuade me the world's a madman's dream? have a care, have a care! I grow dangerous.
DAGONET. Come with me and see for yourself. I would I could not show you what I must.
PEREDURE. Lead on;--but if you have played me false, you had better have fallen in a tiger's jaws.
DAGONET. I have no more to say. If you will not hear, see.
[ Exeunt DAGONET and PEREDURE.]
[ Enter LAUNCELOT and GUENEVERE.]
GUENEVERE. I know that we must take up the old life
Again, made harder than it was before
But sweeter too. And yet it is all so new,
So glad! A little longer we will dream.
To-day we will not think of anything
But the dear joy of loving.
LAUNCELOT. The kind Fates
Have given to us this hour. We will not mar it.
To-morrow's riddles let to-morrow solve.
GUENEVERE. I am so glad I am a woman, love.
I have quarrelled with my sex; but now I see
The heart is keener to recoil from wrong
Than to divine the right, for all my life
Was thwarted but I guessed not why. But now
I would not be a man for all the world.
LAUNCELOT. Nay, I must pity you that you are a woman, for so you miss life's greatest gift-the joy of loving one.
GUENEVERE. I would love the woman's way. It is great to be a man, but it is delicious to be a woman.
[ Enter MERLIN at some distance, with an astrolabe .]
LAUNCELOT. Look yonder! How like a visioned memory
Old Merlin glides among the trees.
GUENEVERE. He comes
This way; I will accost him. Merlin, ho,
What have you there?
MERLIN. An instrument to measure
The motions of the stars.
GUENEVERE. Then have you been
In converse with them of the weirds of men;
For you are Destiny's familiar.
MERLIN. As
The child is of its mother, who unfolds
What shreds of wisdom it may comprehend.
Yon skies, that look so mild, are threatening;
Some evil passes in the dark but what
Its name or form the stars will not declare
Till it unclose its formidable jaws
And fire-like eat its prey and then itself.
GUENEVERE. How wisely they look down from their high heaven,
Meeting our baffled eyes with that clear sight
Which no enigmas barrier! It must be
In them, if anywhere, our eyes may read
The secrets of our dooms.
MERLIN. Would you yourself
Interrogate their silence?
GUENEVERE. Nay, for then
With each succeeding day I must renew
The burden of the accumulated ills
Of a whole life. Let all be unforeseen
And then we shall not suffer till our time.
LAUNCELOT. Speak not so sadly. I seem to have just found out
That human suffering is but a cheap price
We pay for heavenly bliss. Think rather, then, of joy-
GUENEVERE. The greatest joy is greater still,
When it comes sharp and sudden.--What was that?
MERLIN. Why, I heard nothing.
GUENEVERE. Nothing? And you, my lord?
LAUNCELOT. Nothing. [ The light in the window is extinguished .]
GUENEVERE. I heard a woman's shriek.--Who comes?
[ Enter GALAHAULT.]
GALAHAULT. Madam, I have sought you everywhere. Have you heard
This tale that flies from lip to lip?
GUENEVERE. What tale?
GALAHAULT. Then you must hear 't from me. Sir Ladinas
Has made a formal accusation, touching
The friendship you have shown for Launcelot,
Which he misconstrues for a lawless love,
Disloyal to the King.
LAUNCELOT. The dream is done--
So suddenly--
MERLIN ( apart ). Alas, then, it is true.
GALAHAULT ( to LAUNCELOT). Be scanter of your speech, lest Merlin note.
The Queen's good name's at stake.
GUENEVERE. Why, gentlemen,
What ails it with you that you stand aghast?
It is the penalty of eminence
That people grow familiar with our names;
So reverence becomes garrulity,
Then flippancy, then foulness,--till the highest
Is made most common, and even the Sacred Name
Debased to vile and lewd profanities.
Come, Launcelot, I shall keep you at my side
Even more than hitherto, that men may know
That what I do is not for them to question.
[ Exeunt GUENEVERE and LAUNCELOT.]
MERLIN. How royally she carries it!--Sir Galahault, you are the greatest and most powerful prince in the kingdom, and you have a shrewd knowledge of men and things. Why will you be an onlooker in life, not a participant?
GALAHAULT. I have drained my cup, and now I drink the air. There is nothing left for me but the ideas of things. What is all this in search of?
MERLIN. Sir, I grow old and I need younger men
To hold my hands up, like the Hebrew statesman.
You are a man fit for diplomacy
And I would have you for co-laborer
In the affairs of state; but chiefly now
I would have you assist me to undo
This plot against the Queen. Guilty or guiltless,
The credence of her guilt would rend asunder
Our scarce yet welded kingdom.
GALAHAULT. I will do
All that I may for Launcelot and the Queen.
She has bound me to her with her regal ways;
And he not only conquered my domain
And won me in allegiance to the King,--
His courtesy finished what his sword began,
And won my heart too.
MERLIN. So with me as well
The personal wish chimes with the general good.
For Launcelot, as you know, was in some sort
My foster-son; the Lady of the Lake
Guided his first dream-thinking and myself
Taught his quick-summered youth.--Go, then, about
Among the lords and ladies of the court
And everywhere proclaim her innocence.
Opinion propagates itself; your stout
Maintenance of her honor will convince
Many by its mere confidence and make
A party in her favor. In two hours
Meet me in the laboratory in the tower.
GALAHAULT. Wisely devised; I'll set about it straight.
[ Exit .]
MERLIN. O Runic charactery, engraved in stars
Upon the everlasting vault! wilt thou
Forever mock us with unriddled speech?
Has thought no cleverness to cheat from Time
The knowledge of thy grammar? And ye spirits
Of earth and air that with uncertain voice
Speak into too frail words divinities!
Ye oracles and inspirations vague!
We hear your utterance but we miss the sense.
I am the wisest brain of them that know,
And I'm Time's fool. The Queen, from whom I thought
The perpetuity of the State should grow,
Even she herself is the first sundering
From whence disintegration spreads to all!
Her fate has come upon her and the King's,
And I foresaw not and forewarned them not.
Nay, I myself wrought Arthur to her suit,
Forethinking the realm's welfare. Alas, alas!
I feel the bode of prophecy within me,
And now surely I know that all my craft
Shall be undone and all the King's high dream,
And the Round Table shall pass utterly
Which, like a sacrament, showed forth the round world
In that ideal unto which it moves.
How can this be? Blind Chance, that seems at times
To have malevolent intelligence--
[ Enter PEREDURE, with dress disordered and
without his sword .]
The Prince of Cameliard? In this disorder?
What is the matter, sir?
PEREDURE. Art thou not Merlin?
I think thou art; but make me sure, for I
Cannot believe my eyes are truth-tellers.
MERLIN. For certain, I am Merlin. But, my lord,
Why start you so and stare? You are not well.
PEREDURE. Why, I am glad to hear it. To be well
Is to be one in millions. I am glad
That you are well, sir--very glad, by heaven!
MERLIN. This is too serious for the matter, and
Attention is not in it. What would you say?
What ill has happened? Alas, he hears me not.
PEREDURE. I killed him in her bed.
MERLIN. Killed, say you, sir?
PEREDURE. I see you have white hairs and a white beard;
But yet I know what you, for all your wrinkles,
Have never dreamed of. There is not a woman
In all the kingdom, ay, in all the world,
But she's a--magpie. Let's be merry, then!
Let us have cantharids and wine!
MERLIN. My lord,
Withdraw with me. There's wine within.
PEREDURE. There's blood
Within--wine, do you call it?--Ay, the butt's
Split open now and all the wine's on the floor.
The thirsty planks drink it up gloriously.
In her bed, did you hear?--Just heaven! I tell you
I killed him in her bed.
MERLIN. Whom did you kill?
PEREDURE. Not her, not her! Look you, how modestly
She gathers up her kirtle as she walks;
And yet within 's twelve hours she hath been--Faugh!
MERLIN. What look you on?
PEREDURE. Not her! She was too fair;
I could not dapple that white skin with blood.--
Give me your hand; I would touch something.--Death?
She is not dead. How can her spirit walk?
--Why, so! Why, so! She is gone again. Oh, Merlin,
The moveless stars in heaven shift and reel
And there is nothing stable in the world.
MERLIN. Come in with me out o' the damp night air;
It is too chill to stand without your mantle.
PEREDURE. Off, strange old man! I have a poniard yet.
Off! I will kill the man that hinders me.--
Why, how it glistens in the treacherous moonlight!
Is it alive, that it should look on me
With such a haunted silence?--'T is like the gleam
Of death-fires in the cruel sea at night.--
What does it say with its cold eye?--Why, now--
God!--it comes back-that pallid room--Morgause--
How fearfully a dead man glares by moonlight!--
False, false!--O Christ!--O pitiful Virgin!--false!
[ He kills himself. As he falls, MERLIN bends
over him in the moonlight. ]
ACT V.
SCENE.-- Camelot. The Great Hall of the Palace.
On the left, two thrones and other raised seats,
not quite so high. DAGONET, BORS, and
ATTENDANTS.
FIRST ATTENDANT. Careful there, careful! Have you no respect for cloth of gold? Will you handle velvet like fustian?
DAGONET [ to BORS]. No, but they will wear fustian like velvet. And you heard them in the servants' hall, you would swear they were all dukes, every man of them.
FIRST ATTENDANT. That will do. There is much elsewhere to be made ready and the King is even now at the gates of the city.
[ Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]
BORS. It is the saddest tale I ever heard.
DAGONET. I'll never attempt to undeceive a happy man again, if he be in love with Merlin's grandmother, Lilith herself. What a plague had I to do interfering? The devil take all meddlers, say I!
BORS. And Merlin bade you seek me with this news?
DAGONET. Knowing you to be a staunch friend to Launcelot, for he connects this new horror with the accusation against--
BORS. Peace, break you off! Here is the Queen herself.
[ Enter GUENEVERE.]
Good morrow to your majesty.
GUENEVERE. Sir Bors,
You are my friend, I think; you are Launcelot's kinsman;
You know--the world knows--all but Arthur know,
Who comes with an unsuited holiday,
What hangs above our heads. That we are guiltless
Does not secure us from a guilty doom.
We have need now of friends. Our dandies here
Give me scant courtesy. I will not think
That you too hold me cheaply or mistrust
The faultless knighthood of Sir Launcelot.
BORS. I know that Launcelot loves you--with such love
As a true knight may offer when his lady
Is wedded to another. And I would,
In frankness, lady, you had been his bride.
You had been none the less a queen; his father
Was King of Benwick and his father's brother,
My father, Bors, the King of Gaul. We both
Are of as royal blood as Arthur is
And might be kings, but that we love the King.
For him we have resigned our ancient thrones,
Content to be his liegemen, simple knights
Of that Round Table which is the great sign
Of brotherhood and true equality,
Such is the love we bear him; but if he
Should do dishonor to Sir Launcelot
Or thee, whose knight Sir Launcelot is sworn,
Let him take heed. We may resume our crowns.
GUENEVERE. I thank you, sir. You are a noble friend.
Sir Ector de Maris will be with us,
Pelleas, Lionel, and Bleoberis--
BORS. Ay, madam, all our kin.
GUENEVERE. It will be much
To have so strong a party in the court.
Among the knights I brought from Cameliard
Some must be faithful. There is great devotion
Among them to my brother, and my brother
Loves me as his own soul. He will not fail--
BORS. Alas, my lady, then you have not heard!
GUENEVERE. Heard? What? Has aught--?
BORS. Oh, steel yourself, my Queen,
For I must be the advertisement of woe.
Peredure--
GUENEVERE. Speak! What ill has happened to him?
BORS. He is dead.
GUENEVERE. Dead? my brother--dead!
BORS. Alas,
It is so--dead, and slain by his own hand.
GUENEVERE. Grief loves to shoot twice at the selfsame mark,--
Ah, like a skilful archer whose first shaft
Hath pierced the centre, sends a second after,
That with unerring niceness splits the first.
Where did he this?
BORS. There were two witnesses,
Merlin and Dagonet. Let him tell the rest.
DAGONET. It happened on this wise, my lady. Your brother was enamoured of the Queen of Orkney,--but in honorable fashion, for he fancied her to be as spotless as a Glastonbury nun. And with this he was fallen into such a melancholy that I feared he would lose his wits. I loved your brother and in my folly I sought to deliver him. I knew what a false jade was the theme of his idolatry and, indeed, that she was this six months coddling with that fine-feathered incontinent French magpie, Sir Ladinas de la Rouse. So I lay in watch for the couple, thinking that the truth, though a vile-tasting medicine, would cure him; and yesternight, finding the two together, I brought Peredure word.
GUENEVERE. You did well, Dagonet; for 'tis far better
To know and suffer than to be deceived
And dote on loathsomeness. I knew myself
Of this infatuation of my brother,
Yet in the thick and tumult of my sorrows
I took no heed of his. You have done well;
No knight of the Round Table sheathes within
His corselet a more true-steeled heart than you
Cloak with your motley.
DAGONET. I thank you for that speech.
I did not this, forgetful of my Queen.
When first I came on Ladinas and Morgause,
Their talk was all of you,--how he had used
A key that she had begged from Peredure,
To gain an entrance to the prince's rooms,
From whence he said, he had seen--
GUENEVERE. I shall not fail
To recognize this service at its worth.--
Go on! When you told this to Peredure?
DAGONET. Then he was like a man that puts his feet
On ice whose wintry firmness has grown rotten
With the April in the air, and when he thinks
All steadfast, feels it sink from under him.
Away he starts, wild as the tameless horse
Of Tartary, and comes to where they lie.
When I, less swift of foot, came up with him,
I found him standing dumb, with bloody sword,
Over the twitching corpse of that false knight,
His senseless eyes fixed on Morgause, who cowered
Behind the curtains, silent for dismay.
Me she saw not, for ere I crossed the sill,
He threw the hot sword at her feet and fled,
Crying, "She is too fair, she is too fair!"
GUENEVERE. Oh, better were it if his righteous heel
Had stamped that viper out o' the world. Go on!
DAGONET. There is no more to tell. I followed him,
But ere I reached the gardens, he was dead.
I found him lying pallid in the moonlight
And ancient Merlin bending over him.
GUENEVERE. He was too delicate to face the blasts
Of this world's winter. He was all compassion,
All gentleness, all love, all tender heart,
So sensitive of thought that he could scarce
Endure the passing of an aimless sigh,
So frail of spirit that the silent days
Were in themselves too burdensome a load.
So,--let him rest. The jarring of the world
Frets his fine ear no longer.--Gentlemen,
Pray, leave me. I would think of him alone.
BORS. Our hearts are with you.
[ Exeunt BORS and DAGONET.]
GUENEVERE. Oh, that I could weep
The copious blubber of a village maid,
Uncurbed by royal pride, or consciousness
That o'ermistrusts and will not slack the bit!
Oh, could I weep--and empty woe with weeping!
There is a swelling passion in my heart
Will split all yet. I cannot like a girl
Draw 't off in driblets. Oh, my blameless brother,
Undone for a guilty world! And that which led
To the discovery that was thy doom,
A plot born of a woman's hate for me
And of my reckless fate-contending love!
Oh, what a tangled anarchy is life!
If the rash Will strive in the helter-skelter
To weave for itself a little ordered space,
Its skilless touch pulls unexpected threads
That tighten to 'ts own strangling. Peredure
Is but the first. The implacable net is drawn
About the feet of all that love us. Bors--
Poor faithful, merry Dagonet--all who hold
To Launcelot's cause--must all these spend their hearts
That we may love? Do I love Launcelot?
Oh, if I loved him, could I draw him on
So to his own undoing? Shall his name
That even in the young April of his deeds
Greatens in splendor like the northering sun,
Be made a refuse for the ragman world
To fret and fumble with a prodding stick?
O God! Shall I uncage the captive wolves
Of war, to harry the whole land and rend
The offenceless kern, to give my sorrow ease?
It must not be. What right have I to love,
What right have I to joy, that should so play
The Tambourlaine and scourge so many woes
To drag its chariot like his captive kings?
It must not be. Oh, let me take an oath
Before high heaven! Launcelot, I must save thee!
Oh, heavy fate, to love and be a queen!
Ay, Peredure, I know it now--too late!
Had I but hearkened to your pleading foresight!
Oh, Peredure, my brother!
[ Enter LAUNCELOT.]
Launcelot!
LAUNCELOT. Dear heart!
GUENEVERE. Whence come you?
LAUNCELOT. Speakest thou so coldly?
I passed Sir Bors without and Dagonet;
They sent me hither, saying I should find
The Queen here. So, indeed, I do and not
The woman, not the eyes that met my eyes
With proud confession, not the lips that spoke
Quivering but dauntless, saying, "I love thee, Launcelot."
O Guenevere, hast thou forgot so soon
That thou canst speak with this mechanic voice
And look on me so vacantly?
GUENEVERE. Forgot?
I never shall forget.
LAUNCELOT. Then thou repentest.
Ay, now I see the longing in thy face
That thou hadst ne'er beheld me. Be it so.
I was a selfish monster when I thrust
My love into the forecourt of thy life. ...
And yet--you loved me once. And oh, those hours
When I could feel the warm breath from your lips
Creep o'er my cheek and mingle with my hair!
The sweet long hours whose lingering moments dripped
Like rhythmic water-drops into a pool
With silver parsimony of sweet sound
As if Time grudged each globule! Why, now I see
Tears in your eyes.
GUENEVERE. O Launcelot, my king!
LAUNCELOT. My own true wife!
GUENEVERE. Do not call back that time
With any farewell cadence in your voice!
And oh, do not reproach yourself, my god,
For opening to me those golden doors!
We lived then.
LAUNCELOT. There is honey on your lips
As on the Theban child's. I am the bees
That gather it--so.
GUENEVERE. Launcelot!--No, no!
I had forgot. Am I, then, like the rest?
Is there so much o' the woman in my veins
That resolution, buttressed in with vows,
Cannot endure the first assault of love?
We have had a radiant dream; we have beheld
The trellises and temples of the south
And wandered in the vineyards of the sun:--
'T is morning now; the vision fades away,
And we must face the barren norland hills.
LAUNCELOT. And must this be?
GUENEVERE. Nay, Launcelot, it is.
How shall we stand alone against the world?
LAUNCELOT. More lonely in it than against it!
What's the world to us?
GUENEVERE. The place in which we live.
We cannot slip it from us like a garment,
For it is like the air--if we should flee
To the remotest steppes of Tartary,
Arabia or the sources of the Nile,
Or that dim region lying in the west,
Where Brandan's holy ships found anchorage,
It still is there, nor can it be eluded
Save in the airless emptiness of death.
LAUNCELOT. Say rather, like the miasmatic breath
Of swamps that swarm to rankness. In the clear
And unpolluted air of mountain-tops
Freedom and solitude companion. Oh,
Let the dense earth bring forth its venomous growths!
It cannot harm us on the heights.
GUENEVERE. We must not
Attempt the ascent. The perils are too great
That ward the way.
LAUNCELOT. What reck I of the perils
Between me and the graal of my desires?
GUENEVERE. To plunge the land in war! To rend the kingdom!
LAUNCELOT. You are worth all the kingdoms in the world.
GUENEVERE. To drag our friends down with us in our fall!
LAUNCELOT. We shall not fall. And what is friendship worth
That will not face adversity for us?
GUENEVERE. We rend the holiest bond, the family.
LAUNCELOT. We but destroy the false, build up the true.
GUENEVERE. --Think of your childhood's home, your father's hearth,
Helen, your mother, at her household cares,
The sacred bond from which your life began,
Within whose circle boyhood grew to youth--
Knit by the gentle hand of ageless custom
And consecrate with immemorial rites.
LAUNCELOT. I think of this; I, too, would have a home.
GUENEVERE. You have the world; the family alone
Is woman's, it alone is her protection,
Her mission and her opportunity.
In it alone she lives, and she defends it,
Even when its knife is in her heart.
LAUNCELOT. And I--
I, too, defend it, when it is a family,
As I would kneel before the sacred Host
When through the still aisles sounds the sacring-bell.
But if a jester strutted through the forms
And turned the holy Mass into a mock,
Would I still kneel, or would I rise in anger
And make an end of that foul mimicry?
GUENEVERE. Believest thou, then, the power of the Church?
The Church would give our love an ugly name.
LAUNCELOT. Faith, I believe and I do not believe.
The shocks of life oft startle us to thought,
Rouse us from acquiescence and reveal
That what we took for credence was but custom.
Though the priests be the channels of God's grace,
Yet otherwise they are but men; they err
As others, may mistake for falsehood truth,
And holiness for sin.--God help me, sweet,
I cannot reason it--I only know
I love you.
GUENEVERE. You are Arthur's friend. Your love--
Stands this within the honor of your friendship?
LAUNCELOT. Mother of God!--Have you no pity?
GUENEVERE. I would I could be pitiful and yet do right.
Alas, how heavy--your tears move me more
Than all--(What am I saying? Dare I trust
So faint a heart? I must make turning back
Impossible.)--Best know the worst! I jested--
I--God!--I do not love you. Go! 'T was all
Mockery--wanton cruelty--what you will--lechery!--I--
[LAUNCELOT looks at her dumbly, then slowly
turns to go. As he draws aside the cur-
tains of the doorway, --]
Launcelot!
LAUNCELOT. What does the Queen desire?
GUENEVERE. Oh, no, I am not the Queen--I am your wife!
Take me away with you! Let me not lie
To you, of all--My whole life is a lie.
To one, at least, let it be truth. I--I--
O Launcelot, do you not understand?--
I love you--oh, I cannot let you go.
LAUNCELOT. I pray you do not jest a second time;
I scarce could bear it.--Yet your eyes speak true.
Tell me you speak the truth.
GUENEVERE. I speak the truth!
Call me your wife!
LAUNCELOT. My wife, my wife, my wife!
GUENEVERE. Love, I will fly with thee where'er thou wilt.
LAUNCELOT. Speak not of flight; I have played him false--the King,
My friend. I ne'er can wipe that smirch away
At least, I will not add a second shame
And blazon out the insult to the world.
GUENEVERE. What I have given thee was ne'er another's.
How has another, then, been wronged?
LAUNCELOT. What's done
Is done, nor right nor wrong, as help me heaven,
Would I undo it if I could. But more
I will not do. I will not be the Brutus
To stab with mine own hand my dearest friend.
It must suffice me that you love me, sweet,
And sometime, somewhere, somehow must be mine.
I know not--it may be some dim land
Beyond the shadows, where the King himself,
Still calling me his friend, shall place your hand
In my hand, saying--"She was always thine."
GUENEVERE. I will do as thou wilt, in this and all things.
But oh, the weary days!
LAUNCELOT. It is enough
To know thou lovest me--sometimes, perhaps--
Oh, I am but a man!--to feel as now
Thy cheek against my own.
GUENEVERE. Oh, Launcelot,
Peredure is dead.
LAUNCELOT. Thy brother?
GUENEVERE. He is dead.
LAUNCELOT. I do not wonder that you were distraught.
[ Shouting, etc., without .]
GUENEVERE. It is the silly rabble that toss up
Their caps for Arthur. He will soon be here,--
Though a king's progress is a tedious one.
[MORGAUSE, about to enter, perceives LAUNCE-
LOT and GUENEVERE and withdraws. A
slight stir of the curtain shows that she is
listening. ]
I must go to get me ready for the pageant.
LAUNCELOT. Be not afraid. The charge that's laid against us,
Cannot be certified by evidence.
GUENEVERE. And if it were--why, then it were, and so
The burden of decision were removed.
Kiss me! Farewell, a little while, my love!
It is a woeful world, at best. Thank God
For love, even with its anguish!
[ Exit, through a small door back of the thrones. ]
LAUNCELOT. Why, then it were!
Ay, even disgrace would be an ease of breath
After this tension of duplicity.
God help me, I am like a man aghast
Between a dragon and a basilisk,
Which one he fronts dilating as he stares
More horrid than the other. O mystery
Of Fate, that folds us with encircling gloom!
What issue sleeps for us in thy dark womb?
[ As he starts to go out, enter MORGAUSE care-
lessly. They bow to each other. Exit
LAUNCELOT.]
MORGAUSE. So? Kissing at the very foot of the throne?
What impudence!...Why, now I have the witness
Of mine own eyes to carry to the King.
What, billing like two sparrows on the highway,
Shameless of who may see? Oho, my birds!
You are in the springe. And Mistress Eyebrows, you
Shall lower a little those proud orbs of yours.
Arthur can hardly doubt his sister's word,
Especially when she is Queen of Orkney
And Rome is knocking at his gates for tribute.
But yet there's Peredure to reckon with.
Oh, had I but picked up his bloody sword
And plunged it in his heart before he fled!
But, like an infant, I must lose my wits,
To see him raging so, like a mad bull
That breaks its tether in the fields, and gores
The dull earth in its fury. Poor La Rouse!
He's out of it. He has taken a bath this time
Has frozen all the longing in his veins.
Why, I was fondling him and found it sweet--
And then, so cold, a coldness like damp earth
Or some slow-blooded fishy creature,--pah!
I was a-creep with loathing at the feel
Of that limp dummy, as I dragged it out
And dumped it in the fountain. So much, at least,
Is done to kill the scent. But Peredure?--
Will he be silent when he finds his sister
Is muddied by my hands? No, he will blurt
All out; and gossip virtue, like a hawk,
Leaving the fluttered Queen, will change its flight
And fall on the new quarry. The accusation
Cannot be held back now, even if I would.
'Tis known to the whole palace. I have sailed
Into a storm that bears me where it will,
And all my hope is to escape the reefs. ...
Devise, devise. If Peredure accuse me,
As he will surely do, I will be merry,
Jest of his love--I have it, I will say
He would himself have won me to his will
And, failing, slew La Rouse of jealousy,--
But not in my apartments. I must swear
La Rouse was not with me.--That will not do.
Curse him, they will not doubt his word. Fie, fie!
Cannot I weave a better lie than this?--
'Tis odd I have not seen the boy to-day.
What if he have gone mad--that would not be
So strange--or in a melancholy fit,
Such as he often sullens with for trifles,
Have wandered from the court? Why, there's some hope.
If he but make no entrance in the scene
That's on this morning--then let him come back!
But, Peredure, it will be to thy--Ah,
[ Enter PUBLIUS.]
The ambassador!--Good morrow, Publius!
PUBLIUS. My duty to your Majesty. All morrows
Are good when age receives the smile of beauty.
MORGAUSE. Or wisdom deigns to bow to witless youth.
PUBLIUS. Your Majesty's most rancorous enemy
Would not accuse her of a lack of wit.
MORGAUSE. But wit and folly ever course together.
--Go to, we draw it out too thin. What think you
The King will say to Rome's demand to-day?
PUBLIUS. He will refuse it. He is overbold.
A soldier is but a huge animal
Whose brawn the statesman turns to his own ends.
MORGAUSE. To underrate the foe does not augment
Our strength before, nor glory after battle.
Arthur is not a horse for you to stride,
And Merlin, though the King not always heeds him,
Is shrewder than us all.
PUBLIUS. He will refuse,
Though fifty Merlins counsel. 'T is his pride
That thinks itself a second Julius Cæsar.
Then, with these unforeseen domestic feuds,
He must do battle with enfeebled forces.
And Britain is once more a Roman province.
Where is La Rouse to-day?
MORGAUSE. I have not seen him.
PUBLIUS. Strange! He was to communicate with me
At daybreak.
MORGAUSE. The Empire's system of espionage
Is very perfect, is it not?
PUBLIUS. Your Majesty,
It is my charge; I cannot praise myself.
MORGAUSE. I fancy, were some enemy of Rome,
Some dangerous enemy, in a foreign court,
Some man who knew too much, we'll say--you could
Remove him, I presume, with little trouble.
PUBLIUS. Were such a man in Camelot, he were dead
Before the day were.--She has some one in mind.
No matter; Rome can spend a dram of hemlock
For such allies.
MORGAUSE. So soon as that, indeed!
I see 't is well to keep in Roman favor.--
Then look to it that the Prince of Cameliard
Never appears again before the King.
'T is well for Rome, I tell you. We have used him
And now he is incensed. He has not been
About the court to-day.
PUBLIUS. If he appear
Too quickly, he shall perish by the knife;
Else, lest we wake suspicion, he must die
A natural death.
MORGAUSE. St! Finger on the lips!
[ Enter MERLIN.]
PUBLIUS. Is the King near?
MERLIN. He even now dismounts.
PUBLIUS. I must withdraw and seek my fellow-legates.
Madam, I humbly take my leave,--[ apart rapidly ] I give
The order at once--[ to MERLIN] and of you, sir, most humbly.
[ Exit. ]
MERLIN. I am well pleased to find the Queen of Orkney
Does not forget her brother's interests,
But even spreads her fascinating snares
About the feet of senile enemies.
MORGAUSE. Would all of Arthur's blood were but as true!
Merlin, I fear my sister, Fay Morgana,
Will set her husband and the King at odds,
If Rome should war upon us.
MERLIN. Fay Morgana
Would say, "My sister is not overwise;
She is so shrewd she ceases to be shrewd."
MORGAUSE. I know my learned sister is your pupil;
I never thought to match with her in craft.
MERLIN. Craft is no craft, when craftier is at play;
Craft and no craft--and that is all I say.
A woman's wit is subtle but unsure.
MORGAUSE. Why do you juggle with a senseless rhyme?
MERLIN. So that your wits may have a tree to climb.
[ Flourish without .]
MORGAUSE. At last, the King!
[ Enter ARTHUR, GUENEVERE, LAUNCELOT, GOD-
MAR, GALAHAULT, KAYE, BORS, LIONEL, EC-
TOR, GAWAINE, LIONORS, DAGONET, KNIGHTS,
LADIES, HERALDS and ATTENDANTS. Flour-
ish. The KING and QUEEN ascend their thrones.
MERLIN takes the raised seat next the King.
KAYE stands at the foot of the throne, attended
by two HERALDS.]
ARTHUR. Fair dames and damsels, greeting!
My lords and gentlemen, most noble knights
Of the Round Table, greeting to you all!
With wassail and rejoicing we return;
For victory, like the reflected sun,
Sits flashing on our helmets. Cornwall now
Acknowledges our suzerainty and holds
His crown in feoff. This rings the curtain down
Upon the first act of our purposes.
Our Trojan race, enfeebled by dependence
So long upon the strong protecting swords
Of Rome, our cousin and erstwhile our conqueror,
And, that stout panoply and bond withdrawn,
Cleft into princedoms and conflicting states,
Lay, when I found it, helpless in its chaos
To make a head against the Saxon raids
Or to cast off the yoke of Roman tribute.
Nor needed there a foreign foe; for when
Each realm within the realm would be supreme,
What hinders that each lordship do the like,
Each barony, each village, each strong arm?
Why, such a land is like a rotting corpse;
For when that harmony and principle
Of union, which is life, is ta'en away,
And each corporeal atom works alone,
The issue is corruption. The great world
Should have one Lord, as Britain has at last;
There lies the true goal of all polity.
But we, at least, are one; nor only Britain
But many parts of France accept our sway.
'T is fit, at such a joyous consummation,
Wrought with such toil of statecraft and of arms,
To deck our city like a Queen of May
With many-colored flags and summer garlands,
And make the midnight sky to mock the dawn
With the red gleam of bonfires on the hills.
[ Sits. Murmurs of applause .]
What matters in our absence have arisen
That need the scrutiny of the King? Proceed.
[ The heralds sound .]
KAYE. First, dread my lord, the ambassadors from Rome.
ARTHUR. Let them appear.
[ Flourish. Enter PUBLIUS and nine other AMBAS-
SADORS, old men, bearing each a branch of
olive. They kneel before the throne. ]
PUBLIUS. First for ourselves we do
This reverence to your Majesty, entreating
Lest we lose favor in your eyes, in that
We do a graceless office. We are but cogs
In the machinery of imperial Rome
And work our master's will.
ARTHUR. Rise, gentlemen,
And let the throne of Britain know your message.
PUBLIUS. [ reads ]. "Lucius, the high and mighty Emperor,
Sendeth to Arthur, King of Britain, greeting,
Commanding thee that thou acknowledge him
Thy lord, and that thou send the truage due
Unto the Empire, which thy father paid
And other heretofore thy predecessors,
As is of record. Thou, as a false rebel,
Not knowing him to be thy sovereign,
Withholdest and retainest this just impost,
Contrary to the statutes and decrees,
Made by the noble and worthy Julius Cæsar,
Conqueror of this realm and of the world,
First Emperor of Rome. If thou refuse,
Know thou for certain he shall make strong war
On thee, thy realms and lands, and shall chastise
Thee and thy subjects, making an ensample
Perpetual unto all kings and princes
Not to rebel against that noble empire
Which domineth the universal world."
A YOUNG KNIGHT. Gentlemen, shall this gray-beard insolence
Scoff in our teeth?
[ Several of the younger knights draw their
swords. ]
ARTHUR. Put up your swords. He dies,
Who touches these old men except with reverence.
Fie, would ye strike the herald in his office
Or run upon unweaponed age?--Go, tell
Your lord, there was a king of Britain once
Who sacked great Rome itself, despite the geese
Cackled to save it. As for this demand,
I know no tribute that I owe to him,
Nor to no earthly prince, Christian nor heathen.
Say furthermore that I myself pretend
In virtue of my lineal descent
From that great Constantine who saw the Cross
Blazoned upon the sky for his device,
And conquered in that sign, who was himself
A Briton, son of Helena, our Queen,
And sprung from immemorial royalty--
From him, I say, I trace my high descent,
From him I hold the sovereignty of Britain
And from him, too, the Iron Crown of Rome.
And I proclaim that Lucius wears that crown
As an usurper and a rebel, and
Demand that he and all that are of Rome
Hasten incontinent to do me homage
As their true Emperor, on pain of all
That shall ensue. For, rest you well assured,
If I invade Italia with my chivalry,
The legioned arms of Rome shall stead you little.
This is my answer. But do not for this
Yourselves be too impetuous of return.
Abide some days in Camelot, my lords;
We shall afford you merry entertainment.
PUBLIUS. Your declaration puts the world at war;
We may not dally in a hostile court.
[ Exit, with AMBASSADORS.]
KAYE [ apart ]. My lord, I would have warned you of the next;
But I could get no audience in the press.
[ Aloud, reading .] "Sir Ladinas de la Rouse, a lord of France,
And Knight of the Round Table, doth impeach
Guenevere, Queen of Britain, Sovran Lady
Of the most Knightly and Christian Fellowship
Of the Round Table, et cetera , of treason
To the most gracious person of the King
And to the safety of the realm, in living
In shameless license with Sir Launcelot.
Also he doth impeach for the same cause
Sir Launcelot du Lac, the son of Ban,
Lord of the land of Benwick and the castle
Of Joyous Gard. This charge he undertakes
To prove by evidence irrefragable,
Or else to meet Sir Launcelot in the lists
And whatsoever Knight beside appear
To champion the quarrel of the Queen.
In pledge whereof he offers to the King
The disposition of his life and lands."
[ Profound silence .]
LAUNCELOT. This is a grievous charge to make. But why
Comes not the knight according to his bond,
That I may prove his lie upon his head?
MORGAUSE. Because he has been treacherously murdered--
Therefore he comes not, thou dishonored knight!
KAYE. Murdered?
MORGAUSE. Ay, murdered--by Prince Peredure,
The brother of the Queen! A strange concurrence!
MERLIN. How comes it, lady, that you know so much?
Did Dagonet tell you or Sir Bors? They only,
Except myself, have known of this. Be careful;
With too much knowledge you undo yourself.
ARTHUR. Enough! 'T is well, perhaps, that he is dead;
Else this preposterous charge might not be passed
Unquestioned and unpunished.--Is aught else--?
MORGAUSE. Oh, not so fast, my royal brother! La Rouse
Cannot break through his coffin to sustain
His righteous accusation; but I take
That burden on myself. I shall demand
Bors de Ganys, the Lady Lionors
--You should believe her, she was never false
To you--Prince Galahault, who knows full well
What he is loth to answer, Lynette, Laurel,
Dagonet, some others after, to bear witness.
It is the common rumor of the palace.
You cannot honorably, with that respect
You owe the knights and ladies of your court,
Allow yourself so shamelessly to be
Misused and made a jest of. I myself
Have seen Sir Launcelot and the Queen together
When they conceited they were unperceived.
It was but now I--
ARTHUR. Silence! One word more
And, royal and our sister though you be,
Your womanhood shall be your shield no longer.
Too much already have we suffered you
To play the spy and weave your deft intrigues
About our footing. Now our slackness ends.
We banish you the court. Go, get you ready!
Sir Kaye will see that, ere the sun is set,
You are far hence in some sequestered castle,
Where you shall have all honor, ceremony,
And revenues appropriate to your state,--
But nevermore be seen at Camelot!
MORGAUSE. Why, be a fool, then, and a wittol, do!
And while you play the rogue in others' couches,
--As you are celebrated for that sport,--
Your dearest friend shall get the realm its heir.
God punishes your wantonness right fitly,
You prince of lechers and of perjurers!
You, flower of chivalry! Ay, for chivalry
Means truth to men, if they are stout enough,
And flattering falsehood to a woman's ear.
Murder and lust are the two spurs of knighthood,
Which stains a Lionors and stabs La Rouse!
--Proud harlot, I shall see your downfall yet.
[ Exit, followed by KAYE.]
ARTHUR. My Launcelot, sit thou by my Queen. My lords,
This is my friend--through good or ill report
My friend. Who injures him by word or deed,
Were it but the thin film of an idle breath
Clouding the clear glass of his stainless soul,
He injures me; and but that I am King
And may not, being the State more than myself,
Joust like a simple knight, and but that he,
Our stoutest arm as our most knightly heart,
Needs not my lance to right him, I would slay
With mine own hands the knave that did him wrong.
[ Turns to GUENEVERE, who rises. ]
And thou, my noble Queen!--If that I ever
By so much as the sullying of a thought
Dimmed the bright clarity of thine imaged whiteness
Within my soul, may Christ remember it
Against me at the Judgment!
[ Advances and kisses her, then turns to the others. ]
Good my lords,
Erase this most unnecessary scene
From your remembrance.
LAUNCELOT. [ half aside, partly to GUENEVERE and partly to himself ]. Be less kingly, Arthur,
Or you will split my heart!--not with remorse--
No, not remorse, only eternal pain!--
Why, so the damned are!
GUENEVERE. [ half apart ]. To the souls in hell
It is at least permitted to cry out.
CURTAIN.
THE MISFORTUNES OF ARTHUR
by
THOMAS HUGHES
The Names of the Speakers
GORLOIS, Duke of Cornwall's Ghost.
GUENEVERA, the Queen.
FRONIA, a Lady of her train.
ANGHARAD, Sister to the Queen.
MORDRED, the Usurper.
CONAN, a faithful Councillor
Nuntius of Arthur's landing.
The Herald from Arthur.
GAWIN, King of Albany.
GILLA, a British Earl.
GILLAMOR, King of Ireland.
CHELDRICH, Duke of Saxony.
The Lord of the Picts
ARTHUR, King of Great Britain.
CADOR, Duke of Cornwall.
HOEL, King of Little Britain.
The Herald from Mordred.
ASCHILLUS, King of Denmark.
The King of Norway.
A number of Soldiers.
Nuntius of the last battle.
GILDAS, a nobleman of Britian.
CHORUS.
Of conquest (gracious queen) the signs and fruits,
Achieved 'gainst such as wrongfully withheld
The service by choice wits to Muses due,
In humblest wise these captives we present.
And lest your highness might suspect the gift,
As spoil of war that justice might impeach,
Hear and discern how just our quarrel was,
Avouched (as you see) by good success.
A dame there is, whom men Astroea term,
She that pronounceth oracles of laws,
Who to prepare fit servants for her train,
As by commission, takes up flow'ring wits,
Whom first she schooleth to forget and scorn
The noble skills of language and of arts,
The wisdom which discourse of stories teach:
The ornaments which various knowledge yields.
But poesy she hath in most disdain,
And marshals it next Folly's scorned place.
Then, when she hath these worthy prints defac'd
Out of the minds that can endure her hand.
What doth she then supply instead of these?
Forsooth, some old reports of altered laws,
Clamours of courts, and cavils upon words,
Grounds without ground, supported by conceit,
And reasons of more subtlety than sense.
What shall I say of moot points strange, and doubts
Still argued, but never yet agreed?
And she that doth deride the poet's law,
Because he must his words in order place,
Forgets her forms of pleading, more precise--
More bound to words than is the poet's lore:
And for these fine conceits she fitly chose
A tongue that barbarism itself doth use.
We, noting all these wrongs, did long expect
Their hard condition would have made them wise,
To offer us their service, plac'd so ill;
But finding them addicted to their choice,
And specially desirous to present
Your Majesty with fruits of province new,
Now did resolve to double force and skill,
And found and us'd the vantage of the time,
Surpris'd their fort, and took them captives all.
So now submiss, as to their state belongs,
They gladly yield their homage long withdrawn,
And Poetry, which they did most contemn,
They glory now her favours for to wear.
My sisters laugh'd to see them take the pen,
And lose their wits all in unwonted walks:
But to your highness that delight we leave,
To see these poets new their style advance.
Such as they are, or nought or little worth,
Deign to accept, and therewith we beseech,
That novelty give price to worthless things.
Unto this speech one of the Gentlemen answered
as followeth:
Good ladies, unacquaint with cunning reach,
And eas'ly led to glory in your pow'r,
Hear now abash'd our late dissembled minds.
Nor now the first time, as yourselves best know,
Ye Muses sought our service to command:
Oft have ye wandered from Parnassus Hill,
And showed yourselves with sweet and tempting grace,
But yet return'd, your train increas'd with few.
This resolution doth continue still:
Unto Astrea's name we honour bear,
Whose sound perfections we do more admire
Than all the vaunted store of Muses' gifts,
Let this be one (which last you put in ure
In well depraving that deserveth praise)
No eloquence, disguising reason's shape,
Nor poetry, each vain affection's nurse,
No various history, that doth lead the mind
Abroad to ancient tales from instant use,
Nor these, nor other mo, too long to note,
Can win Astrea's servants to remove
Their service once devote to better things.
They, with attentive minds and serious wits,
Revolve records of deep judicial acts;
They weigh with steady and indifferent hand
Each word of law, each circumstance of right;
They hold the grounds which time and use hath sooth'd,
Though shallow sense conceive them as conceits--
Presumptuous sense, whose ignorance dare judge
Of things remov'd by reason from her reach.
One doubt, in moots by argument increas'd,
Clears many doubts experience doth object.
The language she first chose, and still retains,
Exhibits naked truth in aptest terms.
Our industry maintaineth unimpeach'd:
Prerogative of prince, respect to peers,
The Commons' liberty and each man's right;
Suppresseth mutin force and practice fraud,
Things that for worth our studious care deserve:
Yet never did we banish nor reject
Those ornaments of knowledge nor of tongues:
That slander envious ignorance did raise.
With Muses still we intercourse allow,
T'enrich our state with all their foreign freight;
But never homage nor acknowledgment,
Such as of subjects allegiance doth require.
Now hear the cause of your late conquest won.
We had discovered your intent to be
(And, sure, ye ladies are not secret all;
Speech and not silence is the Muse's grace)
We well perceiv'd (I say) your mind to be
T'employ such prisoners, as themselves did yield,
To serve a Queen, for whom her purest gold
Nature refin'd, that she might therein set
Both private and imperial virtues all.
Thus (Sovereign Lady of our laws and us)
Zeal may transform us into any shape.
We, which with trembling hand the pen did guide,
Never well pleas'd, all for desire to please;
For still your rare perfections did occur,
Which are admir'd of Muses and of men.
O, with how steady hand and heart assur'd,
Should we take up the warlike lance or sword,
With mind resolv'd to spend our loyal blood
Your least command with speed to execute!
O, that before our time the fleeting ship
Ne'er wandered had in watery wilderness,
That we might first that venture undertake
In strange attempt t'approve our loyal hearts!
Be it soldiers, seamen, poets, or what else,
In service once enjoin'd, to ready minds
Our want of use should our devoir increase.
Now since instead of art we bring but zeal,
Instead of praise we humbly pardon crave.
The matter which we purpose to present,
Since straights of time our liberty controls,
In tragic notes the plagues of vice recounts.
How suits a tragedy for such a time?
Thus--for that since your sacred Majesty
In gracious hands the regal sceptre held,
All tragedies are fled from State to stage.
NICHOLAS TROTTE.
The misfortunes of Arthur (Uther Pendragon's son) reduced into tragical notes by Thomas Hughes, one of the society of Gray's Inn, and here set down as it passed from under his hands, and as it was presented, excepting certain words and lines, where some of the actors either helped their memories by brief omission, or fitted their acting by some alteration; with a note in the end of such speeches as were penned by others, in lieu of some of these hereafter following.
2. In the second scene Guenevera, hearing that Arthur was on the seas returning desperately, menaceth his death, from which intent she is dissuaded by Fronia, a lady of her court, and privy to her secrets.
3. In the third scene Guenevera perplexedly mindeth her own death, whence being dissuaded by her sister, she resolveth to enter into religion.
4. In the fourth scene Mordred goeth about to persuade Guenevera to persist in her love, but misseth thereof; and then is exhorted by Conan (a nobleman of Britain) to reconcile himself to his father at his coming, but refuseth so to do, and resolveth to keep him from landing by battle.
THE MISFORTUNES OF ARTHUR
THE FIRST ACT AND FIRST SCENE
GORLOIS
Since thus through channels black of Limbo lake
And deep infernal flood of Stygian pool,
The ghastly Charon's boat transported back
Thy ghost from Pluto's pits and glooming shade
To former light, once lost by dest'ny's doom,
Where proud Pendragon, broil'd with shameful lust,
Despoil'd thee erst of wife, of land and life,
Now, Gorlois, work thy wish, cast here thy gall:
Glut on revenge! thy wrath abhors delays.
What though (besides Pendragon's poisoned end)
The vile reproach he wrought thee by thy pheer,
Through deep increase of crimes alike is plagu'd;
And that the shame thou suffered'st for his lusts,
Reboundeth back and stifleth in his stock,
Yet is not mischief's measure all fulfill'd,
Nor wreak sufficient wrought. Thy murdered corpse
And dukedom reft for heavier vengeance cries.
Come, therefore, blooms of settled mischief's root:
Come, each thing else what fury can invent,
Wreak all at once! infect the air with plagues,
Till bad to worse, till worse to worse be turn'd!
Let mischiefs know no mean, nor plagues an end!
Let th'offspring's sin exceed the former stock!
Let none have time to hate his former fault,
But still with fresh supply let punish'd crime
Increase, till time it make a complete sin!
Go to: some fact, which no age shall allow
Nor yet conceal--some fact must needs be dur'd,
That for the horror great and outrage fell
Thereof may well beseem Pendragon's brood.
And first, while Arthur's navies homeward float,
Triumphantly bedeck'd with Roman spoils,
Let Guenevera express what frantic moods
Distract a wife, when wronging wedlock's rights,
Both fond and fell, she loves and loathes at once.
Let deep despair pursue till, loathing life,
Her hateful head in cowl and cloister lurk.
Let traitorous Mordred keep his sire from shore;
Let Britain rest a prey for foreign powers;
Let sword and fire, still fed with mutual strife,
Turn all the kings to ghosts: let civil wars
And discord swell, till all the realm be torn!
Even in that soil whereof myself was Duke,
Where first my spouse Igerna brake her vow,
Where this ungracious offspring was begot:
In Cornwall--there let Mordred's death declare,
Let Arthur's fatal wound bewray, the wrong,
The murder vile, the rape of wife and weal,
Wherewith their sire incens'd both Gods and man.
Thus, thus Pendragon's seed, so sown and reap'd,
Thus cursed imps, ill-born and worse consum'd,
Shall render just revenge for parents' crimes,
And penance do, t' assuage my swelling wrath.
The whiles, O Cassiopoea, gem-bright sign,
Most sacred sight and sweet celestial star,
This climate's joy, plac'd in imperial throne,
With fragrant olive-branch portending peace;
And whosoe'er besides, ye heavenly powers,
(Her stately train with influence divine,
And mild aspect all prone to Britain's good)
Forsee what present plagues do threat this isle,
Prevent not this my wreak. For you there rests
A happier age, a thousand years to come;
An age for peace, religion, wealth, and ease,
When all the world shall wonder at your bliss:
That, that is yours! Leave this to Gorlois' ghost.
And see where comes one engine of my hate,
With mood and manners fit for my revenge. [ Exit.
THE SECOND SCENE
GUENEVERA, FRONIA.
GUENEVERA. And dares he after nine years' space return,
And see her face, whom he so long disdain'd?
Was I then chose and wedded for his stale,
To look and gape for his retireless sails,
Puff'd back and flittering spread to every wind?
O wrong, content with no revenge, seek out
Undared plagues: teach Mordred how to rage:
Attempt some bloody, dreadful, irksome fact,
And such as Mordred would were rather his.
Why stayest? It must be done! let bridle go:
Frame out some trap beyond all vulgar guile,
Beyond Medea's wiles: attempt some fact,
That any wight unwieldy of herself,
That any spouse unfaithful to her pheer,
Durst e'er attempt in most despair of weal.
Spare no revenge, b' it poison, knife, or fire!
FRONIA. Good madam, temper these outrageous moods,
And let not will usurp, where wit should rule.
GUENEVERA. The wrath that breatheth blood doth loath to lurk:
What reason most witholds, rage wrings perforce.
I am disdain'd: so will I not be long.
That very hour that he shall first arrive,
Shall be the last that shall afford him life.
Though neither seas, nor lands, nor wars abroad
Sufficed for thy foil, yet shalt thou find
Far worse at home--thy deep-displeased spouse.
Whate'er thou hast subdu'd in all thy stay
This hand shall now subdue; then stay thy fill.
What's this? my mind recoils and irks these threats:
Anger delays, my grief gins to assuage,
My fury faints, and sacred wedlock's faith
Presents itself. Why shunn'st thou fearful wrath?
Add coals afresh: preserve me to this venge,
At least exile thyself to realms unknown,
And steal his wealth to help thy banish'd state;
For flight is best. O base and heartless fear!
Theft? Exile? Flight? all these may fortune send
Unsought; but thee beseems more high revenge.
Come, spiteful fiends, come, heaps of furies fell,
Not one by one, but all at once! my breast
Raves not enough: it likes me to be fill'd
With greater monsters yet. My heart doth throb,
My liver boils: somewhat my mind portends,
Uncertain what, but whatsoever, it's huge.
So it exceed, be what it will, it's well.
Omit no plague, and none will be enough:
Wrong cannot be reveng'd but by excess.
FRONIA. O, spare this heat! you yield too much to rage:
Y'are too unjust. Is there no mean in wrong?
GUENEVERA. Wrong claims a mean, when first you offer wrong:
The mean is vain when wrong is in revenge.
Great harms cannot be hid: the grief is small,
That can receive advice, or rule itself.
FRONIA. Hatred conceal'd doth often hap to hurt,
Burt once profess'd, it oft'ner fails revenge.
How better tho' wert to repress your ire:
A lady's best revenge is to forgive.
What mean is in your hate? how much soe'er
You can invent or dare, so much you hate.
GUENEVERA. And would you know what mean there is in hate?
Call love to mind, and see what mean is there!
My love, redoubled love, and constant faith
Engaged unto Mordred works so deep,
That both my heart and marrow quite be burnt,
And sinews dried with force of wontless flames.
Desire to joy him still torments my mind:
Fear of his want doth add a double grief.
Lo, here the love that stirs this meanless hate!
FRONIA. Eschew it far: such love impugns the laws.
GUENEVERA. Unlawful love doth like, when lawful loathes.
FRONIA. And is your love of husband quite extinct?
GUENEVERA. The greater flame must needs delay the less:
Besides, his sore revenge I greatly fear.
FRONIA. How can you then attempt a fresh offence?
GUENEVERA. Who can appoint a stint to her offence?
FRONIA. But here the greatness of the fact should move.
GUENEVERA. The greater it, the fitter for my grief.
FRONIA. To kill your spouse?
GUENEVERA. A stranger and a foe.
FRONIA. Your liege and king.
GUENEVERA. He wants both realm and crown.
FRONIA. Nature affords not to your sex such strength.
GUENEVERA. Love, anguish, wrath, will soon afford enough.
FRONIA. What rage is this?
GUENEVERA. Such as himself shall rue.
FRONIA. Whom Gods do press enough, will you annoy?
GUENEVERA. Whom Gods do press, they bend; whom man annoys,
He breaks.
FRONIA. Your grief is more than his deserts.
Each fault requires an equal hate: be not severe,
Where crimes be light. As you have felt, so grieve.
GUENEVERA. And seems it light to want him nine year space?
Then to be spoil'd of one I hold more dear?
Think all too much, b' it ne'er so just, that feeds
Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst.
FRONIA. Yet let your highness shun these desperate moods:
Cast off this rage and fell-disposed mind.
Put not shame quite to flight: have some regard
Both of your sex and future fame of life.
Use no such cruel thoughts, as far exceed
A manly mind, much more a woman's heart.
GUENEVERA. Well, shame is not so quite exil'd, but that
I can and will respect your sage advice.
Your counsel I accept: give leave a while,
Till fiery wrath may slake, and rage relent.
[ Exit Fronia.
THE THIRD SCENE.
GUENEVERA, ANGHARAT.
GUENEVERA. The love, that for his rage will not be rul'd,
Must be restrain'd: fame shall receive no foil.
Let Arthur live; whereof to make him sure
Myself will die, and so prevent his harms.
Why stayest thou thus amaz'd, O slothful wrath?
Mischief is meant; despatch it on thyself.
ANGHARAT. Her breast, not yet appeas'd from former rage,
Hath chang'd her wrath which, wanting means to work
Another's woe (for such is fury's wont),
Seeks out his own, and raves upon itself.
Assuage (alas) that over fervent ire:
Through too much anger you offend too much.
Thereby the rather you deserve to live
For seeming worthy in yourself to die.
GUENEVERA. Death is decreed; what kind of death, I doubt:
Whether to drown or stifle up this breath,
Or forcing blood to die with dint of knife.
All hope of prosperous hap is gone. My fame,
My faith, my spouse--no good is left unlost!
Myself am left: there's left both seas and lands,
And sword, and fire and chains, and choice of harms.
O gnawing, easeless grief! who now can heal
My maimed mind? It must be heal'd by death.
ANGHARAT. No mischief must be done while I be by;
Or, if there must, there must be more than one.
If death it be you seek, I seek it too;
Alone you may not die, with me you may.
GUENEVERA. They that will drive th' unwilling to their death,
Or frustrate death in those that fain would die,
Offend alike. They spoil, that bootless spare.
ANGHARAT. But will my tears and mournings move you nought?
GUENEVERA. Then it is best to die when friends do mourn.
ANGHARAT. Each-where is death! the fates have well ordain'd,
That each man may bereave himself of life,
But none of death: death is so sure a doom,
A thousand ways do guide us to our graves.
Who then can ever come too late to that,
Whence, when he is come, he never can return?
Or what avails to hasten on our ends,
And long for that which destinies have sworn!
Look back in time: too late is to repent,
When furious rage hath once cut off the choice.
GUENEVERA. Death is an end of pain, no pain itself.
Is 'it meet a plague for such excessive wrong.
Should be so short? Should one stroke answer all?
[ Soliloquizes ] And would'st thou die? well, that contents the laws:
What, then, for Arthur's ire? What for thy fame,
Which thou hast stain'd? What for thy stock thou sham'st?
Not death nor life alone can give a full
Revenge: join both in one--die and yet live.
Where pain may not be oft, let it be long.
Seek out some lingering death, whereby thy corpse
May neither touch the dead nor joy the quick.
Die, but no common death: pass nature's bounds.
ANGHARAT. Set plaints aside, despair yields no relief;
The more you search a wound the more it stings.
GUENEVERA. When guilty minds torment themselves, they heal,
Whiles wounds be cur'd, grief is a salve for grief.
ANGHARAT. Grief is no just esteemer of our deeds.
What so hath yet been done, proceeds from chance.
GUENEVERA. The mind and not the chance doth make th' unchaste.
ANGHARAT. Then is your fault from fate; you rest excus'd.
None can be deemed faulty for her fate.
GUENEVERA. No fate, but manners fail, when we offend.
Impute mishaps to fates, to manners faults.
ANGHARAT. Love is an error that may blind the best.
GUENEVERA. A mighty error oft hath seem'd a sin.
My death is vowed, and death must needs take place.
But such a death as stands with just remorse:
Death to the world and to her slippery joys:
A full divorce from all this courtly pomp,
Where daily penance, done for each offence,
May render due revenge for every wrong.
Which to accomplish, pray my dearest friends,
That they forthwith, attir'd in saddest guise,
Conduct me to the cloister next hereby,
There to profess, and to renounce the world.
ANGHARAT. Alas! what change were that! from kingly roofs
To cloistered cells--to live and die at once!
To want your stately troops, your friends and kin,
To shun the shows and sights of stately court;
To see in sort alive your country's death.
Yea, whatsoe'er even death itself withdraws
From any else, that life withdraws from you.
Yet since your highness is so fully bent,
I will obey: the whiles assuage your grief. [ Exit.
THE FOURTH SCENE
MORDRED, GUENEVERA, CONAN.
MORDRED. The hour, which erst I always feared most
The certain ruin of my desperate state,
Is happened now! why turn'st thou (mind) thy back?
Why at the first assault dost thou recoil?
Trust to 't, the angry heavens contrive some spite,
And dreadful doom t' augment thy cursed hap.
Oppose to each revenge thy guilty head,
And shun no pain, nor plague fit for thy fact.
What shouldst thou fear, that see'st not what to hope?
No danger's left before: all's at thy back.
He safely stands, that stands beyond his harms.
Thine (death) is all that east and west can see:
For thee we live, our coming is not long:
Spare us but whiles we may prepare our graves.
Though thou wert slow, we hasten of ourselves.
The hour that gave did also take our lives:
No sooner men than mortal were we born.
I see mine end draws on, I feel my plagues.
GUENEVERA. No plague for one ill-born to die as ill.
MORDRED. O Queen! my sweet associate in this plunge
And desperate plight, behold, the time is come,
That either justifies our former faults,
Or shortly sets us free from every fear.
GUENEVERA. My fear is past, and wedlock love hath won.
Retire we thither yet, whence first we ought
Not to have stirr'd. Call back chaste faith again.
The way that leads to good is ne'er too late:
Who so repents is guiltless of his crimes.
MORDRED. What means this course? Is Arthur's wedlock safe,
Or can he love, that hath just cause to hate?
That nothing else were to be fear'd:
Is most apparent, that he hates at home,
Whate'er he be whose fancy strays abroad.
Think, then, our love is not unknown to him,
Whereof what patience can be safely hop'd?
Nor love nor sovereignty can bear a peer.
GUENEVERA. Why dost thou still stir up my flames delay'd?
His strays and errors must not move my mind:
A law for private men binds not the king.
What, that I ought not to condemn my liege,
Nor can, thus guilty to mine own offence!
Where both have done amiss, both will relent:
He will forgive that needs must be forgiven.
MORDRED. A likely thing, your faults must make you friends;
What sets you both at odds must join you both.
Think well, he casts already for revenge,
And how to plague us both. I know his law;
A judge severe to us, mild to himself.
What then avails you to return too late,
When you have passed too far? You feed vain hopes.
GUENEVERA. The further past, the more this fault is yours.
It served your turn t' usurp your father's crown:
His is the crime, whom crime stands most in stead.
MORDRED. They that conspire in faults offend alike:
Crime makes them equal, whom it jointly stains.
If for my sake you then pertook my guilt,
You cannot guiltless seem: the crime was joint.
GUENEVERA. Well should she seem most guiltless unto thee,
Whate'er she be, that's guilty for thy sake.
The remnant of that sober mind, which thou
Had'st heretofore ne'er vanquish'd, yet resists.
Suppress, for shame, that impious mouth so taught,
And so much skill'd t' abuse the wedded bed.
Look back to former fates: Troy still had stood,
Had not her prince made light of wedlock's lore.
The vice that threw down Troy doth threat thy throne.
Take heed: there Mordred stands, whence Paris fell.
[ Exit.
CONAN. Since that your highness knows for certain truth,
What power your sire prepares to claim his right.
It nearly now concerns you to resolve
In humblest sort to reconcile yourself
Gainst his return.
MORDRED. Will war?
CONAN. That lies in chance.
MORDRED. I have as great a share in chance as he.
CONAN. His ways be blind that maketh chance his guide.
MORDRED. Whose refuge lies in chance, what dares he not?
CONAN. Wars were a crime far worse than all the rest.
MORDRED. The safest passage is from bad to worse.
CONAN. That were to pass too far and put no mean.
MORDRED. He is a fool that puts a mean in crimes.
CONAN. But sword and fire would cause a common wound.
MORDRED. So sword and fire will often sear the sore.
CONAN. Extremest cures must not be used first.
MORDRED. In desperate times the headlong way is best.
CONAN. Y' have many foes.
MORDRED. No more than faithful friends.
CONAN. Trust t' it, their faith will faint, where fortune fails.
Where many men pretend a love to one,
Whose power may do what good or harm he will,
'Tis hard to say which be his faithful friends.
Dame Flattery flitteth oft: she loves and hates
With time, a present friend, an absent foe.
MORDRED. But yet I'll hope the best.
CONAN. Even then you fear.
The worst: fears follow hopes, as fumes do flames.
Mischief is sometimes safe, but ne'er secure.
The wrongful sceptre 's held with trembling hand.
MORDRED. Whose rule wants right, his safety's in his sword;
For sword and sceptre comes to kings at once.
CONAN. The kingliest point is to affect but right.
MORDRED. Weak is the sceptre's hold that seeks but right.
The care whereof hath danger'd many crowns.
As much as water differeth from the fire,
So much man's profit jars from what is just.
A free recourse to wrong doth oft secure
The doubtful seat, and plucks down many a foe.
The sword must seldom cease: a sovereign's hand
Is scantly safe, but whiles it smites. Let him
Usurp no crown that likes a guiltless life:
Aspiring power and justice seld agree.
He always fears that shames to offer wrong.
CONAN. What son would use such wrong against his sire?
MORDRED. Come, son, come, sire, I first prefer myself;
And since a wrong must be, then it excels
When 'tis to gain a crown. I hate a peer:
I loathe, I irk, I do detest a head.
B' it nature, be it reason, be it pride,
I love to rule! my mind, nor with, nor by,
Nor after any claims, but chief and first!
CONAN. But think what fame and grievous bruits would run
Of such disloyal and unjust attempts.
MORDRED. Fame goes not with our ghosts: the senseless soul,
Once gone, neglects what vulgar bruit reports.
She is both light and vain.
CONAN. She noteth, though.
MORDRED. She feareth states.
CONAN. She carpeth, ne'ertheless.
MORDRED. She's soon suppress'd.
CONAN. As soon she springs again.
Tongues are untam'd and fame is envy's dog,
That absent barks, and present fawns as fast.
It fearing dares, and yet hath never done,
But dures: though death redeem us all from foes
Besides, yet death redeems us not from tongues.
MORDRED. Ere Arthur land, the sea shall blush with blood,
And all the strands with smoking slaughters reek.
Now (Mars) protect me in my first attempt!
If Mordred scape, this realm shall want no wars.
[ Exeunt.
CHORUS
1.
See here the drifts of Gorlois, Cornish Duke,
And deep desire to shake his sovereign's throne.
How foul his fall, how bitter his rebuke,
Whiles wife, and weal, and life, and all be gone!
He now in hell tormented wants that good.
Lo, lo, the end of traitorous bones and blood!
2.
Pendragon broil'd with flames of filthy fires,
By Merlin's mists enjoy'd Igerna's bed:
Next spoiled Gorlois, doubling his desires;
Then was himself through force of poison sped.
Who sows in sin, in sin shall reap his pain:
The doom is sworn: death guerdons death again.
3.
Whiles Arthur wars abroad and reaps renown,
Guenevera prefers his son's desire;
And traitorous Mordred still usurps the crown,
Affording fuel to her quenchless fire,
But death's too good, and life too sweet for these,
That wanting both should taste of neither's ease.
4.
In Rome the gaping gulf would not decrease,
Till Curtius corse had closed her yearning jaws:
In Thebes the rot and murrain would not cease,
Till Laius brood had paid for breach of laws:
In Britain wars and discord will not stent,
Till Uther's line and offspring quite be spent.
2. In the second scene, Mordred enraged at the overthrow voweth a second battle, notwithstanding Conan's dissuasion to the contrary.
3. In the third scene, Gawin (brother to Mordred by the mother) [comes] with an herald from Arthur to imparley of peace, but after some debate thereof, peace is rejected.
4. In the fourth scene, the King of Ireland and other foreign princes assure Mordred of their assitance against Arthur.
THE SECOND ACT AND THE FIRST SCENE
NUNTIUS.
NUNTIUS. Lo, here at length the stately type of Troy,
And Britain land the promis'd seat of Brute,
Deck'd with so many spoils of conquered kings!
Hail, native soil, these nine years' space unseen!
To thee hath long-renowned Rome at last
Held up her hands, bereft of former pomp.
But first, inflam'd with wonted valour's heat,
Amidst our sorest siege and thickest broils
She stoutly fought, and fiercely waged wars.
Tiberius courage gave, upbraiding oft
The Roman force, their wonted luck, and long
Retained rule by wars throughout the world.
What shame it were since such achieved spoils,
And conquests gain'd both far and wide, to want
Of courage then, when most it should be mov'd!
How Britons erst paid tribute for their peace,
But now rebel and dare them at their doors.
For what was France but theirs? Herewith incens'd,
They fiercely rav'd, and bent their force afresh.
Which Arthur spying, cried with thundering voice;
Fie (Britons) fie! what hath bewitch'd you thus?
So many nations foil'd, must Romans foil?
What sloth is this? Have you forgot to war,
Which ne'er knew hour of peace? turn to your foes,
Where you may bathe in blood and fight your fill.
Let courage work! what can he not that dares?
Thus he, [the] puissant guide in doubtful wars,
Asham'd to shun his foes, inflam'd his friends.
Then yielding to his stately steed the reins,
He furious drives the Roman troops about:
He plies each place, lest fates mought alter ought,
Pursuing hap, and urging each success.
He yields in nought, but instantly persists,
In all attempts, wherein whatso withstands
His wish, he joys to work away by wrack;
And matching death to death, no passage seeks
But what destruction works with blade or blood.
He scorns the yielded way; he fiercely raves
To break and bruise the ranks in thickest throngs,
All headlong bent and prone to present spoil.
The foes enforc'd withstand; but much dismay'd
They senseless fight, while millions lose their lives.
At length Tiberius, pierc'd with point of spear,
Doth bleeding fall, engor'd with deadly wound.
Hereat the rest recoil and headlong fly,
Each man to save himself. The battle quails,
And Britons win unto their most renown.
Then Arthur took Tiberius' breathless corse,
And sent it to the Senators at Rome,
With charge to say: This is the tribute due
Which Arthur ought: as time hereafter serves;
He'll pay the like again, the while he rests
Your debtor thus. But O! this sweet success,
Pursu'd with greater harms, turn'd soon to sour.
For lo, when foreign soils and seas were past
With safe return, and that the king should land,
Who but his only son (O outrage rare)
With hugy host withstood him on the shore!
There were prepar'd the foreign aids from far:
There were the borrowed powers of divers kings;
There were our parents, brethren, sons and kin,
Their wrath, their ire; there, Mordred, was thy rage.
Where erst we sought abroad for foes to foil,
Behold, our Fates had sent us foes unsought.
When foreign realms supplanted want supply,
O blessed home, that hath such boon in store!
But let this part of Arthur's prowess lurk,
Nor let it e'er appear by my report,
What monstrous mischiefs rage in civil wars,
O, rather let due tears and wailing want!
Let all in silence sink what hence ensu'd.
What best deserveth mention here is this:
That Mordred vanquish'd trusted to his flight,
That Arthur eachwhere victor is return'd.
And lo, where Mordred comes with heavy head:
He wields no slender weight that wields a crown.
[ Exit.
THE SECOND SCENE
MORDRED, CONAN
MORDRED. And hath he won? Be strands and shores possessed?
Is Mordred foil'd? the realm is yet unwon,
And Mordred lives, reserv'd for Arthur's death!
Well, 'twas my first conflict: I knew not yet
What wars requir'd: but now my sword is flesh'd,
And taught to gore and bathe in hottest blood.
Then think not, Arthur, that the crown is won!
Thy first success may rue our next assault;
Even at our next encounter (hap when 'twill)
I vow by heaven, by earth, by hell, by all,
That either thou or I, or both shall die!
CONAN. Nought should be rashly vow'd against your sire.
MORDRED. Whose breast is free from rage may soon b' advised.
CONAN. The best redress from rage is to relent.
MORDRED. 'Tis better for a king to kill his foes.
CONAN. So that the subjects also judge them foes.
MORDRED. The subjects must not judge their king's decrees.
CONAN. The subjects' force is great.
MORDRED. Greater the king's.
CONAN. The more you may, the more you ought to fear.
MORDRED. He is a fool that feareth what he may.
CONAN. Not what you may, but what you ought, is just.
MORDRED. He that amongst so many so unjust
Seeks to be just, seeks peril to himself.
CONAN. A greater peril comes by breach of laws.
MORDRED. The laws do licence as the sovereign lists.
CONAN. Least ought he list, whom laws do licence most.
MORDRED. Imperial power abhors to be restrain'd.
CONAN. As much do meaner grooms to be compell'd.
MORDRED. The fates have heav'd and rais'd my force on high.
CONAN. The gentler should you press those that are low.
MORDRED. I would be fear'd.
CONAN. The cause why subjects hate.
MORDRED. A kingdom's kept by fear.
CONAN. And lost by hate.
He fears as man[y] himself whom many fear.
MORDRED. The timorous subject dares attempt no change.
CONAN. What dares not desperate dread?
MORDRED. What? torture, threats.
CONAN. O spare! 'twere safer to be lov'd.
MORDRED. As safe to be obey'd.
CONAN. Whiles you command but well.
MORDRED. Where rulers dare command but what is well,
Pow'r is but prayer, commandment but request.
CONAN. If pow'r be join'd with right, men must obey.
MORDRED. My will must go for right.
CONAN. If they assent.
MORDRED. My sword shall force assent.
CONAN. No, gods forbid!
MORDRED. What! shall I stand, whiles Arthur sheds my blood?
And must I yield my neck unto the axe?
Whom fates constrain, let him forego his bliss;
But he that needless yields unto his bane,
When he may shun, doth well deserve to lose
The good he cannot use. Who would sustain
A baser life, that may maintain the best?
We cannot part the crown: a regal throne
Is not for two: the sceptre fits but one.
But whether is the fitter of us two,
That must our swords discern, and shortly shall.
CONAN. How much were you to be renowned more,
If casting off these ruinous attempts,
You would take care how to supply the loss,
Which former wars and foreign broils have wrought;
How to deserve the people's hearts with peace,
With quiet rest and deep-desired ease:
Not to increase the rage that long hath reign'd,
Nor to destroy the realm you seek to rule.
Your father rear'd it up, you pluck it down.
You lose your country, whiles you win it thus:
To make it yours, you strive to make it none.
Where kings impose too much, the commons grudge;
Good-will withdraws; assent becomes but slow.
MORDRED. Must I to gain renown incur my plague,
Or hoping praise sustain an exile's life?
Must I for country's ease disease myself,
Or for their love despise my own estate?
No. 'Tis my hap that Britain serves my turn;
That fear of me doth make the subjects crouch;
That what they grudge they do constrained yield.
If their assents be slow, my wrath is swift:
When favour fails to bend, let fury break.
If they be yet to learn, let terror teach,
What kings may do, what subjects ought to bear.
Then is a kingdom at a wished stay,
When what soever the sovereign wills or nills,
Men be compell'd as well to praise as bear,
And subjects' wills enforc'd against their wills.
CONAN. But whoso seeks true praise and just renown,
Would rather seek their praising hearts than tongues.
MORDRED. True praise may happen to the basest groom;
A forced praise to none but to a prince.
I wish that most, that subjects most repine.
CONAN. But yet where wars do threaten your estate,
There needeth friends to fortify your crown.
MORDRED. Each crown is made of that attractive mould,
That of itself it draws a full defence.
CONAN. That is a just and no usurped crown;
And better were an exile's life, than thus
Disloyally to wrong your sire and liege.
Think not that impious crimes can prosper long:
A time they 'scape, in time they be repaid.
MORDRED. The hugest crimes bring best success to some.
CONAN. Those some be rare.
MORDRED. Why may not I be rare?
CONAN. It was their hap.
MORDRED. It is my hope.
CONAN. But hope may miss, where hap doth hurl.
MORDRED. So hap may hit, where hope doth aim.
CONAN. But hap is last, and rules the stern.
MORDRED. So hope is first, and hoists the sail.
CONAN. Yet fear; the first and last do seld agree.
MORDRED. Nay, dare; the first and last have many means.
But cease at length; your speech molests me much.
My mind is fix'd: give Mordred leave to do
What Conan neither can allow nor like.
CONAN. But lo, an Herald sent from Arthur's host.
Gods grant his message may portend our good.
THE THIRD SCENE.
HERALD, GAWIN, MORDRED.
HERALD. Your sire, O Prince, considering what distress
The realm sustains by both your mutual wars,
Hath sent your brother Gawin, Alban king,
To treat of truce, and to imparle of peace.
MORDRED. Speak, brother: what commandment sends our sire?
What message do you bring? My life or death?
GAWIN. A message far unmeet, most needful tho'.
The sire commands not where the son rebels:
His love descends too deep to wish your death.
MORDRED. And mine ascends too high to wish his life.
GAWIN. Yet thus he off'reth. Though your faults be great
And most disloyal, to his deep abuse,
Yet yield yourself, he'll be as prone to grace,
As you to ruth--an uncle, sire, and liege.
And fitter were your due submission done,
Than wrongful wars to reave his right and realm.
MORDRED. It is my fault that he doth want his right:
It is his own to vex the realm with wars.
GAWIN. It is his right that he attempts to seek:
It is your wrong that driveth him thereto.
MORDRED. 'Tis his insatiate mind, that is not so content,
Which hath so many kingdoms more besides.
GAWIN. The more you ought to tremble at his pow'r.
MORDRED. The greater is my conquest, if I win.
GAWIN. The more your foil, if you should hap to lose:
For Arthur's fame and valour's such, as you
Should rather imitate, or at the least
Envy, if hope of better fancies fail'd:
For whereas envy reigns, though it repines,
Yet doth it fear a greater than itself.
MORDRED. He that envies the valour of his foe,
Detects a want of valour in himself.
He fondly fights that fights with such a foe,
Where 'twere a shame to lose, no praise to win;
But with a famous foe succeed what will,
To win is great renown, to lose less foil.
His conquests, were they more, dismay me not:
That oft'ner they have been, the more they threat:
No danger can be thought both safe and oft;
And who hath oft'ner waged wars than he?
Escapes secure him not: he owes the price:
Whom chance hath often miss'd, chance hits at length;
Or if that chance have furthered his success,
So may she mine, for chance hath made me king.
GAWIN. As chance hath made you king, so chance may change.
Provide for peace: that's it the highest peers,
No state except, even conquerers, ought to seek.
Remember Arthur's strength, his conquests late,
His fiery mind, his high-aspiring heart.
Mark then the odds: he expert, you untried;
He ripe, you green. Yield you, whiles yet you may;
He will not yield: he wins his peace with wars.
MORDRED. If chance may change, his chance was last to win;
The likelier now to lose. His haughty heart
And mind I know: I feel mine own no less.
As for his strength and skill, I leave to hap:
Where many meet, it lies not all in one.
What though he vanquish'd have the Roman troops,
That boots him not: himself is vanquish'd here.
Then weigh your words again: if conquerors ought
To seek for peace, the conquered must perforce.
But he'll not yield; he'll purchase peace with wars.
Well, yield that will; I neither will nor can.
Come peace, come wars, choose him; my danger's his,
His safety mine: our states do stand alike.
If peace be good, as good for him as me;
If wars be good, as good for me as him.
GAWIN. What cursed wars (alas) were those, wherein
Both son and sire should so oppose themselves!
Him whom you now, unhappy man, pursue,
If you should win, yourself would first bewail.
Give him his crown: to keep it peril breeds.
MORDRED. The crown I'll keep myself, ensue what will.
Death must be once; how soon, I least respect.
He best provides that can beware in time,
Not why nor when, but whence and where he falls.
What fool, to live a year or twain in rest,
Would lose the state and honour of a crown?
GAWIN. Consider then your father's grief and want,
Whom you bereave of kingdom, realm, and crown.
MORDRED. Trust me, a huge and mighty kingdom 'tis
To bear the want of kingdom, realm, and crown.
GAWIN. A common want, which works each worlding's woe:
That many have too much, but none enough.
It were his praise could he be so content,
Which makes you guilty of the greater wrong.
Wherefore think on the doubtful state of wars.
Where Mars hath sway, he keeps no certain course:
Sometimes she lets the weaker to prevail,
Sometimes the stronger troops: hope, fear, and rage
With eyeless lot rules all uncertain good,
Most certain harms be his assured haps.
No luck can last; now here, now there it lights:
No state alike, chance blindly snatcheth all,
And fortune maketh guilty whom she lists.
MORDRED. Since therefore fear and hope, and hap in wars,
Be all obscure, till their success be seen,
Your speech doth rather drive me on to try,
And trust them all, mine only refuge now.
GAWIN. And fear you not so strange and uncouth wars?
MORDRED. No, were they wars that grew from out the ground!
GAWIN. Nor yet your sire so huge, yourself so small?
MORDRED. The smallest axe may fell the hugest oak.
GAWIN. Nor that, in felling him, yourself may fall?
MORDRED. He falleth well, that falling fells his foe.
GAWIN. Nor common chance, whereto each man is thrall?
MORDRED. Small manhood were to turn my back to chance.
GAWIN. Nor that, if chance afflict, kings brook it not?
MORDRED. I bear no breast so unprepar'd for harms.
Even that I hold the kingliest point of all,
To brook afflictions well; and by how much
The more his state and tottering empire sags,
To fix so much the faster foot on ground.
No fear but doth forejudge, and many fall
Into their fate, whiles they do fear their fate.
Where courage quails, the fear exceeds the harm:
Yea, worse than war itself is fear of war.
GAWIN. War seemeth sweet to such as have not tried;
But wisdom wills we should forecast the worse.
The end allows the act: that plot is wise,
That knows his means, and least relies on chance.
Eschew the course where error lurks; there grows
But grief where pain is spent, no hope to speed.
Strive not above your strength; for where your force
Is overmatch'd with your attempts, it faints,
And fruitless leaves what bootless it began.
MORDRED. All things are rul'd in constant course: no fate
But is foreset: the first day leads the last.
No wisdom then, but difference in conceit,
Which works in many men as many minds.
You love the mean, and follow virtue's race:
I like the top, and aim at greater bliss.
You rest content: my mind aspires to more.
In brief, you fear, I hope; you doubt, I dare.
Since, then, the sagest counsels are but strifes,
Where equal wits may wrest each side alike,
Let counsel go: my purpose must proceed.
Each likes his course, mine own doth like me best.
Wherefore, ere Arthur breathe or gather strength,
Assault we him, lest he assault us first.
He either must destroy, or be destroy'd:
The mischief's in the midst; catch he that can.
GAWIN. But will no reason rule that desperate mind?
MORDRED. A fickle mind that every reason rules!
I rest resolv'd, and to my sire say thus:--
If here he stay but three days to an end,
And not forthwith discharge his band and host,
'Tis Mordred's oath, assure himself to die.
But if he find his courage so to serve,
As for to stand to his defence with force,
In Cornwall, if he dare, I'll try it out.
GAWIN. O strange contempt! like as the craggy rock
Resists the streams and flings the waltering waves
Aloof, so he rejects and scorns my words. [ Exit
THE FOURTH SCENE.
MORDRED, GILLA, GILLAMOR, CHELDRICHUS, DUX PICTORUM, CONAN.
MORDRED. Lo, where (as they decreed) my faithful friends
Have kept their time. Be all your powers repair'd?
GILLA. They be, and all with ardent minds: to Mars
They cry for wars, and longing for th' alarm,
Even now they wish t' encounter with their foes.
MORDRED. What could be wish'd for more? puissant king,
For your great help and valiant Irish force,
If I obtain the conquest in these wars,
Whereas my father claims a tribute due
Out of your realm; I here renounce it quite:
And if assistance need in doubtful times,
I will not fail to aid you with the like.
GILLA. It doth suffice me to discharge my realm,
Or at the least to wreak me on my foes.
I rather like to live your friend and peer,
Than rest in Arthur's homage and disgrace.
MORDRED. Right noble duke, through whom the Saxons vow
Their lives with mine, for my defence in wars,
If we prevail and may subdue our foes,
I will, in lieu of your so high deserts,
Give you and yours all British lands that lie
Between the flood of Humber and the Scots:
Besides as much in Kent as Horsa and
Hengistus had, when Vortigern was king.
CHELDRICHUS. Your gracious proffers I accept with thanks;
Not for the gain, but for the good desire
I have henceforth to be your subject here
May thereby take effect; which I esteem
More than the rule I bear in Saxon soil.
MORDRED. Renowned lord, for your right hardy Picts
And chosen warriors to maintain my cause,
If our attempts receive a good success,
The Alban crown I give to you and yours.
DUX PICTORUM. Your highness' bounty in so high degree,
Were cause enough to move me to my best:
But sure yourself, without regard of meed,
Should find both me and mine at your command.
MORDRED. Lord Gilla, if my hope may take success,
And that I be thereby undoubted king,
The Cornish dukedom I allot to you.
GILLA. My liege, to further your desir'd attempts,
I joyfully shall spend my dearest blood:
The rather that I found the king your sire
So heavy lord to me and all my stock.
MORDRED. Since then our rest is on 't, and we agreed,
To war it out, what resteth now but blows?
Drive dest'nies on with swords, Mars frames the means!
Henceforth what Mordred may, now lies in you.
Ere long, if Mars ensue with good success,
Look, whatso'er it be that Arthur claims
By right or wrong, or conquests gain'd with blood
In Britain or abroad, is mine to give:--
To show, I would have said: I cannot give
What every hand must give unto itself.
Whereof who lists to purchase any share,
Now let him seek and win it with his sword:
The fates have laid it open in the field.
What stars (O heavens) or poles, or powers divine,
Do grant so great rewards for those that win!
Since then our common good, and each man's care
Requires our joint assistance in these toils,
Shall we not hazard our extremest hap,
And rather spend our fates, than spare our foes?
The cause I care for most is chiefly yours:
This hand and heart shall make mine own secure,
That man shall see me foiled by myself,
Whate'er he be, that sees my foe unfoil'd
Fear not the field, because of Mordred's faults,
Nor shrink one jot the more for Arthur's right.
Full safely fortune guideth many a guilt,
And fates have none but wretches whom they wrench.
Wherefore make speed to cheer your soldiers' hearts.
That to their fires ye yet may add more flames.
The side that seeks to win in civil wars
Mus not content itself with wonted heat.
[ Exeunt omnes proeter MORDRED and CONAN.
CONAN. Would God your highness had been more advised,
Ere too much will had drawn your wits too far!
Then had no wars endanger'd you nor yours,
Nor Mordred's cause required foreign care.
[ Exit.
MORDRED. A troubled head: my mind revolts to fear,
And bears my body back. I inwards feel my fall:
My thoughts misgive me much. Down, terror! I
Perceive mine end, and desperate though I must
Despise despair, and somewhat hopeless hope,
The more I doubt the more I dare: by fear
I find the fact is fittest for my frame.
What though I be a ruin to the realm,
And fall myself therewith? no better end:
His last mishaps do make a man secure.
Such was King Priam's end who, when he died,
Clos'd and wrapp'd up his kingdom in his death.
A solemn pomp, and fit for Mordred's mind,
To be a grave and tomb to all his realm. [ Exit.
CHORUS.
1.
Ye princely peers, extoll'd to seats of state,
Seek not the fair that soon will turn to foul:
Oft is the fall of high and hovering fate,
And rare the room which time doth not control.
The safest seat is not on highest hill,
Where winds and storms and thunders thump their ill:
Far safer were to follow sound advice,
Than for such pride to pay so dear a price.
2.
The mounting mind that climbs the haughty cliffs,
And soaring seeks the tip of lofty type,
Intoxicates the brain with giddy drifts,
Then rolls and reels and falls at length plum-ripe.
Lo, heaving high is of so small forecast,
To totter first, and tumble down at last.
Yet Pegasus still rears himself on high,
And coltishly doth kick the clouds in sky.
3.
Who saw the grief engraven in a crown,
Or knew the bad and bane, whereto it 's bound,
Would never stick to throw and fling it down,
Nor once vouchsafe to heave it from the ground.
Such is the sweet of this ambitious power,
No sooner had, than turns oftsoons to sour,
Achiev'd with envy, exercis'd with hate,
Guarded with fear, supported with debate.
4.
O restless race of high-aspiring head!
O worthless rule both pitied and envied!
How many millions to their loss you lead,
With love and lure of kingdoms' bliss untried!
So things untasted cause a quenchless thirst,
Which, were they known, would be refused first:
Yea, oft we see, yet seeing cannot shun
The fact we find as fondly dar'd as done.
2. In the second scene an herald is sent from Mordred to command Arthur to discharge his armies under pain of death, or otherwise, if he dare, to try it by battle.
3. In the third scene Arthur calleth his assistants and soldiers together,whom he exhorteth to pursue their foes.
4. In the fourth scene Arthur, between grief and despair, resolveth to war.
THE THIRD ACT AND FIRST SCENE
ARTHUR, CADOR, HOWELL.
ARTHUR. Is this the welcome that my realm prepares?
Be these the thanks I win for all my wars?
Thus to forbid me land? to slay my friends?
To make their blood distain my country shores?
My son (belike), lest that our force should faint
For want of wars, prepar'd us wars himself.
He thought (perhaps) it mought impair our fame,
If none rebell'd, whose foil might praise our power.
Is this the fruit of Mordred's forward youth
And tender age, discreet beyond his years?
O false and guileful life! O crafty world!
How cunningly convey'st thou fraud unseen!
Th' ambitious seemeth meek, the wanton chaste;
Disguised vice for virtue vaunts itself.
Thus (Arthur), thus hath fortune play'd her part,
Blind for thy weal, clear-sighted for thy woe.
Thy kingdom's gone, thy sphere affords no faith:
Thy son rebels: of all thy wonted pomp
No jot is left, and fortune hides her face.
No place is left for prosperous plight: mishaps
Have room and ways to run and walk at will.
Lo (Cador) both our states, your daughter's trust,
My son's respect, our hopes repos'd in both!
CADOR. The time, [O] puissant Prince, permits not now
To moan our wrongs, or search each several sore.
Since Arthur thus hath ransack'd all abroad,
What marvel is 't, if Mordred rave at home?
When far and near your wars had worn the world,
What wars were left for him but civil wars?
All which requires revenge with sword and fire,
And to pursue your foes with present force.
In just attempts Mars gives a rightful doom.
ARTHUR. Nay, rather (Cador) let them run their race,
And leave the heavens revengers of my wrong.
Since Britain's prosperous state is thus debas'd
In servile sort to Mordred's cursed pride,
Let me be thrall, and lead a private life:
None can refuse the yoke his country bears.
But as for wars, in sooth, my flesh abhors
To bid the battle to my proper blood.
Great is the love which nature doth inforce
From kin to kin, but most from sire to son.
HOWELL. The noble neck disdains the servile yoke:
Where rule hath pleas'd, subjection seemeth strange.
A king ought always to prefer his realm
Before the love he bears to kin or son.
Your realm destroy'd is ne'er restor'd again,
But time may send you kin and sons enough.
ARTHUR. How hard it is to rule th' aspring mind,
And what a kingly point it seems to those,
Whose lordly hands the stately sceptre sways,
Still to pursue the drift they first decreed,
My wonted mind and kingdom lets me know.
Think not but, if you drive this hazard on,
He desperate will resolve to win or die:
Whereof who knows which were the greater guilt,
The sire to slay the son, or son the sire?
CADOR. If bloody Mars do so extremely sway,
That either son or sire must needs be slain,
Give law the choice: let him die that deserves.
Each impotent affection notes a want.
No worse a vice than lenity in kings;
Remiss indulgence soon undoes a realm.
He teacheth how to sin that winks at sins,
And bids offend that suffereth an offence.
The only hope of leave increaseth crimes,
And he that pardoneth one, embold'neth all
To break the laws. Each patience fostereth wrong.
But vice severely punish'd faints at foot,
And creeps no further off than where it falls.
One sour example will prevent more vice
Than all the best persuasions in the world.
Rough rigour looks out right, and still prevails:
Smooth mildness looks too many ways to thrive.
Wherefore, since Mordred's crimes have wrong'd the laws
In so extreme a sort, as is too strange;
Let right and justice rule with rigour's aid,
And work his wrack at length, although too late;
That damning laws, so damned by the laws,
He may receive his deep deserved doom.
So let it fare with all that dare the like:
Let sword, let fire, let torments be their end.
Severity upholds both realm and rule.
ARTHUR. Ah too severe! far from a father's mind.
Compassion is as fit for kings as wrath.
Laws must not low'r; rule oft admitteth ruth.
So hate, as if there were yet cause to love:
Take not their lives as foes which may be friends.
To spoil my son were to despoil myself:
Oft, whiles we seek our foes, we seek our foils.
Let's rather seek how to allure his mind
With good deserts: deserts may win the worst.
HOWELL. Where Cato first had saved a thief from death,
And after was himself condemn'd to die,
When else not one would execute the doom,
Who but the thief did undertake the task?
If too much bounty work so bad effects
In thankless friends, what for a ruthless foe?
Let laws have still their course: the ill dispos'd
Grudge at their lives to whom they owe too much.
ARTHUR. But yet where men with reconciled minds
Renew their love with recontinued grace,
Atonement frames them friends of former foes,
And makes the moods of swelling wrath to 'suage.
No faster friendship than that grows from grief,
When melting minds with mutual ruth relent.
How close the severed skin unites again,
When salves have smoothly heal'd the former hurts!
CADOR. I never yet saw heart so smoothly heal'd,
But that the scar bewray'd the former wound:
Yea, where the salve did soonest close the skin,
The sore was oft'ner covered up than cur'd:
Which festering deep and fill'd within, at last
With sudden breach grew greater than at first.
What then for minds which have revenging moods,
And ne'er forget the cross they forced bear?
Whereto if reconcilement come, it makes
The t' one secure, while t' other works his will.
Atonement seld defeats, but oft defers
Revenge: beware a reconciled foe.
ARTHUR. Well, what avails to linger in this life,
Which fortune but reserves for greater grief?
This breath draws on but matter of mishap:
Death only frees the guitless from annoys.
Who so hath felt the force of greedy fates,
And 'dur'd the last decree of grisly death,
Shall never yield his captive arms to chains,
Nor drawn in triumph deck the victor's pomp.
HOWELL. What mean these words? Is Arthur forc'd to fear?
Is this the fruit of your continual wars,
Even from the first remembrance of your youth?
ARTHUR. My youth (I grant) and prime of budding years,
Puff'd up with pride and fond desire of praise,
Foreweening nought what perils might ensue,
Adventured all and raught to will the reins:
But now this age requires a sager course,
and will, advis'd by harms, to wisdom yields.
Those swelling spirits, the self-same cause, which first
Set them on gog, even fortune's favours quail'd,
And now mine oft'nest scapes do scare me most.
I fear the trap whereat I oft have tripp'd:
Experience tells me plain that chance is frail,
And oft the better past, the worse to come.
CADOR. Resist these doubts: 'tis ill to yield to harms.
'Tis safest then to dare, when most you fear.
ARTHUR. As safe sometimes to fear, when most we dare:
A causeless courage gives repentance place.
HOWELL. If fortune fawn.
ARTHUR. Each way on me she frowns:
For win I, lose I, both procure my grief.
CADOR. Put case you win, what grief?
ARTHUR. Admit I do, what joy?
CADOR. Then may you rule.
ARTHUR. When I may die.
CADOR. To rule is much.
ARTHUR. Small, if we covet nought.
CADOR. Who covets not a crown?
ARTHUR. He that discerns the sword aloft.
CADOR. That hangeth fast.
ARTHUR. But by a hair.
CADOR. Right holds it up.
ARTHUR. Wrong pulls it down.
CADOR. The Commons help the king.
ARTHUR. They sometimes hurt.
CADOR. At least the Peers.
ARTHUR. Seld, if allegiance want.
CADOR. Yet sovereignty.
ARTHUR. Not if subjection fail.
CADOR. Doubt not: the realm is yours.
ARTHUR. 'Twas mine 'till now.
CADOR. And shall be still.
ARTHUR. If Mordred list.
CADOR. 'Twere well your crown were won.
ARTHUR. Perhaps 'tis better lost.
HOWELL. The name of rule should move a princely mind.
ARTHUR. Trust me, bad things have often glorious names.
HOWELL. The greatest food that fortune can afford.
ARTHUR. A dangerous good, that wisdom would eschew.
HOWELL. Yet weigh the hearsay of the old renowm.
And fame, the wonderer fo the former age,
Which still extols the facts of worthiest wights,
Preferring no deserts before your deeds.
Even she exhorts you to this new attempt,
Which left untried your winnings be but loss.
ARTHUR. Small credit will be given of matters past
To Fame, the flatterer of the former age.
Were all believ'd which antique bruit imports,
Yet wisdom weighs the peril join'd to praise.
Rare is the fame (mark well all ages gone)
Which hath not hurt the house it most enhanc'd.
Besides, fame's but a blast that sounds awhile,
And quickly stints, and then is quite forgot.
Look, whatso'er our virtues have achiev'd,
The chaos vast and greedy time devours.
To-day all Europe rings with Arthur's praise:
'Twill be as hush'd as if I ne'er had been.
What boots it then to venture life or limb
For that which needs ere long we leave or lose?
CADOR. Can blind affection so much blear the wise,
Or love of graceless son so witch the sire,
That what concerns the honour of a prince,
With country's good and subject's just request,
Should lightly be contemned by a king?
When Lucius sent but for his tribute due,
You went with thirteen kings to root him out.
Have Romans, for requiring but their own,
Abode your nine years' brunts? Shall Mordred 'scape,
That wrong'd you thus in honour, queen, and realm?
Were this no cause to stir a king to wrath,
Yet should your conquests, late achiev'd 'gainst Rome,
Inflame your mind with thirst of full revenge.
ARTHUR. Indeed, continual wars have chaf'd our minds,
And good success hath bred impatient moods.
Rome puffs us up, and makes us too--too fierce.
There, Britons, there we stand, whence Rome did fall.
Thou, Lucius, mak'st me proud, thou heav'st my mind:
But what? shall I esteem a crown ought else
Than as a gorgeous crest of easeless helm,
Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp,
Or glittering glass which, while it shines, it breaks?
All this a sudden chance may dash, and not
Perhaps with thirteen kings, or in nine years:
All may not find so slow and ling'ring fates.
What that my country cries for due remorse,
And some relief for long-sustained toils?
By seas and lands I daily wrought her wrack,
And spareless spent her life on every foe.
Each where my soldiers perish'd, whilest I won:
Throughout the world my conquest was their spoil.
A fair reward for all their deaths, for all
Their wars abroad, to give them civil wars!
What boots it then, reserv'd from foreign foils,
To die at home? what end of ruthless rage?
At least let age and nature, worn to nought,
Provide at length their graves with wished groans.
Pity their hoary hairs, their feeble fists,
Their withered limbs, their strengths consum'd in camp!
Must they still end their lives amongst the blades?
Rests there no other fate, whilst Arthur reigns?
What deem you me? A fury fed with blood,
Or some Cyclopian, born and bred for brawls?
Think on the mind that Arthur bears to peace:
Can Arthur please you nowhere but in wars?
Be witness, heavens, how far 'tis from my mind
Therewith to spoil or sack my native soil.
I cannot yield; it brooks not in my breast
To seek her ruin whom I erst have rul'd,
What relics now soe'er both civil broils
And foreign wars have left, let those remain:
Th 'are few enough, and Britons fall too fast.
THE SECOND SCENE.
An HERALD from MORDRED.
HOWELL. Lo, here an herald sent from Mordred's camp:
A froward message, if I read aright.
We mought not stir his wrath; perhaps this may:
Persuasions cannot move a Briton's mood,
And yet none sooner stung with present wrong.
[ Aside. ]
HERALD. Hail, peerless prince! whiles fortune would, our king,
Though now bereft of crown and former rule.
Vouchsafe me leave my message to impart,
No jot enforc'd, but as your son affords.
If here you stay but three days to an end,
And not forthwith discharge your bands and host,
'Tis Mordred's oath: assure yourself to die.
But if you find your courage so to serve,
As for to stand to your defence with force,
In Cornwall (if you dare) he'll try it out.
ARTHUR. Is this the choice my son doth send his sire?
And must I die, or try it, if I dare?
To die were ill, thus to be dar'd is worse.
Display my standard forth! let trump and drum
Call soldiers near to hear their sovereign's hest.
THE THIRD SCENE
GAWIN King of Albany, ASCHILLIUS King of Denmark ,
KING OF NORWAY. A number of Soldiers.
ARTHUR. O friends, and fellows of my weariest toils,
Which have borne out with me so many brunts,
And desperate storms of wars and brainsick Mars!
Lo now the hundreth month, wherein we win!
Hath all the blood we spent in foreign coasts,
The wounds and deaths, and winters bode abroad,
Deserved thus to be disgraced at home?
All Britain rings of wars: no town nor field
But swarms with armed troops: the mustering trains
Stop up the streets: no less a tumult's rais'd,
Than when Hengistus fell, and Horsa, fierce
With treacherous truce, did overrun the realm.
Each corner threateneth death: both far and near
Is Arthur vex'd. What, if my force had fail'd
And standard fall'n, and ensigns all been torn,
And Roman troops pursu'd me at the heels,
With luckless wars assay'd in foreign soils?
Now that our fortune heaves us up thus high,
And heavens themselves renew our old renown,
Must we be dar'd? Nay, let that princock come,
That knows not yet himself, nor Arthur's force;
That ne'er yet waged wars; that 's yet to learn
To give the charge: yea, let that princock come,
With sudden soldiers pamper'd up in peace,
And gowned troops and wantons worn with ease;
With sluggish Saxons' crew and Irish kerns,
And Scottish aid, and false redshanked Picts,
Whose slaughters yet must teach their former foil.
They shall perceive with sorrow, ere they part,
When all their toils be told, that nothing works
So great a waste and ruin in this age,
As do my wars. O Mordred, blessed son!
No doubt these market-mates, so highly hir'd,
Must be the stay of thy usurped state.
And lest my head, inclining now to years,
Should joy the rest, which yet it never reap'd,
The traitor Gilla, train'd in treacherous jars,
Is chief in arms to reave me of my realm.
What corner (ah), for all my wars, shall shroud
My bloodless age? what seat for due deserts?
What town or field for ancient soldiers' rest?
What house? what roof? what walls for wearied limbs?
Stretch out again, stretch out your conquering hands!
Still we must use the force so often us'd.
To those that will pursue a wrong with wreak
He giveth all, that once denies the right.
Thou soil, which erst Diana did ordain
The certain seat and bow'r of wand'ring Brute:
Thou realm, which aye I reverence as my saint,
Thou stately Britain, th' ancient type of Troy,
Bear with my forced wrongs! I am not he,
That willing would impeach thy peace with wars!
Lo, here both far and wide I conqueror stand:
Arthur, each where thine own, thy liege, thy king.
Condemn not mine attempts; he, only he,
Is sole in fault that makes me thus thy foe.
Here I renounce all leagues and treats of truce:
Thou, fortune, henceforth art my guard and guide!
Hence, peace! on wars run fates: let Mars be judge;
I erst did trust to right, but now to rage.
Go, tell the boy that Arthur fears no brags:
In vain he seeks to brave it with his sire.
I come (Mordred), I come, but to thy pain.
Yea, tell the boy his angry father comes
To teach a novice both to die and dare.
[ Herald exit.
HOWELL. If we without offence ( O greatest guide
Of British name) may pour our just complaints,
We most mislike that your too mild a mood
Hath thus withheld our hands and swords from strokes.
For what? were we behind in any help?
Or without cause did you misdoubt our force,
Or truth so often tried with good success?
Go to: conduct your army to the field;
Place man to man, oppose us to our foes:
As much we need to work, as with your weal.
CADOR. Seems it so sour to win by civil wars?
Were it to gore with pike my father's breast;
Were it to rive and cleave my brother's head;
Were it to tear peacemeal my dearest child,
I would enforce my grudging hands to help.
I cannot term that place my native soil,
Whereto your trumpets send their warlike sounds.
If case requir'd to batter down the tow'rs
Of any town that Arthur would destroy,
Yea, were 't of Britain's self, which most I reed,
Her bulwarks, fortress, rampiers, walls and fence,
These arms should rear the rams to run them down.
Wherefore, ye princes, and the rest, my mates,
If what I have averr'd in all your names,
Be likewise such as stands to your content,
Let all your yeas avow my premise true.
SOLDIERS. Yea, yea, &c.
ASCHILLUS. Wherein, renowmed king, myself or mine,
My life, my kingdom, and all Denmark's pow'r,
May serve your turn: account them all your own.
KING OF NORWAY. And whatsoe'er my force, or Norway aid,
May help in your attempts, I vow it here.
GAWIN. As heretofore I always serv'd your hest.
So let this day be judge of Gawin's trust.
Either my brother Mordred dies the death
By mine assault, or I at least by his.
ARTHUR. Since thus (my faithful mates) with vows alike
And equal love to Arthur's cause you join
In common care to wreak my private wrongs,
Life up your ensigns efts, stretch out your strengths;
Pursue your fates; perform your hopes to Mars.
Lo, here the last and outmost work for blades!
This is the time that all our valour craves:
This time by due desert restores again
Our goods, our lands, our lives, our weal and all.
This time declares by fates whose cause is best;
This, this condemns the vanquish'd side of guilt.
Wherefore, if for my sake you scorn yourselves,
And spare no sword nor fire in my defence,
Then, whiles my censure justifies your cause,
Fight, fight amain, and clear your blades from crime:
The judge once chang'd, no wars are free from guilt.
The better cause gives us the greater hope
Of prosperous wars; wherein, if once I hap
To spy the wonted signs, that never fail'd
Their guide--your threatening looks, your fiery eyes,
And bustling bodies prest to present spoil,
The field is won! Even then, methinks, I see
The wonted wastes and scattered heads of foes,
The Irish carcass kick'd, and Picts oppress'd,
And Saxons slain to swim in streams of blood.
I quake with hope. I can assure you all,
We never had a greater match in hand.
March on! Delay no fates, whilst fortune fawns;
The greatest praise of war consists in speed.
[ Exeunt Reges et Cohors.
THE FOURTH SCENE.
CADOR, ARTHUR.
CADOR. Since thus (victorious king) your peers allies,
Your lords, and all your powers be ready prest,
For good, for bad, for whatsoe'er shall hap,
To spend both limb and life in your defence,
Cast off all doubts and rest yourself on Mars:
A hopeless fear forbids a happy fate.
ARTHUR. In sooth (good Cador), so our fortune fares,
As needs we must return to wonted force.
To wars we must; but such unhappy wars,
As leave no hope for right or wrong to 'scape.
Myself forsees the fate; it cannot fall
Without our dearest blood: much may the mind
Of pensive sire presage, whose son so sins.
All truth, all trust, all blood, all bands be broke!
The seeds are sown that spring to future spoil.
My son, my nephew, yea, each side myself,
Nearer than all (woe's me), too near, my foe!
Well, 'tis my plague for life so lewdly led.
The price of guilt is still a heavier guilt;
For were it light, that ev'n by birth myself
Was bad, I made my sister bad: nay, were
That also light, I have begot as bad,
Yea, worse, an heir assign'd to all our sins.
Such was his birth: what base, what vulgar vice,
Could once be look'd for of so noble blood?
The deeper guilt descends, the more it roots:
The younger imps effect the huger crimes.
[ Exeunt.
CHORUS.
1.
When many men assent to civil wars
And yield a suffrage to enforce the fates,
No man bethinks him of his own mishap,
But turns that luck unto another's share.
Whereas if fear did first forewarn each foil,
Such love to fight would breed no Briton's bane.
And better were still to preserve our peace,
Than thus to vent for peace through waging wars.
What folly to forego such certain haps,
And in their stead to feed uncertain hopes!
Such hopes as oft have puff'd up many a realm,
Till cross-success hath press'd it down as deep:
Whiles blind affection, fetch'd from private cause,
Misguiding wit hath mask'd in wisdom's veil,
Pretending what in purpose it abhorr'd.
2.
Peace hath three foes encamped in our breasts;
Ambition, wrath and envy, which subdu'd,
We should not fail to find eternal peace.
'Tis in our power to joy it all at will,
And few there be, but if they will, they may:
But yet even those, who like the name of peace,
Through fond desire repine at peace itself,
Between the hope whereof and it itself
A thousand things may fall, that further wars.
The very speech sometimes and treats of truce
Is slash'd and cut asunder with the sword.
Nor seld the name of peace doth edge our minds,
And sharpeneth on our fury, till we fight;
So that the mention made of love and rest
Is oft a whetstone to our hate and rage.
3.
Lo, here the end that kingly pomp imparts:
The quiet rest that princely palace plights!
Care upon care, and every day anew
Fresh rising tempest tires the tossed minds.
Who strives to stand in pomp of princely port,
On giddy top and culm of slippery court,
Finds oft a heavy fate; whiles too much known
To all, he falls unknown unto himself.
Let whoso else that list affect the name,
But let me seem a potentate to none:
My slender bark shall creep anenst the shore,
And shun the winds that sweep the waltering waves.
Proud fortune overslips the safest roads,
And seeks amidst the surging seas those keels,
Whose lofty tops and tacklings touch the clouds.
4.
O base, yet happy boors! O gifts of gods
Scant yet perceiv'd! when powd'red ermine robes
With secret sighs, mistrusting their extremes,
In baleful breast forecast their foultring fates,
And stir, and strive, and storm, and all in vain;
Behold the peasant poor with tattered coat,
Whose eyes a meaner fortune feeds with sleep,
How safe and sound the careless snudge doth snore.
Low-roofed lurks the house of slender hap,
Costless, not gay without, scant clean within;
Yet safe, and oft'ner shrouds the hoary hairs,
Than haughty turrets, rear'd with curious art,
To harbour heads that wield the golden crest.
With endless cark in glorious courts and towns,
The troubled hopes and trembling fears do dwell.
2. In the second scene Nuntius maketh report of the whole battle, with the death of Mordred, and Arthur's and Cador's deadly wound.
3. In the third scene Gildas and Conan lament the unfortunate state of the country.
THE FOURTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.
GILDAS, CONAN.
GILDAS. Lord Conan, though I know how hard a thing
It is for minds train'd up in princley thrones,
To hear of ought against their humour's course,
Yet, sithence who forbiddeth not offence,
If well he may, is cause of such offence,
I could have wish'd (and blame me not, my lord)
Your place and countenance both with son and sire
Had more prevail'd on either side, than thus
T' have left a crown in danger for a crown
Through civil wars, our country's wonted woe:
Whereby the kigndom's wound, still fest'ring deep,
Sucks up the mischievous humour to the heart.
The staggering state of Britain's troubled brains,
Headsick and sore encumbered in her crown,
With giddy steps runs on a headlong race.
Whereto this tempest tends, or where this storm
Will break, who knows? but gods avert the worst!
CONAN. Now surely (Gildas) as my duty stood
Indifferent for the best to son and sire,
So (I protest), since these occasions grew,
That in the depth of my desire to please,
I more esteem'd what honest faith requir'd
In matters meet for their estates and place,
Than how to feed each fond affection, prone
To bad effects, whence their disgrace mought grow.
And as for Mordred's desperate and disloyal plots,
They had been none, or fewer at the least,
Had I prevail'd, which Arthur knows right well.
But even as counters go sometimes for one,
Sometimes for thousands more, sometimes for none:
So men in greatest countenance with their king
Can work by fit persuasion sometimes much;
But sometimes less, and sometimes nought at all.
GILDAS. Well, we that have not spent our time in wars,
But bent our course at peace and country's weal,
May rather now expect what strange event
And chance ensues of these so rare attempts,
Than enter to discourse upon their cause,
And err as wide in words, as they in deeds.
CONAN. And lo, to satisfy your wish therein,
Where comes a soldier sweating from the camp.
THE SECOND SCENE.
NUNCIUS.
NUNCIUS. Thou echo shrill, that haunt'st the hollow hills,
Leave off, that wont to snatch the latter word.
Howl on a whole discourse of our distress:
Clip off no clause; sound out a perfect sense.
GILDAS. What fresh mishap (alas), what new annoy
Removes our pensive minds from wonted woes,
And yet requires a new lamenting mood,
Declare! we joy to handle all our harms:
Our many griefs have taught us still to mourn.
NUNCIUS. But (ah) my tongue denies my speech his aid:
Great force doth drive it forth; a greater keeps
It in. I rue, surpris'd with wontless woes.
CONAN. Speak on what grief soe'er our fates afford.
NUNCIUS. Small griefs can speak, the great astonish'd stand.
GILDAS. What greater sin could hap, than what be pass'd?
What mischiefs could be meant, more than were wrought?
NUNCIUS. And think you there's to be an end to sins?
No; crime proceeds: those made but one degree.
What mischiefs erst were done, term sacred deeds:
Call nothing sin but what hath since ensu'd.
A greater grief requires your tears. Behold
These fresh annoys: your last mishaps be stale.
CONAN. Tell on (my friend): suspend our minds no more.
Hath Arthur lost? hath Mordred won the field?
NUNCIUS. O, nothing less! would, gods, it were but so!
Arthur hath won, but we have lost the field.
The field? Nay, all the realm and Britain's bounds.
GILDAS. How so? If Arthur won, what could we lose?
You speak in clouds, and cast perplexed words.
Unfold at large, and sort their sorrows out.
NUNCIUS. Then list awhile: this instant shall unwrap
Those acts, those wars, those hard events, that all
The future age shall ever have cause to curse--
Now that the time drew on, when both the camps
Should meet in Cornwall fields, th' appointed place.
The reckless troops, whom fates forbad to live
Till noon or night, did storm and rave for wars.
They swarm'd about their guides, and clust'ring call'd
For signs to fight; and fierce with uproars fell,
They onwards hal'd the lasting hours of death.
A direful frenzy rose: each man his own
And public fates all heedless headlong flung.
On Mordred's side were sixty thousand men;
Some borrowed powers, some Britons bred at home.
The Saxons, Irish, Normans, Picts and Scots
Were first in place: the Britons followed last.
On Arthur's side there were as many more:
Islandians, Goths, Norwegians, Albans, Danes,
Were foreign aids which Arthur brought from France;
A trusty troop and tried at many a trench.
That now the day was come, wherein our state
For aye should fall, whenceforth might men inquire
What Britain was, these wars thus near bewray'd.
Nor could the heavens no longer hide these harms,
But by prodigious signs portend our plagues.
For lo, ere both the camps encountering cop'd,
The skies and poles opposed themselves with storms:
Both east and west with tempests dark were dimm'd,
And showers of hail and rain outrageous pour'd.
The heavens were rent, each side the lightnings flash'd,
And clouds with hideous claps did thundering roar.
The armies, all aghast, did senseless stand,
Mistrusting much both force, and foes, and fates;
'Twas hard to say which of the two appall'd
Them most, the monstrous air or too much fear.
When Arthur spied his soldiers thus amaz'd,
And hope extinct, and deadly dread drawn on:
My mates (quoth he) the gods do scour the skies,
The fates contend to work some strange event,
And fortune seeks by storms in heavens and earth,
What pageants she may play for my behoof:
Of whom she knows she then deserves not well,
When (ling'ring ought) she comes not at the first.
Thus said, rejoicing at his dauntless mind,
They all reviv'd, and former fear recoil'd,
By that the light of Titan's troubled beams
Had piercing scattered down the drooping fogs,
And greeted both the camps with mutual view.
Their choler swells, whiles fell-disposed minds
Bounce in their breasts, and stir uncertain storms.
Then paleness wan and stern, with cheerless change,
Possessing bleak their lips and bloodless cheeks,
With troublous trembling, shows their death is near.
When Mordred saw the danger thus approach'd,
And boist'rous throngs of warriors threat'ning blood,
His instant ruin gave a nod at fates,
And mind, though prone to Mars, yet daunted paus'd.
The heart which promis'd erst a sure success,
Now throbs in doubts, nor can his own attempts
Afford him fear, nor Arthur's yield him hope.
This passion lasts not long: he soon recalls
His ancient guise, and wonted rage returns.
He loathes delays, and scorch'd with sceptre's lust,
The time and place, wherein he oft had wish'd
To hazard all upon extremest chance,
He offer'd spies, and spied pursues with speed.
Then both the armies met with equal might,
This stirr'd with wrath, that with desire to rule,
And equal prowess was a spur to both.
The Irish king whirl'd out a poisoned dart,
That lighting pierced deep in Howell's brains,
A peerless prince and near of Arthur's blood.
Hereat the air with uproar loud resounds,
Which efts on mountains rough rebounding rears.
The trumpets hoarse their trembling tunes do tear,
And thund'ring drums their dreadful larums ring.
The standards broad are blown and ensigns spread,
And every nation bends his wonted wars.
Some near their foes, some further off do wound,
With dart or sword, or shaft, or pike, or spear;
The weapons hide the heavens; a night compos'd
Of warlike engines overshades the field.
From every side these fatal signs are sent,
And boist'rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick.
Had both these camps been of usurping kings,
Had every man thereof a Mordred been,
No fiercelier had they fought for all their crowns.
The murthers meanless wax'd, no art in fight,
Nor way to ward nor try each other's skill.
But thence the blade, and hence the blood ensues.
CONAN. But what! did Mordred's eyes endure this sight?
NUNCIUS. They did; and he himself, the spur of fiends
And Gorgons all, lest any part of his
Scap'd free from guilt, enflam'd their minds to wrath,
And with a valour, more than virtue yields,
He cheer'd them all, and at their back with long
Outreached spear stirr'd up each ling'ring hand.
All fury-like, frounc'd up with frantic frets,
He bids them leave and shun the meaner sort,
He shows the kings and Britain's noblest peers.
GILDAS. He was not now to seek what blood to draw:
He knew what juice refresh'd his fainting crown,
Too much of Arthur's heart. O, had he wist,
How great a vice such virtue was as then,
In civil wars, in rooting up his realm!
O frantic fury, far from valour's praise!
NUNCIUS. There fell Aschillus stout, of Denmark king;
There valiant Gawin, Arthur's nephew dear,
And late by Augel's death made Alban king,
By Mordred's hand hath lost both life and crown.
There Gilla wounded Cador, Cornish duke,
In hope to win the dukedom for his meed.
The Norway king, the Saxon's duke, and Picts,
In woeful sort fell grovelling to the ground.
There prince and peasant both lay hurl'd on heaps:
Mars frown'd on Arthur's mates: the fates wax'd fierce,
And jointly ran this race with Mordred's rage.
CONAN. But with what joy (alas) shall he return,
That thus returns the happier for this field?
NUNCIUS. These odds endure not long, for Mars retires,
And fortune, pleas'd with Arthur's moderate fear,
Returns more full, and friendlier than her wont.
For when he saw the powers of fates oppos'd,
And that the dreadful hour was hastened on,
Perplexed much in mind at length resolves,
That fear is covered best by daring most.
Then forth he pitch'd: the Saxon duke withstood,
Whom with one stroke he headless sent to hell.
Not far from thence he spied the Irish king,
Whose life he took as price of broken truce.
Then Cador forward pres'd, and haply met
The traitor Gilla, worker of these wars,
Of whom by death he took his due revenge.
The remnant then of both the camps concur,
They Britons all, or most, few foreigns left:
These wage the wars and hence the deaths ensue:
Nor t' one nor t' other side that can destroy
Her foes so fast, as 'tis itself destroyed.
The brethren broach their blood; the sire, the son's
The son again would prove by too much wrath,
That he, whom thus he slew, was not his sire.
No blood nor kin can 'suage their ireful moods:
No foreign foe they seek, nor care to find:
The Briton's blood is sought on every side.
A vain discourse it were to paint at large
The several fates and foils of either side;
To tell what groans and sighs the parting ghosts
Sent forth; who dying bare the fellest breast;
Who changed cheer at any Briton's fall;
Who oft'nest stroke; who best bestow'd his blade;
Who vent'red most; who stood, who fell, who fail'd.
Th' effect declares it all: thus far the field.
Of both these hosts, so huge and main at first,
There were not left on either side a score,
For son and sire to win and lose the realm.
The which when Mordred saw, and that his sire
'Gainst foes and fates themselves would win the field,
He sigh'd and 'twixt despair and rage he cried:
Here (Arthur), here, and hence the conquest comes:
Whiles Mordred lives, the crown is yet unwon!
Hereat the prince of prowess, much amaz'd,
With thrilling tears and count'nance cast on ground,
Did groaning fetch a deep and earnful sigh.
Anon, they fierce encountering both concurr'd
With grisly looks and faces like their fates;
But dispar minds and inward moods unlike.
The sire with mind to safeguard both, or t' one;
The son to spoil the t' one or hazard both.
No fear nor fellness fail'd on either side:
The wager lay on both their lives and bloods.
At length, when Mordred spied his force to faint,
And felt himself oppress'd with Arthur's strength,
(O hapless lad, a match unmeet for him)
He loathes to live in that afflicted state,
And, valiant with a forced virtue, longs
To die the death: in which perplexed mind,
With grenning teeth and crabbed looks he cries,
I cannot win,yet will I not be won.
What! should we shun our fates, or play with Mars,
Or thus defraud the wars of both our bloods?
Whereto do we reserve ourselves, or why
Be we not sought ere this amongst the dead?
So many thousands murther'd in our cause,
Must we survive, and neither win nor lose?
The fates, that will not smile on either side
May frown on both. So saying, forth he flings,
And desperate runs on point of Arthur's sword!
(A sword, alas, prepar'd for no such use),
Whereon engor'd he glides till, near approach'd,
With dying hand he hews his father's head:
So through his own annoy he 'nnoys his liege,
And gains by death access to daunt his sire.
There Mordred fell, but like a prince he fell;
And as a branch of great Pendragon's graft
His life breathes out: his eyes forsake the sun
And fatal clouds infer a lasting 'clipse.
There Arthur staggering scant sustain'd himself;
There Cador found a deep and deadly wound;
There ceas'd the wars, and there was Britain lost!
There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay
The peerless knights, Bellona's bravest train,
There lay the mirrors rare of martial praise,
There lay the hope and branch of Brute suppress'd:
There fortune laid the prime of Britain's pride,
There laid her pomp, all topsy-turvy turn'd.
[ Exit.
THE THIRD SCENE
GILDAS, CONAN.
GILDAS. Come, cruel griefs, spare not to stretch our strengths,
Whiles baleful breasts invite our thumping fists.
Let every sign that mournful passions work,
Express what piteous plights our minds amaze.
This day supplants what no day can supply;
These hands have wrought those wastes, that never age,
For all the brood of Brute shall e'er repair:
That future men may joy the surer rest,
These wars prevent their birth and nip their spring.
What nations erst the former age subdu'd
With hourly toils to Britain's yoke, this day
Hath set at large, and backwards turn'd the fates.
Henceforth the Kerns may safely tread their bogs;
The Scots may now their inroads old renew,
The Saxons well may vow their former claims,
And Danes without their danger drive us out.
These wars found not th' effect of wonted wars,
Nor doth their weight the like impression work:
There several fates annoy'd but several men;
Here all the realm and people find one fate:
What there did reach but to a soldier's death,
Contains the death of all a nation here.
These blades have given this isle a greater wound
Than time can heal--the fruit of civil wars:
A kingdom's hand hath gor'd a kingdom's heart.
CONAN. When fame shall blaze these acts in latter years,
And time to come, so many ages hence,
Shall efts report our toils and British pains;
Or when perhaps our children's children read
Our woful wars display'd with skilful pen,
They'll think they hear some sounds of future facts,
And not the ruins old of pomp long past;
'Twill move their minds to ruth, and frame afresh
New hopes and fears, and vows, and many a wish,
And Arthur's cause shall still be favour'd most.
He was the joy and hope, and hap, of all,
The realm's defence, the sole delay of fates;
He was our wall and fort: twice thirteen years
His shoulders did the Briton state support.
Whiles yet he reign'd, no foreign foes prevail'd,
Nor once could hope to bind the Briton bounds;
But still both far and near were forc'd to fly;
They thrall to us, we to ourselves were free.
But now, and henceforth aye, adieu that hope,
Adieu that pomp, that freedom, rule and all!
Let Saxons now, let Normans, Danes and Scots
Enjoy our meadows, fields, and pleasant plains!
Come, let us fly to mountains, cliffs, and rocks.
A nation hurt, and ne'er in case to heal!
Henceforth, the weight of fates thus fallen aside,
We rest secure from fear of greater foil:
Our leisure serves to think on former times,
And know what erst we were, who now are thus.
[ Exeunt.
CHORUS.
1.
O Britain's prosperous state, were heavenly powers
But half so willing to preseve thy peace,
As they are prone to plague thee for thy wars!
But thus, O gods, yea, thus it likes you still,
When you decree to turn and touse the world,
To make our errors cause of your decrees.
We fretting fume, and burning wax right wood;
We cry for swords and harmful harness crave;
We rashly rave, whiles from our present rage
You frame a cause of long-foredeemed doom.
2.
When Britain so desired her own decay,
That even her native brood would root her up,
Seem'd it so huge a work, O heavens, for you
To tumble down and quite subvert her state,
Unless so many nations came in aid?
What thirst of spoil, O fates! In civil wars
Were you afriad to faint for want of blood?
But yet, O wretched state in Britons fond,
What needed they to stoop to Mordred's yoke,
Or fear the man themselves so fearful made?
Had they but link'd like friends in Arthur's bands,
And join'd their force against the foreign foes,
These wars and civil sins had soon surceas'd,
And Mordred, reft of rule, had fear'd his sire.
3.
Would gods these wars had drawn no other blood,
Than such as sprang from breasts of foreign foes!
So that the fountain, fed with changeless course,
Had found no nearer vents for dearer juice.
Or if the fates so thirst for British blood,
And long so deeply for our last decay,
O, that the rest were spar'd and safe reserv'd.
Both Saxons, Danes, and Normans most of all!
Hereof, when civil wars have worn us out,
Must Britain stand, a borrow'd blood for Brute.
4.
When prosperous haps and long-continuing bliss
Have pass'd the ripeness of their budding growth,
They fall and foulter like the mellow fruit,
Surcharg'd with burden of their own excess:
So fortune, wearied with our often wars,
Is forc'd to faint and leave us to our fates.
If men have minds presaging ought their harms,
If ever heavy heart foreween her woe,
What Briton lives so far remov'd from home,
In any air or pole, or coast abroad,
But that even now, through nature's sole instinct,
He feels the fatal sword imbrue his breast,
Wherewith his native soil for aye is slain!
What hopes and haps lie wasted in these wars!
Who knows the foils he suffered in these fields?
2. In the second scene the ghost of Gorlois returneth rejoicing at his revenge, and wishing ever after a happier fate unto Britain; which done, he descendeth where he first rose.
THE FIFTH ACT AND FIRST SCENE.
ARTHUR, CADOR, CHORUS.
ARTHUR. Come, Cador, as our friendship was most firm
Throughout our age, so now let's link as fast.
Thus did we live in wars, thus let us die
In peace, and arm in arm partake our fates.
Our wounds, our grief, our wish, our hap alike,
Our end so near: all crave each other's help.
CADOR. O king, behold the fruit of all our fame!
Lo, here our pomp, consumed with outselves:
What all our age with all our wars had won,
Lo, here one day hath lost it all at once!
Well, so it likes the heavens: thus fortune gibes;
She hoisteth up to hurl the deeper down.
FIRST CHORUS. O sacred prince! what sight is this we see?
Why have the fates reserved us to these woes?
Our only hope, the stay of all our realm,
The pillar of our state, thus sore oppress'd!
O, would the gods had favour'd us so much,
That as we lived partakers of your pains,
And likewise joy'd the fruit of your exploits,
So having thus bereft our sovereign's bliss,
They had with more indifferent doom conjoin'd
The subjects' both and sovereign's bane in one!
It now (alas) engendereth double grief,
To rue your want and to bewail our woes.
ARTHUR. Rue not, my Britons, what my rage hath wrought,
But blame your king, that thus hath rent your realm.
My meanless moods have made the fates thus fell,
And too much anger wrought in me too much:
For had impatient ire endured abuse,
And yielded where resistance threat'ned spoil,
I mought have lived in foreign coasts unfoil'd,
And six score thousand men had been unmoan'd!
But wrong, incensing wrath to take revenge,
Preferred chance before a better choice.
SECOND CHORUS. 'Twas Mordred's wrong and too unjust deserts
That justly mov'd your highness to such wrath:
Your claim requir'd no less than those attempts:
Your cause right good was prais'd and pray'd for most.
ARTHUR. I claim'd my crown; the cause of claim was good,
The means to claim it in such sort was bad.
Yea, rather than my realm and native soil
Should wounded fall, thus bruised with these wars,
I should have left both realm and right, and all,
Or dur'd the death ordain'd by Mordred's oath.
CADOR. And yet, so far as Mars could bide a mean,
You hateless sought the safeguard of them all:
Whereto the better cause or badder chance
Did draw, you still inclin'd; preferring oft
The weaker side, sometimes for love, sometimes
For right (as fortune sway'd), your son, yourself.
So pity spar'd what reason sought to spoil,
Till all at length with equal spoil was spent.
THIRD CHORUS. Would gods your mind had felt no such remorse,
And that your foes had no such favour found!
So might your friends have had far friendlier fates,
If rebels for their due deserts had died.
The wicked's death is safety to the just;
To spare the traitors was to spoil the true:
Of force he hurts the good that helps the bad.
In that you sought your country's gain, 'twas well:
In that you shunned not her loss, 'twas hard.
Good is the friend that seeks to do us good,
A mighty friend that doth prevent our harms.
ARTHUR. Well, so it was; it cannot be redress'd;
The greater is my grief that sees it so.
My life (I feel) doth fade, and sorrows flow,
The rather that my name is thus extinct;
In this respect, so Mordred did succeed,
O that myself had fall'n and Mordred liv'd!
That having conquer'd all my foes but him,
I mought have left you him, that conquer'd me.
O heavy, wretched lot! to be the last
That falls! to view the burial of my realm!
Where each man else hath felt his several fate,
I only pine, oppress'd with all their fates!
FOURTH CHORUS. Although your highness do sustain such grief,
As needs enforceth all your realm to rue,
Yet since such ruth affordeth no relief,
Let due discretion 'suage each cureless sore,
And bear the harms that run without redress.
The loss is ours, that lose so rare a prince:
You only win, that see your foe here foil'd.
[ The breathless body of MORDRED in armour, as he fell, is brought upon the stage.
ARTHUR. A causeless foe. When wars did call me hence,
He was in years but young, in wit too old.
As virtue shineth most in comeliest wights,
When inward gifts are deck'd with outward grace,
So did his wit and feature feed that hope,
Which falsely train'd me to this woful hap.
His mind transformed thus, I cannot choose
But long to see what change his face sustains.
My blood and kindred, doubled in his birth,
Inspires a mix'd and twice-descending love,
Which drives my dying veins to wish his view.
Unhelm his luckless head, set bare his face,
That face which erst pleas'd me and mine too
much.
FIRST CHORUS. See (worthiest king) the hope of all your realm,
Had not his lust to rule prevented all.
ARTHUR. I see (alas) I see (hide, hide again:
O, spare mine eyes!) a witness of my crimes;
A fearful vision of my former guilt;
A dreadful horror of a future doom,
A present gall of mind. O happy they,
Whose spotless lives attain a dreadless death!
And thou, O hapless boy! O spite of fates!
(What mought I term thee--nephew, son, or both?)
Alas! how happy should we both have been,
If no ambitious thought had vex'd thy head,
Nor thou thus striv'd to reave thy father's rule,
But stay'd thy time, and not forestall'd us both!
CADOR. The hot-spurr'd youth, that forc'd the forward steeds,
Whiles needs he would his father's chariot guide,
Neglecting what his sire had said in charge:
The fires which first he flung about the poles,
Himself at last, most woful wretch, inflam'd.
So too much love to hover in the heavens
Made him to pay the price of rash attempts.
ARTHUR. What ruth (ah), rent the woful father's heart,
That saw himself thus made a sonless sire!
Well, since both heavens and hell conspir'd in one
To make our ends a mirror to the world,
Both of incestuous life and wicked birth,
Would gods the fates, that link'd our faults alike,
Had also fram'd our minds of friendlier moulds!
That as our lineage had approach'd too near,
So our affections had not swerv'd too far.
Then mought, I['ve] lived t' enlarge the Britons' praise
In rearing efts the first triumphant Troy,
And after thou, succeeding mine attempts,
Have spent thy courage in a juster cause.
But 'twould not be: ambition grew too great;
We could not join our minds--our fates we join'd,
And through thy blood a way was made to mine.
SECOND CHORUS. And must we needs (O worthiest peers) forego
By this untimely fate our greatest hope?
That in your ripest years and likeliest time
Your chiefest force should on this sudden fall?
[THIRD CHORUS.] See, see our idle hopes, our brittle trust,
[FOURTH CHORUS.] Our vain desires, our over-fickle state
Which, though a while they sail on quiet seas,
Yet sink in surge, ere they arrive to road.
O woful wars! O Mordred's cursed pride,
That thus hath wrought both king and kingdom's woe!
CADOR. Let plaints and mournings pass; set moans apart.
They made much of themselves, yea, too--too much;
They lov'd to live that, seeing all their realm
Thus topsy-turvy turn, would grudge to die.
ARTHUR. Yea, sure: since thus (O fates) your censure seems,
That free from force of foreign foes, there rests
That Mordred reap the glory of our deaths,
B' it so: drive on your doom, work your decree:
We fearless bide what bane soe'er you bid.
And though our ends, thus hastened to your hests,
Abruptly break the course of great attempts,
Yet go we not inglorious to the ground:
Set wish apart, we have perform'd enough.
The Irish king and nation wild we tam'd;
The Scots and Picts, and Orcade Isles, we wan;
The Danes and Goths, and Friesland men, with all
The Isles inserted near those seas; and next
The German king and Saxons we subdu'd.
Not France that could prevail against our force,
Nor lastly Rome, that rues her pride suppress'd.
Each foreign power is parcel of our praise:
No titles want to make our foes afraid.
This only now I crave (O fortune! erst
My faithful friend): let it be soon forgot,
Nor long in mind nor mouth, where Arthur fell:
Yea, though I conqueror die, and full of fame,
Yet let my death and parture rest obscure.
No grave I need (O fates!) Nor burial rights,
Nor stately hearse, nor tomb with haughty top;
But let my carcase lurk; yea, let my death
Be aye unknowen, so that in every coast
I still be fear'd, and look'd for every hour.
[ Exeunt ARTHUR and CADOR.
CHORUS.
1.
Lo, here the end that fortune sends at last
To him, whom first she heav'd to highest hap!
The flattering look, wherewith he long was led;
The smiling fates, that oft had fed his fame,
The many wars and conquests which he gain'd,
Are dash'd at once: One day infers that foil,
Whereof so many years of yore were free.
2.
O willing world to magnify man's state!
O most unwilling to maintain the same!
Of all misfortunes and unhappy fates
Th' unhappiest seems to have been happy once.
'Twas Arthur sole, that never found his joys
Disturb'd with woe, nor woes reliev'd with joy.
In prosperous state all heavenly pow'rs aspir'd;
Now, made a wretch, not one that spares his spoil!
3.
Yea, fortune's self in this afflicted case
Exacts a pain for long-continued pomp.
She urgeth now the bliss of wonted weal,
And bears him down wiht weight of former fame.
His praises past be present shame. O tickle trust,
Whiles fortune chops and changeth every chance,
What certain bliss can we enjoy alive,
Unless, whiles yet our bliss endures, we die?
4.
Yea, since before his last and utmost gasp
None can be deem'd a happy man or bless'd,
Who dares commit himself to prosperous fates,
Whose death prepar'd attends not hard at hand:
That sithence death must once determine all,
His life may sooner fly, than fortune flit.
THE SECOND SCENE.
GORLOIS.
GORLOIS. Now, Gorlois, 'suage thyself. Pride hath his pay,
Murther his price, adult'ry his desert,
Treason his meed, disloyalty his doom,
Wrong hath his wreak, and guilt his guerdon bears!
Not one abuse erst offered by thy foes,
But, since most sternly punish'd, is now purg'd.
Where thou didst fall, ev'n on the self-same soil,
Pendragon, Arthur, Mordred, and their stock
Found all their foils: not one hath 'scaped revenge;
Their line from first to last quite razed out!
Now rest content, and work no further plagues:
Let future age be free from Gorlois' ghost:
Let Britain henceforth bathe in endless weal.
Let Virgo come from heaven, the glorious star,
The Zodiac's joy, the planets' chief delight,
The hope of all the year, the ease of skies,
The air's relief, the comfort of the earth!
That virtuous Virgo, born for Britain's bliss;
That peerless branch of Brute; that sweet remain
Of Priam's state; that hope of springing Troy,
Which, time to come and many ages hence,
Shall of all wars compound eternal peace.
Let her reduce the golden age again,
Religion, ease, and wealth of former world.
Yea, let that Virgo come, and Saturn's reign,
And years, oft ten times told, expir'd in peace.
A rule that else no realm shall ever find,
A rule most rare, unheard, unseen, unread;
The sole example that the world affords.
That (Britain), that renown, yea, that is thine.
B' it so: my wrath is wrought. Ye furies black
And ugly shapes, that howl in holes beneath:
Thou Orcus dark, and deep Avernus nook,
With dukish dens out-gnawn in gulfs below,
Receive your ghastly charge, Duke Gorlois' ghost!
Make room! I gladly, thus reveng'd, return!
And though your pain surpass, I greet them tho!
He hates each other heaven, that haunteth hell.
[ Descendit.
EPILOGUS.
See here by this the tickle trust of time:
The false affiance of each mortal force;
The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace,
That fortune trips; the many mocks of life;
The cheerless change, the easeless brunts and broils,
That man abides, the restless race he runs.
But most of all, see here the peerless pains:
The lasting pangs, the stintless griefs, the tears:
The sighs, the groans, the fears, the hopes, the hates:
The thoughts and cares, that kingly pomp imparts.
What follies, then, bewitch th' ambitious minds,
That thirst for sceptre's pomp, the well of woes!
Whereof (alas!) should wretched man be proud,
Whose first conception is but sin, whose birth
But pain, whose life but toil, and needs must die?
See here the store of great Pendragon's brood,
The t'one quite dead, the t'other hastening on:
As men, the son but green, the sire but ripe,
Yet both forestall'd, ere half their race were run!
As kings, the mightiest monarchs of this age,
Yet both suppressed and vanquished by themselves.
Such is the brittle breath of mortal man,
Whiles human nature works her daily wracks:
Such be the crazed crests of glorious crowns,
Whiles worldly powers like sudden puffs do pass.
And yet for one that goes, another comes;
Some born, some dead: so still the store endures.
So that both fates and common care provide,
That men must needs be born, and some must rule.
Wherefore, ye peers and lordings, lift aloft,
And whosoe'er in thrones that judge your thralls,
Let not your sovereignty heave you too high,
Nor their subjection press them down too low.
It is not pride that can augment your power,
Nor lowly looks that long can keep them safe.
The fates have found a way whereby, ere long,
The proud must leave their hope, the meek their fear.
Whoe'er received such favour from above,
That could assure one day unto himself?
Him whom the morning found both stout and strong,
The evening left all grovelling on the ground.
This breath and heat, wherewith man's life is fed,
Is but a flash or flame, that shines a while,
And once extinct is, as it ne'er had been.
Corruption hourly frets the body's frames;
Youth tends to age, and age to death by kind.
Short is the race, prefixed is the end;
Swift is the time, wherein man's life doth run:
But by his deeds t'extend renowm and fame,
That only virtue works, which never fades.
FINIS.
Sat citò, si sat benè: utcunque,
Quoad non dat spes, dat optio.
Hereafter follow such speeches as were penned by others, and pronounced instead of some of the former speeches penned by Thomas Hughes.
A speech penned by William Fulbecke, gentleman, one of the society of Gray'sInn, and pronounced instead of Gorlois in his first speech penned by Thomas Hughes, and set down in the first Scene of the first Act.
Alecto, thou that hast excluded me
From fields Elysian, where the guiltless souls
Avoid the scourge of Rhadamanthus ire,
Let it be lawful (sith I am removed
From blessed islands to this cursed shore,
This loathed earth, where Arthur's table stands,
With ordure foul of Harpies' fierce distained)
The fates and hidden secrets to disclose
Of black Cocytus and of Acheron,
The floods of death, the lakes of burning souls,
Where hellish frogs do prophesy revenge;
Where Tartar sprites with careful heed attend
The dismal summons of Alecto's mouth.
Myself by precept of Proserpina
Commanded was in presence to appear
Before the synod of the damned sprites.
In fearful mood I did perform their hest,
And, at my entrance in, th' enchanted snakes,
Which wrap themselves about the furies' necks,
Did hiss for joy: and from the dreadful bench
The supreme fury thus assign'd her charge.
Gorlois, quoth she, thou thither must ascend,
Whence, through the rancour of malicious foes,
Wearied with wounds thou didst descend to us.
Make Britain now the mark of thy revenge:
On ruthless Britons and Pendragon's race
Disburse the treasure of thy hellish plagues.
Let blood contend with blood, father with son,
Subject with prince, and let confusion reign.
She therewithal enjoin'd the dusky clouds,
Which with their darkness turn'd the earth to hell,
Convert to blood, and pour down streams of blood.
Cornwall shall groan, and Arthur's soul shall sigh:
Before the conscience of Guenevera
The map of hell shall hang, and fiends shall rage;
And Gorlois' ghost exacting punishment
With dreams, with horrors, and with deadly trance,
Shall gripe their hearts: the vision of his corse
Shall be to them, as was the terror vile
Of flaming whips to Agamemnon's son.
And when the trumpet calls them from their rest,
Aurora shall with wat'ry cheeks behold
Their slaughtered bodies prostrate to her beams:
And on the banks of Camela shall lie
The bones of Arthur and of Arthur's knights,
Whose fleet is now triumphing on the seas,
But shall be welcom'd with a tragedy.
Thy native soil shall be thy fatal gulf,
Arthur: thy place of birth thy place of death.
Mordred shall be the hammer of my hate
To beat the bones of Cornish lords to dust.
Ye ravening birds under Celoeno's power,
I do adjure you, in Alecto's name,
Follow the sword of Mordred where he goes;
Follow the sword of Mordred for your food.
Aspiring Mordred, thou must also die,
And on the altar of Proserpina
Thy vital blood unto my ghost shall fume.
Heaven, earth, and hell concur to plague the man,
That is the plague of heaven, earth, and hell!
Thou bidd'st, Alecto: I pursue my charge.
Let thy Cerastæ whistle in mine ears,
And let the bells of Pluto ring revenge!
Death hath his conquest, hell hath had his wish,
Gorlois his vow, Alecto her desire;
Sin hath his pay, and blood is quit with blood:
Revenge in triumph bears the struggling hearts!
Now, Gorlois, pierce the craggy rocks of hell,
Through chinks whereof infernal sprites do glance,
Return this answer to the furies' court:
That Cornwall trembles with the thought of war,
And Tamar's flood with drooping pace doth flow,
For fear of touching Camel's bloody stream.
Britain, remember; write it on thy walls,
Which neither time nor tyranny may raze,
That rebels, traitors, and conspirators,
The seminary of lewd Catiline,
The bastard covey of Italian birds,
Shall feel the flames of ever-flaming fire,
Which are not quenched with a sea of tears.
And since in thee some glorious star must shine,
When many years and ages are expir'd,
Whose beams shall clear the mist of miscontent,
And make the damp of Pluto's pit retire,
Gorlois will never fray the Britons more:
For Britain then becomes an angel's land.
Both devils and sprites must yield to angels' power,
Unto the goddess of the angels' land.
Vaunt, Britain, vaunt of her renowmed reign,
Whose face deters the hags of hell from thee,
Whose virtues hold the plagues of heaven from
thee;
Whose presence makes the earth fruitful to thee;
And with foresight of her thrice-happy days,
Britain, I leave thee to an endless praise.
Besides these speeches there was also penned a Chorus for the first act, and another for the second act, by Master Francis Flower, which were pronounced accordingly. The dumb shows were partly devised by Master Christopher Yelverton, Master Francis Bacon, Master John Lancaster and others, partly by the said Master Flower, who with Master Penruddock and the said Master Lancaster, directed these proceedings at Court.
Legends/Sagas
ARTELOISE.
A ROMANCE OF KING ARTHUR AND KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE
by
J. DUNBAR HYLTON, M.D., LL.D.
PART FIRST.
ARGUMENT.
THE ORIGIN OF THE TALE.
Arthur, King of England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. A Partial List of the Knights of the Round Table. Their Usefulness. The Feast at Camelot. The Tournament; Beau De Main is by King Arthur Declared Victor; is Crowned with a Wreath by Clotilda. A Description of that Maid. Her Birth and Education. An Old Man Enters at the Feast with a Sword. Hands the same to the King. All Endeavor to Draw it from the Sheath, and all Fail to do so except Beau De Main, who Draws it Easily. A Description of the Sword. A Description of Arthur's Halls. The Old Man and Beau De Main go on a Quest. They Reach the Cave of a Dragon. A Description of the Monster. The Knight's Prayer for Victory. He Slays the Monster. He Passes with his Guide Through a Secret Passage to the Towers of Arteloise. A Description of Those Bulwarks. His Conquest of the Place, which Ends the First Day.
PART SECOND.
ARGUMENT.
Time--Night. The Knight with his Guide seeks an Entrance to the Towers. They see Wizards Dancing round a Skull, within which Burns a Light. They give Battle to the Knight and are Overthrown. He Extinguishes their Light by the Dragon's Blood. The Towers Reel and Rock, and over all Instantly is Wrought a Change. The Hymn of the Captives. They are sought for and set at Liberty, but their Succor arrives too late. They Die of Exhaustion while Drinking from a Fountain of Water. The Towers and all their Halls are Explored. The Strange and Wonderful Scenes therein Found. The Prophet of the Shrine. His Anger at seeing the Deathless Jew. The Jew Confronts him with equal Scorn. After a Wordy War the Prophet strikes his Shield with his Sword, which sets up a Terrible Noise. Then the Prophet Mysteriously Disappears.
ARGUMENT.
A Continuation of the Description of the Scenes of Wonder found within the Towers of Arteloise. The Sculptured Walls, Floors and Ceiling Described. The Guide's Sudden Disappearance. The Knight enters the Forbidden Halls, where Dwell the Spirits of Fire. He Fights with them and they are Overthrown. Their Wonderful Book. He passes on to another Hall, and finds Clotilda and her Attendant Maidens lying on Couches in an Enchanted Sleep, brought about by the Artifice of Merlin. He Overthrows all the Temptations of Sin. The Halls Catch on Fire. His Prayer for Deliverance. The Place is suddenly filled with a Polar Atmosphere, which as suddenly becomes Heated, and Expands and Blows the Place to Atoms, leaving Clotilda and her Maidens Unharmed and still Asleep.
ARGUMENT.
Griselda, the Daughter of King Pellinore, meets the Knight on his Passage to another Tower, wherein is Heard Melodious Music. Description of Griselda. She goes with the Knight to Slay a Dragon that has Guarded the Cyclops' Treasures for Two Thousand Years. They meet the Dragon at the Mouth of his Cavern. The Knight gives Battle to the Dragon, and while the Monster's Breast is Impaled on the boss of his Shield Griselda Pierces it to Death with Arrows from her Bow. At this Necromancy gives a Dying Groan. The Hills around Quake, and a General Change Overtakes the Appearance of the Valley. The Moon Rises. How all Nature Looks under the Brightness of her Beams. Both the Maiden and the Knight tell how they have Sought for the Holy Grail. Sweet Music issues from everything Around, and Lulls all Nature to Sweet Repose. Two Songs, coming from an Unknown Source, are Sung and are Paradox. Again all Space and Earth are Teeming with Music. The Heavens show Wonderful Signs, and a Bridge of Light Instantly Spans from the Sky to the Hill whereon stand the Knight and Maiden, and a Throng of Angels come Descending on the Bridge, Bearing to the Knight and Maiden the Holy Grail. It is Given to the Two, and after the Foremost Angel Pours a Blessing on the Maid and Knight they take their Departure over the bright Bridge of Light back to Heaven, which Ends the First Night.
ARGUMENT.
The Second Day Arrives. The Sunrise. How the Earth and all Nature are Delighted at his Coming, and how everything Shines, Grows and Teems with Life under the Glory of his Beams. Griselda Carries the Holy Grail to where Clotilda and her Maidens still Lie in their Enchanted Sleep. She Wakens them. Clotilda tells how Merlin Wrought his Enchantment over them. Merlin's Sudden Appearance. A Description of him. His Wishes. His Prophecies. Two Great Battles to be Fought. He requests Beau De Main to go to the Polar Regions and bring away his Daughter, Ursula, who has there been Sleeping an Enchanted Sleep for over Six Hundred Years. Fate has Decreed that no one shall Waken her but Beau De Main. King Arthur and his Knights arrive at the Towers of Arteloise. The Deathless Jew leads them to the Dragon's Cave, from which they carry the Enormous Treasures of the Giants of Old and their Cyclops Allies. A Description of the Wonderful Amount of Treasure. Lions, Elephants and all manner of Beast are there found cast out of Solid Gold. The Knight, with the Deathless Jew, sets sail, which Ends the Second Day. As the Mortal-made Armor that he wears would be useless in Battle against the Polar Spirits he has to obtain Arms wrought by Vulcan. His Guide steers the Barge to the Straits of Hercules. They enter the Mediterranean Sea and sail to the Isle of Sicily, where they enter the Gorge that leads them to the Forges of Vulcan. A Description of the Place. Vulcan measures the Knight for a Suit of Armor. His Forges glow and his three Cyclops Smiths aid in building the Armor. It is completed and the Knight dons it. A General Description of Vulcan's Wonderful Workmanship, of the Shield and its artistic engraving. A Spear of Enormous Size and Strength is next forged. Then an Axe of Redundant Brightness. Then the Sword is forged by Vulcan and all three of his Cyclops Smiths. Vulcan places a Vast Wedge on an Anvil, and, with one terrific blow, cuts both Wedge and Anvil in two with the Sword, without the least injury to its keenness. The Knight with his Armor leaves Vulcan's Works, guided by the Jew. They sail to the Polar Seas. A General Description of the Whole Place. The Beasts there found Frozen in the Ice. What caused the Polar Mountains of Ice. An Open Sea found. How it Originated, and for what Purpose. The Knight meets the Might of the Polar Spirits. A Battle ensues, in which those Spirits are Overthrown. Ursula found and roused from her Sleep. Is brought away to Britain. A Description of the Places they pass, which Ends the Second Night.
ARGUMENT.
The Birth, Life and Education of Ursula. Her Fondness for the Tourney, caused by the Teaching of her Sire, Merlin. Her Cruelty and Pride. The Knight carries her to the Halls of King Arthur, where the Extreme Beauty of her Charms creates Quite an Excitement amongst the Heroes of the Round Table, and even on the King. A Herald enters, bearing a Broken Cross, and tells of the Approach of the Invading Roman Fleet. Amidst the Darkness and Confusion that ensues Ursula and the Jew depart and Night sets in, which closes the Third Day. The King orders the Fires for Signals of Distress to be lit on the Hill-tops, to warn his Allies of his and their own Danger. Their glow lights up the Hills, and soon the answering Signals are seen. The Forges are all fired and the old armor repaired, and new ones made. A General Description of the Stir and Activity displayed amongst the Troops throughout the Night. King Arthur, armed and on horseback, departs from his Followers. His Adventures. His Prayer. The History of the Deathless Jew. His Mode of Setting Fire to the Roman Fleet. He suddenly Departs in Search of Beau de Main, and the King and Ursula are left alone on the Hill for the Night. Their Admiration for each other, which Ends the Third Night.
ARGUMENT.
Day Dawns. The Gathering of the Allies and Preparing for Battle. Their Appearance in Battle Array. The Names of some of King Arthur's Knights. A Description of the Roman Host. The Appearance of the Prophet of the Shrine. He Marshals his Host for Battle. The First Day's Battle. The Determination of either Host to Win. The Heroic Deeds of Arthur and Beau de Main. Ursula and the Deathless Jew with their Mirrors Fire the Roman Fleet. Its Destruction. Night closing in, puts an end to the First Day's Battle, which ends the Fourth Day. After Sentinels are placed to Watch the Enemy, the Britons take Rest and Refreshments. Arthur and Beau de Main Discover Clotila wounded on the Battle-Field amongst the Slain. How she became Wounded. Her Death. Their Sorrow over her Fate. They then both go to the Tent of King Pellinore. A Description of that King. Arthur and his Knights join in the Feast that is there Spread. Pellinore Sings a Love Tale. When the Song ends he finds Arthur and his Knights fast asleep. Day Dawns. Both Armies Drawn up in Battle Array. How they Looked. The Second Day's Battle. The Fierceness of the Conflict. A Knight sheathed in White Armor rides up to the Roman Line that walled in the Prophet from Harm. He breaks through it. Drives his Spear through the Prophet, and while he is in the act of Falling the Knight Cuts his Head off, and casts it up high in air to the view of all. The Desperate Struggle of Arthur, Beau de Main and Pellinore to save the life of the Knight in White Armor. He is killed by the Romans. The Earth Quakes, and Merlin arises amidst the Battle. His Magic Banner. It waves in Windless Air as in a Storm. A Description of the Banner. The Battle ends with the Total Destruction of the Roman Army. The Earth Quakes, and Merlin, wrapping his Banner around his child, departs mysteriously. A general silence ensues. All being Over-fatigued with the Toil of Day, Rest where they are, Night having closed in. Griselda, with the Holy Grail, meets Beau de Main. They exchange mutual Sentiments of Love. The Deathless Jew Approaches them, Joins their Hands, Blesses them and tells them that he is a Rabbi and that they are Wed, which closes the Story.
DEDICATION
TO MY SON.
Among the many races found
Within wide Nature's spacious bound
Breathes there a maiden or a youth,
Or aged dame, or man, forsooth,
Who does not lend a willing ear
Strange stories of the Past to hear?
Though they be wild and void of truth
As is a rock of love or ruth,
Be wild as ever Fiction drew,
Or in Romance's regions grew,
If in the tale were love and woe,
And pains and joys we mortals know,
And feel and love or hate and fear,
The story finds a willing ear.
The Arabian Nights shall please
Both old and young, on land or seas,
While ages on their flight proceed
As in the past, where man can read.
Though Homer's songs three thousand years
Have sounded on the human ears,
Three thousand years to come and more
His songs shall sound on every shore,
Wherever breathes a human soul
Whose feeling noble thoughts control.
He'll be the rich, exhaustless mine,
Where delighted sport the Sacred Nine.
When but a boy behind my plow
I sang his songs, and sing them now;
Nor shall he ever cease to charm
Me through all toil, and it disarm
Of weariness, and pain and care,
And all that doth make wear and tear
On human tissue, but keep me strong,
While toiling I shall sing his song.
Oft when a boy my teachers sought
On Euclid's page to bind my thought,
In problems there my mind involve
Archimedes might gladly solve.
Away from them I swiftly slid,
Within the woods all day I hid,
And read Shah Nameh or the Cid,
Or, foodless, there I dwelt all day,
Feasting on the Nibelungen Lay.
Tasso's or Virgil's songs I read,
Or tales of Dante filled my head;
Nor in those days I e'er forgot
The immortal poet, Walter Scott.
But all the bards of ancient time,
Or modern days, whate'er their rhyme,
Of Southern or of Northern clime,
Of lands throughout the East or West,
Old Ossian I then loved the best
He was my solace, my delight,
My joy by day, my dream by night.
The more I conned him o'er and o'er
The more he warmed my bosom's core.
His tales of love, and war, and woe,
Made all my soul with wonder glow.
Whole days and nights did Ossian's page
Enraptured all my soul engage.
Fingal's great deeds, in war and peace,
His triumphs, his glory's grand increase,
My boyish soul with daring fraught,
Till seemed beside that king I fought;
Seemed I rushed with Ossian o'er the field,
And met the battle on my bossy shield;
Stood by the tuneful warrior's side,
And wept with him when noble Oscar died.
No matter what or how we sing,
Or strike the lyre's sounding string,
If short or long, we make the line
When come in aid the tuneful Nine,
If we some noble feelings bring
Within the tales we tell or sing--
Something to move the joy or woe,
Or yearnings that we mortals know,
No matter if we limn the form
Of the grim spirit of the storm,
Place him on heights stupendous hurled,
Midst clouds above a moving world,
His meteor-banner there unfurled
To storms and lightnings round him twirled
Or place him on the ocean's wave,
To give the bounding bark its grave,
So that we fill the human soul
With wonder, pity, joy or dole;
Teach there's a path that should be trod
By mortals that leads up to God.
Where they shall view the final end--
One Judge, one God, one Father, Friend;
Or if we limn the rainbow's form
At eve, amidst the dying storm,
And paint the hills with sunset glow,
While floods his beams of glory show,
While skipping lambs and grazing sheep
All peaceful throng the glassy steep,
And shepherds watchful vigils keep;
Or paint with every rural charm
The pleasures on a Jersey farm,
Where every joy of mortal life
Around has Nature scattered rife;
Or lead the reader through a vale,
Flowers all sides the eye assail,
Into the fields of choicest fruits,
To pluck whate'er his fancy suits,
No matter what we tell or sing,
So strictly we to Nature cling--
Nature, man's mortal, final goal,
When God emancipates his soul;
Nature that unto dust shall bring
His form and every mortal thing,
And scatter on the tempest's pride
His dust o'er all her regions wide;
And who at last shall bow her head,
And, hoary, slumber with the dead--
That path be by her spirit trod
That brings us face to face with God.
Some mortals on this planet dwell
Who doubt all things that poets tell,
Believe no more that Arthur lived
Than mountains through a screen were sieved
Of meshes half an inch in size
Ere they did from earth's surface rise,
Though there were just as huge and vast
As now when they those meshes past.
They even doubt this spacious earth
From the Almighty had its birth,
That it alone through Chance was born,
And all the worlds that space adorn;
But who is Chance? Who did all this?
Who formed all Space's vast abyss?
How Chance did into being move
And make all things they cannot prove,
And when we all their theories view,
And search and sift them through and through,
We find their theories all unsound,
And they the only liars found.
That Arthur lived I well believe,
It a historic truth receive,
And see no more to doubt in him
Than fish do in the waters swim,
Or birds fly through the yielding air,
Or earth blooms with its flowers fair,
Or storms the waves of ocean roll
With force no mortal can control;
Or that the hills my hands can lift,
And them from off their bases shift.
Or I the sun could drag to earth,
And place him on my little hearth;
Or I could stop the Comet's car,
And load it with the Polar Star.
Yea, let the skeptics doubt the birth
Of good King Arthur on this earth,
Deny him all his fame and worth,
And prowess of unmeasured girth;
We'll war 'gainst them both day and night,
And we shall conquer in the fight.
My son, the winds are wild and shrill,
They drive the snow o'er glen and hill;
The night with all its clouds is stored,
And not a planet is abroad;
Deep darkness fills all sky and space,
And over all of Nature's face
No object through the night we trace.
But let the night be as it will,
And blasts scream over moor and hill,
Warm beside our blazing hearth,
We'll listen to the tempest's mirth;
Be just as happy and as gay
As winds that rough the forests sway.
Come, let's broach the ruddy wine,
Drink healths unto the Sacred Nine,
And to the Spirit of the Soil,
Who ever doth reward man's toil.
Hail to the Spirit of the Land,
Who gives us food on every hand,
Who fills the earth with germs of life,
And crowns it all with fruitage rife;
Who makes the vine on hill and field
Its purple, ample harvest yield,
From which we press the luscious wine,
Which fills the veins with glow divine--
Hail! hail to Ceres ever blest!
May every bliss her heart invest!
The goddess of the wholesome corn,
That doth with vigor man adorn,
That gives him muscle, brain and bone,
And spirit of a lofty tone;
Hail to the goddess, all divine,
And to her daughter, Proserpine,
Who crown the earth with corn and wine!
Who make the vine yield well and live
When man it proper care will give.
My song unto its end has run,
And now its dedication's done.
Come, bring the wine; 'tis Christmas Eve,
Maids round the altars flowers weave;
To-morrow brings the happy morn
The Saviour of this World was born.
ARTELOISE.
PART I.
I.
A story of our fathers
In the misty days of old,
Their deeds of daring and their tourneys,
Their battles fierce and bold;
Their high feasts and merry meetings,
Their love, their hate, their joys and woes,
And of their dread necromancers
This ancient story shall disclose.
And how in Etna's fiery caves,
Within the mighty Cyclops' den,
Were forged on thundering anvils,
Immortal arms for godlike men.
The shield no earthly spear could pierce,
The breakless, adamantine helm,
The sword and axe, that aye in fight
Would every enemy o'erwhelm.
The morion before whose sheen
The hardiest foemen quail,
By the light it threw, full well they knew
Immortal Vulcan forged the mail.
And how in rocky caves of hills,
Guarded safe by dragons bold,
Lie enormous hoarded treasures
Of glittering gems and gold.
And how a knight of fearless prowess,
With soul untouched by mortal sin,
As prophesied by Merlin's breath,
Did the countless treasure win.
Of gallant knights and ladies fair,
Whom grisly giants sought to wrong;
Of courts of kings and castles strange,
I yet shall tell you in this song.
II.
A king in ancient Britain reigned,
For high valor far renowned;
Before him no greater hero lived,
And since no greater can be found.
He ruled o'er all merry England,
Fair Scotland, Ireland, and Wales,
And many Islands of the deep
The far distant sea assails.
In peace and war was he renowned,
And good King Arthur was his name;
O'er Christendom where mortal lived
Was spread wide his deathless fame.
And many knights and chiefs had he,
Of mighty prowess and of worth,
Whose gallant deeds of hardihood
Ever shall be sung on earth;
Their many battles, fierce and bold,
With proud princes and with kings;
With monsters, dreadful to behold,
Dragons and infernal things,
Shall down the corridors of time,
Come on poet's deathless song,
And how they, aye, upbuoyed the right,
And bore ever down the wrong.
How day and night in armour bright,
They ever sought for perils new;
To crush the cruel, faithless, vile--
Aid the noble, good, and true.
III.
There was Lancelot de Lake,
With glittering sword and shield,
Who, aye, ready was for lady's sake
His conquering blade to wield.
And Sir Tristeam, the bold and strong,
The proud, fear-defying chief,
Who ever warr'd 'gainst others' wrong,
Soothed and lessened others' grief.
There was Gawaine, Kings Bore and Ban,
All desperate men in fray;
And Bedivere, who, in the van
Of glory, shone both night and day.
And there was Percivale, the famed,
With the helmet crushing mace;
And gallant Lionell, who claimed,
In field and foray, foremost place.
There was Galahad, the divine,
Loved of angels and the Lord;
Who hung upon religions' shrine,
All the trophies of his sword.
There was Aglovale, of giant limb,
There was Tor, and Pelinore;
All knights in peril, bold and grim,
And full a thousand heroes more
Who made renowned the Table Round;
For knights of prowess and of worth--
Whose fame through fleeting times hall go
'Till deeds heroic fade from earth.
True knights who by King Arthur's side,
Full, twelve times, in bloody fray,
Crushed down the Roman ranks of pride;
And overwhelmed them with dismay.
Save King Arthur, of all that Train,
For deeds of hardihood and worth
Was none like valiant Beau de Main
'Mongst all the heroes of the earth.
True knight was he to friend or foe,
In time of peace and battle grim;
A heart more true in weal or woe,
Ne'er sent blood through human limb.
He was the knight of prowess bold,
And of sin untainted soul;
Whom the voice of Merlin had foretold,
Should the power alone control
That should slay the dragon fierce and grim,
Within a cavern dark and drear;
And monsters of gigantic limb
That guarded hoarded treasures there.
And bring the hoard from out that den,
With spirit void of mortal fears--
Though it had hidden been from men,
Twice one thousand fleeting years.
IV.
A royal feast at Camelot,
Had the noble Arthur spread,
Nor was there a single knight forgot
Who did glory's pathway tread;
All knights renowned of the Table Round,
And kings were gathered there, I ween,
There many a comely knight was found
And many a courteous queen;
The morning fair midst tourney sports,
Had most blithely past away,
The din throughout King Arthur's courts
Had sprightly rung of mimic fray;
The ground where it had been all strown,
With wreck'd and splintered spears was seen,
And plumes of every color known
With these were spread o'er all the green.
Had storms of lightning and of hail,
Fiercely over woodlands past,
And countless branches strown the gale,
And broken on the earth had cast;
And there unnumbered flowers brought
Of all shape and size and hue;
And strewing them 'midst limbs had sought
To hide the grassy earth from view;
It had resembled much the ground
Where had past that mimic fray,
Where shivered spears were cast around,
And torn plumes unnumbered lay;
And that grand morning's tourney prize
The gallant Beau de Main had won,
He 'neath King Arthur's judging eyes
The knightliest deeds had done;
And never breathed a man on earth
More fitter than that gallant king,
To judge a hero's knightly worth,
And deed of skill in tourney ring.
A mighty helm of flashing steel,
With purest ruddy gold inlaid,
That o'er it waving plumes reveal
That day as prize the Monarch made.
And on the head of Beau de Main
Was placed that helm by Arthur's hand,
While joyous shouts from all his Train
Reechoed loud across the land;
The fairest of the maidens there
Forth stepped from out the female crowd,
With wreath as fair as queen could wear,
On knee to her the hero bowed;
Firm on his head the wreath was placed,
Where waved the towering plumes above;
Then spoke the maid, A wreath ne'er graced
Chief fitter maiden's faith, and love;
And I have crowned thee here, Sir Knight
Champion of the Chaste and fair,
May virtue be thy guiding light,
And woman's honor be thy care.
V.
All knights renowned of the Table Round
Have thronged unto the festive board,
Ceased is the clanging armor's sound,
And ringing clash of spear and sword,
With sparkling wave the cups are crowned,
For in them ruddy wine is poured;
And not a care-worn face is found
From humblest knight to proudest lord.
All is merry feasting, joy and mirth,
In every stir and sight and sound,
Nor happier scenes has witnessed earth
Since ever hero kings were crowned,
By knights where e'er the eye may go,
Are all beauteous maidens seen,
The best the whole wide world can show
In comeliness of face and mien.
Each gallant baron, king and knight,
Has his fair partner by his side,
For whose fair name and honor bright
He unto deed of death would ride.
The fair Gunever ever blest
With sweetest charms in beauty stored,
Sits with heart at ease and soul at rest,
Beside her loved and loving lord;
But those who'd know each beauteous guest
That sat around that spacious board,
Let them through Arthur's annals quest,
The tales will well their time reward!
Of her who sat by Beau de Main
It will be my duty here to tell:
Of all the maids 'neath Arthur's reign
She did in comeliness excell,
Her eyes were like the living light
Of meteors born of blue,
And from each orb, so starry bright,
A generous soul looked through
Her face like garden of the East
When summer blooms in all her prime,
Roses red and white the showers feast,
Do all commingling bloom sublime.
A nobler head and fairer brow
Was never seen with mortal maid,
Nor through all the ages until now
Were such wavy, golden locks surveyed;
As opening rose her mouth was sweet,
Never yet did rubier lip
The searching eye of nature greet,
Nor from a mortal goblet sip.
White as the foam the billows show,
Heaved 'neath gauzy silk her bosom fair.
As golden sushine cast on snow
O'er neck and shoulders stream'd her hair;
Her white round arms were like the down
That waves upon the autumn field,
That with snowy loveliness doth crown
The dark brown hulls that did it yield.
A form more perfect and more fair,
By nature crowned with nobler grace,
Ne'er trod the earth, nor breathed its air,
Nor did those of mortal mold embrace.
A foot more light, yet firm than hers,
Upon this world has never trod;
Not lighter summer's zephyr stirs
That bows no grass along the sod,
Her tread was like the fleecy snow
That touches on the river's face,
But ruffles not its tranquil flow,
Nor leaves behind the slightest trace;
Her voice was soft as wind that sighs
At summer through the sultry vale,
Sweet as perfumes that on it rise--
From violets, rose and lillies pale!
VI.
No wonder that the maid was fair,
And famed for beauty o'er the earth,
For from a bright immortal pair
'Twas said that maiden drew her birth.
A pair of angels, so the story runs,
Left their heavenly homes of yore,
To journey space and view the suns,
And countless planets to explore;
From world to world, from star to star,
The adventurous angels flew,
And where the comets blazed afar
All grand, but terrible to view;
And while amidst the realms of space,
Where worlds on worlds unnumbered glow'd
And over all creation's face
Their blazing lights eternal flowed.
Amidst the boundless realms afar,
A world they saw in glowing azure drest
That seem'd to them a gleaming star,
More beautiful than all the rest;
And down they shot on lightning wings
Beyond the utmost speed of thought,
Past planets form'd in glowing rings,
All with immortal beauty fraught;
And lighted here upon this sphere,
The lovely home of mortal man;
Enraptured stare the angel pair,
No world they'd seen of grander plan;
And here on earth their home they made,
Though all unseen of mortal men,
Save at noons when forests spread their shade,
And sunshine warm'd the hill and glen.
All those who saw the lovely pair,
Of them did wonderous marvels tell,
One was a maiden heavenly fair,
Her waving, golden tresses fell
O'er shoulders fair as froth on seas,
Face with all charms in rainbows seen;
Her airy step was like the breeze
That stirs not e'en the aspen green.
The other was a comely youth,
Of godlike, all commanding mien,
Whose visage seem'd the shrine of truth,
With every virtue glittering sheen;
The Genii he was styled by men
Of all the mountains and the hills,
And she was the Nymph of sunny glen,
And all the fountains and the rills;
One sole offspring, but of form divine,
Sprung from the union of this pair,
In her did all their virtues shine,
And all beauties of her mother fair:
They kept her in their secret glen
Throughout many an age of time.
And taught her all that mortals ken,
And all of angel lore sublime;
Then sent her forth as mortal maid,
To charm and gladden human kind;
In every glorious cause to aid,
And lead the race on paths refined.
Clotilda was this maiden named,
In Orkney she'd been born and bred,
And much through her those isles were famed,
Back in the misty ages fled.
The glories of King Arthur's court,
Had reached her in her secret glen,
And unto Camelot did she resort
To see this first of mortal men.
In quest of gallant knight came she,
Who could achieve adventures bold,
And for her pining captives free,
Grim giants kept in rocky hold.
But none like Beau de Main she found
In perilous deeds and knightly worth;
All knights renowned of the Table Round
He far out shone, and all on earth;
So he she singled for perils grim,
And dread, awe inspiring deed;
What recked he loss of life and limb,
Her faith and love his glorious meed;
If was death his lot, he lost her not,
His spirit would move at her side,
If he lived, then at high Camelot
Her King Arthur would give as bride.
VII.
Done is the feast, the mirth has ceased,
In King Arthur's glittering halls;
Where spear and sword and targes broad
Hang vast along the mighty walls,
Where axes bright and mace of might
The gazing coward's soul appalls;
And high o'er head the banner red,
O'er helms and gleaming armor falls,
In awful rows they there repose,
For not a sound to battle calls.
But loud the lay of love and fray
The skillful bards of Arthur sing;
Deep, full, strong, flows forth the song,
While chords of harps responding ring.
Of gallant knight and lady bright,
Of loves and hates and wars of old,
Of daring king in tourney ring,
Waving plume and helm of gold;
Of hydras dread with dragon's head,
By arm of mortal heros slain;
Of slighted oath and broken troth,
And dying friendship's throes and pain;
Hunts o'er brake, and moor for stag and boar,
And glories of the chase they sing,
And varied swell and songs as well
From bards and harps alternate ring.
VIII.
The festive day is waning fast,
Yet shines the sun in Arthur's halls,
Though eastward of those towers vast
Apace a lengthening shadow falls;
Yet, 'ere he goes his beams are cast
In living splendor on those walls,
On shield and lance the sunbeams glance,
And all like waving flame they blaze;
On greaves of steel the sunbeams reel,
And flash around their blinding rays.
On shield and lance the sunbeams glance,
On Morion, sword and helmet sheen,
On armor bright those beams alight,
And all resplendent glows the scene;
So long they glar'd on polished steel,
And so intense the sheen became,
It seems those halls within reveal
One waving flood of dazzling flame;
Then at the sight as if inspired
With brightness that around them fell.
Each bard and minstrel's soul seems fired
With something more than mortal spell.
And loud and louder still their song,
And strains of music roar and ring,
'Till like a storm it sweeps along
Through all the castles of the king;
And swifly turns where splendor burns
The eyes of every chief and knight,
Soul and mind all thought and feeling spurns,
Save steel gleaming to the sunbeams bright.
IX.
While gleam'd the shine of the day's decline,
In princely Arthur's royal halls,
And stirring chime of minstrel's rhyme
Reechoed loud within the walls;
Strode in the hall an aged man,
With locks as white as Denmark's snow,
Who bowed to the king and then began
To speak in accents soft and low;
King Arthur, o'er many a mile
Of earth my weary feet have trod,
O'er mountain high and deep defile,
O'er deserts drear and vernal sod,
To many a kingly court I've been,
And noble kings were they, I trow,
But never place like this I've seen,
Through all my journeys until now.
The knights renown'd of the Table Round
Are known throughout the spacious earth,
Their praise doth sound where men are found
Who honor give to fame and worth;
And hither here I've sped to see
If any hero I can find,
Whose soul's of every baseness free,
And has an unpolluted mind,
For such alone can draw this sword,
From out its diamond studded sheath,
And he who doth, shall be its lord,
Nor any peril fear yon sky beneath;
With that he placed in Arthur's hand
A long, massive glittering sword,
Than Excalibur, far more grand,
More terrible and long and broad.
X.
Long, long essayed the gallant king,
To draw from out its sheath that magic blade,
But it from sheath he could not bring,
Though he with all his might essayed;
Then all dismayed his chiefs surveyed
The ponderous, glittering brand
They knew 'twas vain for them to try
When failed had Arthur's stalwart hand.
They all essayed to draw that blade
They all essayed but Beau de Main,
In his hand was laid the starry blade
Nor was that hero's effort vain;
Forth at his touch the weapon came,
Loud rattling from its starry sheath,
The glittering falchion flashed like flame
From burning cloud on midnight heath;
Then high up on the Table Round
He the glittering falchion threw,
There it fell, with thundering sound,
While gems of lightning from it flew,
Abashed with surprise the heroes all
The wonderous deed behold,
And louder through King Arthur's hall
The swelling strains of music rolled.
XI.
Come, come with me, the old man spake,
And thou shalt rise to honors new;
Thou shalt yokes of banded tyrants break,
And glory's brightest path pursue.
Thou art the lord of magic sword,
And thou with it shall prowess do;
On battle field, 'twill cleave each shield,
And smite all mortal armor through.
Beneath its sheen and edges keen,
Those who never fled before shall fly;
And monsters grim in form and limb
That vex and curse the world shall die
So mount thy steed and with me speed
For ere yon sun our sight shall leave,
Thou shalt range through a castle strange,
And deeds of prowess high achieve.
XII.
Forth on their steeds the twain have gone,
From King Arthur's ancient halls,
Where yet the glowing sunbeams shone,
On glittering steel clad walls.
O'er moor and brake, by stream and lake,
The wild boar's reedy fen,
By hill and crag where roams the stag,
And wilds scarce known to men;
Ride on those twain, until they gain
A valley lone and drear,
Abrupt and grand on either hand,
The towering hills appear;
Each steep incline with fir and pine,
And oak and gum is crowned,
And o'er them the twine huge folds of vine,
That trail along the ground,
Though here and there the hills are bare,
No trees bedeck their side,
Yet there green moss with glowing gloss
Waves in its vernal pride.
O'er boulders steep huge torrents leap
Into the vale below,
O'er boulders brown those floods rush down,
With foam as white as snow.
In roaring mass they onward pass,
To a river deep and broad,
Those waters strong flow fierce along,
Too wild for steed to ford.
And midst its flow huge boulders show
At times their naked heads,
Some red as blood, some white as flood,
When froth its surface spreads.
And some are dark as is the bark
When charred by scorching flame,
Some somber brown that sternly frown,
O'er floods they can not tame;
That by them toil in fierce turmoil,
And o'er them dash their spray,
As if their pride all rocks defied,
That dared to bar their way;
And long that vale the lillies pale
Waved o'er those waters wide;
And roses set by violet
Bedeck the river's side;
And grasses green as ever seen
Wave o'er the teeming soil;
And incommode the narrow road
'Long which those horsemen toil,
And years have past, a number vast,
Since there has horseman trod;
All men feared well that haunted dell,
And shunn'd its fatal sod,
In rhymes of old strange tales are told
About that valley drear,
Of monsters dread that there are bred,
And fiends for men to fear;
Of dragons grim in form and limb,
That fly on wings of flame;
All O'er whose hide strange scales abide,
Hard as yet sword became;
And ne'er could feel the edge of steel,
All o'er its horrid frame;
And vain the force of man and horse
Its grisly rage to tame.
Ne'er mortal trod that fatal sod
By either night nor day,
But to its jaw and horrid maw
They instant found their way.
XIII.
But little reck'd our hero bold
For idle tales that minstrels told
'Bout either glen or hill or wold,
Of caverns dread or giants bold,
His spirit knew no more of fear
Than rock 'round which the surges tear;
His soul was set on perils grim,
And these alone delighted him;
With hand on rein and rowels red,
He followed where that old men led,
Little he knew and less he cared,
What perils should that day be dared;
His arm was strong, his sword was keen,
He longed to dye its glowing sheen
With blood of paynim tyrants grim,
Or giants of stupendous limb;
Such as by bards were said to dwell
Within that valley lone and fell.
XIV.
Onward he goes, at length he sees
Amidst a grove of giant trees,
Whose mighty limbs though spreading wide
With flame are darken'd, scorched and dried,
And 'midst them at the mountain's base,
A horrid cavern he could trace,
Where grisly dragons flame disgorge
Dread as yet stream'd from blazing forge;
There noxious flames terrific float,
Grim, pestilence and death denote;
Sulphurous fumes midst flame and smoke,
And chlorine, lungs and nostrils choke,
Yet in that cave of stifling breath,
Was silence dread as that of death;
Though from it flowed a mighty flood,
Of reeking liquid red as blood.
XV.
Then spoke the man of hoary head:
Through yonder cavern we must tread,
But thou the dangerous way must lead,
So ready make for daring deed:
Thy sword unsheath, onward spur thy steed
And I'll thy thirst for glory feed.
Roused at the voice, from out the cave
A fearful leap the dragon gave,
Forward it roaring comes amain,
Like mountain torrent swelled with rain;
Black broods the air above its head,
And serpents spring beneath its tread;
Its horrid jaws are opened wide,
Nor belching flames its fangs could hide;
Those were in awful rows revealed,
Though half in reeking gore concealed,
Which from its jaws dropped down like rain;
And from its neck a shaggy mane,
Black as was ever darkness found,
Hung down and trailed along the ground.
Broad was its head and vast its length,
And all stupendous seemed its strength;
And over all its sable hide
Were folds on folds of horny pride,
That sharpest steel of man defied
To pierce, or harm it to betide;
Two mighty wings it shook in air,
Stirred it as though a storm were there.
To gaze upon its mighty size,
Its lion's head and horrid eyes,
It seemed all vain for man to hope
In fray 'gainst such a beast to cope;
Too vast its force, too huge its length,
For mortal's steel or hero's strength.
XVI.
But thought not thus the gallant knight,
He longed to meet that beast in fight;
He eyed it with a stern delight,
But ere he drew his falchion bright
To heaven a secret prayer he made,
Invoked his Lord Jehovah's aid;
Prayed as all knights and heroes true
Are wont, when glory they pursue.
Great God of every sea and clime,
Who sits 'midst seraph hosts sublime,
Thine the earth and sun and starry zone,
That journey round Thy endless throne,
Thine is the fount of life and light,
As well as death's all whelming might;
Thou gracious Judge of right and wrong,
Who can make the hero weak or strong,
Thy gracious ear to me incline,
And hear my thoughts for they are Thine
Almighty and eternal Lord,
This day, with victory, crown my sword!
Strengthen my arm, make good my breath,
That I may stretch yon beast in death;
Let earth drink up its vital gore,
So it may curse mankind no more,
Let it beneath Thy servant fall,
So may it be, Thou Lord of all!
XVII.
Then swift, soon as the prayer he breathed,
He his glittering sword unsheathed,
And springing from his gallant horse
On foot he tries the dragon's force.
High o'er his head on ponderous wings
In air the horrid monster springs;
And as it strove with grisly claw
The gallant knight from earth to draw,
With one fell blow his sword he brings
On one of its tremendous wings,
Clean severed from its trunk it flew,
And prone on earth the monster threw.
From mouth that stream'd forth gore and flame
A dread, infernal roaring came;
On earth the wing descending fell,
With shock that shook the lonely dell,
While gore gushed from the monster's side,
And shooting far the forests dyed
Where o'er the trees on every limb.
Hung hissing folds of serpents grim.
XVIII.
Again the beast his head uprears,
For victory or death prepares;
Dread as the thunder cloud he came,
His throat a roaring fount of flame,
Swift as the lightning bolt it sped
A claw above the hero's head;
Another swoop of his trusty blade,
And on the earth that claw is laid;
Swift down it falls 'midst streaming gore,
To injure mortal man no more.
Then fiercer wax'd the monster's ire,
And dreader gushed the founts of fire;
Before those flames of sulphur dire
From conflict did the knight retire.
But through the path he sped, anon
The roaring terror thundered on,
Forward it sped where e'er he came,
O'er him casting forky, waving flame;
Yet sped the knight where purer air
Did soon his wasted strength repair;
Then high he reared his seven-fold shield,
Which shelter from the flame did yield;
And while on this he caught the flame,
Full on the roaring beast he came,
Between its eyes his reeking sword
Made horrid passage deep and broad;
Prone on the earth the terror came,
And ceased the roaring fount of flame,
Though fast and dread its serpent tail
Moved round the hero like a flail!
XIX.
Backward a space the hero drew,
Where he could well the monster view,
Then back he sped with vigor rife,
To end the grisly Terror's life;
One full sweep with his trusty blade,
And the snaky tail on earth is laid;
Three times his sword he drives in gore,
And with a hoarse and horrid roar,
Shaking the earth on which it lies,
The roaring Terror writhing dies.
While rivers huge of reeking gore
Adown the winding valley pour.
The horrid serpents vast and grim,
That hang from every tree and limb,
All palsied drop with stiffened fang,
And breathe on earth their dying pang.
Soon as the grisly Terror dies,
And lifeless all it smoking lies,
From gore the hero wipes his sword,
Gives thanks to Heaven's eternal Lord.
XX.
Up through that cavern dark and drear,
Where that grim Terror made its lair,
Upon their strong and mettled steeds,
That hero with his guide proceeds;
Through subterranean passage drear,
They go and mock at night and fear.
The way was rough and dark and dread
For either steed or man to tread;
Yet safely on their way they made
Till daylight on the darkness played;
And here a gate did they survey,
That blocked the passage of that way,
Huge bars of steel and beams of brass,
A gate, a strong and ponderous mass,
That gleamed all o'er like molten glass,
Completely blocked that gloomy pass.
Down from his steed the hero springs,
And 'gainst the gate his force he flings,
But vain 'gainst it his strength he brings,
It neither stirs nor shakes nor rings;
Solid as rock or mountain's side,
It stood and all his force defied;
Nor least bewildered and amazed,
Upon that gate the hero gazed;
But strove and strove with all his force,
To move that gate and clear his course.
XXI.
Then spake the man with hoary head:
The path we came again no man shall tread.
Behold, it all is closed with rock,
That ne'er shall move to earthquake's shock,
To flame, nor storm, nor hand of time,
Till nature's death-knell God shall chime.
Before us life and glory glow,
Behind are only death and woe,
To linger midst this stifling breath
Would shortly bring us ghastly death;
So then, most valiant knight and good,
Well proved in deeds of hardihood,
Once more 'gainst it thy valor try,
And clear the way or here we die;
Perhaps in this thy gleaming sword
May unto thee some aid afford."
XXII.
Behind the hero cast his eye,
And nought but rock could he descry;
The path that they had journeyed through
No longer met his searching view;
But rocks as hard as e'er were drilled
In solid mass that passage filled,
Nor left the faintest trace behind,
Where'd been that pass for him to find.
A moment, and but a moment's space,
He gazed on the enchanted place,
Then from his sheath his blade he drew,
While sparks of lightning from it flew,
Which far and wide spread flashing round,
And filled the place with light and sound.
Then swift on that barrier grim
It sped with all his force of limb,
The ponderous gate terrific rings,
And from its place like lightning springs,
And instant fades from mortal sight,
Like on the cloud the flash of light.
Then spoke a voice, a voice sublime,
That seemed to sound all o'er that clime:
Dreadful hour and fatal day,
All our power has past away;
All, all our spells and magic grand,
Are wrecked for aye by mortal hand,
Past away, as foretold of yore,
By Merlin's voice and Merlin's lore;
Dreadful day and fatal hour,
That ends on earth the wizard's power.
XXIII.
Ceased the voice, but ere died its sound
Like rolling waves the earth stirred round,
'Till rocks from out their places rose,
And writhed with all terrific throes;
The lofty hills were rent in twain
A moment's space, then joined again,
While over all a sable cloud
Closed grim and dread with thunders loud,
Though not a lightning flash nor flame
From out that shroud of thunder came;
Dread and more dread the thunder rolled,
And darker grew that awful fold,
Beneath those peals of thunder loud
To earth their heads the forests bowed,
As if there a roaring whirlwind trod,
Or dreader still, an angry God!
XXIV.
The thunder ceased and shrieks aghast,
Loud as the roar of mountain blast,
Burst from that cloud's terrific fold,
Then all at once from sight it rolled;
Where it had been nought else was seen
But azure sky and mountains green,
A flowery dell with lofty trees,
That waved their leaves 'midst balmy breeze;
Along which that old man hoar and strange
With Beau de Main begins to range.
Far up that dell those travellers wound,
O'er barren rock and grassy ground;
At length a lofty hill they spy,
Piled up against the western sky,
Where many a tower confronts the eye,
With wall and gate and bulwark high;
All formed of vast stupendous blocks,
And seem'd a pyramid of rocks,
Of dark and green and red and gray;
By Titans piled in vast array,
To rear their battlements and towers,
When warr'd they 'gainst the heavenly powers.
High on the hills they stood sublime,
Seemed out of reach of storm or time,
As there they gleamed in grand array,
Beneath the beams of closing day!
But to them, of path, no utter trace
Was seen upon that mountain's face,
Of road where e'er the eye pursue
On right or left was caught no clue;
Like some rock-guarded eagle's nest,
High hung upon the mountain's crest,
Beyond the reach of hunter's hand,
Those towers amidst the sunshine stand!
XXV.
O'er his eyes his hand the hero raised,
To shield them from the beam that blazed,
And at their splendor all amazed
Steadfastly on those bulwarks gazed,
For stronger, loftier tower
He'd never seen before that hour;
It looked all like some mighty hold
Reared by the Cyclops Kings of old,
Yet all within and all around
Seem'd wrapt in silence so profound,
So void of life and stir and sound--
Those hills seem'd with a phantom crown'd.
But while he gazed the old man spake:
Come, thy way to yonder bulwark take!
No road I see, the knight replied,
O'er all yon mountain's lofty side,
Its whole broad surface I can view,
And road on it I see no clue;
And vain for me or you to try
The scaling of that mountain high;
Those rocks are all too smooth and steep
For man up them to climb or creep.
XXVI.
There is a road, the other spake,
Thyself for it now ready make,
Within thy hand thy falchion take,
Lift shield, and keep thine eye awake,
For I may lead on peril's path,
And thou must nobly brave their wrath;
And never glory yet was won
By any knight beneath yon sun,
Who did not bravely troubles meet,
And all unflinching dangers greet;
And put all perils to defeat,
Be they of body or of soul,
And onward press to glory's goal!
While thus he speaks they swiftly ride
Far down along the mountain's side,
To where the base with trees was crowned,
And then 'midst tangled bush they found
There opened a passage broad and wide,
Right through the hollow mountain's side;
In rode the twain, and soon anon
Saw a broad, steep way leading on,
To where those lofty towers rose,
In dream-like silence and dread repose.
XXVII.
They reached the bulwark's lofty wall,
Pass'd through an archway broad and tall,
Where stood a gate wide open cast,
Wrought out of bars of iron vast,
Braced with hands of ponderous brass,
And those of steel in mighty mass.
Scarce by the gate those twain were past
Than 'cross the archway it was cast,
Closed with a fierce and sudden sound,
That echoed all those bulwarks round;
And loud and plain was heard the jar
Of placing lock and bolt and bar.
The knight turn'd round with searching eye,
But not a thing could he descry
In likeness of the human race
About that archway's ample space;
The deed was done by hand unseen,
Perhaps not one of mortal mien.
XXVIII.
Then onward swift those horsemen ride
Into a court-yard long and wide,
Yet all the place of life seems free,
For not a beast nor man they see;
No sound of human voice they hear,
Nor any stir breaks on their ear,
Save their coursers' tread on stony ground,
They meet no other stir nor sound;
And these re-echo strange and drear
Through all those lofty bulwarks there.
Was it some dread, enchanted place
Unknown to those of mortal race,
Where never mortal trod before,
And whence he shall depart no more,
'Till time the judgment morn shall bring?
Or was it the tomb of some great king,
Who reign'd amidst the ages past,
Long since 'neath oblivion cast?
Who, though he rear'd a tomb as grand
As ever yet by monarch plann'd,
His fame and name he could not save
However cruel, good, or brave,
From wasting time and fleeting years,
That crumble all that mortal rears,
And all that nature can control?
While thus revolved the hero's soul,
From westward, from whence beam'd the sun
His setting rays o'er mountains dun,
He heard a deafening trumpet clang,
That echoing through those bulwarks rang;
Hills shook beneath that trumpet's blast,
As if through them an earthquake past,
And right between him and the light
The sunbeams cast upon that height.
A steel-clad champion he espied
Upon a coal-black charger ride,
With visor down and spear in rest,
Right onward unto him he press'd;
With clang of arms and courser's tread
The air was filled with tumult dread;
As if with riving thunders torn,
Not swifter yet a cloud was borne
Upon the pinions of the storm
Than sped that horse and steel-clad form;
And like a cloud that meets the sight,
Whose centre all is black as night,
Though round its edges lightnings play,
Gild it with terrible array,
For man and horse from head to heel
Are sheathed in plates of sable steel;
But gleaming helm and spear and sword,
And axe terrific, keen and broad,
That armed that rider cast a light
Like that round thunder-cloud at night.
XXIX.
Another glorious trumpet clang
Throughout those lofty ramparts rang;
And straight a line of glittering spears
Behind that rider grim appears;
Far down the hill they swift arise
Like flashing clouds that mount the skies,
And glowing helm and sword and shield
Are 'midst the rising ranks revealed;
And o'er the coming wave of steel
To and fro, golden banners reel.
Onward it came in swift career,
While dust made dark the stagnant air,
All that wide space grew dark and dun,
To silence sped the glowing sun,
As when the simoom fierce and red
Roars o'er the desert's sandy bed:
Yet nearer fast that wave of steel
Comes on with deafening trumpet peal,
That shakes the air with tumult dread,
While nearer sounds the measured tread
Of armed men, whose clanging sound
The stormy trumpet notes have drowned:
And nearer 'midst the dark'ning gloom
Is seen the coming helm and plume;
With broken gleams of ruddy light
Rise long arrays of lances bright;
The long arrays of shield and sword,
Of daggers keen and axes broad.
XXX.
Then from those lofty ramparts rose
Storms of unutterable woes,
Sighs, lamentations and loud moans,
Horrible outcries and hoarse groans;
All languages--tongues of every clime
Mix'd in that storm of anguish chime;
With hands together smote amain,
And feet that stamp with throes of pain.
Made up a tumult dread and fell
As ever roused the king of hell;
Made up a tumult grim and drear,
That whirled through all that darken'd air,
Like burning sand the simoom lifts,
And on that roaring whirlwind drifts.
With ear intent and eye awake,
As stands the lion in the brake,
With soul as void of mortal fear,
As oaks round which the tempests tear
All things strange, Beau de Main watched there
That met his eye or pierced his ear.
XXXI.
My gallant knight, thus spoke his guide,
Fear not the least yon ranks of pride,
Though they hem thee in on every side,
Thou shalt as victor o'er them ride.
Go, cleave each gleaming helm and shield,
Yon host through thee to death shall yield;
First take this spear and spur thy steed,
'Gainst him who doth yon squadron lead;
Yon sable knight who comes so fierce,
Him through the breast and breast-plate pierce,
He said, then unto Beau de Main
A spear he gave of twisted grain.
All like a stately mast in length,
And like the mountain oak for strength,
Armed at the end with steel as strong
As e'er was forged, wrought sharp and long,
This swift the hero placed in rest,
Waiting for him who onward pressed.
As there he stood a sudden flame
Swift bursting from that darkness came,
High o'er the hemisphere it sailed,
And through the darkened air prevailed.
XXXII.
As some dark cloud of giant form,
That rides upon the roaring storm,
That shakes the world beneath its path,
Whose thunders mutter forth its wrath;
Whose lightnings fiercely round it play,
And guides it on its rapid way,
That meeting bursts with deafening shock,
Upon the side of some firm rock;
Then downward falls in sudden flight,
Before that rock and fades from sight
So met that hero Beau de Main,
So sudden rolled upon the plain;
Through breast-plate and through breast that spear
Had torn a passage grim and drear,
With horrid din his armor rung,
As horse and man to earth were flung;
O'er broken steel his crimson blood
Fast steam'd to earth in ample flood;
By fallen steed he writhed with pain,
And never to arise again.
As to earth that champion came,
Died in the air that flash of flame;
Swift from the hemisphere it sailed,
And the darkness grim again prevailed
XXXIII.
Then favored by the solid gloom,
That gathered as the dread simoom,
Like whirlwind on that armed band
Rode Arthur's knight with flaming brand;
As through a grove of saplings strong
The horrid cyclone sweeps along,
Uproots and tears them from the ground,
And strews them all in ruin round;
Wide is its path and grim and dread
The devastation 'neath it spread;
When past the groves, it stays its course,
Then back returns with tenfold force;
Another path of ruin dread
Behind its roaring flight is spread;
So through that grove of lances bright,
Rode to and fro King Arthur's knight;
And all before him, right and left,
Went down with heads and helmets cleft,
Slaughtered and dying strew the ground
While armor clangs with horrid sound
And thunders through those ramparts tall,
Like waters o'er some mighty fall--
And echo over hill and glen.
XXXIV.
Not tamely died those armed men:
They closed upon King Arthur's knight,
With sword and spear and axes bright;
Three times they closed in fierce array,
And three times stopped his gory way,
While on his shield with horrid clang
Their spears and swords and axes rang.
With fearful din they closed on him,
Like roarings of the lions grim
Upon the night o'er shadowed wild,
With reeking slaughter round them piled;
And hunger drives them on amain,
To make themselves tombs of the slain.
They closed like angry billows' shock,
At midnight on a solid rock,
Whose lofty head with giant pines
Towering o'er the deep inclines;
Who while the floods are rocked below,
The roaring storms that o'er them blow;
In thousand shapes their branches throw,
And from them make fell tumult flow;
The branches clash, the waters roar,
On tempests mingled tumults pour,
And waked by nature's fierce unrest
The eagles leave their lofty nest;
And mounting on the tempest's car,
High o'er the elemental jar,
They flap their wings, then whirl around,
Send far their screams on night profound;
So on that knight those men closed in,
With trumpet's clang and armor's din.
XXXV.
But while amidst that darkness dread
Their blows at Arthur's knight they sped,
Full many a warrior's buckler broad
Was rent by his own comrade's sword;
Full many a brawny bosom there
Was pierced by its own comrade's spear;
By scores they fell amongst the slain,
By their own men, not Beau de Main;
Yet fought that hero fierce and grim,
'Till not one living stood round him.
Died out the trumpet's stirring peal,
And ceased the horrid clang of steel;
Then through the darkness burst a flame,
That gleaming o'er the ramparts came,
And ceased of pain, the horrid din
That roar'd like storms those walls within;
The setting sun his glory threw,
Around and all that gloom withdrew;
There round the hero lay his foes,
All stark and still in dread repose;
There broken armor strew'd the ground,
Heads cleft or pierced with wounds profound:
They lay in reeking crimson drown'd.
None save that hero and his guide
Were living 'midst that wreck espied.
Where that huge steed and rider lay
Those twain there bent their eager way;
His towering plume of sable hue
From off his glittering helm they drew;
Then doff his helm and visor all,
Full on his face the sunbeams fall.
Darker than night his shaggy beard,
Matted o'er visage stern appeared;
A savage frown those features wore,
As always in their life they bore;
And glared his eyes in death unclosed,
As fierce as when he foe opposed;
Dark as the shades of night were they,
And gleam'd in death with piercing ray;
O'er them his brows descending flowed,
Black as e'er raven's plumaged glowed;
Like eagle's bill his massive nose
Descending o'er his mouth arose;
But this was hid from human eye,
With heavy beard of sable dye;
A fiercer countenance on man
Than his, ne'er yet did nature scan.
Taking his face and bearing all,
His mighty statue broad and tall,
Ponderous limbs of massive length,
That all bespoke a monster's strength;
He seem'd more like a Titan grim
Than one of mortal form and limb.
XXXVI.
But he was one of mortal mould,
A giant cruel, strong and bold,
As in history we are told
Were often seen in days of old,
And wrought to mortal's dole and wrong.
His were those bulwarks tall and strong,
Whose walls of rock so broad and high,
Might wear of storm and time defy;
Whose bristling parapets and towers
Scoffing frown'd at human powers.
Right often did King Arthur's ear
Strange stories of these ramparts hear;
They told him of its mighty lord,
His savage statue tall and broad,
In size surpassing those of earth,
And who from monsters drew his birth;
Who lived on flesh of mortal men,
And drank their blood; who in his den
Unnumbered captives held in thrall.
Good knights and gentle ladies all.
But never could King Arthur's eye
The passage to those walls descry--
By day and night the path he sought,
But ne'er a clue to it he caught;
Or unto it had sped that king,
With all the knights that he could bring.
And he had raised that bulwark's wall,
Those captives straight had set from thrall,
Or he had with them found his fall
Beneath that grisly giant tall;
But of road or path no single clue
To reach those walls could Arthur view,
So safe from hand of mortal foe
They proudly scoffed at all below,
And safe within its lofty hold
Dwelt its tyrant owner fierce and bold,
Surrounded by a mighty throng
Of followers, haughty, huge and strong,
Who through the force of Beau de Main
Were numbered 'mongst the gory slain.
And for allies the giant sought
All who in necromancy wrought;
All conjurers of magic spell
Who wrought on earth the lore of hell;
Who could enchantments cast around,
And men with wizard's charms confound;
All those who could those arts unfold
Found favor in that lofy hold;
Through them he hidden kept the road
From men that led to his abode.
But ways there were and more than three
That gave egress and ingress free,
By which could pass both steeds and men,
From there unto the distant glen,
Easier far and safer more
Than that De Main had travelled o'er.
And when a destined deed he'll do,
He'll break the subtle secrets through,
To every road he'll find the clue
And easily each road he pursue.
XXXVII.
In glowing chambers of the West
The sun's in all his glory drest,
Basking beneath his tingeing smile
Float round unnumbered clouds the while,
O'er his bright disk their forms they throw,
And 'neath him all resplendent glow.
All o'er the sky the clouds are rolled
With hues of amber and of gold,
With forms apart by sunbeams torn,
They all the western skies adorn.
But in the East a mighty cloud
Doth all the sky with sable shroud;
From earth unto the zenith's bound,
It spread its robe of gloom profound;
But bright on the darkness that it reared
A vision of glory there appeared;
It came like a spirit on the cloud,
Whose beauty could no darkness shroud;
It spread in a glorious arch,
From horizon to zenith did march.
Then sublime in its grandeur it stood,
O'er hanging the mountains and wood,
The valleys, the torrents, and flood,
Tingeing their flow with the hues of blood;
Sped the rays of the sun from the land,
Yet, that iris the heavens still spann'd;
Near the earth it ends darkened anon,
While in the zenith it still beam'd on,
Smiled on earth like an angel of light,
'Till the sunbeams departed from sight.
Then away like a phantom it fled,
And dense darkness after it sped.
Night o'er the mountains her banner unfurl'd,
And solid gloom settled over the world.
THE DWARF'S QUEST: A BALLAD
by
SOPHIE JEWETT
Sir Dagonet was sad of heart;
Beneath the city gate
He watched King Arthur's knights depart;
He watched in love and hate.
He saw great tears fall from the eyes
Of Lancelot and the King;
He thought: "Apart the sweet Queen lies,
And knows no comforting."
Sir Percivale and Galahad
Rode by in shining mail;
He marked their eyes, assured and glad,
And cursed the Holy Grail.
Though many passed and saw him not,
He hoarded, in his pain,
A smile from sad Sir Lancelot,
Three sweet words from Gawain.
King Arthur's fool was Dagonet,
An impish, mocking thing;
His wont by day to carp and fret,
At night to dance and sing.
The foot and fist of rude Sir Kay
He bore with jest and sneer;
But wept to meet on any day
The eyes of Guinevere.
That night he sat without the gate,
Close by the city wall,
Till King and court, returning late,
Climbed sadly toward the Hall.
He thought of all the good knights bent
On unknown, wandering ways;
He thought of feast and tournament,
And laughter of old days.
He would not enter with his King;
He heard the warder call,
Yet waited, crouched and shivering,
Beside the city wall.
Crooked and weak was Dagonet,
What might to him avail
The hope whereon high hearts were set,
To find the Holy Grail?
Yet ice and flame were in his breast;
He hid his curling lip,
And wept for fierce desire to quest
With the great Fellowship.
On nameless, shining paths afar,
Where'er the vision bade,
He saw them ride,-saw like a star
The face of Galahad.
Then on his heart fell unforgot,
More soft than April rain,
The smile of sad Sir Lancelot,
The sweet words of Gawain.
And Dagonet the jester laid
His face against the stone,
And prayed to Him who once had prayed
In blood and tears alone;
And lo! a strange voice reached his ears,
Borne on soft-drifting wings;
'T was gentler than Queen Guinevere's,
'T was kinglier than the King's.
It spake: "Thou foolish one, look up!
Believe, and be thou glad;
There waits one vision of the Cup
For thee and Galahad."
But Dagonet cried: "Lord, to me
What may thy grace avail,
Since, late, in wrath and misery,
I cursed the Holy Grail?"
Low in the dust knelt Dagonet;
The sweet voice filled the air:
"Thy cursing lips I do forget,
Because of thy heart's prayer."
Next day 't was told through Camelot,
With pity or with jest,
That Dagonet the dwarf came not
Because he rode the Quest.
Next day and next, for many a day,
Sir Dagonet rode hard;
Sometimes deep forest blurred his way,
Or swollen torrent barred;
But everywhere the bright spring laid
Her gold about his feet;
And every hour the high Quest made
Hope at his heart stir sweet.
At hermitage and castle gate
He asked, alway in vain:
Nor Lancelot had passed of late,
Nor Bors, nor good Gawain.
Now once it chanced that his path ran
Along a riverside,
Till, where a chestnut wood began,
He saw the ways divide.
And close beneath the roadside cross
There lay a wounded knight;
His blood was black upon the moss,
And dimmed his armor bright.
Sir Dagonet bent low and gazed
In eyes that knew him not;
Then, weeping, to his heart he raised
The head of Lancelot.
. . . . . . . . .
Past midnight, when the moon was set,
And utter dark the night,
Round Lancelot and Dagonet
There shone a sudden light.
And in the light, soft-footing, came
Four maidens grave and pale;
In lifted hands that burned like flame,
One bore the Holy Grail.
Unveiled the Holy Chalice gleamed;
Sweet odors filled the air;
The roadside cross an altar seemed,
The winds were chant and prayer.
The dwarf knelt low in that blest place,
Adored, and trembled not;
Then, with swift sorrow on his face,
He turned to Lancelot.
He cried: "My lord, awake and see!
Methinks thy quest is done!
The Holy Grail doth shine on thee
More bright than moon or sun!"
Sir Lancelot groaned, but spake no word;
He had nor voice, nor will;
Perchance the heavy eyelids stirred
One moment, and were still.
Swift as it came the vision went;
The dwarf moaned bitterly:
"My answered prayer is punishment
Since my lord might not see!"
He groped to find where the cross stood,
There was no ray of light;
He prayed: "Thou to the fool art good,
Be gracious to the knight."
He cried and prayed beneath the cross,
With foolish words and wild;
But Lancelot upon the moss
Slept like a little child.
And in the dawning of the day
The dwarf forgot to weep,
Seeing how fair Sir Lancelot lay,
A-smiling in his sleep.
Sir Dagonet fell on his knee;
He fingered head and limb;
And said: "The Grail was shown to me,
Its healing was for him.
"He will awaken whole and strong
As ever he hath been;
He need not know his trance was long,
Nor what the fool hath seen."
He sprang to horse: "Farewell, Sir Knight,
Thy high vow shall not fail;
Some happier day thou shalt alight
Upon the Holy Grail."
When birds from sky and tree and ground
Sang loud and broke his rest,
Sir Lancelot rose blithe and sound
To fare upon his quest.
But fast while morning hours were cool,
And slow when noon waxed hot,
Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's fool,
Rode back to Camelot.
At Camelot, with boisterous cries,
Men asked him of his quest,
Till something in the rider's eyes
Silenced the merry jest.
Sir Dagonet dwelt with the court;
He mused on what had been;
By night he made them goodly sport;
By day he served the Queen.
. . . . . . . . .
One slow, still morn of summer's prime,
Through fields of yellow grain,
With saddened brow, before his time,
Rode back the good Gawain.
But when the long nights of the year
Darkened, and word came not,
Sir Dagonet and Guinevere
Prayed for Sir Lancelot.
. . . . . . . . .
Like swallows when winds first blow sweet,
The knights came one by one;
Each told of travail and defeat,
And how his quest was done.
Till, when the third bright June befell,
And nightingales were glad,
From out the east came Bors to tell
Of young Sir Galahad,
How won was the most Holy Quest:
How Percivale and he
Were laid 'neath sacred earth to rest
In Sarras over sea.
For Galahad brave eyes were wet,
And gentle Percivale;
None ever heard how Dagonet
Achieved the Holy Grail.
THE SPEECHES AT PRINCE HENRIES BARRIERS
by
BEN JONSON
The Lady of the Lake, first discouered .
A Silence, calme as are my waters, meet
Your raysd attentions, whilst my siluer feet
Touch on the richer shore; and to this seat
Vow my new duties and mine old repeat.
Lest any yet should doubt, or might mistake
What Nymph I am; behold the ample lake
Of which I am stild; and neere it MERLINS tombe,
Graue of his cunning, as of mine the wombe.
By this it will not aske me to proclaime
More of my selfe, whose actions, and whose name
Were so full fam'd in Brittish ARTHVRS court;
No more then it will fit me to report
What hath before bene trusted to our squire
Of me, my knight, his fate, and my desire
To meet, if not preuent his destiny,
And stile him to the court of Britany ;
Now when the Iland hath regain'd her fame
Intire, and perfect, in the ancient name,
And that a monarch æquall good and great,
Wise, temperate, iust, and stout, claimes ARTHVRS seat.
Did I say æquall? O too prodigall wrong
Of my o're-thirsty, and vnæquall tongue!
How brighter farre, then when our ARTHVR liu'd
Are all the glories of this place reuiu'd!
What riches doe I see; what beauties here!
What awe! what loue! what reuerence! ioy! and feare!
What ornaments of counsaile as of court!
All that is high and great, or can comport
Vnto the stile of maiesty, that knowes
No riuall, but it selfe, this place here showes.
Onely the house of Chiualrie (how ere
The inner parts and store be full, yet here
In that which gentry should sustaine) decayd
Or rather ruin'd seemes; her buildings layd
Flat with the earth; that were the pride of time
And did the barbarous Memphian heapes out-clime.
Those Obelisks and Columnes broke, and downe,
That strooke the starres, and raisd the Brittish crowne
To be a constellation: Shields and swords,
Cob-webd, and rusty; not a helme affords
A sparke of lustre, which were wont to giue
Light to the world, and made the nation liue,
When in a day of honour fire was smit
To haue put out VVLCAN'S and haue lasted yet.
O, when this Ædifice stood great and high,
That in the carcasse hath such maiesty,
Whose very sceleton boasts so much worth,
What grace, what glories did it then send forth?
When to the structure went more noble names
Then the Ephesian temple lost in flames:
When euery stone was laid by vertuous hands;
And standing so, (O that it yet not stands!)
More truth of architecture there was blaz'd,
Then liu'd in all the ignorant Gothes haue raz'd.
There Porticos were built, and seats for knights
That watched for all aduentures , dayes and nights,
The Nieces filld with statues, to inuite
Young valures forth, by their old formes to fight.
With arkes triumphall for their actions done,
Out-striding the Collossus of the sunne.
And Trophæes , reard, of spoyled enemies,
Whose toppes pierc'd through the cloudes, and hit the skies
ARTHVR.
Discouered as a starre aboue.
And hither hath thy voyce pierc'd. Stand not maz'd,
Thy eyes haue here on greater glories gaz'd
And not beene frighted. I, thy ARTHVR, am
Translated to a starre; and of that frame
Or constellation that was calld of mee
So long before, as showing what I should bee,
ARCTVRVS, once thy king, and now thy starre.
Such the rewards of all good princes are.
Nor let it trouble thy designe, fair dame,
That I am present to it with my flame
And influence; since the times are now deuolu'd
That MERLIN'S misticke prophesies are absolu'd,
In Brittain's name, the vnion of this Ile;
And clayme both of my scepter and my stile.
Faire fall his vertue, that doth fill that throne
In which I ioy to find my selfe so'out-shone;
And for the greater, wish, men should him take,
As it is nobler to restore then make.
Proceed in thy great worke; bring forth thy knight
Preserued for his times, that by the might
And magicke of his arme, he may restore
These ruin'd seates of vertue, and build more.
Let him be famous, as was TRISTRAM, TOR,
LAUNC'LOT, and all our List of knight-hood: or
Who were before, or haue beene since. His name
Strike vpon heauen, and there sticke his fame.
Beyond the paths, and searches of the sunne
Let him tempt fate; and when a world is wunne,
Submit it duely to this state, and throne,
Till time, and vtmost stay make that his owne.
But first receiue this shield; wherein is wrought
The truth that he must follow; and (being taught
The wayes from heauen) ought not be despisd.
It is a piece, was by the fates deuisd
To arme his maiden valure; and to show
Defensiue armes th'offensiue should fore-goe.
Indowe him with it, LADY of the lake.
And for the other mysteries, here, awake
The learned MERLIN; when thou shutst him there,
Thou buriedst valure too, for letters reare
The deeds of honor high, and make them liue.
If then thou seeke to restore prowesse , giue
His spirit freedome; then present thy knight:
For armes and arts sustaine each others right.
LADY.
My error I acknowledge, though too late
To expiate it; There's no resisting fate.
Arise, great soule ; Fate by surreption got
May stead vs for the time, but lasteth not.
O, doe not rise with storme, and rage. Forgiue
Repented wrongs. I'am cause thou now shalt liue
Æternally, for being deprest a while,
Want makes vs know the price of what we auile.
MERLIN.
Arising out of the tombe.
I Neither storme, nor rage; 'tis earth; blame her
That feeles these motions when great spirits stirre.
She is affrighted, and now chid by heauen,
Whilst we walke calmely on, vpright and euen.
Call forth the faire MELIADVS, thy knight,
They are his fates that make the elements fight:
And these but vsuall throwes, when time sends forth
A wonder or a spectacle of worth.
At common births the world feeles nothing new;
At these she shakes; Mankind liues in a few.
LADY.
The heauens, the fates, and thy peculiar starres,
MELIADVS, shew thee; and conclude all iarres.
MELIADVS, and his sixe assistants here discouered .
MERLIN.
I, Now the spheares are in their tunes againe.
What place is this so bright that doth remaine
Yet vndemolishd? or but late built! O
I read it now. St. GEORGE'S Portico !
The supreme head of all the world, where now
Knighthood liues honord with a crowned brow.
A noble Scene , and fit to shew him in
That must of all worlds fame the ghirland winne.
LADY.
Do's he not sit like MARS, or one that had
The better of him, in his armor clad?
And those his sixe assistants, as the pride
Of the old Græcian Heroes had not died?
Or like APOLLO, raisd to the worlds view,
The minute after he the Python slew.
MERLIN.
'Tis all too little, LADY, you can speake.
My thought growes great of him, and faine would breake.
Inuite him forth, and guide him to his tent,
That I may read this shield his fates present.
LADY.
Glory of knights, and hope of all the earth,
Come forth; your fostresse bids; who from your birth
Hath bred you to this hower, and for this throne.
This is the field to make your vertue knowne.
If he were now (he sayes) to vow his fires
Of faith, of loue, of seruice, then his squires
Had vttered nothing for him: But he hopes
In the first tender of himselfe, his scopes
Were so well read, as it were no decor'me,
Where truth is studied, there to practise forme.
MERLIN.
No, let his actions speake him; and this shield
Let downe from heauen, that to his youth will yeeld
Such copy of incitement: Not the deedes
Of antique knights, to catch their fellowes steedes,
Or ladies palfreyes rescue from the force
Of a fell gyant, or some score to vn-horse.
These were bold stories of our ARTHVRS age;
But here are other acts; another stage
And scene appeares; it is not since as then:
No gyants, dwarfes, or monsters here, but men.
His arts must be to gouerne, and giue lawes
To peace no lesse then armes. His fate here drawes
An empire with it, and describes each state
Preceding there, that he should imitate.
First, faire MELIADVS, hath shee wrought an Ile,
The happiest of the earth (which to your stile
In time must adde) and in it placed high
Britayne , the only name, made CAESAR flie.
Within the neerer parts, as apt, and due
To your first speculation, you may view
The eye of iustice shooting through the land,
Like a bright planet strengthned by the hand
Of first, and warlike EDWARD; then th'increase
Of trades and tillage, vnder lawes and peace,
Begun by him, but settled and promou'd
By the third Heroe of his name, who lou'd
To set his owne aworke, and not to see
The fatnesse of his land a portion bee
For strangers. This was he erected first
The trade of clothing, by which arte were nurst
Whole millions to his seruice, and releeu'd
So many poore, as since they haue beleeu'd
The golden fleece, and need no forrayne mine,
If industrie at home doe not decline.
To proue which true, obserue what treasure here
The wise and seuenth HENRY heapt each yeere,
To be the strength and sinewes of a warre,
When MARS should thunder, or his peace but iarre,
And here how the eighth HENRY, his braue sonne,
Built forts, made generall musters, trayn'd youth on
In exercise of armes, and girt his coast
With strength; to which (whose fame no tongue can boast
Vp to her worth, though all best tongues be glad
To name her still) did great ELIZA adde
A wall of shipping, and became thereby
The ayde, or feare of all the nations nigh.
These, worthyest Prince, are set you neere to reade,
That ciuill arts the martiall must precede.
That lawes and trade bring honors in and gayne,
And armes defensiue a safe place maintayne.
But when your fate shall call you forth to'assure
Your vertue more (though not to make secure)
View here, what great examples shee hath plac'd.
First, two braue Britayne Heroes , that were grac'd
To fight their Sauiours battailes, and did bring
Destruction on the faithlesse; one a king,
RICHARD, surnamed with the lyons heart .
The other, EDWARD, and the first, whose part
(Then being but Prince) it was to lead these warres
In the age after, but with better starres.
For here though Coeur de lion like a storme
Powre on the Saracens , and doth performe
Deedes past an angell, arm'd with wroth and fire,
Ploughing whole armies vp, with zealous ire,
And walled cities, while he doth defend
That cause that should all warres begin and end;
Yet when with pride, and for humane respect
The Austrian cullors he doth here deiect
With too much scorne, behold at length how fate
Makes him a wretched prisoner to that state;
And leaues him, as a marke of Fortunes spight,
When Princes tempt their starres beyond their light:
Whilst vpright EDWARD shines no lesse then he,
Vnder the wings of golden victorie,
Nor lets out no lesse riuers of the bloud
Of Infidels , but makes the field a floud,
And marches through it, with S. GEORGES crosse,
Like Israels host to the Ægyptians losse,
Through the red sea : the earth beneath him cold
And quaking such an enemie to behold.
For which, his temper'd zeale, see Prouidence
Flying in here, and armes him with defence
Against th'assassinate made vpon his life
By a foule wretch, from whom he wrests the knife,
And giues him a iust hire: which yet remaynes
A warning to great chiefes, to keepe their traynes
About 'hem still, and not, to priuacie,
Admit a hand that may vse treacherie.
Neerer then these, not for the same high cause,
Yet for the next (what was his right by lawes
Of nations due) doth fight that MARS of men,
The black Prince EDWARD, 'gainst the French , who then
At Cressey field had no more yeeres then you.
Here his glad father has him in the view
As he is entring in the schoole of warre,
And powres all blessings on him from a farre,
That wishes can; whilst he (that close of day)
Like a yong lyon, newly taught to prey,
Inuades the herds, so fled the french , and teares
From the Bohemian crowne the plume he weares,
Which after for his crest he did preserue
To his fathers vse, with this fit word, I SERVE .
But here at Poictiers he was MARS indeed.
Neuer did valour with more streame succeed
Then he had there. He flow'd out like a sea
Vpon their troupes, and left their armes no way:
Or like a fire carryed with high windes,
Now broad, and spreading, by and by it findes
A vent upright, to looke which way to burne.
Then shootes along againe, or rounde doth turne,
Till in the circling spoile it hath embrac'd
All that stood nigh, or in the reach to wast:
Such was his rage that day; but then forgot
Soone as his sword was sheath'd, it lasted not,
After the King, the Dauphine , and french Peeres
By yeelding to him, wisely quit their feares,
Whom he did vse with such humanitie,
As they complayn'd not of captiuitie;
But here to England without shame came in.
To be his captiues was the next to win.
Yet rests the other thunder-bolt of warre,
HARRY the fift, to whom in face you are
So like, as Fate would haue you so in worth,
Illustrious Prince. This vertue ne're came forth,
But Fame flue greater for him, then shee did
For other mortalls; Fate her selfe did bid
To saue his life: The time it reach'd vnto,
Warre knew not how to giue'him enough to doe.
His very name made head against his foes.
And here at Agin-Court where first it rose,
It there hangs still a comet ouer France ,
Striking their malice blind, that dare aduance
A thought against it, lightned by your flame
That shall succeed him both in deedes and name.
I could report more actions yet of weight
Out of this orbe, as here of eightie eight ,
Against the proud Armada , stil'd by Spaine ,
The Inuincible ; that couer'd all the mayne,
As if whole Ilands had broke loose, and swame;
Or halfe of Norway with her firre-trees came,
To ioyne the continents, it was so great;
Yet by the auspice of ELIZA beat:
That deare-belou'd of heauen, whom to preserue
The windes were call'd to fight, and stormes to serue.
One tumor drown'd another, billowes stroue
To out-swell ambition, water ayre out-droue,
Though shee not wanted on that glorious day,
An euer-honor'd HOWARD to display
S.GEORGES ensigne; and of that high race
A second, both which ply'd the fight and chase:
And sent first bullets, then a fleet of fire,
Then shot themselues like ordinance; and a tire
Of ships for pieces, through the enemies moone,
That wan'd before it grew, and now they soone
Are rent, spoild, scatterd, tost with all disease,
And for their thirst of Britayne drinke the seas.
The fish were neuer better fed than then,
Although at first they fear'd the bloud of men
Had chang'd their element; and NEPTVNE shooke
As if the Thunderer had his palace tooke.
So here in Wales , Low Countries , France , and Spayne ,
You may behold both on the land and mayne
The conquests got, the spoiles, the trophæes reard
By British kings, and such as noblest heard
Of all the nation, which may make to'inuite
Your valure vpon need, but not to'incite
Your neighbour Princes, giue them all their due,
And be prepar'd if they will trouble you.
He doth but scourge him selfe, his sword that drawes
Without a purse, a counsaile and a cause.
But all these spurres to vertue, seedes of praise
Must yeeld to this that comes. Here's one will raise
Your glorie more, and so aboue the rest,
As if the acts of all mankind were prest
In his example. Here are kingdomes mixt
And nations ioyn'd, a strength of empire fixt
Conterminate with heauen; The golden veine
Of SATVRNES age is here broke out againe.
HENRY but ioyn'd the Roses , that ensign'd
Particular families, but this hath ioyn'd
The Rose and Thistle , and in them combin'd
A vnion, that shall neuer be declin'd.
Ireland that more in title, then in fact
Before was conquer'd, is his Lawrels act.
The wall of shipping by ELIZA made,
Decay'd (as all things subiect are to fade)
He hath new built, or so restor'd, that men
For noble vse, preferre it afore then:
Royall , and mightie IAMES, whose name shall set
A goale for all posteritie to sweat,
In running at, by actions hard and high:
This is the height at which your thoughts must fly.
He knowes both how to gouerne, how to saue,
What subiects, what their contraries should haue,
What can be done by power, and what by loue,
What should to Mercie , what to Iustice moue:
All Arts he can, and from the hand of Fate
Hath he enforc'd the making of his owne date.
Within his proper vertue hath he plac'd
His guards 'gainst Fortune , and there fixed fast
The wheele of chance , about which Kings are hurl'd,
And whose outragious raptures fill the world.
LADY.
I, This is hee, MELIADVS, whom you
Must only serue, and giue your selfe vnto:
And by your diligent practice to obay
So wise a Master learne the arte of sway.
MERLIN, aduance the shield vpon his tent.
And now prepare, faire Knight, to proue th'euent
Of your bold Challenge . Bee your vertue steeld,
And let your drumme giue note you keepe the field.
Is this the land of Britaine so renowned
For deeds of Armes , or are their hearings drownd
That none doe answere?
MERLIN.
Stay, me thinkes I see
A person in yond' caue . Who should that bee?
I know her ensignes now: 'Tis Cheualrie
Possess'd with sleepe, dead as a lethargie :
If any charme will wake her, 'tis the name
Of our MELIADVS. I'll vse his Fame .
Lady , MELIADVS, lord of the Iles,
Princely MELIADVS, and whom Fate now stiles
The faire MELIADVS, hath hung his shield
Vpon his tent, and here doth keepe the field,
According to his bold and princely word;
And wants employment for his pike, and sword.
CHEVALRY.
Were it from death that name would wake mee. Say
Which is the Knight? O I could gaze a day
Vpon his armour that hath so reuiu'd
My spirits, and tels me that I am long liu'd
In his apparance. Breake, you rustie dores,
That haue so long beene shut, and from the shores
Of all the world, come knight-hood like a flood
Vpon these lists, to make the field, here, good,
And your owne honours, that are now call'd forth
Against the wish of men to proue your worth.
THE BARRIERS.
After which MERLIN speakes .
Nay, stay your valure, 'tis a wisdome high
In Princes to vse fortune reuerently.
He that in deeds of Armes obeyes his blood
Doth often tempt his destinie beyond good.
Looke on this throne, and in his temper view
The light of all that must haue grace in you:
His equall Iustice , vpright Fortitude
And settled Prudence , with that Peace indued
Of face, as minde, alwayes himselfe and euen.
So HERCVLES, and good men beare vp heauen .
I dare not speake his vertues for the feare
Of flattring him, they come so high and neare
To wonders: yet thus much I prophesy
Of him and his. All eares your selues apply.
You, and your other you, great King and Queene,
Haue yet the least of your bright Fortune seene,
Which shal rise brighter euery houre with Time ,
And in your pleasure quite forget the crime
Of change; your ages night shall be her noone.
And this yong Knight, that now puts forth so soone
Into the world, shall in your names atchieue
More ghyrlands for this state, and shall relieue
Your cares in gouernment; while that yong lord
Shall second him in Armes , and shake a sword
And launce against the foes of God and you.
Nor shall lesse ioy your royall hopes pursue
In that most princely Mayd , whose forme might call
The world to warre, and make it hazard all
His valure for her beautie, she shall bee
Mother of nations , and her Princes see
Riuals almost to these. Whilst you sit high,
And lead by them, behold your Britaine fly
Beyond the line, when what the seas before
Did bound, shall to the sky then stretch his shore.
FOR ALL LADIES OF SHALOTT
by
ALINE KILMER
The web flew out and floated wide.
Poor lady! I was with her then.
She gathered up her piteous pride,
But she could never weave again.
The mirror cracked from side to side;
I saw its silver shadows go.
"The curse has come on me!" she cried.
Poor lady! I had told her so.
She was so proud: she would not hide.
She only laughed and tried to sing.
But singing, in her song she died.
She did not profit anything.
A LEGEND OF TINTAGEL CASTLE
by
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON
Alone in the forest, Sir Lancelot rode,
O'er the neck of his courser the reins lightly flowed,
And beside hung his helmet, for bare was his brow
To meet the soft breeze that was fanning him now.
And "the flowers of the forest" were many and sweet,
Which, crushed at each step by his proud courser's feet,
Gave forth all their fragrance, while thick over-head
The boughs of the oak and the elm-tree were spread.
The wind stirred the branches, as if its low suit
Were urged, like a lover who wakens the lute,
And through the dark foliage came sparkling and bright,
Like rain from the green leaves, in small gems of light.
There was stillness, not silence, for dancing along,
A brook went its way like a child with a song:
Now hidden, where rushes and water-flags grow;
Now clear, while white pebbles were glistening below.
Lo, bright as a vision, and fair as a dream,
The face of a maiden is seen in the stream;
With her hair like a mantle of gold to her knee,
Stands a lady as lovely as lady can be.
Short speech tells a love-tale; --the bard's sweetest words
Are poor, beside those which each memory hoards:
Sound of some gentle whisper, the haunting and low,
Such as love may have murmured--ah, long, long ago.
She led him away to an odorous cave,
Where the emerald spars shone like stars in the wave,
And the green moss and violets crowded beneath,
And the ash at the entrance hung down like a wreath.
They might have been happy, if love could but learn
A lesson from some flowers, and like their leaves turn
Round their own inward world, their own lone fragrant nest,
Content with its sweetness, content with its rest.
But the sound of the trumpet was heard from afar,
And Sir Lancelot rode forth again to the war;
And the wood-nymph was left as aye woman will be,
Who trusts her whole being, oh, false love, to thee.
For months, every sun-beam that brightened the gloom,
She deemed was the waving of Lancelot's plume;
She knew not of the proud and the beautiful queen,
Whose image was treasured as her's once had been.
There was many a fair dame, and many a knight,
Made the banks of the river like fairy-land bright;
And among those whose shadow was cast on the tide,
Was Lancelot kneeling near Genevra's side.
With purple sails heavily drooping around,
The mast, and the prow, with the vale lily bound;
And towed by two swans, a small vessel drew near,
But high on the deck was a pall-covered bier.
They oared with their white wings, the bark thro' the flood,
Till arrived at the bank where Sir Lancelot stood:
A wind swept the river, and flung back the pall,
And there lay a lady, the fairest of all.
But pale as a statue, like sunshine on snow,
The bright hair seemed mocking the cold face below:
Sweet truants, the blush and the smile both are fled--
Sir Lancelot weeps as he kneels by the dead.
And these are love's records; a vow and a dream,
And the sweet shadow passes away from life's stream:
Too late we awake to regret--but what tears
Can bring back the waste to our hearts and our years!
ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE FULFILMENT OF THE PREDICTION OF MERLIN
OCCASIONED BY THE LATE OUTRAGEOUS ATTACK
OF THE BRITISH SHIP OF WAR THE LEOPARD , ON THE AMERICAN FRIGATE
CHESAPEAKE , AND THE MEASURES TAKEN BY THE PRESIDENT,
SUPPORTED BY THE CITIZENS THERON.
by
JOSEPH LEIGH
To Richard E. Lee, Esq. Mayor of the borough of Norfolk, Virginia , and all other the Citizens of the United States of America, who are influenced by the genuine principles of Anno 1775 & '76, -- and more particularly the citizens of Norfolk , Portsmouth , and its vicinity, who assembled in June, 1807, in order to take efficient measures of defence at this all important crisis.
Respected Friends & Fellow Citizens :--
A superficial genius, it appears to me must readily allow, that it is so ordered in Providence, that we live in a day, pregnant with the most interesting events; and that it will finally terminate in favour of the great family of makind, there has not been a shadow of a doubt in my mind for many years past. It is a well known maxim with the great bulk of the enlightened,--remove the cause, and the effect of course ceases.
The late outrageous attack of the British ship of war, the Leopard, on the United States ship of war, the Chesapeake, in which the dignity and sovereignty of the United States received for the moment a wound--in my humble apprehension, compleatly fulfills the prediction of MERLIN , a celebrated ancient Briton, who lived in the fifth century. After being in the full belief that every sentiment would in due time be fulfilled, in order to get the opinions of my then fellow-citizens, I got it inserted in the Oracle of the Day, edited by Mr Charles Peirce, Anno 1796,--Mr. Peirce, at the moment, seems to have been influenced by the purest of motives, in order to diffuse light; and of course the types then under his immediate direction, answered the purposes of Omnipotence in permitting their invention;--I heard of its being copied into some of the Southern papers, but no notice taken thereof that ever came to my knowledge. Soon after the elevation of our present illustrious Chief to the Presidential Chair, I had them inserted in the Newhampshire Gazette; at present under the direction of distinguished citizens in their line,-- but still had no notice . Far advanced in life as I am, I look back with a sensible pleasure, that the prime of life was in some degree devoted, to help to rear the independent flag of United America. Language fails me to depict to you how very sensibly it wounded my feelings, when I first heard of the recent indignity offered it,--and you may be assured, I shall be one of the last to desert,--if need be. Having for my own amusement, made my remarks on the different periods, wherein it struck my mind in the most forcible manner that this remarkable prediction was fulfilled, I shew it to some of my confidential friends, for their candid sentiments, and by whole advice it is now laid before the public tribunal, with this request, not to be over hasty to receive or condemn, until it is thoroughly investigated, each one for himself; and in order that you might form clear and just conceptions for my coming forward at the present moment,--You will permit me to notice, that I am by birth an Englishman, uninfluenced and unpensioned ;--a native of Dunster, in the country of Somersett; as my parents were, in the strictness of speech nonconformists, there was early implanted in the mind, when tender, the most elevated ideas respecting religious and civil liberty, and of course a rooted emnity against all usurped power either in church or state. When young I was sent over to Neath in Glamorganshire in south Wales, for the purpose of an education, and put under the tuition of a Mr. Llewelen , a noted schoolmaster, a gentlemen well versed in the languages, and was in union with my parents, respecting the right of conscience and citizenship; where I became acquainted with the works of MERLIN, and can well remember of the honorable mention made of him by Mr. Llewelen and others. Early in life I was sent over by my parents to this country, to a noted merchant of this town, a school-fellow and an intimate friend of my father's,--he was a warm zealous friend to the liberties of mankind; so that, when the fatal moment for my native country took place, in the commencement of hostilities, Anno 1775--I was not at a loss to determine how to conduct at that eventful period. During the revolutionary war, I rendered this country all the services within the compass of my enfeebled abilities; at the final issue, the then supreme executive did me that justice, as to cause the public seal of this State to be put on my public character.
At the present order of things taking place, I thought my services in the prime , entitled me to be noticed in the decline of life; I therefore made application to some influential characters in this town, to no effect ,--owing I presume, to make provision for their favorite dependants . But I am so far happy to be possessed of a mind superior to pelf , for I do not envy them their princely fortunes, or their favorite dependants of their competency. I am well aware that this my present developement of this enigma of Merlin's may stagger for a moment the minds of some, in consequence of a confined idea, that the spirit of prophecy has long since ceased with the Apostles; but probably not being acquainted with that science of sciences, the science of Correspondance, might still avail,--yet admitting I am singular, I hold that the one and indivisible great Supreme, for reasons unfathomable to our finite understandings, has, in all ages of the world, selected instruments and endowed them with the spirit of prophecy, in order to be communicated for the benefit of mankind,--as well likewise do I make an essential difference between the spirit of prophecy, and miracles,--the latter I readily allow, have ceased. It is as firmly fixt in my mind as the Apalacian mountains are to the centre, that in all ages, instruments have been selected at the hands of Omnipotence, to bring about his purposes in this sublunary world. It is in this point of light that I consider the assembling of that illustrious band of patriots, who assembled at Norfolk , respecting the late transactions, between the Leopard and the Chesapeake, and the spirited letter of the Mayor of the borough of Norfolk to the British commodore;--which is the sole motive that induces and emboldens me to prefix his name to this my present publication, without previously obtaining his consent; and I indulge a hope it will be considered by him a sufficient apology therefor. Devoutly hoping that the rulers of my native country for once, will be disposed to take measures to prevent an open rupture between the two countries, and fix matters in future on a durable basis;--undoubtedly you will join in sentiments with me; and after committing each one to the all protecting arm of that BEING that is able to protect, with permission I beg leave to subscribe myself,
Your open and Inflexible friend ,
JOSEPH LEIGH.
Portsmouth, August 13, 1807.
The LION , is an emblem of GREAT BRITAIN; and it is well known how much she values herself on the prowess of the master beast of the forest.--The COCK , is an emblem of FRANCE; we frequently read of the Gallic Cock.--The DOVE , is an emblem of AMERICA, as is well known amongst the learned, for these cogent reasons; Christopher Columbus was the first discoverer of this vast Western Continent, and Colombia is significant of the DOVE, and the Dove is well known to be an emblem of innocence.
"When the Savage is meek and mild,
"The frantic mother shall stab her child."
[MERLIN.]
Well might the royal Psalmist with an uplifted mind exclaim, Lord what is man, that thou art mindful of him. And in other of his productions, when under the influence of the spirit of truth, he very readily and justly acknowledges that the ways of the Almighty are past finding out, or in other words, unfathomable to us the muck-worms of the earth, when compared to the Deity.--I thus introduce the subject with these observations to notice that soon after the christian era, that truly interesting epoch--that the superior light, with which it was ushered in, soon began to dwindle, and alas! man, fallible and pliant man, soon felt the fatal effects thereof:--It is a very interesting adage to go to the fountain head for the pure water;--And as long as the priests of the altar acted up to their original institutions in the promulgation of the Gospel of Peace, and princes did not forget they were men, responsible for their actions to the author of all good,--every thing went well. But when the infernal marriage between Church and State took place under Constantine the great--mark the consequence,--the summoning the counsel of NICE, wherein the one and indivisible great Supreme was split in pieces.--As it is foreign to my intention to give too lengthy a detail, suffice when I say, that it was so permitted that the union of Church and State, sunk man, the nobler part of the creation, into the most abject state of slavery, as the history of Europe will clearly evince:--But in the fulness of time it was so ordered, that the invention of types took place, and it was worthy of notice, about the time the reformation under Luther , and the spirit of discovery by the Portuguise round the Cape of Good Hope, and the unexplored regions of the West under Christopher Columbus.
The English, ever active, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, first established a colony in that favored spot of heaven VIRGINIA;--which name it retains in consequence of her virgin state. Her successor James the first of England, and sixth of Scotland, a haughty, imperious and weak prince, in whose reign the unfounded doctrine of non-resistance and passive obedience against the Lord's anointed, was carried to a high pitch by the then haughty and imperious prelates of the established church, and the inferior order of the clergy under their controul;--however, a chosen few bore an honorable testimony, and by way of derision, was first honored with the dignified name of Puritans. His successor Charles the first, with a laud in the church to co-operate, so far from relaxing, carried the nefarious doctrine to the highest pitch;--so that the stigmatized Puritans were under the necessity to emigrate to this then howling wilderness, and first settled at Plymouth ; which by the way of eminence, I consider to be the mother of New-England;--and I would wish to indulge a hope at this eventful moment, that the sons of the first founders of Plymouth would walk steadily in the path set before them by their worthy predecessors.--It is worthy of notice, that, with the exception of Pennsylvania, whose proprietor, the great Wm. Penn, the first founder, not considering the right of discovery on the part of the Europeans to be a sufficient ground for him to settle the lands of the Aborigines without their leave first obtained, took the honest and peaceable mode of making purchases of them as the colony extended; by which judicious procedure the colony of Pennsylvania enjoyed the greatest of all blessings, Peace ;--while her sister colonies were (with some exceptions) generally engaged in wars,--In many of which, the greatest of barbarities were exercised on the unhappy victims who were so unfortunate as to be taken, too shocking to relate! and for more particulars must refer the reader to the history of the times.--As the colonies increased, it had a tendency to raise the mother country, England , into importance in the eyes of Europe. It is a well known fact, that the French had here to the northward extensive colonies, and it is well known, the French and English have for centuries past, been rival nations.--The incroachment of the French on the colonies, after the peace of Aix Lachaple in 1748, laid the foundation of the war of 1756,--The unparralled success of the English, in every quarter of the world, and more particularly in America, where the lives and fortunes of the then colonists were devoted to their then mother country, whose councils were under the direction of spirited and upright statesmen, which terminated in the peace of 1762, in which the British became sole mistress of this vast Northern Continent;--By that means an universal peace with the Indians or Savages , (so called) took place, and which in my opinion fully compleats the enigma, contained in the first line of MERLIN'S prediction.--And now with painful sensations I proceed in order to develope the second. The present ill-fated Monarch of Britain, when he mounted the throne of his grandfather, was dreaded abroad and beloved at home; and in his first speech to his parliament, boasted of his being born a Britton, and gloried in the name;--how long he kept his word, let the impartial world judge. Having for his preceptor a haughty imperious Jacobite, who was soon noticed with an important birth in the administration. The nation soon felt the fatal effects thereof in the resignation of that great and upright statesman, the Hon. William Pitt, and others in whose administration the arms of the British nation were carried to the highest pitch of human glory. Soon after the peace of 1762, fatal for my native country, their councils were then in the hands of men inimical to the liberties of their fellow subjects. The consequence was the adoption of measures that infringed on the liberties of Englishmen; which threw the British nation into disorder--and with the assistance of a venal parliament, enacted laws for a permanent revenue, to be disposed of at the pleasure of the crown, independent of the colonial legislatures; and as was natural to expect, ran like wild fire from one end to the other of this vast Northern Continent, and roused the peaceable, loyal, but spirited Americans, who as one man , felt indignant on this open violation of their liberties. If my memory does not fail me, the omnipotence of the British parliament was first called in question in the house of Burgeses in that highly favored spot of heaven, Virginia --But as I would not wish to descend too far into particulars, on a presumption that the history of the times are in the hands of most of the citizens; let it suffice when I say that previous to the repeal of that detestable Stamp Act, that in full parliament they had declared that they had, and ever had a right to tax the unrepresented colonies of America, in all cases whatever.--I appeal to your candor and good judgment to determine whether it was not in the supreme sense of the word, a fatal stab into the very vitals of our then liberties; as for my own individual part, I construe this memorable epoch to be a fulfillment of the second line in the first section.
" When the Cock shall woo the Dove,
"The Mother the Child shall cease to love ."
After passing of the declaratory act, in consequence of the universal abhorrence with which the stampt Act was held at the hands of the then colonists--and at the hands of the majesty of the people, the stampt agents were not permitted to act. It was vainly imagined by some, the British administration would have let the matter have rested there, as the injuries and grievances of the colonists were warmly espoused by the genuine friends of colonial and English Liberties, with a Pitt and Burke at their head in Europe; whilst the then American patriots exhausted language to substantiate the justness and reasonableness of their claims:--but alas, to none effect; intoxicated with their self omnipotence under the idea of the regulation of commerce, an indirect tax was laid on the Americans for the purposes of a permanent revenue, at the disposal of the crown, who in order to strengthen the arm of government, made the high offices of government independent of the grants heretofore made them by the colonial houses of Assembly,--which had a tendency to expand the sacred flame of liberty, through this vast northern continent. In this very interesting period the French had their emissaries incog , in order to sound the disposition of the Americans; viewing I conclude, that the British colonies were to Britain as the hair was to Sampson of old.--I am thus induced to conclude this was the case, as I well remember the then Continental Congress in some of their addresses, held out this general idea, that foreign aid was not unattainable, if imperious necessity should eventually drive them to arms, to defend their liberties and every thing dear unto them. Hence in my opinion this section alludes to that interesting period.
" When men like moles work under ground,
"The Lion a Virgin true shall wound ."
I presume it is a well known fact, that the British secret service money granted by parliament, is the privy purse of the premier; through which means I humbly conceive on the great scale to be the corrupt fountain from whence proceed a great part of the human miseries, with which the great family of mankind has for many years past been afflicted. It was an observation of that arch traitor to English liberties, Sir Robert Walpole, that every man had his price; it was verified at this time when the disputes were warpt up to an alarming pitch between the then mother country and their then colonies; one asserted the right of taxation, the other denied it, in consequence of their being unrepresented; and that representation and taxation went hand in hand together. It is well known that the administration of Britain frequently carry their infernal purposes into effect by bribery and corruption; and at that eventful moment they selected as instruments in Massachusetts, a Hutchinson and an Oliver, of infamous memory;--These inbred, hypocritical ingrates, kept up a secret correspondence with their friends in England, who were hostile to British as well as American liberties. These infuriated sons of an evil genii, adhering to their advice, strengthened the arm of violence by sending mercenary troops in order to enforce their unjust and imperious edicts. But mark with attention, with grateful acknowledgments the kind interposition of the Deity in favor of an injured innocence, in the selection of a Hancock, an Adams, and a Warren, with a goodly number of distinguished patriots at Boston, (which at the moment was considered by the then venal British ministry and their satellites this side of the Atlantic, to be the hot bed of sedition) through whose instrumentality were obtained the letters above alluded to, which were laid before the then Massachusetts assembly; and shocking to relate, they strongly recommended an abridgement of what was then called English liberties. In order to avoid prolexity, I must beg leave to refer you to the history of the day for particulars;--Suffice then, when I say it finally terminated in the battle at Lexington, Anno, 1775, and which in my opinion compleats the fulfillment of the prediction in the third section.
" When the Cock and Dove the Lion shall fight,
"The Lion shall crouch beneath their might ."
Previous to the commencement of hostilities at Lexington, Anno 1775, the then general congress, used every exertion within the limits of human wisdom to prescribe (unless they had laid prostrate at the shrine of despotism every thing that could endear life,) in order to prevent a disunion between the two countries, they in the most submissive manner implored the interposition of their then Sovereign, but to no effect,--they remonstrated to their then fellow subjects the fatal effects that would accrue to both countries, but all to no purpose. In the interim they were not idle to act fully up to the first law of nature in order to prepare for the worst,--so that, soon after the attempting to destroy the public stores at Concord, the British were cooped up in Boston; by whom, not by mercenary troops, but the Lords of the soil; and being desirous of getting a little more elbow room, they made an attempt to obtain it; but the reception they met with at Bunker's Hill, made them more circumspect, as by sad experience they then found, that they had to combat with a People that were not to be trifled with. As it is not my intention to give you too lengthy a detail, on a presumption the history of the times is not scarce,--suffice it then when I say, that after having to encounter with numerous foes without, consisting of British, Hessian, Waldeckers and British savage allies, &c likewise , hoards of secret enemies within, and repeatedly receiving a specimen of British clemency , in their wantonly firing whole towns at times over our heads. In spite of all opposition the avenger of wrongs so ordered it, as to enable us to capture a whole British army under blustering Burgoyne, Anno, 1777. This truly interesting event in my weak apprehension had a tendency to raise the Americans into importance in the eyes of Europe, for it is worthy of notice that the next year, France acknowledged American Independence, and became the ally of United America; whose united efforts in conjunction of other friendly powers, compelled the British to make necessity a virtue, in dissolving the political union, in the peace of 1783, in which the 13 Atlantic States were acknowledged as Free, Sovereign and Independent , and in my opinion developes the enigma of the 4th section;--and here for a moment the first act of this dramatic tragedy must end.
" When the cock shall guard the eagle's nest,
"The stars shall all rise in the west ."
During the American Revolutionary War--their potent ally the French Monarch sent over to the assistance of the Americans a powerful fleet, and a body of land forces; in which united, they weakened the power of Britain much, particularly the capture of Lord Cornwallis, in Virginia, with his whole army. I have heard gentlemen of acute and deep penetration, make their observations, that the advantages the officers and soldiers in the land as well as the marine service, gave them a fair chance to investigate the nature of the dispute between the Americans and the English;--and it ever appeared unto me they sucked as the babe at the breast, from the Americans, their ideas of civil and religious liberty.--For it is worthy of remark, that soon after their return to Europe from America, after the peace of 1783, the seeds of the Revolution began to sprout, and for a time flourished, until it was endeavoured to be cut in the bud, by the coalesced powers, enemies to civil and religious liberty--and which compelled the asserters of the rights of human nature to have recourse to arms.--The Austrian Flanders was early in the contest the theatre of war; and it is well worthy of remark, that the famous Charles the fifth, emperor of Germany, &c. was the sole heir of the ancient house of Burgundy, in the right of his mother, who brought with her the sovereignty of Flanders into the family--He added it as an appendage to the German Imperial Eagle. The importance of the country is very great, and France in consequence of her being in possession, could extend her maritime influence so as to anoy the commerce of Britain, and prevent Austria from being a maritime power. These weighty considerations on the opposite sides, was the cause of the very many bloody battles fought in that country, which must be fresh in the memory of no inconsiderable number:--But as I must be brief, in order to avoid prolixity--Suffice when I say that the wholesome nourishment of the mind, they were furnished with, under the American stars. These faithful pupils, like robust soldiers, they went on to conquer, and are to this day in possession of Austrian Flanders--the nest of the Imperial Austrian Eagle. So that I am clearly of opinion that the data and spot fairly developes the prediction, as contained in the fifth section.
" When ships above the clouds shall sail,
"The lion's strength shall surely fail ."
A ship is well known to be a large hollow building with decks, made to pass over the sea with sails--by which means a communication is kept up between the most distant regions; and through the means of an open justifiable system of commerce the most solid advantages are derived to society in the rapid diffusion of light, and by the exchange of the productions and manufactories of the most distant climes, gives employ to millions of the industrious part of the community. But these cannot be the ships alluded to, as it is not possible in the nature of things to make use of them out of their natural element;--and here I think it might with propriety deserve your particular notice, that nearly about the time of the commencement of the French Revolution, that such was the sovereign will and pleasure of Heaven, as to permit the invention of baloons to take place;--and admitting I am not misinformed, a celebrated gentleman of the faculty now living in Boston, took a trip across the streights of Dover, and was landed in safety in France; and which I presume must be the ships alluded to--And now let us notice the use the French made of them; admitting my information is correct, early in the contest which was carried on between the French Republic and the coalesced powers, they had men in the cars underneath the baloons, who gave the signal from above, of the enemies movements, and by which means I ever understood that the French obtained many signal victories in Flanders, and notwithstanding the immense treasures expended by Britain in order to keep the flames of war alive--such was the sovereign pleasure of that BEING that cannot in the nature of things do wrong, so to order, that the Austrians were under the imperious necessity to cede in full sovereignty the whole of Austrian Flanders to the French. Ever since that eventful period, the power of Britain has been rapidly on the decline on the Continent of Europe;--and of course compleats the prediction contained in the sixth section.
" When Neptunes back with Stripes is red,
"The sickly Lion shall hide his head ."
Neptune and the Lion I conceive to be synonimous terms by alluding to one and the same thing; for it is well known that the Lion is an emblem of Britain, and Neptune was considered as the Titular God of the ancients of the sea; and it is too well known that Britain has arrogated to herself the sovereignty of the Ocean, and has carried her unjust and usurped power to intolerable lengths, particularly of late. In noticing this subject, I would wish to be understood that it is in consequence of what I have seen in the public prints and what has been related to me by gentlemen that have suffered in their property, as well as many representations made by them who have been so fortunate as to escape from what they considered to be a floating hell , a British ship of War ; in robbing them of their liberties and compelling them to help to carry into effect their sanguinary and knavish plans, to murder and plunder friends as well as the nations with which they are at open war. The American commerce is well known to have suffered severely in the present contest between England and the belligerent powers, which are now at war on the most frivolus pretence. Our ships while in pursuit of lawful commerce, have been seized by this lawless banditti and sent into their ports for what they call adjudication; and admitting we are so lucky as to get liberated, the long detention, and the heavy expences attending these sham trials, have destroyed the fairest prospects, to the great injury and undoubtedly the utter ruin of many an honest and industrious citizen: so that admitting every crime to be a stripe in Neptune's back, it of course is well filled. However, their accumulated crimes have warp'd up the public indignation, and to be or not to be, will soon be the question.--I shall now notice the precarious situation to which Britain has plunged herself into, by interfering with her neighbor's immediate concerns: At the time the French began a reform in their government, the English commercial flag was seen flying in every part of the habitual globe, their ships freighted with their manufactories, and in return were freighted back with raw materials, which undoubtedly gave bread to thousands and perhaps millions of their industrious poor. But alas, the contrast! look over the map of the world and you will find from the mouth of the Elbe to the north of Portugal, every port hostile to the introduction of the articles of their manufactories; from the south of Portugal up the Mediterranean, round the boot of Italy into the Adriatic sea, much in the same situation; their trade in the Levant to appearance ruined, and their trade in the Baltic Sea, in a critical situation, which leads me to conclude that the day we now live in, the 7th section of this singular prediction is alluded to.
" When seven and six shall make but one,
"The Lion's might shall be undone ."
We very well remember, that after our struggles in the revolutionary war, that the thirteen Atlantic States, were, in the peace of 1783, acknowledged on the part of Britain, as free, sovereign and independent;--as particularly mentioned in the articles of the treaty, with an extent of territory scarcely to be equalled by any nation on the face of the globe. The want of a federal head, in order more effectually to unite as one, was early felt to be essential for the preservation of the whole; otherways it was to be feared we should have become a pray to our ambitious and restless neighbors; and which laid the foundation of our present General Government: If its first and leading principles had been strictly adhered to, in my humble opinion the citizens of the United States would have been the happiest people that exist on the face of the globe. As every resource within itself (if rightly improved,) is a state of independency, and the rapid and unprecedented population of our country, convinces me that we have nothing to dread from any power that may be disposed to try the length of swords on the land; and probably if put to our trumps, another musquetoe fleet might be fixed out and be equally successful as the one at Louisburgh, Anno, 1745. But to return--soon after the Federal Government was organized and began to operate, unfortunately for this country, there were two powerful parties in opposition; and here you will permit me to remind you, that previous to the commencement of hostilities, Anno, 1775, through the channel of resolutions, they pledged to each other their sacred honor to support the common cause with their lives and fortunes. The General Congress on this bottom issued paper bills of credit, which for a while answered a good purpose: but the British at New York emitted immense sums of counterfeit paper money, and with the assistance of their friends, (the secret enemies of our country) got it into circulation, which embarrassed much the general congress; and self interest having expelled the profession of public virtue from the minds of so many native Americans, who were lavish at the first onset, had nearly ruined the cause. The general congress were not wanting in their duty to remind their constituents of the fatal precipice to which they were hastening; but their unremitted efforts to save their sinking country were crowned with success, in effecting loans of the solid coin and other articles, essential to their very existence as a nation; which under providence, I attribute to be the means of our political salvation. But notwithstanding, imperious necessity at the final issue of the revolutionary war, compelled our government to make payment to the hardy and trusty soldiery in the final certificates of their agent, who was authorized to liquidate the public accounts;--the want of power in the general congress to make and enforce taxes for their payment, bore hard on the public creditor and which opened a door for a host of hawker sharpers, and swindlers, to become speculators in the public securities; many of whom undoubtedly were from the dregs of society, who were so modest as to purchase in about one eighth of the value; the discerning and influential amongst this medley group of devotees at the shrine of mammon, were active to get themselves and friends elected as our servants; and how far they were faithful, let the impartial judge for themselves,--suffice when I say that they eventually saddled on you, that national curse, a national debt--in the assumption and funding the above alluded to securities, (in preference to their being extinguished by the sale of the public lands at a fair price) which alarmed I presume many of the virtuous Republicans; but when this self created new order of statesmen, the paper nabobs , had got a permanent footing as they vainly imagined, under the mask of an efficient government, the cloven foot of despotism soon began to shew itself; which brought forward the invulnerable pen of the Old South in the Independent Chronicle, and some able writers in the Salem Register and other Republican papers, in defence of your tottering liberties; and here you will permit me to remark, that Etna, in the Island of Sicily, was considered by the ancients as the mouth of Hell, in consequence of the destructive lava it occasionally emitted; but the high seasoned scribblers in many of the anti-republican papers, very far exceeded Mount Etna, for they were incessantly emitting every species of scurrelity against our friends who were honest and bold enough to stem the torrent, and they were not backward to fabricate and propagate false and idle stories, in order to choke the deadly plan of the introduction of a large standing army; and even some of the Priests of the altar, were not backward to help to fetter you with the iron chains of despotism, as a certain well known Rev'd Don, was assiduous to promulgate his bug bear essays on the illuminati, wherein a truly respectable order were implicated--but I shall forbear to recapitulate the many innovations on your liberties, and the tyrannical acts passed in the late administration, as I presume they must be fresh in your memories: Suffice then, when I say that ever since the present mild and judicious order of things took place, the servile editors of the opposition papers have been teeming with violent invectives against those, who I cannot but think, their greatest glory would be to render you every possible good; which undoubtedly must make such infamous scribblers appear ridiculous in the estimation of foreigners, while that it has a tendency to innervate the arm of government, when in pursuit of our real interest;--on the other hand, every act of the opposers of our lawful commerce has been by these anti-republicans (with few exceptions) extoled to the skies. The fullness of time has arrived, and the scales have fallen from the heretofore deluded but honest citizens. The late violent attack of the British ship of war the Leopard, on the United States ship of war the Chesapeake, has had the happy tendency to unite as one man, the friends of American liberty, in openly and manfully bearing an honorable testimony against the recent indignity offered our national flag; which in my opinion compleats the first line of the eighth and last section of this remarkable prediction of Merlin's.--A few remarks on the second line and then I have done. Admitting any confidence can be placed in the public prints, a lively representation of the wrongs done by the British ships of war, has been made by the Executive of the Union to the British government, and undoubtedly an unequivocal explanation on this head, as well as satisfaction for the injuries done, is expected, which it is to be devoutly hoped on the part of the British, will be acceded to in order to prevent an open rupture, which would be destructive to both countries;--But admitting for a moment that war must be the order of the day--I think the chances must be much against Britain, for the following reasons; a ruinous national debt, their commerce curtailed in Europe, and embarrassed in America, the powerful enemies she has already got to contend with, that if imperious necessity should compel the Americans to join the powerful coalition, I must confess I see nothing to prevent the sinking of Britain as a nation--so that in either case, I conceive the Lion's power to be at an end; which compleats the second and last act of this dramatic tragedy.
GAWAYNE AND THE GREEN KNIGHT
A FAIRY TALE
by
CHARLTON MINER LEWIS
PREFACE.
Arms and the man I sing,--not as of old
The Mantuan bard his mighty verse unrolled,
But in such humbler strains as may beseem
Light changes rung on a fantastic theme.
My tale is ancient, but the sense is new,--
Replete with monstrous fictions, yet half true;--
And, if you'll follow till the story's done,
I promise much instruction, and some fun.
CANTO I.
THE GREEN KNIGHT.
King Arthur and his court were blithe and gay
In high-towered Camelot, on Christmas day,
For all the Table Round were back again,
At peace with God and with their fellow-men
Their shields hung idly on the pictured wall;
Their blood-stained banners decked the festal hall;
Light footsteps, rustling on the rush-strewn floors,
And laughter, rippling down long corridors,
Attested minds at ease and hearts at play,--
Rude Mars unharnessed for love's holiday.
In the great hall the Christmas feast was done.
The level sunbeams from the setting sun
Stretched through the mullioned casements to the wall,
And wove fantastic shadows over all.
The revelry was hushed. In tranquil ease
The warriors grouped themselves by twos and threes
About the dames and damsels of the court,
And chattered careless words of small import;
But in an alcove, unobserved, apart,
Young Gawayne sat with Lady Elfinhart.
In Arthur's court no goodlier knight than he
Wore shirt of mail, or Cupid's panoply;
And Elfinhart, to Gawayne's eager eyes,
Of all heaven's treasures seemed the goodliest prize.
Now daylight faded, and the twilight gloom
Deepened the stillness in the vaulted room,
Save where upon the hearth a fitful glow
Blushed from the embers as the fire burned low.
There is a certain subtle twilight mood,
When two hearts meet in a dim solitude,
That thrills the soul e'en to the finger-tips,
And brings the heart's dear secrets to the lips.
In Gawayne's corner, as the shades grew thicker,
Four eyes waxed brighter, and two pulses quicker;
Ten minutes more of quiet talk unbroken,
And heaven alone can tell what might be spoken!
But it was not to be, for fates unequal
Compelled--but this anticipates the sequel.
Just in the nick of time, King Arthur rose
From his sedate post-prandial repose,
And called for lights. Along the shadowy aisles
His pages' footsteps pattered o'er the tiles,
Speeding to do his errand, and at once
Four tapers flickered from each silver sconce.
The scene was changed, the dreamer's dream dispelled,
And what might else have been his fate withheld
From Gawayne's grasp. So may one touch of chance
Shatter the fragile fabric of romance,
And all the heart's desire,--the joy, the trouble,--
Flash to oblivion with the bursting bubble!
But Arthur on his kingly dais-seat,
Felt nothing of the passion and the heat
That fire young blood. He raised his warlike head
And glancing moodily around him, said:
"So have ye feasted well, my knights, this day,
And filled your hearts with revel and with play.
But to my mind that day is basely spent
Which passes by without accomplishment
Of some bright deed of arms or chivalry.
We rust in indolence. As well not be,
As be the minions of an idle court
Where all is gallantry and girlish sport!
Some bold adventure let our thoughts devise,
To stir our courage and to cheer our eyes."
And lo! while yet he spoke, from far away
In the thick shroud of the departed day,
Upon the frosty air of evening borne,
Came the faint challenge of a fairy horn!
King Arthur started up in mild surprise,
While knights and dames looked round with questioning eyes,
And each to other spoke some hurried word,
As, "Did you hear it?"--"What was that I heard?"
But well they knew; for you must understand
That Camelot lay close to Fairyland,
And the wild blast of fairy horns, once known,
Is straightway recognized as soon as blown,
Being a sound unique, unearthly, shrill,--
Between a screech-owl and a whip-poor-will.
The mischief is, that no one e'er can tell
Whether such heralding bodes ill or well!
The ladies of the palace looked faint fear,
Dreading some perilous adventure near;
For peril can the bravest spirits move,
When threatening not ourselves, but those we love;
But Lady Elfinhart clapped hands in glee,--
In sooth, no sentimentalist seemed she,--
And cried: "Now, brave Sir Gawayne,--O what fun!
Succor us, save us, else we are undone;
Show us the prowess of your arm this night;
I never saw a tilt by candle-light!"
Gaily she spoke, and seemed all unconcerned;
And yet a curious watcher might have learned
From a slight quaver in her laughter free
To doubt the frankness of her flippancy.
Gawayne, bewildered, looked the other way,
And wondered what she meant; for in that day
The ready wit of man was under muzzle,
And woman's heart was still an unsolved puzzle;
And Gawayne, though in valor next to none,
Wished that her heart had been a tenderer one.
His sword was out for any foe on earth,
And yet to face death for a lady's mirth
Seemed scarce worth while. What honor bade, he'ld do,
But would have liked to see a tear or two.
While thus he pondered, came a sudden burst
Of high-pitched fairy horn-calls, like the first,
But nearer, clearer, deadlier than before,
Blown seemingly from just outside the door.
The casements shook, the taper lights all trembled;
The bravest knight's dismay was ill-dissembled;
And as all sprang with one accord to win
Their swords and shields, stern combat to begin,
The great doors shot their bolts, and opened slowly in.
And now my laboring muse is hard beset,
For something followed such as never yet
Was writ or sung, by human voice or hand,
Save those that tell old tales from Fairyland.
"Miracles do not happen:"--'t is plain sense,
If you italicize the present tense;
But in those days, as rare old Chaucer tells,
All Britain was fulfilled of miracles.
So, as I said, the great doors opened wide.
In rushed a blast of winter from outside,
And with it, galloping on the empty air,
A great green giant on a great green mare
Plunged like a tempest-cleaving thunderbolt,
And struck four-footed, with an earthquake's jolt,
Plump on the hearthstone. There the uncouth wight
Sat greenly laughing at the strange affright
That paled all cheeks and opened wide all eyes;
Till after the first shock of quick surprise
The people circled round him, still in awe,
And circling stared; and this is what they saw:
Cassock and hood and hose, of plushy sheen
Like close-cut grass upon a bowling-green,
Covered his stature, from his verdant toes
To the green brows that topped his emerald nose.
His beard was glossy, like unripened corn;
His eyes shot sparklets like the polar morn,
But like in hue unto that deep-sea green
Wherewith must shine those gems of ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Green was his raiment, green his monstrous mare.
He rode unarmed, uncorsleted, unshielded,
Except that in his huge right hand he wielded
A frightful battle-axe, with blade as green
As coppery rust;--but the long edge shone keen.
Such was the stranger, and he turned his head
From one side to the other, and then said,
With gentle voice, most like a summer breeze
That rustles through the leaves of the grren trees:
"So this is Arthur's court! My noble lord,
You said just now you felt a trifle bored,
And wished, instead of dancing, feasting, flirting,
Your gallant warriors might be exerting
Their puissance upon some worthier thing.
The wish, my lord, was worthy of a king!
It pleased me; here I am; and I intend
To serve your fancy as a faithful friend.
I bring adventure,--no hard, tedious quest,
But merely what I call a merry jest.
Let some good knight, the doughtiest of you all,
Swing this my battle-axe, and let it fall
On whatsoever part of me he will;
I will abide the blow, and hold me still;
But let him, just a twelvemonth from this day,
Come to me, if by any means he may,
And let me, if I live, pay back my best,
As he pays me. What think you of the jest?"
He said; and made a courteous bow,--the while
Lighting his features with a bright green smile;
As when June breezes, after rain-clouds pass,
Ripple in sunlight o'er the unmown grass.
The jest seemed fair indeed; but none the less
No knight showed any undue forwardness
To seize the offer. Some with laughter free
Daffed it aside; while others carelessly
Strolled to the farthest corners of the hall
As if they had not heard his words at all,
And whistled with an air of idle ease,
Or studied figures in the tapestries.
Not so Sir Gawayne. Vexed in mind he stood
With downcast eyes, and knew not what he would.
Trained in the school of chivalry to prize
His honor as the light of his dear eyes,
He held his life, his fortunes, everything,
In sacred trust for knighthood and his king,
And in the battle-field or tilting-yard
He met his foe full-fronted, and struck hard.
But now it seemed a foolish thing to throw
One's whole life to the fortune of a blow.
True valor breathes not in the braggart vaunt;
True honor takes no shame from idle taunt;
So let this wizard, if he wants to, scoff;
Why should our hero have his head cut off?
While thus Sir Gawayne, wrapped in thought intense,
Debated honor versus common sense,
The stranger knight was casting his green glance
Around the circling throng,--until by chance
He met the eyes of Lady Elfinhart,
And--did she flush?--and did the Green Knight start?
Surely a quiver twinkled in each eye;
But what of that? It need not signify:
Beneath his glance a brave man well might flush;
What wonder then that a fair maid should blush?
And as for him, no man that ever loved
Could look upon her loveliness unmoved.
Could I but picture her--ah, you would deem
My tale the figment of a poet's dream;
And if you saw her, (could such bliss be given),
You'ld think yourself in dreamland--or in heaven,
Not the red rapture of new-wakened roses,
When morning dew their soul of love uncloses,
(Roses that must be wooed,--nor may be won
Save by the prince of lovers, the warm sun),
Not the fair lily, nor the violet shy,
Whose heart's love lurks deep in her still blue eye,
Nor any flower, the loveliest and the best,
Can image to you half the charm compressed
In those dear eyes, those lips,--nay, every part
That made that sum of witcheries--Elfinhart.
Her face was a dim dream of shadowy light,
Like misty moonbeams on the fields of night,
And in her voice sweet nature's sweetest tunes
Sang the glad song of twenty cloudless Junes.
Her raiment,--nay; go, reader, if you please,
To some sage Treatise on Antiquities,
Whence writers of historical romances
Cull old embroideries for their new-spun fancies;
I care not for the trivial, nor the fleeting.
Beneath her dress a woman's heart was beating
The rhythm of love's eternal eloquence,
And I confess to you, in confidence,
Though flowers have grown a thousand years above her,
Unseen, unknown, with all my soul I love her.
From these digressions upon love and glory,
'T is time we were returning to our story.
I only meant, in a few words, to tell you
(For fear my heroine's conduct should repel you)
That if she jests, for instance, out of season,
Perhaps there is a good substantial reason.
Sir Gawayne, had he seen the stranger wink
And seen the lady blushing, you may think
Might have been spared a most unhappy lot.
Perhaps you're right;--but peradventure not.
I give you the hint, for half the art
Of narrative is holding back a part,
And if without reserve I gave my best
In the first canto, who would read the rest?
But now Sir Gawayne, with a troubled eye,
Looked up, and saw his lady standing by.
Quoth he: "And if this conjurer unblest
Win no acceptance of his bitter jest,
How then in after days shall Arthur's court
Confront the calumny and foul report
Of idle tongues?" The wrath in Gawayne's eyes
Flashed for an instant; then in humbler wise
He spoke on: "Yet God grant I be not blind
Where honor lights the way; for to my mind
True honor bids us shun the devil's den,
To fight God's battles in the world of men.
Who takes this challenge up, I doubt will rue it."
Quoth Elfinhart: "I'ld like to see you do it!"
She laughed a gay laugh, but by hard constraint;
Then turned and hid her face, all pale and faint,
As one might be who stabs and turns the knife
In the warm heart of one more dear than life.
She turned and Gawayne saw not; but he heard,
And felt his heart-strings tighten at her word.
"Nay, lady, if you wish it I will try;
Be your least wish my will, although I die!
Yet one thing, if I may, I fain would ask,
Before I make the venture;--if this task
Prove fateful as it threatens,--do you care?"
"Perhaps," said Elfinhart, "you do not dare!"
Lightly she laughed, and scoffing tossed her head,
Yet spoke as one who knew not what she said,
With random words, and with quick-taken breath;
Then turned again, ere that same look of death
Should steal upon her and betray her heart
Despite all stratagems of woman's art.
And Gawayne heard but saw not; and the night
Descended on him, and his face grew white
With grief and passion. When all else is lost,
The brave man gives life too, nor counts the cost.
"I dreamt," he murmured to himself, "and dreaming
I took for truth what was but sweetest seeming.
My waking eyes find naught in life to keep;
I take the venture, and so back--to sleep."
By this, the stranger had at last become
Tired of long waiting, and of sitting dumb
Upon his charger; so with greenest leer
He vented his impatience in a sneer.
"Is this," he said, "the glorious Table Round,
And is its glory naught but empty sound?
Braggarts! I put your bluster to the test,
And find you quail before a merry jest!"
Then the great king himself stood up in ire,
With clenched hand raised, and eyes that gleamed dark fire,
And fronting the Green Knight he cried: "Forbear!
For by my sword Excalibur I swear,
Whate'er thou be, thou shall not carry hence
Unscathed the memory of thine insolence.
Such jests as thine please not; yet even so
I take thine axe; kneel down, and take my blow."
Across the Green Knight's features there was seen
To pass a fleeting shade of deeper green,
Whether of disappointment or resentment
None knew; but straight a smile of bright contentment
Followed, as through the throng of dazed beholders
He saw Sir Gawayne thrust his sturdy shoulders.
The stranger winked at Elfinhart once more,
Well pleased, and Gawayne knelt down on the floor.
"A boon," he cried, "a boon, my lord and king!
If ever yet in any little thing
These hands have served thee, hear my last request:
Let me adventure this mad monster's jest!"
King Arthur shook his head in dumb denial,
Loth to withdraw his own hand from the trial,
And leave the vengeance that himself had vowed;
But all the people called to him aloud,
"Sir Gawayne! let Sir Gawayne strike the blow!"
And Guinevere, the queen, besought him low
To leave this venture to the lesser man.
He yielded, and the merry jest began.
The visitor, dismounting, made a bow
To Arthur, then to all the court. "And now,"
Said he to Gawayne, "wheresoe'er you choose
To strike your blow, strike on; I'll not refuse;
Head, shoulders, chest, or waist, I little reck;
Where shall it be?" Quoth Gawayne, "In the neck!"
So Gawayne took the axe. The stranger knelt
Before him on the hearth and loosed his belt,
And threw back his green cassock and his hood,
To give his foe the fairest mark he could.
Then thus to Gawayne: "Ready! But remember
To come the twenty-fifth of next December,
And take from me the self-same stroke again!"
"And where," asked Gawayne, "may I find you then?"
"We'll speak of that, please, when you've struck your blow;
For if I can't speak, then you need not go!"
He chuckled softly to himself; then turned
And waited for the blow, all unconcerned.
Not so the knights and ladies of the court;
They pushed and craned their necks to see the sport;
Not from the lust of blood, for few expected
To see blood shed, or the Green Knight dissected,
But knowing that some marvel was in store
Unparalleled in all Arthurian lore,
And fairly filled with wide-eyed wonderment.
But Lady Elfinhart stayed not. She went
Into the alcove where we saw her first
And laid her sweet face in her arms, and burst
Into--but none could tell, unless by peeping,
Whether she shook with laughter or with weeping.
And Gawayne rubbed his arms, his chest he beat,
Then grasped the battle-axe and braced his feet,
And swung the ponderous weapon high in air,
And brought it down like lightening, fair and square
Upon the stranger's neck. The axe flashed through,
Cutting the Green Knight cleanly right in two,
And split the hard stone floor like kindling wood.
The head dropped off; out gushed the thick, hot blood
Like--I can't find the simile I want,
But let us say a flood of crême de menthe !
And then the warriors standing round about
Sent up from fifty throats a mighty shout,
As when o'er blood-sprent fields the long cheers roll
Cacophonous, for him who kicks a goal.
"O Gawayne! Well done, Gawayne!" they all cried;
But straight the tumult and the shouting died,
And deadly pallor overspread each face,
For the knight's body stood up in its place
And stepping nimbly forward seized the head
That lay still on the hearth-stone, seeming dead;
Then vaulted lightly, with a careless air,
Back to the saddle of his grass-green mare.
He held the head up, and behold! it spoke.
"My best congratulations on that stroke,
Sir Gawayne; it was delicately done!
Our merry little jest is well begun,
But look you fail me not this day next year!
At the Green Chapel by the Murmuring Mere
I will await you when the sun sinks low,
And pay you back full measure, blow for blow!"
He wheeled about, the doors flew wide once more,
The mare's hoofs struck green sparkles from the floor,
And with a whirring flash of emerald light
Both horse and rider vanished in the night.
Then all the lords and ladies rubbed their eyes
And slowly roused themselves from dumb surprise.
The great hall echoed once more with the clatter
Of laughing men's and frightened women's chatter;
But Gawayne, with the axe in hand, stood still,
Heedless of what was passing, with no will
For life or death, for all that made life dear
Was fled like summer when the leaves fall sere.
And Arthur spoke, misreading Gawayne's thought:
"Heaven send we have not all too dearly bought
Our evening's pastime, Gawayne. You have done
As fits a fearless knight, and nobly won
Our thanks in equal measure with our praise.
Be both remembered in the after days!"
So spoke the king, and, to confirm his word,
From far away in the deep night was heard
Once more the fairy horn-call, clear and shrill;
It died upon the wind, and all was still.
The hour was late. King Arthur, rising, said
Good-night to all the court, and went to bed.
CANTO II.
ELFINHART.
In Canto I. I followed the old rule
We learned from Horace when we went to school,
And took a headlong plunge in medias res ,
As Maro did, and blind Mæonides;
And now, still following in the ancient mode,
I come to the time-honored "episode,"
Retrace my way some twenty years or more,
And tell you what I should have told before.
It seems an awkward method, but it's art;--
Besides, it brings us back to Elfinhart.
In those dark days before King Arthur came,
When Britain was laid waste with sword and flame,
When cut-throats lurked behind the blossoming thorn,
And young maids cursed the day when they were born,
A lady, widowed in one hideous night,
Fled over hearth and hill, and in her flight
Came to the magic willow-woods that stand
Beside the Murmuring Mere, in Fairyland;
And there, untimely, by the forest-side,
Clasping her infant in her arms, she died.
Yet not all friendless,--for such mortal throes
Pass not unpitied, though no mortal knows;--
The spirits that infest the clearer air
Looked down upon the innocent lady there,
While troops of fairies smoothed her mossy bed
And with sweet balsam pillowed her fair head.
Her dim eyes could not see them, but she guessed
Whose gentle ministrations thus had blessed
Her travail; and when pitying fairies laid
Upon her heart the child,--a blue-eyed maid,--
Ere yet her troubled spirit might depart,
With one last word she named her "Elfinhart."
So with new-quickened love the fairy elves
Took the forlorn child-maiden to themselves
And reared her in the wildwood, where no jar
Of alien discord, echoing from afar,
Broke the sweet forest murmur, long years round.
Her ears, attuned to every woodland sound,
Translated to her soul the great world's voice,
And the world-spirit made her heart rejoice.
And love was hers,--perennial, intense,--
The love that wells from joy and innocence
And sanctifies the cloistered heart of youth,--
The love of love, of beauty, and of truth.
So Elfinhart grew up. Each passing year
Of forest life beside the Murmuring Mere
Enriched tenfold the natural dower of grace
That shone from the pure spirit in her face.
I cannot tell why each revolving season
Enhanced her beauty thus. Some say the reason
Was in the stars; I think those luminaries
Had less to do with it than had the fairies!
The more they found of grace in her, the more
Their silent influence added to her store;
For they were always with her; they and she
Still bore each other loving company.
And yet one further virtue,--not the least
Of those that make life lovable,--increased
In Elfinhart's sweet nature from her birth
By fairy tutelage; and that was mirth.
For fairy natures are compounded all
Of whimsies and of freaks fantastical,
And what the best of fairies loves the best
(Except pure kindness) is an artless jest.
And so wise men have argued, on the whole,
That the misguided creatures have no soul;
But as for me, if the bright fairy elf
Has none, I'll get along without, myself!
These fairies laughed and danced and sang sweet songs,
And did all else that to their craft belongs,--
All tricks and pranks of whole-souled jollity
That makes life merry 'neath the greenwood tree.
The youngest of them childishly beguiled
The time when Elfinhart was still a child;
They pinched her fingers, and they pulled her ears,
Or sometimes, when her blue eyes dreamed of tears,
Half smothered her with showers of four-leafed clover,--
Then fled for refuge to some sweet-fern cover;
But she pursued them through their tangled lair
And caught them, and put fire-flies in their hair;
And then they all joined hands, and round and round
They danced a morris on the moonlit ground.
The years went by, and Elfinhart outgrew
The madcap antics of the younger crew,
(For fairies age but slowly: don't forget
That at two hundred they are children yet!)
But still she frolicked with them, though scarce of them,
And learned each year more tenderly to love them.
But most of all she loved with all her heart
On quiet summer nights to walk apart
And hold close converse with the fairies' queen,--
A radiant maiden princess who had seen
Some twenty centuries of revolving suns
Pass over Fairyland,--all golden ones!
Sometimes they sat still in the mild moon's light,
Where chestnut blooms made sweet the breath of night,
And talked of the great world beyond the wood,--
Of death, or sin, or sorrow, understood
Of neither,--till the twinkling stars were gone,
And bustling Chanticleer proclaimed the dawn.
And Elfinhart grew wise in fairy learning;
But by degrees a half unconscious yearning
For humankind stirred in her gentle heart,
And woke a deep desire to bear her part
Of love and sorrow in the larger life
As sister, helper,--nay, perhaps as wife;--
For such vague instincts, after all, are human,
And Elfinhart herself was but a woman.
And yet, for all this new desire, I doubt
If Elfinhart would e'er have spoken out,
And told the fairies of her wish to leave them,
(A wish her conscious heart well knew would grieve them),
If in the ripening of her silent thought
A still voice had not whispered that she ought
To leave that world of love and mirth and beauty,
To share man's burden in this world of duty.
(There's anticlimax for you! Most provoking,
Just when you thought that I was only joking,
Or idly fingering the poet's laurel,
To find my story threatens to be moral!
But as for morals, though in verse we scout them,
In life we somehow can't get on without them;
So if I don't insert a moral distich
Once in a while, I can't be realistic;--
And in this tale, I solemnly aver,
My one wish is to tell things as they were!
But not all things; time flies, and art is long,
And I must hurry onward with my song.)
How Elfinhart at last told what she wanted,
And what the fairies said, please take for granted.
She prayed, they yielded; Elfinhart full loth
To leave, as they to let her go, but both
Agreeing that this bitter thing must be;
For they were fairies, and a mortal she.
But ere they yielded, they made imposition
Of what then seemed to her a light condition.
'T was done in kindness, be it understood,
With fairy foresight for the maiden's good.
The elf-queen spoke for all: "Dear Elfinhart,
We bind you to one promise ere we part.
We fear naught from men's malice; hate and wrath
And every evil thing will shun your path,
And sunshine will go with you when you move;
The only danger that we dread is love.
If in the after days, when suitors woo you,
Your heart makes choice of one, as dearest to you,
Before you put your hand in his and own
The sacred trust reserved for him alone,
Let us make trial of him, and approve
His virtue, and his manhood, and his love.
Send him to us; and if he bears the test,
And if we find him worthy to be blest
With love like yours, be sure we will befriend him;
And may a life-long happiness attend him!
But if he prove a traitor, or faint-hearted,
Or if his love and he are lightly parted,
In the deep willow-woods he shall remain,
And never look upon your face again!"
The maiden, fancy-free, was well content,
And with light laughter gave her full consent;
For when maids think of love (as maidens do)
It seems a far-off thing; and well she knew
Her lover, if she loved, would be both brave and true!
Not long thereafter came an errant band
Riding along the edge of Fairyland,--
Stout men-at-arms, without reproach or spot,
And in the lead the bold Sir Launcelot.
He, riding on ahead, silent, alone,
Was stopped by a beseeching ancient crone
Who hobbled to his side, as if in pain,
And clutched with palsied fingers at his rein.
And there behind her, from the leafage green,
The sweetest eyes his eyes had ever seen
Were gazing at him with wide wonderment,
Not bold or fearful; innocence unshent
Shone from their blue depths, and old dreams awoke
In Launcelot's breast, while thus the beldame spoke:
"A boon, a boon, Sir Launcelot of the Lake!
I pray you of your courtesy to take
This damsel to the King. Her enemies
Have spoiled her of her birthright, and she flees
An innocent outcast from her wasted lands,
To lay her life and fortune in his hands."
She spoke, and vanished in the woodland shade.
Then Launcelot, leaning over, helped the maid
To mount behind, and at an easy trot
They and the troop rode on to Camelot.
He asked no questions, for some fairy spell
Made light his heart, and told him all was well;
And as these two rode through the land together,
By dappled greenwood shade and sunlit heather,
Her soft voice in his ears, the innocent charm
Of her light, steady touch upon his arm,
Wrought magic in his soul. That day, I ween,
Sir Launcelot well-nigh forgot his queen.
And Elfinhart (you knew those eyes were hers!)
Laughed with the silvery jingle of his spurs,
And from her heart the new world's rapture drove
All thought of Fairyland--excepting love.
And so to high-towered Camelot they came,
The golden city,--now a shadowy name;
For over heath-clad hills the wild winds blow
Where Arthur's halls, a thousand years ago,
Bright with all far-fetched gems of curious art,
Shone brighter with the eyes of Elfinhart.
She came to Camelot; the king receives her;
And there for five glad years my story leaves her.
Five glad years, and this "episode" is done,
And we are back again at Canto I.
I write of merry jest and greenwood shade,
But tales of chivalry are not my trade;
So if you wish to read that five years' story
Of lady-love, romance, and martial glory,--
The mighty feats of arms that Gawayne did,--
The ever ripening love that Gawayne hid
Five long years in his breast, biding his time,--
Go seek it in some abler poet's rime.
My tale begins with the young knight's brave soul
All Elfinhart's. She thinks herself heart-whole.
But at that Christmas feast, in Arthur's hall,
With night's soft mantle folded over all,
The magic influence of the evening tide
Stole on their two hearts beating side by side.
And Gawayne talked of troubles long ago,
When each man's neighbour was his dearest foe,
And of the trials he himself had passed,
And the high purpose that from first to last
Had been his stay and spur, he scarce knew how,
Since on Excalibur he took the vow.
He told of his own hopes for future days,
And how he wrought and fought not for men's praise,
(Though like all good men Gawayne held that dear),
Yet trusting, when men laid him on his bier,
They might remember, as they gathered round it,
"He left this good world better than he found it."
He talked as true men seldom talk, unless
Swayed utterly by some pure passion's stress,
And ever gently, though with heart on fire,
Still hovered nearer to his soul's desire.
And Elfinhart in gravest silence listened,
But her sweet heart beat high, her blue eyes glistened;
For as he bared his soul to her she dreamed
A day-dream strange and new, wherein it seemed
That in that soul's clear depth she saw her own,
And his most secret thought (till then unknown)
Seemed hers eternally. He spoke of death,
And then her heart shrank, and she drew deep breath.
Suddenly, ere she understood it all
What new life dawned before her, came the call
Of fairy horns; and so the Green Knight burst
Upon the scene, as told in Canto First.
One jarring note, the tuneful chords among,
May make mad discord of the sweetest song.
E'en so with dissonant clamor through the breast
Of Gawayne rang the Green Knight's merry jest;
But what wild meaning must it not impart
To the vague fears of gentle Elfinhart?
For she had heard in the first trumpet-blast
A signal to her from the far-gone past;
And now, of all the strange things that had been,
Her half forgotten compact with the queen
Flushed through her memory, and a swift thought came
Like sudden fear, a thought without a name,
An unvoiced question and a blind alarm;
And in sheer helplessness she reached an arm
Toward Gawayne, scarcely knowing what she would;
Her eyes beheld him, and she understood.
And is it Gawayne? He? Yes, Elfinhart,
The hour has come, and you must play your part.
So now it's all explained; and I intend
To go straight onward to the story's end.
Sir Gawayne had cut off the Green Knight's head,
And Arthur and his court had gone to bed;
In the great hall the dying embers shone
With a faint ghostly gleam, and there, alone,
While all the rest of Camelot was sleeping,
In the dark alcove Elfinhart lay weeping.
But as she lay there, all about her head
There fell a checkered beam of moonlight, shed
Through the barred casement; and she faintly stirred,
For in her troubled soul it seemed she heard
Vague music from some region far away.
She raised her head and, turning where she lay,
Saw in the silver moonlight the serene
And tranquil beauty of the fairy queen!
"We sent before you called us, Elfinhart,
For love lent keener magic to our art,
And warned us of the thoughts that in your breast
Awoke new rapture, trembling unconfessed."
And Elfinhart moved closer to her knees
And hid her face in the white draperies
That veiled the fairy form, till, nestling there,
Her heart recovered from that blank despair,
And whispered her that whatsoe'er befell
Love ruled the world, and all would yet be well.
And the good fairy stroked the maiden's head
And kissed her tear-starred eyes, and smiling said:
"Fie on you women's hearts! Consistency
Hides her shamed head where mortal women be!
True love breeds faith and trust, it makes hearts strong;
The heart's anointed king can do no wrong!
And yet you weep as if you feared to prove him;--
Upon my word, I don't believe you love him!"
And Elfinhart replied: "Laugh if you will,
My queen, but let me be a woman still.
You fairies love where love is wise and just;
We mortal women love because we must:
And if I feared to prove him, I confess
I fear I still must love him none the less."
She paused, for once again her eyes grew dim:
"Think you I love his virtues? I love him!
But yet you judged me wrongly, for believe me,
(And then laugh once again, and so forgive me),
If at the first I feared what you might do,
My doubts were not of Gawayne, but of you!"
And so both laughed, and for a little space
Folded each other in a glad embrace;
(For fairies, bathed the whole year round in bliss,
May yet be gladdened by a fair maid's kiss);
And Elfinhart spoke on: "Do what you will,
I trust you with my all, and fear no ill.
But oh, my friend, to wait the long, long year,--
To keep my heart in silence, not to hear
The words my whole soul hungers for, nor say
One syllable to brighten his dark day!
Must it be so, my queen? And how shall I
School eyes and lips to act this year-long lie?
From the dear teacher-guardian of my youth
The only ways I learned were ways of truth!
I tried my skill this night, and learned to know
That there are deeps below the deeps of woe;
Hearts may be bruised and broken, yet still live;--
The wounds that kill us are the wounds we give!"
And so these two talked on, until the night
Began to shiver with the gray dawn's light,
And in the deep-dyed casement they might see
New life flush through old dreams of chivalry.
And then they parted. What the queen had said
I know not, but the lady, comforted,
Bade farewell with calm voice and tranquil eyes,
And saw with new-born strength the new sun rise.
Perhaps in Fairyland there chanced to be
For them that grieve some sovereign alchemy
To turn the worst to best, and the good queen
Applied this soothing balm. Such things have been;
But yet I doubt if any fairy art
Was needed in the case of Elfinhart;
The medicine that charmed away her dole
Nature had planted in her own sweet soul.
Of all sure things, this thing I'm surest of,--
That the best cure for love's own ills is love.
CANTO III.
GAWAYNE.
O Muse!--But no: heaven knows I need a muse;
But which of all the nine, pray, should I choose?
Thalia, Clio, and Melpomene,
I love them all, but none, alas, loves me;
For if you want a muse to take your part
You must be solely hers with all your heart;
And I have mingled since my earliest youth
My smiles and tears, my fictions and my truth;
Nay, in this very tale, scarce yet half done,
I've courted all the nine, and so won none!
Not for me, therefore, the Parnassian lyre,
Or winged war-horse shod with heavenly fire;
Harsh numbers flow from throats whose thirst has been
A whole life long unslaked of Hippocrene;
But I will e'en go on as best I can
And let the story end as it began,--
A plain, straightforward man's unvarnished word,
Part sad, part sweet,--and part of it absurd.
A year passed by, as years are wont to do,
Winter and spring, summer and autumn too,
Till mid-December's flaw-blown flakes of snow
Warned Gawayne that the time was come to go
To the Green Chapel by the Murmuring Mere,
And take again the blow he gave last year.
In the great court his charger stamped the ground,
While knights and weeping ladies thronged around
To arm him (as the custom was of yore)
And bid him sad farewell for evermore.
One face alone in all that bustling throng
Our hero's eyes sought eagerly, and long
Sought vainly; for the lady Elfinhart,
Debating with herself, stood yet apart;
But as Sir Gawayne gathered up his reins
And bade the draw-bridge warden loose the chains,
Suddenly Elfinhart stood by his side,
Her fair face flushed with love, and joy, and pride.
She plucked a sprig of holly from her gown
And looked up, questioning; and he leaned down,
And so she placed it in his helm. No word
Might Gawayne's lips then utter, but he heard
The voice that was his music, and could feel
The touch of gentle fingers through the steel.
"Wear this, Sir Gawayne, for a loyal friend
Whose hopes and prayers go with you to the end."
And, staying not for answer, she withdrew,
And in the throng was lost to Gawayne's view.
He roused himself, and waving high his hand,
Struck spur, and so rode off to Fairyland.
Long time he traveled by an unknown way,
Unhoused at night, companionless by day.
The cold sleet stung him through his shirt of mail,
But, underneath, his stout heart would not fail,
But beat full measure through the fiercest storm,
And kept his head clear and his brave soul warm.
No need to tell the perils that he passed;
He conquered all, and came unscathed at last
To where a high-embattled castle stood
Deep in the heart of a dense willow-wood.
And Gawayne called aloud, and to the gate
A smiling porter came, who opened straight,
And bade him enter in and take his rest;
And Gawayne entered, and the people pressed
About him with fair speeches; and he laid
His armor off, and gave it them, and prayed
That they would take his message to their lord,--
A prayer for friendly shelter, bed and board.
He told them whence he was, his birth and name;
And the bold baron of the castle came,
A mighty man, huge-limbed, with flashing eyes,
And welcomed him with old-time courtesies;
For manners, in those days, were held of worth,
And gentle breeding went with gentle birth.
He heartily was glad his guest had come,
And made Sir Gawayne feel himself at home;
And as they walked in, side by side, each knew
The other for an honest man and true.
That night our hero and the baron ate
A sumptuous dinner in the hall of state,
And all the household, ranged along the board,
Made good cheer with Sir Gawayne and their lord,
And passed the brimming bowl right merrily
With friendly banter and quick repartee.
And Gawayne asked if they had chanced to hear
Of a Green Chapel by a Murmuring Mere,
And straightway all grew grave. Within his breast
Sir Gawayne felt a tremor of unrest,
But told his story with a gay outside,
And asked for some good man to be his guide
To find his foe. "I promise him," said he,
"No golden guerdon;--his reward shall be
The consciousness that unto him 't was given
To show a parting soul the way to heaven!"
Up jumped his host. "My friend, I like your attitude,
And know no surer way to win heaven's gratitude
Than sending thither just such men as you;
I'll be your guide. But since you are not due
At the Green Chapel till three nights from now,
And since the way is short, I'll tell you how
The interim may be disposed of best:--
In short, let me propose a merry jest!"
At this Sir Gawayne gave a sudden start,
For some old memory seemed to clutch his heart,
And in the baron's eyes he seemed to see
A twinkling gleam of green benignity
Not wholly strange; but like a flash 't was gone.
Gawayne sank back, and his good host went on:
"Two days you sojourn here, and while I take
My daily hunting in the wood, you make
My house and castle yours; and then, each night,
We'll meet together here at candle-light,
And all my winnings in the wood, and all
That comes to you at home, whate'er befall,
We'll give each other in exchange; in fine,
My fortune shall be yours, and yours be mine."
To Gawayne this seemed generous indeed.
And with most cordial laughter he agreed.
They clasped hands o'er the bargain with good zest,
And then all said good-night, and went to rest.
Next morning Gawayne was awakened early
From a deep slumber by the hurly-burly
Of footman, horseman, seneschal, and groom,
Bustling beneath the windows of his room.
He rose and looked out, just in time to see
The baron and a goodly company
Of huntsmen, armed with cross-bow, axe, and spear,
Ride through the castle gate and disappear.
And then, while Gawayne dressed, there came a knock
Upon his chamber door. He threw the lock,
And a boy page brought robes of ermine fur
And Tarsic silk,--black, white and lavender,--
For his array, and with them a kind message,
Which the good knight received with no ill presage:
"Will brave Sir Gawayne spare an idle hour
For quiet converse in my lady's bower?"
The boy led on, and Gawayne followed him
Through crooked corridors and archways dim,
Along low galleries echoing from afar,
And down a winding stair; then "Here we are!"
The page cried cheerily, and paused before
The massive carvings of an antique door.
This he swung open; and the knight passed through
Into a garden, fresh with summer dew!
A lady's bower in Fairyland! What pen
Could make that strange enchantment live again?
Not he who drew Acrasia's Bower of Bliss
And Phædria's happy isle could picture this.
That sweet-souled Puritan discerned too well
The serpent's coil behind the witch's spell;
And he who saw--when the dark veil was torn--
The rose of Paradise without the thorn,
(Sublimest prophet, whose immortal verse
Lent mightier thunders to the primal curse),
Even he too sternly, in the soul's defense,
Repressed the still importunate cries of sense.
Bid me not, therefore, task my feebler pen
With dreams beyond the limits of their ken;
The phantom conjurings of the magic hour
That Gawayne passed in that enchanted bower
Must be from mortal eyes forever hid.
But yet some part of what he felt and did
These lines must needs disclose. As he stood there,
Breathing soft odors from the mellow air,
All hopes, all aims of noble knighthood seemed
Like the dim yesterdays of one who dreamed,
In starless caves of memory sunken deep,
And, like lost music, folded in strange sleep.
"How long, O mortal man, wilt thou give heed
To the world's phantom voices? The hours speed,
And fame and fortune yield to moth and rust,
And good and evil crumble into dust.
Even now the sands are running in the glass;
Set not your heart upon vain things that pass;
Ambitions, honors, toils, are but the snare
Where lurks for aye the blind old world's despair.
Nay, quiet the bootless striving in your breast
And let your tired heart here at last find rest.
In vain have joy, love, beauty, struck deep root
In your heart's heart, unless you pluck the fruit;
Then put away the cheating soul's pretense,
Heap high the press, fill full the cup of sense;
Shatter the idols of blind yesterday,
And let love, joy, and beauty reign alway!"
Such thoughts as these, confused and unexpressed,
Flooded the silence in Sir Gawayne's breast.
Meanwhile a brasier filled the scented air
With wreaths of magic mist, and he was ware
That the mist drew together like a shroud;
And then the veil was rent, and in the cloud
Stood one who seemed, in features, form, and dress,
The perfect image of all loveliness.
The wonders of that vision none could tell
Save one whose heart had felt the mystic spell.
Once and once only, in the golden days
When youth made melody for love's sweet lays,
In two dark eyes (yet oh, how bright, how bright!)
I saw the wakening rapture of love's light,
And, in the hush of that still dawning, heard
From two sweet trembling lips love's whispered word.
The twilight deepens when the sun has set;
In memory golden glories linger yet;
But these avail not. Though my soul lay bare,
With all those memories sanctuaried there,
That spell was human. But the unseen power
That wove the witchery of this fairy bower,
In Gawayne's heart such subtle magic wrought
That past and future were well-nigh forgot,
And all that earth holds else, or heaven above,
Seemed naught worth keeping, save this dream of love.
And now, as the strange cloud of incense broke,
The vision, if it were a vision, spoke,--
If it were speech that filled the quivering air
With low harmonious music. Let none dare
In the rude jargons of this world to fashion
That sweet, wild anthem of unearthly passion.
Could I from the broad-billowing ocean borrow
Of Tristan's love and of Isolde's sorrow,
The flood of those world-darkening surges, wrought
With thoughts that lie beyond the reach of thought,
Might bring me succor where weak words must fail.
But Gawayne saw and heard, and passion-pale
Shrank back, and made a darkness of his face;
(As though the unplumbed deeps of starless space
Could quench those lustrous eyes, or close his ears
To the eternal music of love's spheres!)
But the voice changed, and Gawayne, listening there,
Heard now a heart's low cry of wild despair.
He turned again, and lo! the vision knelt
And drew a jeweled poniard from her belt,
To arm herself against her own dear life;
But as she bared her white breast to the knife
He started quickly forward, and he grasped
The hand that held the hilt; and then she clasped
Her soft arms round his neck, and as their lips
Met in the shadowing fold of love's eclipse,
All earth, all heaven, all knightly hopes of grace,
Died in the darkness of one blind embrace.
Died? Nay; for Gawayne, ere the moment passed,
Broke from the arms that strove to bind him fast,
And turned away once more; and, as he pressed
A trembling hand against his throbbing breast,
His aimless fingers touched a treasured part
Of the green holly-branch of Elfinhart,
Laid in his breast when he put off his arms.
What perils now are left in fairy charms?
For poets fable when they call love blind;
Love's habitation is the purer mind,
Whence with his keen eyes he may penetrate
All mists and fogs that baser spells create.
Love? What is love? Not the wild feverish thrill,
When heart to heart the thronging pulses fill,
And lips that close in parching kisses find
No speech but those;--the best remains behind.
The tranquil spirit--the divine assurance
That this life's seemings have a high endurance--
Thoughts that allay this restless striving, calm
The passionate heart, and fill old wounds with balm;--
These are the choirs invisible that move
In white processionals up the aisles of love.
Such love was Gawayne's,--love that sanctifies
The heart's most secret altar; and his eyes
Were opened, and his pulses beat once more
Their old true rhythm. And so the strife was o'er,
And all the perilous wiles of magic art
Were foiled by Gawayne--and by Elfinhart.
But time flies, and 't were tedious to delay
My song for all the trials of that day.
Light summer breezes, skurrying o'er the deep,
Ripple and foam and flash,--then sink to sleep;
But underneath, serene and changing never,
The mighty heart of ocean beats forever,
And his deep streams renew from pole to pole
The living world's indomitable soul.
Enough, then, of the spells that vexed the brain
Of Gawayne; love and knighthood made all vain.
And in the afternoon, when Gawayne learned
That his good host, the baron, had returned,
He met him in the hall at candle-light,
According to his promise of last night.
And then the baron motioned to a page,
And straightway six tall men, of lusty age
And mighty sinews, entered the great door,
Bearing the carcass of a huge wild boar,
In all its uncouth ugliness complete,
And dropped it quivering at our hero's feet.
"What do you say to that, Sir Gawayne?" cried
The baron, swelling with true sportman's pride
"But come: your promise, now, of yester-eve;
'T is blesseder to give than to receive!
Though I'll be sworn you'll find it hard to pay
Full value for the winnings of this day."
"Not so," said Gawayne; "you will rest my debtor;
Your gift is good, but mine will be far better."
And then he strode with solemn steps along
The echoing hall, and through the listening throng,
And with the words, "My noble lord, take this!"
He gave the baron a resounding kiss.
The baron jumped up in ecstatic glee.
"Now by my great-great-grandsire's beard," quoth he,
"Better than all dead boars in Christendom
Is one sweet loving kiss!--Whence did it come?"
"Nay, there," Sir Gawayne said, "you step beyond
The terms we stipulated in our bond.
Take you my kiss in peace, as I your boar;
Be glad; give thanks;--and seek to know no more."
Loud laughter made the baron's eyes grow bright
And glitter with green sparkles of delight;
And then he chuckled: "Sir, I'm proud of you;
I drink your best of health; I think you'll do! "
And now the board was laid and dressed, and all
Sat down to dinner at the baron's call;
And Gawayne looked along the room askance,
Seeking the lady; and he caught one glance
Of laughing eyes--then looked away in haste,
But turned again, and wondered why his taste
Had erred so strangely, for the lady seemed
Not fairer now than others. Had he dreamed?
He rubbed his eyes and pondered,--though in sooth
Without one glimmering presage of the truth,--
Till all passed lightly from his puzzled mind,
Leaving contentment and good cheer behind.
So all the company feasted well, and sped
The flying hours, till it was time for bed.
One whole day longer must our hero rest
Within doors, to fulfill the merry jest.
So when, next morning, Gawayne once more heard
The hunt's-up in the court, he never stirred,
But let the merry horsemen ride away
While he slept soundly well into the day.
Later he rose, and strolled from room to room,
Through vaulted twilights of ancestral gloom,
Until, descending a long stair, he found
The dim-lit castle crypt, deep under ground,
Where sculptured effigies forever kept
Their long last marble silence as they slept,
And iron sentinels, on bended knees,
Held eyeless vigil in old panoplies.
Sir Gawayne, wandering on in aimless mood,
Pondered the tomb-stone legends, quaint and rude,
Wherein the pensive dreamer might divine
A tragic history in every line;
For so does fate, with bitterest irony,
Epitomize fame's immortality,
Perpetuating for all after days
Mute lamentations and unnoted praise.
And Gawayne, reading here and there the story
Of fame obscure and unremembered glory,
Found on a tablet these words: "Where he lies,
The gray wave breaks and the wild sea-mew flies:
If any be that loved him, seek not here,
But in the lone hills by the Murmuring Mere."
A nameless cenotaph! perhaps of one
Like Gawayne's self deluded and undone
By the green stranger; and the legend brought
A tide of passion flooding Gawayne's thought;
A flood-tide, not of fear,--for Gawayne's breast
Shrank never at the perilous behest
Of noble knighthood,--but the love of life,
Compassion, and soul-sickness of the strife.
"If any be that loved him!" Oh, to die
Far from green-swarded Camelot, and lie
Among these bleak and barren hills alone,
His end unwept for and his grave unknown,--
Never again to see the glad sunrise
That brightened all his world in those dear eyes!
Half suffocating in the charneled air
Of that low vault, he staggered up the stair,
Out of the dim-lit halls of silent death
Into the living light, and drew quick breath
Where, through a casement-arch of ivied stone,
Bright from the clear blue sky the warm sun shone.
The whole of life's glad rapture thrilled his heart;
Till a quick step behind him made him start,
And there, deep-veiled, in muffling cloak and hood,
Once more the lady of the castle stood.
Low-voiced she spoke, as if with studied care
Weighing the syllables of her parting prayer.
"Sir Gawayne--nay, I pray you, turn not yet,
But hear me;-- though my heart may not forget
That once, for one sweet moment, you were kind,
I come not to recall that to your mind;--
Between us two be love's words aye unspoken!
Yet ere you go, I pray you, leave some token
That in the long, long years may comfort me
For the dear face I nevermore shall see."
"Nay, lady," said the knight, "I have no gifts
To give you. Errant knighthood ever drifts
From shore to shore, by wandering breezes blown,
With naught save its good name to call its own.
In friendship, then, I pray you keep for me
My name untarnished in your memory."
"Ah, sir," she said, "my memory bears that name
Burnt in with characters of living flame.
But though you give me naught, I pray you take
This girdle from me;--wear it for my sake;
Nay, but refuse me not; you little know
Its magic power. I had it long ago
From Fairyland; and its encircling charm
Keeps scathless him who wears it from all harm;
No evil thing can touch him. Gird it on,
If but to ease my heart when you are gone."
She held a plain green girdle in her hand,
In outward seeming just a narrow band
Of silk, with silver clasps; but in those days
The strangest things were wrought in simplest ways,
As Gawayne knew full well; and he could see
That all the lady said was verity.
He took the girdle, held it, fingered it,
Then clasped it round his waist to try the fit,
Irresolutely dallying with temptation,
Till conscience grew too weak for inclination;
For at the last he threw one wandering glance
Out at the casement, and the merry dance
Of sparkling sunbeams on the fields of snow
Wrought havoc in his wavering heart; and so,
Repeating to himself one word: "Life, life!"
He took the token from the baron's wife.
That evening, when the baron and our knight
Met to exchange their gifts at candle-light,
The baron, looking graver than before,
Said: "Sir, my luck has left me; not a boar
Did we get wind of, all this blessed day.
I come with empty hands, only to pray
Your pardon. What good fortune do you bring?"
And Gawayne answered firmly: "Not a thing!"
CANTO IV
CONCLUSION.
By noon the next day, Gawayne and his host
Rode side by side along the perilous coast
Of the gray Mere, from whose unquiet sleep
Reverberating murmurs of the deep
Startled the still December's listening air.
The baron, shuddering, pointed seaward. "There,"
He said, "year in, year out, these voices haunt
That fearful water; heaven knows what they want!
Men tell me--and I have no doubt it's true--
They are knights-errant whom the Green Knight slew!
Woe unto him, the over-bold, who dares
Adventure near that uncouth monster's snares!"
Quoth Gawayne: "How have you escaped the net?"
The baron answered: "I? We never met!
When I'm about, he seems to shun the place,
And where he is, I never show my face;
But if we did meet, 't would be safe to say
Not more than one of us would get away!"
And then the baron told tales by the score
About the Green Knight's quenchless thirst for gore,
And kept repeating that no magic charm
Was proof against the prowess of his arm;
At his first blow each vain defense must fall,
For he was arch-magician over all.
And as from tale to tale the baron ran,
Sir Gawayne, had he been another man,
Would certainly have felt his heart's blood curdle,
Despite his secret wearing of the girdle;
But when the baron finally suggested
Abandoning the venture, and protested
That the whole monstrous business was absurd,
Sir Gawayne simply said: "I gave my word.
And when the baron saw he would not bend,
He seemed to lose all patience. "Well, my friend,
I'll go no further with you. On your head
Shall be your own mad blood when you are dead.
Yonder your two roads fork; pause there, I pray,
And ponder well before you choose your way.
One takes the hills, one winds along the wave;
To Camelot this,--the other to your grave!
Choose the high road, Sir Gawayne; shun the danger!
Say you were misdirected by a stranger;--
I swear by all that's sacred, I'll not tell
One syllable to a soul:--and so farewell!"
He galloped off without another word,
And vanished where the road turned. Gawayne heard,
Long after he had disappeared, the sound
Of iron hoof-beats on the frozen ground,
Till all had died into silence, save those drear
And hollow voices from the Murmuring Mere.
But Gawayne chose the lower road, and passed
Along the desolate shore. The die was cast.
The western skies, as the red sun sank low,
Cast purple shades across the drifted snow,
And Gawayne knew that the dread hour was come
For the fulfillment of his martyrdom.
And now, from just beyond a jutting hill,
Came hideous sounds, as of a giant mill
That hisses, roars, and sputters, clicks and clacks;--
It was the Green Knight sharpening his axe!
And Gawayne, coming past the corner, found him,
With ghastly mouldering skulls and bones strewn round him,
In joyous fury urging the keen steel
Against the surface of his grinding wheel.
The place was a wild hollow, circled round
With barren hills, and on the bottom ground
Stood the Green Chapel, moss-grown, solitary;--
In sooth, it seemed the devil's mortuary!
The Green Knight's back was turned, and he stirred not
Till Gawayne hailed him sharply; then he shot
One glance--as when, o'erhead, a living wire
Startles the night with flashes of green fire;--
Then hurried forward, bland as bland could be,
And greeted Gawayne with green courtesy.
"Dear sir, I ask a thousand pardons; pray
Forgive me. You are punctual to the day;
That's good! Of course I knew you would not fail.
How do you do? You look a trifle pale;
I trust, with all my heart, you are not ill?
Just the cold air? It does blow rather chill!
What can I do to cheer you? Let me see;--
Suppose I brew a cup of hot green tea?
You'ld rather not? You're pressed for time? Of course,
I understand; then just get off your horse,
And I'll do all I can to expedite
Our little business for you. There, that's right;
And now your helmet? Thanks; and if you please
Perhaps you'll kindly kneel down on your knees,
As I did when I came to Camelot; So!
Are you all ready? Will you bide the blow?"
And Gawayne said "I will," in such soft notes
As happy bridegrooms utter, when their throats
Are paralyzed with blest anticipation;--
(What Gawayne looked for was decapitation!)
And then the Green Knight swung his axe in air
With a loud whirr; and Gawayne, kneeling there,
Shrank back an inch; and the green giant stayed
His threatening hand, and with a cold sneer said:
"You shrink, sir, from the axe; I can't hit true
Unles you hold still, as I did for you."
"Your pardon," Gawayne said, with bated breath;
"This time I swear to hold as still as death."
He did so, and the Green Knight swung again
His axe, and whirled it round his head, and then,
Pausing a second time, said: "Very good!
You're holding quite still now; I knew you would!"
Gawayne, in anger, said: "Jest, if you like,
After the blow; tarry no longer; strike!"
So once again the ponderous axe was raised;
But this time down it came, and lightly grazed
Sir Gawayne's neck. He felt the hot blood flow,
And saw red drops that sank into the snow,
And then he jumped up, faced his foe, and cried:
"Enough: you owed me one blow, though I died;
But be you man or beast or devil abhorred,
I yield no further; with my mortal sword
I do defy you; and if mortal man
May hope against". . .
But the Green Knight began
A low melodious laugh, like running brooks
Whose pebbly babble fills the shadowy nooks
Of green-aisled woodlands, when the winds are still.
"My friend, we bear each other no ill will.
When first I swung my axe, you showed some fear;
I owed you that much for your blow last year.
The second time I swung,--yet spared your life,--
That paid you for the kiss you gave my wife!"
"Your wife!" "My wife, Sir Gawayne; 't was my word;
And when I swung my weapon for the third
And last time, then I made the red blood spirt
For that green girdle underneath your shirt!
You played me false, my friend!"
And Gawayne knelt
Once more, and casting off the magic belt,
In bitter broken words confessed his shame,
And begged the Green Knight to avenge the name
Of injured knighthood, and with one last blow
To end his guilty life. "Nay, nay, not so,"
The other softly said. "Be of good cheer;
Your fault was small, for all men hold life dear.
We tempted you, my friend, with all our might,
And proved you in good sooth a noble knight;
A veritable Joseph, sir, you are!"
Quoth Gawayne drily, "Thanks, Lord Potiphar!
But may I ask you why you played this part?"
The other said: "Ask Lady Elfinhart!"
He smiled, and from his smile a genial glow
Of green mid-summer seemed to overflow,
Filling with verdure all that barren place.
The warm red blood rushed to Sir Gawayne's face;
He caught his breath, and in his eager eyes
There shone a sudden flash of dark surmise,
And then he stood a long time pondering;
But in his breast his heart began to sing
The old, old music whose still echoes roll
Forever voiceless through the listening soul.
He said farewell to his good fairy friend
As in a dream, where real and unreal blend
In phantom unison, and with the light
Of love to lead him home, rode through the night,
Beside the tranquil murmurs of the Mere,
And through the silence of the passing year;
And earth and sea and starlit sky took part
In the still exaltation of his heart,
While all but love and wonder was forgot,
Until he came to high-towered Camelot.
To Camelot he came, and there he found
The good King Arthur and his Table Round
Awaiting his return in anxious doubt;
But ere he passed the gates a mighty shout
Rose from the watchmen on the outward wall
And bore the tidings to the inmost hall.
From every window flaunting flags were flung;
From the high battlements brass trumpets sung;
And great bells, chiming in the topmost tower,
Pealed salutation to the joyous hour,
As Gawayne, riding through the cullis-port,
Faced the glad throng that filled the palace court.
And with this tribute paid to knightly glory
It seems most fitting to conclude my story.
Entreat me not, dear reader, to impart
Further of Gawayne, or of Elfinhart.
Let your own fancy round the story out
Whatever way you please; I cannot doubt
The sequel; but when I, in silent thought,
Had brought Sir Gawayne back to her, and sought
With hand profane to lift the veil, behind
Whose secret shelter their two hearts enshrined
The mutual covenant of love's mystery,
That pure fane would not desecrated be.
But this alone I know: the power that wove
Through human lives the warp and woof of love
Wrought not in darkness, nor with hand unsure;--
His fabric must forevermore endure.
And hence I doubt not that these two were blest
As none may be, save they who have confessed
Allegiance to that mighty spirit's law,
And trod his holy ground with reverent awe.
LAUNCELOT
by
SINCLAIR LEWIS
Blow, weary wind,
The golden rod scarce chiding;
Sir Launcelot is riding
By shady wood-paths pleasant
To fields of yellow corn.
He starts a whirring pheasant,
And clearly winds his horn.
The Queen's Tower gleams mid distant hills;
A thought like joyous sunshine thrills,
"My love grows kind."
Blow, weary wind,
O'er lakes, o'er dead swamps crying,
Amid the gray stumps sighing
While slow, and cold, and sullen,
The waves splash on the shore.
O'er wastes of bush and mullen,
Dull crows flap, evermore.
The Autumn day is chill and drear
As you knight, thinking Guenevere
Proves almost unkind.
THE OLD LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR
by
W. J. LINTON
"Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering; thy life-vow
Of patriotic service thou didst well maintain:
Therefore, though Death may hide thy valour now,
:When comes worst need thou shalt return again."
So chaunted in low tones the fairy crew
Of that dark barge whereon King Arthur lay,
Drifting adown the misty river's flood,
After his latest fight. So chaunted they,
Staunching his death-clefts; while he, sad of soul,
Ponder'd Sir Lukyn's story wonder-fraught:
How when Excalibar, at Arthur's hest
Flung in the stream, had dipp'd toward the wave,
A hand had risen, and grasp'd and borne it down.
And thus King Arthur dream'd amid his wounds.
"Excalibar, the charmed sword, returns
Unto the hand that gave it,--sunk,--drawn in,--
Nor left such ripple as an autumn leaf
Reaching the water-marge on Evening's breath.
So sinks my life after its turmoil'd years
Without a trace: blown from its branch of power,--
And Time's dull stream flows o'er it heedlessly.
It should not be so. I have served the Gods;
Kept myself pure; and stoutly grappled Hope,
Till, firm-embraced, our pulses were but one.
It is no braggart speech: yon gifted sword
Had courage for its handle, and as straight
My life was and close-hammer'd as the blade,--
True steel that never struck an idle blow.
Unto what end its stalwartness? Defeat.
Lo, I lie here. The sword hath left no mark."
"Thou shalt return again!" the Ladies sang;
While the sore-hearted dream'd amid his wounds.
"Year after year I strove, and through the fight
Bore Hope upon my breast, as one would bear
His beautiful bride; and when they slew her there
I struggled on beneath her dearest form.
O Hope! belovéd, best-belovéd Hope!
That brought my Country's ransom as thy dower;
O Hope! that I have cherish'd 'mid my griefs
In long night-watches and through all the din
Of battle-storm; ay! even when toil was curst,
And knightliest endeavour by repulse
Was driven away, like chaff swept from the floor;
When field on field beheld me overthrown.
Yet never conquer'd: witness Dawn and Eve,
That ever found me rising from defeat
As clomb the Sun from yesternight's red couch!
Would I might battle yet! Give way! I will;
And pile our foes upon the last free space
Of British earth. Why am I slumbering here,
And my good sword not ready to my hand?
"Year after year, and ever the same fierce strife
Without remission. I was as a pass
Through which a host defiles with measured tramp:
Squadron hard-following squadron till the earth
Rejoices in the custom of sure steps.
Let me be buried in the shallowest tomb,
Beneath the march of heroes! Death is nought,
If I may be a stair to Victory.
Where art thou? Victory!--I am here, o'ercome."
And shame, more deep than spear-thrusts, draining life,
He lay entranced, nor heard the Fairies' song:--
"Calmly the sun drops in its western grave,
The seed beneath the glebe, and life to death;
To-morrow comes in joy, ripe corn-fields wave,
And ever the heroic wears its wreath."
"How have I fallen? Has the fault been mine?
I have not flinch'd from peril, nor counted pains;
What adverse odds, what difficult steeps to climb,
What possible inconvenience or mishap,
Troubled me never. I ask'd nought but this--
May it serve thee? my Country! Welcome then.
Self-care was but a feather in the scale,
Or as a spark in one vast-soaring blaze--
The fiery passionate wish to rescue thee.
Thou wast my sacrificial altar; I
A bridegroom offering. Do I boast? Ye Gods!
The boaster has done nothing. Lived and died.
He boasts a failure. Give him leave to say
He fell as a king falleth."
Where again
The Chorus swell'd around him, as a pulse
Throbbing indignantly against reproach.
"Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering!"--still they sang.
"Ho! who will follow Arthur to the war?
Methought when once our banner was display'd
The whole land should have risen as one man.
Behold your duty--Forward at the foe--
Had been enough.--The recreants! Woe is me!
They cavil'd at the standard-bearer's name;
Doubted the leader could maintain his place;
Others were worthier, might be 'mong themselves;
'Twas an unlucky day to close with Doom;
Yon covert safest was for skirmishers;
Some little forethought till the rest came up;--
And so sate down on cowardice, a soft couch,
Where some would plan campaigns, as sluggards think
In morning sleeps they put their armour on,
And wake in bed. But these would never wake:
Rotting amid their reveries till the land
Stank with the Cowards' Pestilence. 'Twas so--
Brave Hearts that fought by me from first to last!
That we were left to meet the invader's whelm:
Wrong ever active, while before these homes
Right humbly begg'd for alms some stealthy help
In her sore want. Even that was oft denied.
False-lifed lip-servants! pillow'd warriors!
Whose crest should be a liar's cloven tongue,--
You barter'd Freedom for a dunghill ease,
And let the land of all our glorious sires
Be trampled underneath the ruffian heel
Of foreign tyranny.--My soul is drear.
"Do I forget you? Arthur's trusty peers!
Proud comrades, lovely in your noble strength:
My Knights, my Royal Ones! whose words were deeds,
Whose deeds were hymns of triumph. Let me die,
Since you are fallen. Have the Powers betray'd
Your promise? Worth is worthless. Life itself
Is falsehood.--It may be the Powers are weak,
Since Valour wins not. Is their own abode
Invaded by the Evil of our days?--
I am a king, and I may dare to ask.--
Are even the Gods grown false and dastardly?
I hear the smooth lush whispering of the stream,
And, blending with it, words as dreamy smooth.
What forms are these that hang above my bier?
Where do they carry me, throughout this night?--
Defeat, and death, and all before me dark."
But the white garments glimmer'd in his sight
For all the darkness,--like the first of dawn
To one lone-watching on some weary height;
And on the sweet chaunt slid through his barren griefs
Like softest rain in fields long parch'd with drought.
Ever the Fairies sang, as glode the barge.
"Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering. Thy sure life
Has been an act devout, whose worth shall chain
The future to thy purpose. When the strife
Hath reach'd its height thou shalt return again."
And one clear voice--whose echoes leap'd to shore
And stirr'd the dead upon the battle-ground--
Sang yet again: the King forgot his wounds.
"Thy true adventure was a living seed,
The harvest of the Eternal can not fail:
Thy spirit shall return, at their worst need
To help whom now thy arm may not avail."
----------
It is a fable of the meed of Truth:
Most knight-like Truth, that, scorning sloth or fear,
Hastens to meet the Evils of the time;
And, be he ne'er so poorly companied,
Dares all their force, copes with their fiercest tides,
Defies disaster and despair itself,
And leaves upon the sorriest place of death--
Where hopes are scatter'd like autumnal wrecks--
A memory that shall live and bring his name
In fire to the hearts of new endeavourers,--
Leading them from the gloomiest depth of care,
Even when their need shall be most desperate,
With power as if his Angel had return'd
To avenge the past defeat with victory.
True-soul'd and valiant! Arthur! come again.
Is not our need enough?
What voice replies?
AN ISEULT IDYLL
by
G. CONSTANT LOUNSBERY
Part I
Throughout the ambiguous April day
The skylark wings his singing way,
And trills a rhapsody of May.
The wind that sweetens earth with spring
Falls on the ocean, wakening
The rising waves beneath his wing.
While swiftly from her native lea
A Cornish bark, rejoicingly,
Bears Iseult o'er the Irish sea.
With eyes reverted toward the land
Dimly she sees the paling strand
Diminish to a silvery band.
But, as a carrier pigeon springs
Homeward on strong, exulting wings,
The alien ship glides on, and flings
The waters green to gleaming spray,
Threading its pathless southward way,
While shine and shower cross the day.
And where the ripples bud and break
The sea mews drift along its wake,
Like boats the tide at will may take.
Then landward o'er the glistering main
Fair Iseult flings her song. In vain!
The wind beats back the sad refrain,--
SONG
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee,
O happy isle, blue girdled of the sea!
Fair are thy fields of green that fade to grey,
And dim mine eyes, with watching wistfully
The lengthening of the endless watery way.
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee.
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee!
Thine is my love, and thine the heart of me,
Through all the widening of the alien years
My hopes be thine, and thine the memory
That brightens through the bitterness of tears.
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee!
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee!
Thou art the world, what other world could be?
Lo! I had hoped, when life was o'er, to die
Upon thy breast, and smiling peacefully
To whisper, ere words falter to a sigh,
Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to thee!
Part II
As clouds obscure the April skies,
The overwhelming tears arise,
And tremble in her baffled eyes.
The gleeful breezes pluck and woo
Her kirtle, where the crocus' hue
Flames up a robe of violet blue.
Hers is a face whose beauty seen
Makes one forget what life has been,
And own her, henceforth, utter queen.
Thus Tristram, dreaming, lingers there
Unknown, perplexed of her despair,
And timid, seeing grief so fair.
"I would not anger thee, by Heaven,
Yet let my presence be forgiven
For all the joy that thine has given!
"Sorrow, methinks, has wearied thee,
And weariness comes over me
From battling with the wind and sea.
"Behold a goblet rich with gold,
And mellow wine, matured of old,
A luscious draught of heat and cold!
"Nay, cheer thy heart, and pledge me then,
As in those hours of anguish, when
Wounded I lay among thy men."
So pleads he, till she smiles again,
And, drinking, feels through every vein
A joy that trembles into pain.
He raises high the bowl with half
The dancing poison, sweet to quaff,
And drains its sweetness with a laugh.
And, in a trenchant stroke of light,
Love cleaves the darkness of their night,
And puts the fading world to flight.
As one who knows not Life from Death,
Nor yet what power Love's language hath,
He calls with half-abated breath,--
Iseult! One wild, unmated word,
Iseult! No sound so sweet is heard
In all the lyric speech of bird.
But, softer than a startled sigh,
Her voice reluctant, breathes reply,
Tristram! --a tender, summoning cry.
And all is silent save alone
The sea's reverberate monotone,
With Love's own voice in unison.
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL
by
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
Author's Note: According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus partook of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems.
The plot (if I may give that name to any thing so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a mannner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign.
Prelude to Part First
Over his keys the musing organist,
Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,
And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
Gives hopes and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.
Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not;
Over our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;
With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
Waits with its benedicite;
And to our age's drowsy blood
Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;
The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the Devil's booth are all things sold
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking:
'T is heaven alone that is given away,
'T is only God may be had for the asking;
There is no price set on the lavish summer,
And June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, grasping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God so wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Every thing is happy now,
Every thing is upward striving;
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--
'T is the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
What wonder if Sir Launfal now
Remembered the keeping of his vow?
Part First
I
"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail;
Shall never a bed for me be spread,
Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
Till I begin my vow to keep;
Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true
Ere day create the world anew."
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew.
II
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:
The castle alone in the landscape lay
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray;
'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree,
And never its gates might opened be,
Save to lord or lady of high degree;
Summer besieged it on every side,
But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
She could not scale the chilly wall,
Though round it for leagues her pavilions tall
Stretched left and right,
Over the hills and out of sight;
Green and broad was every tent,
And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.
III
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
In his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
IV
It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
And morning in the young knight's heart;
Only the castle moodily
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart;
The season brimmed all other things up
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.
V
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
And a loathing over Sir Launfal came,
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl,
And midway its leap his heart stood still
Like a frozen waterfall;
For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,--
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
VI
The leper raised not the gold from the dust:
"Better to me the poor man's crust,
Better the blessing of the poor,
Though I turn me empty from his door;
That is no true alms which the hand can hold;
He gives nothing but worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty;
But he who gives a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight,
That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs through all and doth all unite,--
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms,
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before."
Prelude to Part Second
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,
From the snow five thousand summers old;
On open wold and hill-top bleak
It had gathered all the cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;
It carried a shiver everywhere
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops
And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one:
No mortal builder's most rare device
Could match this winter-palace of ice;
'T was as if every image that mirrored lay
In his depths serene through the summer day,
Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,
Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry
By the elfin builders of the frost.
Within the hall are song and laughter,
The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly,
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter
With the lightsome green of ivy and holly;
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide;
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap
And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,
Hunted to death in its galleries blind;
And swift little troops of silent sparks,
Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks
Like herds of startled deer.
But the wind without was eager and sharp,
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp,
And rattles and wrings
The icy strings,
Singing, in dreary monotone,
A Christmas carol of its own,
Whose burden still, as he might guess,
Was--"Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold,
Through the window-slits of the castle old,
Build out its piers of ruddy light
Against the drift of the cold.
Part Second
I
There was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;
The river was dumb and could not speak,
For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun;
A single crow on the tree-top bleak
From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.
II
Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,
For another heir in his earldom sate;
An old, bent man, worn out and frail,
He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;
Little he recked of his earldom's loss,
No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,
But deep in his soul the sign he wore,
The badge of the suffering and the poor.
III
Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air,
For it was just at the Christmas time;
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,
And sought for a shelter from cold and snow
In the light and warmth of long ago;
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl
O'er the edge of the desert, black and small,
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,
He can count the camels in the sun,
As over the red-hot sands they pass
To where, in its slender necklace of grass,
The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,
And with its own self like an infant played,
And waved its signal of palms.
IV
"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms";
The happy camels may reach the spring,
But Sir Launfal sees naught save the grewsome thing,
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,
That cowered beside him, a thing as lone
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas
In the desolate horror of his disease.
V
And Sir Launfal said,--"I behold in thee
An image of Him who died on the tree;
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,--
Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns,--
And to thy life were not denied
The wounds in the hands and feet and side:
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me;
Behold, through him, I give to thee!"
VI
Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he
Remembered in what a haughtier guise
He had flung an alms to leprosie,
When he caged his young life up in gilded mail
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.
The heart within him was ashes and dust;
He parted in twain his single crust,
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink,
And gave the leper to eat and drink;
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread,
'T was water out of a wooden bowl,--
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,
And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.
VII
As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,
A light shone round about the place;
The leper no longer crouched at his side,
But stood before him glorified,
Shining and tall and fair and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,--
Himself the Gate whereby men can
Enter the temple of God in Man.
VIII
His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,
Which mingle their softness and quiet in one
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;
And the voice that was calmer than silence said,
"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!
In many climes, without avail,
Thou had spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here,--this cup which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;
This crust is my body broken for thee,
This water His blood that died on the tree;
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,
In whatso we share with another's need,--
Not that which we give, but what we share,--
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three,--
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."
IX
Sir Launfal awoke, as from a swound:--
"The Grail in my castle here is found!
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall;
He must be fenced with stronger mail
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."
X
The castle-gate stands open now,
And the wanderer is welcome to the hall
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough;
No longer scowl the turrets tall,
The Summer's long siege at last is o'er;
When the first poor outcast went in at the door,
She entered with him in disguise,
And mastered the fortres by surprise;
There is no spot she loves so well on ground,
She lingers and smiles there the whole year round;
The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land
Has hall and bower at his command;
And there 's no poor man in the North Countree
But is lord of the earldom as much as he.
THE GREAT RETURN
by
ARTHUR MACHEN
(London: Faith Press, 1915)CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE RUMOUR OF THE MARVELLOUS 9
II. ODOURS OF PARADISE 19
III. A SECRET IN A SECRET PLACE 29
IV. THE RINGING OF THE BELL 40
V. THE ROSE OF FIRE 50
VI. OLWEN'S DREAM 61
VII. THE MASS OF THE SANGRAAL 71
[9]
CHAPTER I
THE RUMOUR OF THE MARVELLOUS
THERE are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the newspaper. I often think that the most extraordinary item of intelligence that I have read in print appeared a few years ago in the London Press. It came from a well-known and most respected news agency; I imagine it was in all the papers. It was astounding.
The circumstances necessary--not to the understanding of this paragraph, for that is out of the question--but, we will say, to the understanding of the events which made it possible, are these. We had invaded Thibet, and there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a personage known as the Tashai Lama had taken refuge with us in India. He went on pilgrimage from one Buddhist shrine to another, and came at last to a holy mountain
[10]
of Buddhism, the name of which I have forgotten. And thus the morning paper:
His Holiness the Tashai Lama then ascended the Mountain and was transfigured.--Reuter.
That was all. And from that day to this I have never heard a word of explanation or comment on this amazing statement.
There was no more, it seemed, to be said. "Reuter," apparently, thought he had made his simple statement of the facts of the case, had thereby done his duty, and so it all ended. Nobody, so far as I know, ever wrote to any paper asking what Reuter meant by it, or what the Tashai Lama meant by it. I suppose the fact was that nobody cared two-pence about the matter; and so this strange event--if there were any such event--was exhibited to us for a moment, and the lantern show revolved to other spectacles.
This is an extreme instance of the manner in which the marvellous is flashed out to us and then withdrawn behind its black veils and concealments; but I have known of other cases. Now and again, at intervals of
[11]
a few years, there appear in the newspapers strange stories of the strange doings of what are technically called poltergeists . Some house, often a lonely farm, is suddenly subjected to an infernal bombardment. Great stones crash through the windows, thunder down the chimneys, impelled by no visible hand. The plates and cups and saucers are whirled from the dresser into the middle of the kitchen, no one can say how or by what agency. Upstairs the big bedstead and an old chest or two are heard bounding on the floor as if in a mad ballet. Now and then such doings as these excite a whole neighbourhood; sometimes a London paper sends a man down to make an investigation. He writes half a column of description on the Monday, a couple of paragraphs on the Tuesday, and then returns to town. Nothing has been explained, the matter vanishes away; and nobody cares. The tale trickles for a day or two through the Press, and then instantly disappears, like an Australian stream, into the bowels of darkness. It is possible, I suppose, that this singular incuriousness as to marvellous events and reports is not wholly unaccountable. It may be that the
[12]
events in question are, as it were, psychic accidents and misadventures. They are not meant to happen, or, rather, to be manifested. They belong to the world on the other side of the dark curtain; and it is only by some queer mischance that a corner of that curtain is twitched aside for an instant. Then--for an instant--we see; but the personages whom Mr. Kipling calls. the Lords of Life and Death take care that we do not see too much. Our business is with things higher and things lower, with things different, anyhow; and on the whole we are not suffered to distract ourselves with that which does not really concern us. The Transfiguration of the Lama and the tricks of the poltergeist are evidently no affairs of ours; we raise an uninterested eyebrow and pass on-to poetry or to statistics.
Be it noted; I am not professing any fervent personal belief in the reports to which I have alluded. For all I know, the Lama, in spite of Reuter, was not transfigured, and the poltergeist , in spite of the late Mr. Andrew Lang, may in reality be
[13]
only mischievous Polly, the servant girl at the farm. And to go farther: I do not know that I should be justified in putting either of these cases of the marvellous in line with a chance paragraph that caught my eye last summer; for this had not, on the face of it at all events, anything wildly out of the common. Indeed, I dare say that I should not have read it, should not have seen it, if it had not contained the name of a place which I had once visited, which had then moved me in an odd manner that I could not understand. Indeed, I am sure that this particular paragraph deserves to stand alone, for even if the poltergeist be a real poltergeist , it merely reveals the psychic whimsicality of some region that is not our region. There were better things and more relevant things behind the few lines dealing with Llantrisant, the little town by the sea in Arfonshire.
Not on the surface, I must say, for the cutting--I have preserved it--reads as follows:--
LLANTRISANT.--The season promises very favourably: temperature of the sea yesterday at noon, 65 deg. Remarkable
[14]
occurrences are supposed to have taken place during the recent Revival. The lights have not been observed lately. "The Crown." "The Fisherman's Rest."
The style was odd certainly; knowing a little of newspapers, I could see that the figure called, I think, tmesis , or cutting, had been generously employed; the exuberances of the local correspondent had been pruned by a Fleet Street expert. And these poor men are often hurried; but what did those "lights" mean? What strange matters had the vehement blue pencil blotted out and brought to naught?
That was my first thought, and then, thinking still of Llantrisant and how I had first discovered it and found it strange, I read the paragraph again, and was saddened almost to see, as I thought, the obvious explanation. I had forgotten for the moment that it was war-time, that scares and rumours and terrors about traitorous signals and flashing lights were current everywhere by land and sea; someone, no doubt, had been watching innocent farmhouse windows and thoughtless fanlights of lodging-houses;
[15]
these were the "lights" that had not been observed lately.
I found out afterwards that the Llantrisant correspondent had no such treasonous lights in his mind, but something very different. Still; what do we know? He may have been mistaken, "the great rose of fire" that came over the deep may have been the port light of a coasting-ship. Did it shine at last from the old chapel on the headland? Possibly; or possibly it was the doctor's lamp at Sarnau, some miles away. I have had wonderful opportunities lately of analysing the marvels of lying, conscious and unconscious; and indeed almost incredible feats in this way can be performed. If I incline to the less likely explanation of the "lights" at Llantrisant, it is merely because this explanation seems to me to be altogether congruous with the "remarkable occurrences" of the newspaper paragraph.
After all, if rumour and gossip and hearsay are crazy things to be utterly neglected and laid aside: on the other hand, evidence is evidence, and when a couple of reputable surgeons assert, as they do assert in the case of Olwen Phillips, Croeswen, Llantrisant, that there has been a "kind of resurrection
[16]
of the body, "it is merely foolish to say that these things don't happen. The girl was a mass of tuberculosis, she was within a few hours of death; she is now full of life. And so, I do not believe that the rose of fire was merely a ship's light, magnified and transformed by dreaming Welsh sailors.
But now I am going forward too fast. I have not dated the paragraph, so I cannot give the exact day of its appearance, but I think it was somewhere between the second and third week of June. I cut it out partly because it was about Llantrisant, partly because of the "remarkable occurrences." I have an appetite for these matters, though I also have this misfortune, that I require evidence before I am ready to credit them, and I have a sort of lingering hope that some day I shall be able to elaborate some scheme or theory of such things.
But in the meantime, as a temporary measure, I hold what I call the doctrine of the jig-saw puzzle. That is: this remarkable occurrence, and that, and the other may be, and usually are, of no significance. Coincidence and chance and unsearchable
[17]
causes will now and again make clouds that are undeniable fiery dragons, and potatoes that resemble Eminent Statesmen exactly and minutely in every feature, and rocks that are like eagles and lions. All this is nothing; it is when you get your set of odd shapes and find that they fit into one another, and at last that they are but parts of a large design; it is then that research grows interesting and indeed amazing, it is then that one queer form confirms the other, that the whole plan displayed justifies, corroborates, explains each separate piece.
So; it was within a week or ten days after I had read the paragraph about Llantrisant and had cut it out that I got a letter from a friend who was taking an early holiday in those regions.
"You will be interested," he wrote, "to hear that they have taken to ritualistic practices at Llantrisant. I went into the church the other day, and instead of smelling like a damp vault as usual, it was positively reeking with incense."
I knew better than that. The old parson was a firm Evangelical; he would rather have burnt sulphur in his church than in-
[18]
cense any day. So I could not make out this report at all; and went down to Arfon a few weeks later determined to investigate this and any other remarkable occurrence at Llantrisant.
[19]
ODOURS OF PARADISE
I WENT down to Arfon in the very heat and bloom and fragrance of the wonderful summer that they were enjoying there. In London there was no such weather; it rather seemed as if the horror and fury of the war had mounted to the very skies and were there reigning. In the mornings the sun burnt down upon the city with a heat that scorched and consumed; but then clouds heavy and horrible would roll together from all quarters of the heavens, and early in the afternoon the air would darken, and a storm of thunder and lightning, and furious, hissing rain would fall upon the streets. Indeed, the torment of the world was in the London weather. The city wore a terrible vesture; within our hearts was dread; without we were clothed in black clouds and angry fire.
It is certain that I cannot show in any words the utter peace of that Welsh coast
[20]
to which I came; one sees, I think, in such a change a figure of the passage from the disquiets and the fears of earth to the peace of paradise. A land that seemed to be in a holy, happy dream, a sea that changed all the while from olivine to emerald, from emerald to sapphire, from sapphire to amethyst, that washed in white foam at the bases of the firm, grey rocks, and about the huge crimson bastions that hid the western bays and inlets of the waters; to this land I came, and to hollows that were purple and odorous with wild thyme, wonderful with many tiny, exquisite flowers. There was benediction in centaury, pardon in eyebright, joy in lady's slipper; and so the weary eyes were refreshed, looking now at the little flowers and the happy bees about them, now on the magic mirror of the deep, changing from marvel to marvel with the passing of the great white clouds, with the brightening of the sun. And the ears, torn with jangle and racket and idle, empty noise, were soothed and comforted by the ineffable, unutterable, unceasing murmur, as the tides swam to and fro, uttering mighty, hollow voices in the caverns of the rocks.
[21]
For three or four days I rested in the sun and smelt the savour of the blossoms and of the salt water, and then, refreshed, I remembered that there was something queer about Llantrisant that I might as well investigate. It was no great thing that I thought to find, for, it will be remembered, I had ruled out the apparent oddity of the reporter's--or commissioner's?--reference to lights, on the ground that he must have been referring to some local panic about signalling to the enemy; who had certainly torpedoed a ship or two off Lundy in the Bristol Channel. All that I had to go upon was the reference to the "remarkable occurrences" at some revival, and then that letter of Jackson's, which spoke of Llantrisant church as "reeking" with incense, a wholly incredible and impossible state of things. Why, old Mr. Evans, the rector, looked upon coloured stoles as the very robe of Satan and his angels, as things dear to the heart of the Pope of Rome. But as to incense! As I have already familiarly observed, I knew better.
But as a hard matter of fact, this may be worth noting: when I went over to Llantrisant on Monday, August 9th, I visited the
[22]
church, and it was still fragrant and exquisite with the odour of rare gums that had fumed there.
Now I happened to have a slight acquaintance with the rector. He was a most courteous and delightful old man, and on my last visit he had come across me in the churchyard, as I was admiring the very fine Celtic cross that stands there. Besides the beauty of the interlaced ornament there is an inscription in Ogham on one of the edges, concerning which the learned dispute; it is altogether one of the more famous crosses of Celtdom. Mr. Evans, I say, seeing me looking at the cross, came up and began to give me, the stranger, a résumé--somewhat of a shaky and uncertain résumé, I found afterwards-of the various debates and questions that had arisen as to the exact meaning of the inscription, and I was amused to detect an evident but underlying belief of his own: that the supposed Ogham characters were, in fact, due to boys' mischief and weather and the passing of the ages. But then I happened to put a question as to the sort of stone of which the cross was
[23]
made, and the rector brightened amazingly. He began to talk geology, and, I think, demonstrated that the cross or the material for it must have been brought to Llantrisant from the south-west coast of Ireland. This struck me as interesting, because it was curious evidence of the migrations of the Celtic saints, whom the rector, I was delighted to find, looked upon as good Protestants, though shaky on the subject of crosses; and so, with concessions on my part, we got on very well. Thus, with all this to the good, I was emboldened to call upon him.
I found him altered. Not that he was aged; indeed, he was rather made young, with a singular brightening upon his face, and something of joy upon it that I had not seen before, that I have seen on very few faces of men. We talked of the war, of course, since that is not to be avoided; of the farming prospects of the county; of general things, till I ventured to remark that I had been in the church, and had been surprised to find it perfumed with incense.
"You have made some alterations in the service since I was here last? You use incense now?"
[24]
The old man looked at me strangely, and hesitated.
"No," he said, "there has been no change. I use no incense in the church. I should not venture to do so."
"But," I was beginning, "the whole church is as if High Mass had just been sung there, and--"
He cut me short, and there was a certain grave solemnity in his manner that struck me almost with awe.
"I know you are a railer," he said, and the phrase coming from this mild old gentleman astonished me unutterably. "You are a railer and a bitter railer; I have read articles that you have written, and I know your contempt and your hatred for those you call Protestants in your derision; though your grandfather, the vicar of Caerleon-on-Usk, called himself Protestant and was proud of it, and your great-grand-uncle Hezekiah, ffeiriad coch yr Castletown-the Red Priest of Castletown-was a great man with the Methodists in his day, and the people flocked by their thousands when he administered the Sacrament. I was born and brought up in Glamorganshire, and old men have wept as they told me of the weeping and contrition
[25]
that there was when the Red Priest broke the Bread and raised the Cup. But you are a railer, and see nothing but the outside and the show. You are not worthy of this mystery that has been done here."
I went out from his presence rebuked indeed, and justly rebuked; but rather amazed. It is curiously true that the Welsh are still one people, one family almost, in a manner that the English cannot understand, but I had never thought that this old clergyman would have known anything of my ancestry or their doings. And as for my articles and such-like, I knew that the country clergy sometimes read, but I had fancied my pronouncements sufficiently obscure, even in London, much more in Arfon.
But so it happened, and so I had no explanation from the rector of Llantrisant of the strange circumstance, that his church was full of incense and odours of paradise.
I went up and down the ways of Llantrisant wondering, and came to the harbour, which is a little place, with little quays where some small coasting trade still lingers.
[26]
A brigantine was at anchor here, and very lazily in the sunshine they were loading it with anthracite; for it is one of the oddities of Llantrisant that there is a small colliery in the heart of the wood on the hillside. I crossed a causeway which parts the outer harbour from the inner harbour, and settled down on a rocky beach hidden under a leafy hill. The tide was going out, and some children were playing on the wet sand, while two ladies--their mothers, I suppose--talked together as they sat comfortably on their rugs at a little distance from me.
At first they talked of the war, and I made myself deaf, for of that talk one gets enough, and more than enough, in London. Then there was a period of silence, and the conversation had passed to quite a different topic when I caught the thread of it again. I was sitting on the further side of a big rock, and I do not think that the two ladies had noticed my approach. However, though they spoke of strange things, they spoke of nothing which made it necessary for me to announce my presence.
"And, after all," one of them was saying, "what is it all about? I can't make out what is come to the people."
[27]
This speaker was a Welshwoman; I recognised the clear, over-emphasised consonants, and a faint suggestion of an accent. Her friend came from the Midlands, and it turned out that they had only known each other for a few days. Theirs was a friendship of the beach and of bathing; such friendships are common at small seaside places.
"There is certainly something odd about the people here. I have never been to Llantrisant before, you know; indeed, this is the first time we've been in Wales for our holidays, and knowing nothing about the ways of the people and not being accustomed to hear Welsh spoken, I thought, perhaps, it must be my imagination. But you think there really is something a little queer?"
"I can tell you this: that I have been in two minds whether I should not write to my husband and ask him to take me and the children away. You know where I am at Mrs. Morgan's, and the Morgans' sitting-room is just the other side of the passage, and sometimes they leave the door open, so that I can hear what they say quite plainly. And you see I understand the Welsh, though they don't know it. And I hear them saying the most alarming things!"
[28]
"What sort of things?"
"Well, indeed, it sounds like some kind of a religious service, but it's not Church of England, I know that. Old Morgan begins it, and the wife and children answer. Something like: 'Blessed be God for the messengers of Paradise.' 'Blessed be His Name for Paradise in the meat and in the drink.' `Thanksgiving for the old offering.' `Thanksgiving for the appearance of the old altar.' `Praise for the joy of the ancient garden.' `Praise for the return of those that have been long absent.' And all that sort of thing. It is nothing but madness."
"Depend upon it," said the lady from the Midlands, "there's no real harm in it. They're Dissenters; some new sect, I dare say. You know some Dissenters are very queer in their ways."
"All that is like no Dissenters that I have ever known in all my life whatever," replied the Welsh lady somewhat vehemently, with a very distinct intonation of the land. "And have you heard them speak of the bright light that shone at midnight from the church?"
[29]
A SECRET IN A SECRET PLACE
NOW here was I altogether at a loss and quite bewildered. The children broke into the conversation of the two ladies and cut it all short, just as the midnight lights from the church came on the field, and when the little girls and boys went back again to the sands whooping, the tide of talk had turned, and Mrs. Harland and Mrs. Williams were quite safe and at home with Janey's measles, and a wonderful treatment for infantile earache, as exemplified in the case of Trevor. There was no more to be got out of them, evidently, so I left the beach, crossed the harbour causeway, and drank beer at the "Fishermen's Rest" till it was time to climb up two miles of deep lane and catch the train for Penvro, where I was staying. And I went up the lane, as I say, in a kind of amazement; and not so much, I think, because of evidences and hints of things strange to the senses, such as the
[30]
savour of incense where no incense had smoked for three hundred and fifty years and more, or the story of bright light shining from the dark, closed church at dead of night, as because of that sentence of thanksgiving "for paradise in meat and in drink."
For the sun went down and the evening fell as I climbed the long hill through the deep woods and the high meadows, and the scent of all the green things rose from the earth and from the heart of the wood, and at a turn of the lane far below was the misty glimmer of the still sea, and from far below its deep murmur sounded as it washed on the little hidden, enclosed bay where Llantrisant stands. And I thought, if there be paradise in meat and in drink, so much the more is there paradise in the scent of the green leaves at evening and in the appearance of the sea and in the redness of the sky; and there came to me a certain vision of a real world about us all the while, of a language that was only secret because we would not take the trouble to listen to it and discern it.
It was almost dark when I got to the station, and here were the few feeble oil lamps lit, glimmering in that lonely land,
[31]
where the way is long from farm to farm. The train came on its way, and I got into it; and just as we moved from the station I noticed a group under one of those dim lamps. A woman and her child had got out, and they were being welcomed by a man who had been waiting for them. I had not noticed his face as I stood on the platform, but now I saw it as he pointed down the hill towards Llantrisant, and I think I was almost frightened.
He was a young man, a farmer's son, I would say, dressed in rough brown clothes, and as different from old Mr. Evans, the rector, as one man might be from another. But on his face, as I saw it in the lamplight, there was the like brightening that I had seen on the face of the rector. It was an illuminated face, glowing with an ineffable joy, and I thought it rather gave light to the platform lamp than received light from it. The woman and her child, I inferred, were strangers to the place, and had come to pay a visit to the young man's family. They had looked about them in bewilderment, half alarmed, before they saw him; and then his face was radiant in their sight, and it was easy to see that all their troubles were
[32]
ended and over. A wayside station and a darkening country; and it was as if they were welcomed by shining, immortal gladness--even into paradise.
But though there seemed in a sense light all about my ways, I was myself still quite bewildered. I could see, indeed, that something strange had happened or was happening in the little town hidden under the hill, but there was so far no clue to the mystery, or rather, the clue had been offered to me, and I had not taken it, I had not even known that it was there; since we do not so much as see what we have determined, without judging, to be incredible, even though it be held up before our eyes. The dialogue that the Welsh Mrs. Williams had reported to her English friend might have set me on the right way; but the right way was outside all my limits of possibility, outside the circle of my thought. The palæontologist might see monstrous, significant marks in the slime of a river bank, but he would never draw the conclusions that his own peculiar science would seem to suggest to him; he would choose any explanation
[33]
rather than the obvious, since the obvious would also be the outrageous--according to our established habit of thought, which we deem final.
The next day I took all these strange things with me for consideration to a certain place that I knew of not far from Penvro. I was now in the early stages of the jig-saw process, or rather I had only a few pieces before me, and--to continue the figure--my difficulty was this: that though the markings on each piece seemed to have design and significance, yet I could not make the wildest guess as to the nature of the whole picture, of which these were the parts. I had clearly seen that there was a great secret; I had seen that on the face of the young farmer on the platform of Llantrisant station; and in my mind there was all the while the picture of him going down the dark, steep, winding lane that led to the town and the sea, going down through the heart of the wood, with light about him.
But there was bewilderment in the thought of this, and in the endeavour to
[34]
match it with the perfumed church and the scraps of talk that I had heard and the rumour of midnight brightness; and though Penvro is by no means populous, I thought I would go to a certain solitary place called the Old Camp Head, which looks towards Cornwall and to the great deeps that roll beyond Cornwall to the far ends of the world; a place where fragments of dreams--they seemed such then--might, perhaps, be gathered into the clearness of vision.
It was some years since I had been to the Head, and I had gone on that last time and on a former visit by the cliffs, a rough and difficult path. Now I chose a landward way, which the county map seemed to justify, though doubtfully, as regarded the last part of the journey. So I went inland and climbed the hot summer by-roads, till I came at last to a lane which gradually turned turfy and grass-grown, and then on high ground, ceased to be. It left me at a gate in a hedge of old thorns; and across the field beyond there seemed to be some faint indications of a track. One would judge that sometimes men did pass by that way, but not often.
It was high ground but not within sight
[35]
of the sea. But the breath of the sea blew about the hedge of thorns, and came with a keen savour to the nostrils. The ground sloped gently from the gate and then rose again to a ridge, where a white farmhouse stood all alone. I passed by this farmhouse, threading an uncertain way, followed a hedgerow doubtfully; and saw suddenly before me the Old Camp, and beyond it the sapphire plain of waters and the mist where sea and sky met. Steep from my feet the hill fell away, a land of gorse-blossom, red-gold and mellow, of glorious purple heather. It fell into a hollow that went down, shining with rich green bracken, to the glimmering sea; and before me and beyond the hollow rose a height of turf, bastioned at the summit with the awful, age-old walls of the Old Camp; green, rounded circumvallations, wall within wall, tremendous, with their myriad years upon them.
Within these smoothed, green mounds, looking across the shining and changing of the waters in the happy sunlight, I took out the bread and cheese and beer that I had carried in a bag, and ate and drank, and lit
[36]
my pipe, and set myself to think over the enigmas of Llantrisant. And I had scarcely done so when, a good deal to my annoyance, a man came climbing up over the green ridges, and took up his stand close by, and stared out to sea. He nodded to me, and began with "Fine weather for the harvest" in the approved manner, and so sat down and engaged me in a net of talk. He was of Wales, it seemed, but from a different part of the country, and was staying for a few days with relations--at the white farmhouse which I had passed on my way. His tale of nothing flowed on to his pleasure and my pain, till he fell suddenly on Llantrisant and its doings. I listened then with wonder, and here is his tale condensed. Though it must be clearly understood that the man's evidence was only second-hand; he had heard it from his cousin, the farmer.
So, to be brief, it appeared that there had been a long feud at Llantrisant between a local solicitor, Lewis Prothero (we will say), and a farmer named James. There had been a quarrel about some trifle, which had grown more and more bitter as the two parties forgot the merits of the original dispute, and by some means or other, which
[37]
I could not well understand, the lawyer had got the small freeholder "under his thumb." James, I think, had given a bill of sale in a bad season, and Prothero had bought it up; and the end was that the farmer was turned out of the old house, and was lodging in a cottage. People said he would have to take a place on his own farm as a labourer; he went about in dreadful misery, piteous to see. It was thought by some that he might very well murder the lawyer, if he met him. They did meet, in the middle of the market-place at Llantrisant one Saturday in June. The farmer was a little black man, and he gave a shout of rage, and the people were rushing at him to keep him off Prothero.
"And then," said my informant, "I will tell you what happened. This lawyer, as they tell me, he is a great big brawny fellow, with a big jaw and a wide mouth, and a red face and red whiskers. And there he was in his black coat and his high hard hat, and all his money at his back, as you may say. And, indeed, he did fall down on his knees in the dust there in the street in front of Philip James, and every one could see that terror was upon him. And he did beg Philip James's pardon, and beg of him to have mercy, and
[38]
he did implore him by God and man and the saints of paradise. And my cousin, John Jenkins, Penmawr, he do tell me that the tears were falling from Lewis Prothero's eyes like the rain. And he put his hand into his pocket and drew out the deed of Pantyreos, Philip James's old farm that was, and did give him the farm back and a hundred pounds for the stock that was on it, and two hundred pounds, all in notes of the bank, for amendment and consolation.
"And then, from what they do tell me, all the people did go mad, crying and weeping and calling out all manner of things at the top of their voices. And at last nothing would do but they must all go up to the churchyard, and there Philip James and Lewis Prothero they swear friendship to one another for a long age before the old cross, and everyone sings praises. And my cousin he do declare to me that there were men standing in that crowd that he did never see before in Llantrisant in all his life, and his heart was shaken within him as if it had been in a whirlwind."
I had listened to all this in silence. I said then:
"What does your cousin mean by that?
[39]
Men that he had never seen in Llantrisant? What men?"
"The people," he said very slowly, "call them the Fishermen."
And suddenly there came into my mind the "Rich Fisherman" who in the old legend guards the holy mystery of the Graal.
[40]
THE RINGING OF THE BELL
SO far I have not told the story of the things of Llantrisant, but rather the story of how I stumbled upon them and among them, perplexed and wholly astray, seeking, but yet not knowing at all what I sought; bewildered now and again by circumstances which seemed to me wholly inexplicable; devoid, not so much of the key to the enigma, but of the key to the nature of the enigma. You cannot begin to solve a puzzle till you know what the puzzle is about. "Yards divided by minutes," said the mathematical master to me long ago, "will give neither pigs, sheep, nor oxen." He was right; though his manner on this and on all other occasions was highly offensive. This is enough of the personal process, as I may call it; and here follows the story of what happened at Llantrisant last summer, the story as I pieced it together at last.
[41]
It all began, it appears, on a hot day, early in last June; so far as I can make out, on the first Saturday in the month. There was a deaf old woman, a Mrs. Parry, who lived by herself in a lonely cottage a mile or so from the town. She came into the market-place early on the Saturday morning in a state of some excitement, and as soon as she had taken up her usual place on the pavement by the churchyard, with her ducks and eggs and a few very early potatoes, she began to tell her neighbours about her having heard the sound of a great bell. The good women on each side smiled at one another behind Mrs. Parry's back, for one had to bawl into her ear before she could make out what one meant; and Mrs. Williams, Penycoed, bent over and yelled: "What bell should that be, Mrs. Parry? There's no church near you up at Penrhiw. Do you hear what nonsense she talks?" said Mrs. Williams in a low voice to Mrs. Morgan. "As if she could hear any bell, whatever."
"What makes you talk nonsense yourself?" said Mrs. Parry, to the amazement of the two women. "I can hear a bell as well as you, Mrs. Williams, and as well as your whispers either."
[42]
And there is the fact, which is not to be disputed; though the deductions from it may be open to endless disputations; this old woman who had been all but stone deaf for twenty years--the defect had always been in her family--could suddenly hear on this June morning as well as anybody else. And her two old friends stared at her, and it was some time before they had appeased her indignation, and induced her to talk about the bell. It had happened in the early morning, which was very misty. She had been gathering sage in her garden, high on a round hill looking over the sea. And there came in her ears a sort of throbbing and singing and trembling, "as if there were music coming out of the earth," and then something seemed to break in her head, and all the birds began to sing and make melody together, and the leaves of the poplars round the garden fluttered in the breeze that rose from the sea, and the cock crowed far off at Twyn, and the dog barked down in Kemeys Valley. But above all these sounds, unheard for so many years, there thrilled the deep and chanting note of the bell, "like a bell and a man's voice singing at once."
[43]
They stared again at her and at one another. "Where did it sound from?" asked one. "It came sailing across the sea," answered Mrs. Parry quite composedly, "and I did hear it coming nearer and nearer to the land."
"Well, indeed," said Mrs. Morgan, "it was a ship's bell then, though I can't make out why they would be ringing like that."
"It was not ringing on any ship, Mrs. Morgan," said Mrs. Parry.
"Then where do you think it was ringing?"
"Ym Mharadwys," replied Mrs. Parry. Now, that means "in Paradise," and the two others changed the conversation quickly. They thought that Mrs. Parry had got back her hearing suddenly--such things did happen now and then--and that the shock had made her "a bit queer." And this explanation would no doubt have stood its ground, if it had not been for other experiences. Indeed, the local doctor who had treated Mrs. Parry for a dozen years, not for her deafness, which he took to be hopeless and beyond cure, but for a tiresome and recurrent winter cough, sent an account of the case to a colleague at Bristol, suppress-
[44]
ing, naturally enough, the reference to Paradise. The Bristol physician gave it as his opinion that the symptoms were absolutely what might have been expected. "You have here, in all probability," he wrote, "the sudden breaking down of an old obstruction in the aural passage, and I should quite expect this process to be accompanied by tinnitus of a pronounced and even violent character."
But for the other experiences? As the morning wore on and drew to noon, high market, and to the utmost brightness of that summer day, all the stalls and the streets were full of rumours and of awed faces. Now from one lonely farm, now from another, men and women came and told the story of how they had listened in the early morning with thrilling hearts to the thrilling music of a bell that was like no bell ever heard before. And it seemed that many people in the town had been roused, they knew not how, from sleep; waking up, as one of them said, as if bells were ringing and the organ playing, and a choir of sweet voices singing all together: "There were
[45]
such melodies and songs that my heart was full of joy."
And a little past noon some fishermen who had been out all night returned, and brought a wonderful story into the town of what they had heard in the mist; and one of them said he had seen something go by at a little distance from his boat. "It was all golden and bright," he said, "and there was glory about it." Another fisherman declared "there was a song upon the water that was like heaven."
And here I would say in parenthesis that on returning to town I sought out a very old friend of mine, a man who has devoted a lifetime to strange and esoteric studies. I thought that I had a tale that would interest him profoundly, but I found that he heard me with a good deal of indifference. And at this very point of the sailors' stories I remember saying: "Now what do you make of that? Don't you think it's extremely curious?" He replied: "I hardly think so. Possibly the sailors were lying; possibly it happened as they say. Well; that sort of thing has always been happening." I give my friend's opinion; I make no comment on it.
[46]
Let it be noted that there was something remarkable as to the manner in which the sound of the bell was heard--or supposed to be heard. There are, no doubt, mysteries in sound as in all else; indeed, I am informed that during one of the horrible outrages that have been perpetrated on London during this autumn there was an instance of a great block of workmen's dwellings in which the only person who heard the crash of a particular bomb falling was an old deaf woman, who had been fast asleep till the moment of the explosion. This is strange enough of a sound that was entirely in the natural (and horrible) order; and so it was at Llantrisant, where the sound was either a collective auditory hallucination or a manifestation of what is conveniently, if inaccurately, called the supernatural order.
For the thrill of the bell did not reach to all ears--or hearts. Deaf Mrs. Parry heard it in her lonely cottage garden, high above the misty sea; but then, in a farm on the other or western side of Llantrisant, a little child, scarcely three years old, was the only one out of a household of ten people who heard anything. He called out in stammering baby Welsh something that sounded like
[47]
"Clychau fawr, clychau fawr"--the great bells, the great bells--and his mother wondered what he was talking about. Of the crews of half a dozen trawlers that were swinging from side to side in the mist, not more than four men had any tale to tell. And so it was that for an hour or two the man who had heard nothing suspected his neighbour who had heard marvels of lying; and it was some time before the mass of evidence coming from all manner of diverse and remote quarters convinced the people that there was a true story here. A might suspect B, his neighbour, of making up a tale; but when C, from some place on the hills five miles away, and D, the fisherman on the waters, each had a like report, then it was clear that something had happened.
And even then, as they told me, the signs to be seen upon the people were stranger than the tales told by them and among them. It has struck me that many people in reading some of the phrases that I have reported will dismiss them with laughter as very poor and fantastic inventions; fishermen, they will say, do not speak of "a song like heaven" or
[48]
of "a glory about it." And I dare say this would be a just enough criticism if I were reporting English fishermen; but, odd though it may be, Wales has not yet lost the last shreds of the grand manner. And let it be remembered also that in most cases such phrases are translated from another language, that is, from the Welsh.
So, they come trailing, let us say, fragments of the cloud of glory in their common speech; and so, on this Saturday, they began to display, uneasily enough in many cases, their consciousness that the things that were reported were of their ancient right and former custom. The comparison is not quite fair; but conceive Hardy's old Durbeyfield suddenly waking from long slumber to find himself in a noble thirteenth-century hall, waited on by kneeling pages, smiled on by sweet ladies in silken côtehardies.
So by evening time there had come to the old people the recollection of stories that their fathers had told them as they sat round the hearth of winter nights, fifty, sixty, seventy years ago; stories of the wonderful bell of Teilo Sant, that had sailed across the glassy seas from Syon, that was called a portion of Paradise, "and the sound
[49]
of its ringing was like the perpetual choir of the angels."
Such things were remembered by the old and told to the young that evening, in the streets of the town and in the deep lanes that climbed far hills. The sun went down to the mountain red with fire like a burnt offering, the sky turned violet, the sea was purple, as one told another of the wonder that had returned to the land after long ages.
[50]
THE ROSE OF FIRE
IT was during the next nine days, counting from that Saturday early in June--the first Saturday in June, as I believe--that Llantrisant and all the regions about became possessed either by an extraordinary set of hallucinations or by a visitation of great marvels.
This is not the place to strike the balance between the two possibilities. The evidence is, no doubt, readily available; the matter is open to systematic investigation.
But this may be said: The ordinary man, in the ordinary passages of his life, accepts in the main the evidence of his senses, and is entirely right in doing so. He says that he sees a cow, that he sees a stone wall, and that the cow and the stone wall are "there." This is very well for all the practical purposes of life, but I believe that the metaphysicians are by no means so easily satisfied as to the reality of the stone wall and the
[51]
cow. Perhaps they might allow that both objects are "there" in the sense that one's reflection is in a glass; there is an actuality, but is there a reality external to oneself? In any event, it is solidly agreed that, supposing a real existence, this much is certain--it is not in the least like our conception of it. The ant and the microscope will quickly convince us that we do not see things as they really are, even supposing that we see them at all. If we could "see" the real cow she would appear utterly incredible, as incredible as the things I am to relate.
Now, there is nothing that I know much more unconvincing than the stories of the red light on the sea. Several sailors, men on small coasting ships, who were working up or down the Channel on that Saturday night, spoke of "seeing" the red light, and it must be said that there is a very tolerable agreement in their tales. All make the time as between midnight of the Saturday and one o'clock on the Sunday morning. Two of those sailormen are precise as to the time of the apparition; they fix it by elaborate calculations of their own as occurring at 12.20 a.m. And the story?
A red light, a burning spark seen far away in the darkness, taken at the first moment of seeing for a signal, and probably an enemy signal. Then it approached at a tremendous speed, anal one man said he took it to be the port light of some new kind of navy motorboat which was developing a rate hitherto unheard of, a hundred or a hundred and fifty knots an hour. And then, in the third instant of the sight, it was clear that this was no earthly speed. At first a red spark in the farthest distance; then a rushing lamp; and then, as if in an incredible point of time, it swelled into a vast rose of fire that filled all the sea and all the sky and hid the stars and possessed the land." I thought the end of the world had come," one of the sailors said.
And then, an instant more, and it was gone from them, and four of them say that there was a red spark on Chapel Head, where the old grey chapel of St. Teilo stands, high above the water, in a cleft of the limestone rocks.
And thus the sailors; and thus their tales are incredible ; but they are not incredible. I believe that men of the highest eminence in physical science have testified to the occurrence of phenomena every whit as marvellous, to things as absolutely opposed
[53]
to all natural order, as we conceive it; and it may be said that nobody minds them. "That sort of thing has always been happening," as my friend remarked to me. But the men, whether or no the fire had ever been without them, there was no doubt that it was now within them, for it burned in their eyes. They were purged as if they had passed through the Furnace of the Sages, governed with Wisdom that the alchemists know. They spoke without much difficulty of what they had seen, or had seemed to see, with their eyes, but hardly at all of what their hearts had known when for a moment the glory of the fiery rose had been about them.
For some weeks afterwards they were still, as it were, amazed; almost, I would say, incredulous. If there had been nothing more than the splendid and fiery appearance, showing and vanishing, I do believe that they themselves would have discredited their own senses and denied the truth of their own tales. And one does not dare to say whether they would not have been right. Men like Sir William Crookes and Sir Oliver Lodge are certainly to be heard with respect, and they bear witness to all manner of apparent
[54]
eversions of laws which we, or most of us, consider far more deeply founded than the ancient hills. They may be justified; but in our hearts we doubt. We cannot wholly believe in inner sincerity that the solid table did rise, without mechanical reason or cause, into the air, and so defy that which we name the " law of gravitation." I know what may be said on the other side; I know that there is no true question of "law" in the case; that the law of gravitation really means just this: that I have never seen a table rising without mechanical aid, or an apple, detached from the bough, soaring to the skies instead of falling to the ground. The so-called law is just the sum of common observation and nothing more; yet I say, in our hearts we do not believe that the tables rise; much less do we believe in the rose of fire that for a moment swallowed up the skies and seas and shores of the Welsh coast last June.
And the men who saw it would have invented fairy tales to account for it, I say again, if it had not been for that which was within them.
They said, all of them, and it was certain now that they spoke the truth, that in the
[55]
moment of the vision, every pain and ache and malady in their bodies had passed away. One man had been vilely drunk on venomous spirit, procured at "Jobson's Hole" down by the Cardiff Docks. He was horribly ill; he had crawled up from his bunk for a little fresh air; and in an instant his horrors and his deadly nausea had left him. Another man was almost desperate with the raging hammering pain of an abscess on a tooth; he says that when the red flame came near he felt as if a dull, heavy blow had fallen on his jaw, and then the pain was quite gone; he could scarcely believe that there had been any pain there.
And they all bear witness to an extraordinary exaltation of the senses. It is indescribable, this; for they cannot describe it. They are amazed, again; they do not in the least profess to know what happened; but there is no more possibility of shaking their evidence than there is a possibility of shaking the evidence of a man who says that water is wet and fire hot.
"I felt a bit queer afterwards," said one of them, "and I steadied myself by the mast, and I can't tell how I felt as I touched it. I didn't know that touching a thing like
[56]
a mast could be better than a big drink when you're thirsty, or a soft pillow when you're sleepy."
I heard other instances of this state of things, as I must vaguely call it, since I do not know what else to call it. But I suppose we can all agree that to the man in average health, the average impact of the external world on his senses is a matter of indifference. The average impact; a harsh scream, the bursting of a motor tyre, any violent assault on the aural nerves will annoy him, and he may say "damn." Then, on the other hand, the man who is not "fit" will easily be annoyed and irritated by someone pushing past him in a crowd, by the ringing of a bell, by the sharp closing of a book.
But so far as I could judge from the talk of these sailors, the average impact of the external world had become to them a fountain of pleasure. Their nerves were on edge, but an edge to receive exquisite sensuous impressions. The touch of the rough mast, for example; that was a joy far greater than is the joy of fine silk to some luxurious skins; they drank water and stared as if they had been fins gourmets tasting an amazing wine; the creak and
[57]
whine of their ship on its slow way were as exquisite as the rhythm and song of a Bach fugue to an amateur of music.
And then, within; these rough fellows have their quarrels and strifes and variances and envyings like the rest of us; but that was all over between them that had seen the rosy light; old enemies shook hands heartily, and roared with laughter as they confessed one to another what fools they had been.
"I can't exactly say how it has happened or what has happened at all," said one, "but if you have all the world and the glory of it, how can you fight for fivepence?"
The church of Llantrisant is a typical example of a Welsh parish church, before the evil and horrible period of " restoration."
This lower world is a palace of lies, and of all foolish lies there is none more insane than a certain vague fable about the mediæval freemasons, a fable which somehow imposed itself upon the cold intellect of Hallam the historian. The story is, in brief, that throughout the Gothic period, at any rate, the art and craft of church building were executed by wandering guilds of "free-
[58]
masons," possessed of various secrets of building and adornment, which they employed wherever they went. If this nonsense were true, the Gothic of Cologne would be as the Gothic of Colne, and the Gothic of Arles like to the Gothic of Abingdon. It is so grotesquely untrue that almost every county, let alone every country, has its distinctive style in Gothic architecture. Arfon is in the west of Wales; its churches have marks and features which distinguish them from the churches in the east of Wales.
The Llantrisant church has that primitive division between nave and chancel which only very foolish people decline to recognise as equivalent to the Oriental iconostasis and as the origin of the Western rood-screen. A solid wall divided the church into two portions; in the centre was a narrow opening with a rounded arch, through which those who sat towards the middle of the church could see the small, red-carpeted altar and the three roughly shaped lancet windows above it.
The "reading pew" was on the outer side of this wall of partition, and here the rector did his service, the choir being grouped in seats about him. On the inner side were the
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pews of certain privileged houses of the town and district.
On the Sunday morning the people were all in their accustomed places, not without a certain exultation in their eyes, not without a certain expectation of they knew not what. The bells stopped ringing, the rector, in his old-fashioned, ample surplice, entered the reading-desk, and gave out the hymn: "My God, and is Thy Table spread."
And, as the singing began, all the people who were in the pews within the wall came out of them and streamed through the archway into the nave. They took what places they could find up and down the church, and the rest of the congregation looked at them in amazement.
Nobody knew what had happened. Those whose seats were next to the aisle tried to peer into the chancel, to see what had happened or what was going on there. But somehow the light flamed so brightly from the windows above the altar, those being the only windows in the chancel, one small lancet in the south wall excepted, that no one could see anything at all.
"It was as if a veil of gold adorned with jewels was hanging there," one man said;
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and indeed there are a few odds and scraps of old painted glass left in the eastern lancets.
But there were few in the church who did not hear now and again voices speaking beyond the veil.
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OLWEN'S DREAM
THE well-to-do and dignified personages who left their pews in the chancel of Llantrisant Church and came hurrying into the nave could give no explanation of what they had done. They felt, they said, that they "had to go," and to go quickly; they were driven out, as it were, by a secret, irresistible command. But all who were present in the church that morning were amazed, though all exulted in their hearts; for they, like the sailors who saw the rose of fire on the waters, were filled with a joy that was literally ineffable, since they could not utter it or interpret it to themselves.
And they too, like the sailors, were transmuted, or the world was transmuted for them. They experienced what the doctors call a sense of bien être , but a bien être raised to the highest power. Old men felt young again, eyes that had been growing dim now saw clearly, and saw a world that was like
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Paradise, the same world, it is true, but a world rectified and glowing, as if an inner flame shone in all things, and behind all things.
And the difficulty in recording this state is this, that it is so rare an experience that no set language to express it is in existence. A shadow of its raptures and ecstasies is found in the highest poetry; there are phrases in ancient books telling of the Celtic saints that dimly hint at it; some of the old Italian masters of painting had known it, for the light of it shines in their skies and about the battlements of their cities that are founded on magic hills. But these are but broken hints.
It is not poetic to go to Apothecaries' Hall for similes. But for many years I kept by me an article from the Lancet or the British Medical Journal --I forget which--in which a doctor gave an account of certain experiments he had conducted with a drug called the Mescal Button, or Anhelonium Lewinii. He said that while under the influence of the drug he had but to shut his eyes, and immediately before him there would rise incredible Gothic cathedrals, of such majesty and splendour and glory that no heart had
[63]
ever conceived. They seemed to surge from the depths to the very heights of heaven, their spires swayed amongst the clouds and the stars, they were fretted with admirable imagery. And as he gazed, he would presently become aware that all the stones were living stones, that they were quickening and palpitating, and then that they were glowing jewels, say, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, opals, but of hues that the mortal eye had never seen.
That description gives, I think, some faint notion of the nature of the transmuted world into which these people by the sea had entered, a world quickened and glorified and full of pleasures. Joy and wonder were on all faces; but the deepest joy and the greatest wonder were on the face of the rector. For he had heard through the veil the Greek word for "holy," three times repeated. And he, who had once been a horrified assistant at High Mass in a foreign church, recognised the perfume of incense that filled the place from end to end.
It was on that Sunday night that Olwen Phillips of Croeswen dreamed her wonder-
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ful dream. She was a girl of sixteen, the daughter of small farming people, and for many months she had been doomed to certain death. Consumption, which flourishes in that damp, warm climate, had laid hold of her; not only her lungs but her whole system was a mass of tuberculosis. As is common enough, she had enjoyed many fallacious brief recoveries in the early stages of the disease, but all hope had long been over, and now for the last few weeks she had seemed to rush vehemently to death. The doctor had come on the Saturday morning, bringing with him a colleague. They had both agreed that the girl's case was in its last stages. "She cannot possibly last more than a day or two," said the local doctor to her mother. He came again on the Sunday morning and found his patient perceptibly worse, and soon afterwards she sank into a heavy sleep, and her mother thought that she would never wake from it.
The girl slept in an inner room communicating with the room occupied by her father and mother. The door between was kept open, so that Mrs. Phillips could hear her daughter if she called to her in the night. And Olwen called to her mother that night,
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just as the dawn was breaking. It was no faint summons from a dying bed that came to the mother's ears, but a loud cry that rang through the house, a cry of great gladness. Mrs. Phillips started up from sleep in wild amazement, wondering what could have happened. And then she saw Olwen, who had not been able to rise from her bed for many weeks past, standing in the doorway in the faint light of the growing day. The girl called to her mother: "Mam! mam! It is all over. I am quite well again."
Mrs. Phillips roused her husband, and they sat up in bed staring, not knowing on earth, as they said afterwards, what had been done with the world. Here was their poor girl wasted to a shadow, lying on her death-bed, and the life sighing from her with every breath, and her voice, when she last uttered it, so weak that one had to put one's ear to her mouth. And here in a few hours she stood up before them; and even in that faint light they could see that she was changed almost beyond knowing. And, indeed, Mrs. Phillips said that for a moment or two she fancied that the Germans must have come and killed them in their sleep, and so they were all dead together. But Olwen
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called out again, so the mother lit a candle and got up and went tottering across the room, and there was Olwen all gay and plump again, smiling with shining eyes. Her mother led her into her own room, and set down the candle there, and felt her daughter's flesh, and burst into prayers and tears of wonder and delight, and thanksgivings, and held the girl again to be sure that she was not deceived. And then Olwen told her dream, though she thought it was not a dream.
She said she woke up in the deep darkness, and she knew the life was fast going from her. She could not move so much as a finger, she tried to cry out, but no sound came from her lips. She felt that in another instant the whole world would fall from her--her heart was full of agony. And as the last breath was passing her lips, she heard a very faint, sweet sound, like the tinkling of a silver bell. It came from far away, from over by Ty-newydd. She forgot her agony and listened, and even then, she says, she felt the swirl of the world as it came back to her. And the sound of the bell swelled and grew louder, and it thrilled all through her body, and the life was in it. And as the
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bell rang and trembled in her ears, a faint light touched the wall of her room and reddened, till the whole room was full of rosy fire. And then she saw standing before her bed three men in blood-coloured robes with shining faces. And one man held a golden bell in his hand. And the second man held up something shaped like the top of a table. It was like a great jewel, and it was of a blue colour, and there were rivers of silver and of gold running through it and flowing as quick streams flow, and there were pools in it as if violets had been poured out into water, and then it was green as the sea near the shore, and then it was the sky at night with all the stars shining, and then the sun and the moon came down and washed in it. And the third man held up high above this a cup that was like a rose on fire; "there was a great burning in it, and a dropping of blood in it, and a red cloud above it, and I saw a great secret. And I heard a voice that sang nine times, `Glory and praise to the Conqueror of Death, to the Fountain of Life immortal.' Then the red light went from the wall, and it was all darkness, and the bell rang faint again by Capel Teilo, and then I got up and called to you."
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The doctor came on the Monday morning with the death certificate in his pocket-book, and Olwen ran out to meet him. I have quoted his phrase in the first chapter of this record: "A kind of resurrection of the body." He made a most careful examination of the girl; he has stated that he found that every trace of disease had disappeared. He left on the Sunday morning a patient entering into the coma that precedes death, a body condemned utterly and ready for the grave. He met at the garden gate on the Monday morning a young woman in whom life sprang up like a fountain, in whose body life laughed and rejoiced as if it had been a river flowing from an unending well.
Now this is the place to ask one of those questions--there are many such--which cannot be answered. The question is as to the continuance of tradition; more especially as to the continuance of tradition among the Welsh Celts of to-day. On the one hand; such waves and storms have gone over them. The wave of the heathen Saxons went over them, then the wave of Latin mediævalism, then the waters of Anglicanism; last of all
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the flood of their queer Calvinistic Methodism, half Puritan, half pagan. It may well be asked whether any memory can possibly have survived such a series of deluges. I have said that the old people of Llantrisant had their tales of the Bell of Teilo Sant; but these were but vague and broken recollections. And then there is the name by which the "strangers" who were seen in the market-place were known; that is more precise. Students of the Graal legend know that the keeper of the Graal in the romances is the "King Fisherman," or the "Rich Fisherman"; students of Celtic hagiology know that it was prophesied before the birth of Dewi (or David) that he should be "a man of aquatic life," that another legend tells how a little child, destined to be a saint, was discovered on a stone in the river, how through his childhood a fish for his nourishment was found on that stone every day, while another saint, Ilar, if I remember, was expressly known as "The Fisherman." But has the memory of all this persisted in the church-going and chapel-going people of Wales at the present day? It is difficult to say. There is the affair of the Healing Cup of Nant Eos, or Tregaron Healing Cup,
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as it is also called. It is only a few years ago since it was shown to a wandering harper, who treated it lightly, and then spent a wretched night, as he said, and came back penitently and was left alone with the sacred vessel to pray over it, till "his mind was at rest." That was in 1887.
Then for my part--I only know modern Wales on the surface, I am sorry to say--I remember three or four years ago speaking to my temporary landlord of certain relics of Saint Teilo, which are supposed to be in the keeping of a particular family in that country. The landlord is a very jovial, merry fellow, and I observed with some astonishment that his ordinary, easy manner was completely altered as he said, gravely, "That will be over there, up by the mountain," pointing vaguely to the north. And he changed the subject, as a Freemason changes the subject.
There the matter lies, and its appositeness to the story of Llantrisant is this: that the dream of Olwen Phillips was, in fact, the Vision of the Holy Graal.
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THE MASS OF THE SANGRAAL
"FFEIRIADWYR Melcisidec! Ffeiriadwyr Melcisidec!" shouted the old Calvinistic Methodist deacon with the grey beard. "Priesthood of Melchizedek! Priesthood of Melchizedek!"
And he went on:
"The Bell that is like y glwys yr angel ym mharadwys --the joy of the angels in Paradise--is returned; the Altar that is of a colour that no men can discern is returned, the Cup that came from Syon is returned, the ancient Offering is restored, the Three Saints have come back to the church of the tri sant , the Three Holy Fishermen are amongst us, and their net is full. Gogoniant, gogoniant --glory, glory!"
Then another Methodist began to recite in Welsh a verse from Wesley's hymn.
God still respects Thy sacrifice,
Its savour sweet doth always please;
The Offering smokes through earth and skies,
Diffusing life and joy and peace;
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To these Thy lower courts it comes
And fills them with Divine perfumes.
The whole church was full, as the old books tell, of the odour of the rarest spiceries. There were lights shining within the sanctuary, through the narrow archway.
This was the beginning of the end of what befell at Llantrisant. For it was the Sunday after that night on which Olwen Phillips had been restored from death to life. There was not a single chapel of the Dissenters open in the town that day. The Methodists with their minister and their deacons and all the Nonconformists had returned on this Sunday morning to "the old hive." One would have said, a church of the Middle Ages, a church in Ireland today. Every seat--save those in the chancel--was full, all the aisles were full, the churchyard was full; everyone on his knees, and the old rector kneeling before the door into the holy place.
Yet they can say but very little of what was done beyond the veil. There was no attempt to perform the usual service; when the bells had stopped the old deacon raised his cry, and priest and people fell down on
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their knees as they thought they heard a choir within singing "Alleluya, alleluya, alleluya." And as the bells in the tower ceased ringing, there sounded the thrill of the bell from Syon, and the golden veil of sunlight fell across the door into the altar, and the heavenly voices began their melodies.
A voice like a trumpet cried from within the brightness:
Agyos, Agyos, Agyos.
And the people, as if an age-old memory stirred in them, replied:
Agyos yr Tâd, agyos yr Mab, agyos yr Yspryd Glan. Sant, sant, sant, Drindod sant vendigeid. Sanctus Arglwydd Dduw Sabaoth, Dominus Deus.
There was a voice that cried and sang from within the altar; most of the people had heard some faint echo of it in the chapels; a voice rising and falling and soaring in awful modulations that rang like the trumpet of the Last Angel. The people beat upon their breasts, the tears were like rain of the mountains on their cheeks; those that were able fell down flat on their faces before the glory of the veil. They said afterwards that men of the hills, twenty miles away, heard that cry and that singing, roar-
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ing upon them on the wind, and they fell down on their faces, and cried, "The offering is accomplished," knowing nothing of what they said.
There were a few who saw three come out of the door of the sanctuary, and stand for a moment on the pace before the door. These three were in dyed vesture, red as blood. One stood before two, looking to the west, and he rang the bell. And they say that all the birds of the wood, and all the waters of the sea, and all the leaves of the trees, and all the winds of the high rocks uttered their voices with the ringing of the bell. And the second and the third; they turned their faces one to another. The second held up the lost altar that they once called Sapphirus , which was like the changing of the sea and of the sky, and like the immixture of gold and silver. And the third heaved up high over the altar a cup that was red with burning and the blood of the offering.
And the old rector cried aloud then before the entrance:
Bendigeid yr Offeren yn oes oesoedd --blessed be the Offering unto the age of ages.
And then the Mass of the Sangraal was
[75]
ended, and then began the passing out of that land of the holy persons and holy things that had returned to it after the long years. It seemed, indeed, to many that the thrilling sound of the bell was in their ears for days, even for weeks after that Sunday morning. But thenceforth neither bell nor altar nor cup was seen by anyone; not openly, that is, but only in dreams by day and by night. Nor did the people see Strangers again in the market of Llantrisant, nor in the lonely places where certain persons oppressed by great affliction and sorrow had once or twice encountered them.
But that time of visitation will never be forgotten by the people. Many things happened in the nine days that have not been set down in this record--or legend. Some of them were trifling matters, though strange enough in other times. Thus a man in the town who had a fierce dog that was always kept chained up found one day that the beast had become mild and gentle.
And this is odder: Edward Davies, of Lanafon, a farmer, was roused from sleep
[76]
one night by a queer yelping and barking in his yard. He looked out of the window and saw his sheep-dog playing with a big fox; they were chasing each other by turns, rolling over and over one another, "'cutting such capers as I did never see the like," as the astonished farmer put it. And some of the people said that during this season of wonder the corn shot up, and the grass thickened, and the fruit was multiplied on the trees in a very marvellous manner.
More important, it seemed, was the case of Williams, the grocer; though this may have been a purely natural deliverance. Mr. Williams was to marry his daughter Mary to a smart young fellow from Carmarthen, and he was in great distress over it. Not over the marriage itself, but because things had been going very badly with him for some time, and he could not see his way to giving anything like the wedding entertainment that would be expected of him. The wedding was to be on the Saturday--that was the day on which the lawyer, Lewis Prothero, and the farmer, Philip James, were reconciled--and this John Williams, without money or credit, could not think how shame would not be on him for the meagreness and
[77]
poverty of the wedding feast. And then on the Tuesday came a letter from his brother, David Williams, Australia, from whom he had not heard for fifteen years. And David, it seemed, had been making a great deal of money, and was a bachelor, and here was with his letter a paper good for a thousand pounds: "You may as well enjoy it now as wait till I am dead." This was enough, indeed, one might say; but hardly an hour after the letter had come the lady from the big house (Plas Mawr) drove up in all her grandeur, and went into the shop and said, "Mr. Williams, your daughter Mary has always been a very good girl, and my husband and I feel that we must give her some little thing on her wedding, and we hope she'll be very happy." It was a gold watch worth fifteen pounds. And after Lady Watcyn, advances the old doctor with a dozen of port, forty years upon it, and a long sermon on how to decant it. And the old rector's old wife brings to the beautiful dark girl two yards of creamy lace, like an enchantment, for her wedding veil, and tells Mary how she wore it for her own wedding fifty years ago; and the squire, Sir Watcyn, as if his wife had not been already with a
[78]
fine gift, calls from his horse, and brings out Williams and barks like a dog at him, "Goin' to have a weddin', eh, Williams? Can't have a weddin' without champagne, y' know; wouldn't be legal, don't y' know. So look out for a couple of cases." So Williams tells the story of the gifts; and certainly there was never so famous a wedding in Llantrisant before.
All this, of course, may have been altogether in the natural order; the "glow," as they call it, seems more difficult to explain. For they say that all through the nine days, and indeed after the time had ended, there never was a man weary or sick at heart in Llantrisant, or in the country round it. For if a man felt that his work of the body or the mind was going to be too much for his strength, then there would come to him of a sudden a warm glow and a thrilling all over him, and he felt as strong as a giant, and happier than he had ever been in his life before, so that lawyer and hedger each rejoiced in the task that was before him, as if it were sport and play.
And much more wonderful than this or any other wonders was forgiveness, with love to follow it. There were meetings of old
[79]
enemies in the market-place and in the street that made the people lift up their hands and declare that it was as if one walked the miraculous streets of Syon.
But as to the "phenomena," the occurrences for which, in ordinary talk, we should reserve the word "miraculous"? Well, what do we know? The question that I have already stated comes up again, as to the possible survival of old tradition in a kind of dormant, or torpid, semi-conscious state. In other words, did the people "see" and "hear" what they expected to see and hear? This point, or one similar to it, occurred in a debate between Andrew Lang and Anatole France as to the visions of Joan of Arc. M. France stated that when Joan saw St. Michael, she saw the traditional archangel of the religious art of her day, but to the best of my belief Andrew Lang proved that the visionary figure Joan described was not in the least like the fifteenth-century conception of St. Michael. So, in the case of Llantrisant, I have stated that there was a sort of tradition about the Holy Bell of Teilo Sant; and it is, of course, barely
[80]
possible that some vague notion of the Graal Cup may have reached even Welsh country folks through Tennyson's "Idylls." But so far I see no reason to suppose that these people had ever heard of the portable altar (called Sapphirus in William of Malmesbury) or of its changing colours "that no man could discern."
And then there are the other questions of the distinction between the hallucination and vision, of the average duration of one and the other, and of the possibility of collective hallucination. If a number of people all see (or think they see) the same appearances, can this be merely hallucination? I believe there is a leading case on the matter, which concerns a number of people seeing the same appearance on a church wall in Ireland; but there is, of course, this difficulty, that one may be hallucinated and communicate his impression to the others, telepathically.
But at the last, what do we know?
TRISTRAM
by
FREDERIC MANNING
Ah, my heart! my heart! It is weary without her.
I would that I were as the winds which play about her!
For here I waste and I sicken, and nought is fair
To mine eyes: nor night with stars in her clouded hair,
Nor all the whitening ways of the stormy seas,
Nor the leafy twilight trembling under the trees:
But mine hands crave for her touch, mine eyes for her sight,
My mouth for her mouth, mine eyes for her foot-falls light,
And my soul would drink of her soul through every sense,
Thirsting for her, as earth, in the heat intense,
For the soft song and the gentle dropping of rain.
But I sit here as a smouldering fire of pain,
Lonely, here! And the wind in the forest grieves,
And I hear my sorrow sobbing among the leaves.
"BEOWULF AND ARTHUR AS ENGLISH IDEALS"
by
SARAH F. McNARY
THE race-ideal is the product of race possibility, moulded into form by the shaping power which lies behind literature, and breathed into life by the divine spark of imagination. In the childhood of the nation the ideal has its birth. It struggles into life with the first urgings of self-consciousness. It grows as the organism grows, waxing greater and more spiritual as the light of imagination shines more gloriously upon it, waning if that heavenly glow be put to baser uses, and perishing utterly when the last faint glimmer fades into the light of common day. To know the successive ideals of a person and of a people is to know that man and race not only in actuality, but in possibility, -- to know the inmost recesses and the farthest outreachings of their natures; for with every people, as with every person, a succession of ideals appears, following the prevailing lines of trend in the nation's history. In the midst of the changes there is a frequent recurrence of one form, which establishes itself in time as the permanent national ideal.
As the race-ideal makes its appearance at an early period, so the earliest forms of literature remain the most fitting for its expression. The epic, with its large opportunities, its endless vista of deeds, is bounded only by the limits of a hero's life. If by its nature the epic claims this place in literature, its origin gives it a double right to claim the setting forth of the race-ideal as its inalienable function; for the singers of the old lays, and the shapers of the epics, had no original concepts to give to the world. They voiced the race-thought, the collective consciousness of the people. So, too, the ideal which sprang up in the old days, and had its roots in the very vitals of the nation, struck an ever deeper hold by virtue of continually added elements of strength. A character whose acts are plainly stamped upon scientifically verified history, who is limited by his actual deeds, who has defined himself to the world by his known relations to the real and the practical, does not readily become the universal, enduring ideal of a race; but if he looms up in the faint, far light of myth and legend, if his potentiality stretches out into an infinity of achievement, he so kindles the imagination that it gladly embraces him as the being in which it would realize itself. The conscious portrayal of the type in literature is of later beginnings and more rapid growth, -- the product of an observing, analytical, scientific age, when imagination has begun to run to seed.
In English literature two main streams -- the Celtic and the Teutonic -- are plainly discernible, though their waters have been mingled for many a century, and have been modified by the influx of many smaller tributaries. To examine the head-waters of these streams, and to see what they have contributed to the English ideal, is the purpose of this paper.
Whether the 'Beowulf' had its origin in nature, myth, or hero-worship, or sober history, or whether it is a combination of all three, is the province of the scholar to determine. The adoption of any one of these theories will not change the æsthetic or ethical aspect of the poem in its present form, nor will it in any degree modify the impress of Teutonism which it bears, the stamp of the Teutonic character and ideals. An analysis of the elements of this character will show how far the early ideal has been realized in the English people, and how long it has endured.
Over the whole poem broods the thought of Wyrd. The atmosphere is gray and misty, like the marsh home of Grendel, and through the grayness go stalking the huge dim forms of the giants and nickers of the northern cult. The gray gloom is a reflection of the conception these folk had of life, as well as a picture of the natural scenery which they daily looked upon. The conditions of life point always in the direction of tragedy. There is, however, no disposition to sit down and weep over the melancholy of it. Beowulf stands up bravely and looks the issue in the face, -- Fate must be fought against, whatever the odds. Brave before all else is this Beowulf, with the bravery of a young, strong, unsoftened people, the physical courage which not only meets an enemy unshrinkingly, but seeks him out to fight with him alone and weaponless. This is the very rapture and madness of bravery, the apotheosis of daring. It is almost imaginative -- rather, it so strips off and defies imagination as to capture that quality by the abnegation of it.
The love of praise and the desire for glory breathing through every utterance in the poem, are not the evidence of a vaulting ambition which seeks its goal through crooked ways, but rather the unrestrained outbreak of the longing for appreciated activity and power. Its root is in the instinct for the ruder kind of self-expression, the impulse to fight, to overcome obstacles by muscular force. Beowulf does not seek to conceal his desire for praise. He boasts of his exploits with a child's simplicity of enjoyment. His age is too far from civilization to have attained the virtue of modesty and the vice of hypocrisy. In spite of this large boastfulness, there is a temperance in his judgment of men and things, which predicates balance of temperament and strong wisdom in the race which produced him.
The spirit of loyalty that has already grown, in Beowulf's time, into a racial institution, is strongly impressed upon the poem. The duty of the thegn to his lord, a service resting upon sentiment as well as upon necessity, is performed heartily. The germ of feudalism and the prophecy of chivalry are here discovered, but it is only a germ as yet. Scarcely a hint of the love sentiment is to be found anywhere. Woman is seen in various relations, occupying always a position of dignity, and inspiring those feelings of respect, that sense of her inviolability, which is the great honor of the Teutonic race; but the tenderer feeling that nourished feudalism into chivalry is quite beyond the pale of Beowulf's experience.
In spite of the interpolations by a later Christian editor, the poem is pagan and of the essence of paganism. The old fragment touching the Passing of Scyld hints at the mystery of birth and death; but aside from this there is no looking beyond that after-mystery, no dwelling upon the possibilities of the hereafter. The whole work is an embodiment of the idea of practicality. Beowulf died, not to establish a principle, but to secure the golden hoard of the fire-drake, and therefore the funeral dirge of this hero knells him out of the memory of men. The history of Beowulf is the pathos of paganism and of the material. It has been said that this is a half-finished epos, benumbed in the midst of its growth. It lies frozen because it is the imperfect ideal of a single, unmixed race; because it is wanting in elements that lay hold upon the higher imagination; because it was never touched by that "natural magic," that divine spark which is of the essence of immortality. But though Beowulf, as a single concrete character, passed so early out of English thought, the elements of his being passed into the English people, and he lives to-day in enduring qualities. He appears in history and literature in varied forms. He lives the free life of law-abiding lawlessness with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. His loyalty breathes again in Shakespeare's Faulconbridge, -- a loyalty deepened into reverence for the kingly office, and into love of race and country. He reaches England's heart through the kindly and kingly heartiness of Henry the Fifth. He stirs the English blood to go over seas on adventure in the great days of Elizabeth. He fights again with Nelson and the Iron Duke. Was his struggle with the dragons all in vain, when a dragon-slayer is patron saint of England? If Beowulf is no longer an ideal in the higher sense, it is because he has been lived into a type.
The course of thought in Anglo-Saxon times was comparatively simple, uniform, and continuous. The race was virtually a unit, in spite of transfer of abode, conquest by continual fighting, and the introduction of a new religion. The Germanic races are stable in quality, and do not easily change. With the Norman Conquest came a new spirit with a new people, -- a spirit of intellectual struggle and achievement, an impulse to search for new ideas and forms of expression, and to assimilate them with the old. The growing mind of the nation acquired an unwonted freedom of movement, the result of which is seen in the onward sweep of development of all phases of life. Then the literary ideals of the English people began to grow up into lusty youth. If among them all one can be found which appears and reappears; which out of small yet vigorous beginnings grows and changes and develops as the nation advances; which has in it an alluring element that haunts the imagination of poets, and lives on in the affections of the common people, -- this may be called the English ideal. Therefore it is that Geoffrey of Monmouth's 'Historia Britonum' forms perhaps the most significant achievement of the new time. This lover of legend and of folk-lore gathered from old writers of prose and verse, from legend, tradition, and myth, out of his own Celtic fancy as well, the tale of the deeds of the British kings from the remotest times to his own day. The richness of the Celtic material from which he drew, the intricate mazes of fancy opened up by recent investigations of that material, contrast strongly with the simpler forms of Teutonic legend. The earliest Arthur, from one point of view, suffers by comparison with Beowulf, for the morals in early Celtic literature will not always bear examination. What, then, is the secret of the charm? It is nothing else than the exuberance of the fancy, the brightness of the coloring, the invitation to boundless imaginative expansion, the germ of morality in the midst of unmorality, which gave it the possibility of endurance. The old dreams and memories which the deeds of Arthur and the prophesies of Merlin aroused in the conquered Celts, awakened into fresh stirrings and hopes, a keener intellectual life for the new-born English; and the Celts became conquerors of the Teutons in a higher sense than they knew, for they gave a hero not to the English only, but to all the world as well. It is beyond the province of this paper to trace the spread of the story over France and Germany and elsewhere. England has the sole claim upon our thought.
In the old Welsh tales Arthur appears, according to some scholars, first as a culture hero, or personification of a nature myth, then as a historic leader of the Britons, and conqueror of the Saxons in twelve battles. Later, when the Charlemagne cycle had come into England to influence British tradition, Arthur grew into a mighty king and world-conqueror, supernaturally endowed and guarded. The splendors of his court and the glorious achievements of his knights, the atmosphere of the marvellous and of the mysterious, as well as of the chivalric and the heroic, which surrounded him, fascinated England and France alike, and reaches down to our own day.
Soon after Geoffrey, Alfred of Beverley wrote the tales in Latin, Geoffrey Gannar put them into Anglo-Norman verse, and Wace followed with the account of the Round Table. Then came Walter Map, who gathered other tales into the Arthur cycle, added the Quest of the Graal, and thus emphasized the element of mysticism, the soul of Christian spiritualization.
It was Layamon who first brought Arthur into English verse, when, at the beginning of the thirteenth century, he drew from the oral traditions of the people on the borderland of Wales, united them with English legends and traces of ancient Germanic myths, made a foundation structure of the work of Wace, and built upon it a noble poem. In it Arthur is made a larger, more poetic, more spiritual character, and the stories about him are told with touches of fine imagination.
From this time rhymers and romancers were not long wanting, who told the old tales in their own fashion. At last came Sir Thomas Mallory, to put into strong prose the composite story, which holds one yet by the deathless power of true romance. From this time the treatment of Arthur in great poetry is not for the sake of the story only, but with the distinct acceptance of the ideal significance of the character, the product of centuries, from the age when the Celtic myths of Cloudland had their birth. Spenser brings him into the realm of Faerie, as the embodiment of the soul's ideal of itself. Divested of his old surroundings, and separated from his fellowship of knights, he seems unlike the Arthur we have known; but this shows in what fashion he has established himself in English thought, and how much more than the hero of myth, or legend, or romance, he has become. From this time he haunts the imagination of English poets. For years Milton held in his mind the Arthur cycle as the possible subject of his great epic, but was kept from it by the stern bent of a genius which drew away from humanity to deal with themes more remote and awful. Dryden contemplated the same subject when he too dreamed, as every poet does, of writing an immortal epic. And all the while 'Beowulf' lay covered with the dust of centuries, and without the power of life to claim a place in living literature.
Arthur has come into this century with a yet deeper significance. With all the old romantic coloring, with the splendor and the beauty of Celtic fancy, with the dash and daring of chivalric adventure, with the softening of the old mysticism, and with the allegorical spiritualism of Spenser humanized into flesh and blood, the King Arthur of Tennyson adds to all this the nineteenth-century conception of the meaning of life.
We have then set side by side the rude yet dignified figure of the Beowulf of the dim, half-savage age of continental Teutonism, and this Arthur who belongs to all time and is claimed by all peoples. Beowulf remains in his place because he is set in a narrower mould of nationalism; but Arthur has gone beyond his primitive race and country into a cosmopolitan realm. Beowulf towers and looms through the chill gray mist of the marshes; but the warm passionate smoke of mystical incense softens the noble and splendid figure of Arthur. Fate broods over Beowulf; the Christian notion of sin and atonement vitalizes the Arthurian literature. Merlin guides him with his counsel and occult power, and the Lady of the Lake is his help; but the counsellor that Beowulf knows best is the practical wisdom of his own mind. When a deed is to be done, the firm, well-proved strength of his own body must accomplish it; no mysterious hand holds out to him a supernatural weapon. Arthur fights with a charmed sword, and is protected from hurt by a magic talisman. In Beowulf is the magnifying of the practical; in Arthur is the concrete presentment of spiritual symbol. In the old story Arthur did not die, but sailed away to return again. In a deeper sense he cannot die, for he has touched the infinite issues of life and death.
SAMOR, LORD OF THE BRIGHT CITY
by
H. H. MILMAN
PREFACE.
The Historians [Note 1] of the Empire near the period of time, at which this Poem commences, make mention of a Constantine, who assumed the purple of the western empire, gained possession of Gaul and Spain, but was defeated and slain at the battle of Arles. He had a son named Constans, who became a monk, and was put to death at Vienna.
About the same time a Constantine appears in the relations of the old British Chronicles and Romances. He was brother of the king of Armorica, and became himself King, or rather an elected sovereign of the petty Kings of Britain [Note 2], who continued their succession under the Roman dominion. He was called Vendigard [Note 3] and Waredur, the Defender and Deliverer. He had three sons, Constans, who became a hermit, and was murthered, either (for the traditions vary) by the Picts, by Vortigern, or by the Saxons; Emrys, called by the Latin writers Aurelius Ambrosius; and Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur. These two Constantines are here identified, and Vortigern supposed to have been named King of Britain, as the person of greatest authority and conduct in the wreck of the British army, defeated at Arles. Many, however, of the chiefs in the Island advancing the hereditary right, before formally settled on the sons of Constantine, Vortigern, mistrusting the Britons, and prest by invasions of the Caledonians, introduced the Saxons to check the barbarians and strengthen his own sovereignty.
The Hero of the Poem is an historical character, as far as such legends can be called History. He appears in most of the Chronicles, as Edol, or Eldol, but the fullest account of his exploits is in Dugdale's Baronage under his title of Earl of Gloucester. William Harrison, however, in the Description of Britain prefixed to Holinshed, calls him Eldulph de Samor. But all concur in ascribing to him the acts which make the chief subject of the fifth and last Books of this Poem.
Most of our present names of places being purely Saxon, and the old British having little of harmony or association to recommend them, I have frequently, on the authority of Camden and others, translated them. Thus the Saxon Gloucester, called by the Britons, Caer Gloew, is the Bright City. The Dobuni, the inhabitants of the Vales, are called by that name. Some few sanctioned by old usage of Poetry and Romance I retain, as Kent, Thanet, Cornwall. London is Troynovant, as the City of the Trinobantes.
Some passages in the Poem will be easily traced to their acknowledged sources, the Poets of Greece and Italy; one however, in the third book, relating to the Northern mythology, has been remarkably anticipated in a modern Poem. The honourable Author may be assured that the conincidence is unintentional, as that part of this Poem was the earliest written, and previous to the appearance of his production.
BOOK I.
Land of my birth, oh Britain! and my love,Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose tongue
My song would speak, its strong and solemn tones
Most proud, if I abase not. Beauteous Isle,
And plenteous! what though in thy atmosphere [5]
Float not the taintless luxury of light,
The dazzling azure of the Southern skies;
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown
Spreads stainless, and unsullied by a cloud.
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine, [10]
And softer climes excel thee in the hue
And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers,
Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds;
Thou in the Soul of man, thy better wealth,
Art richest: nature's noblest produce thou, [15]
The immortal Mind in perfect height and strength,
Bear'st with a prodigal opulence; this thy right,
Thy privilege of climate and of soil,
Would I assert: nor, save thy fame, invoke,
Or Nymph, or Muse, that oft 'twas dream'd of old [20]
By falls of waters under haunted shades,
Her extacy of inspiration pour'd
O'er Poet's soul, and flooded all his powers
With liquid glory: so may thy renown
Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word
The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire. [25]
Forth from the gates of Troynovant hath past
King Vortigern; the Princes of the Isle
Around him; on the walls, for then (though now
Scorn bounds her mighty wilderness of streets,
And in magnificence of multitude [30]
Spread, and illimitable grandeur,) walls
With jealous circuit and embattled range
Girt Britain's narrow Capital; where swarm'd
Eager her wondering citizens to see
The Monarch. Him the Saxon Hengist met, [35]
And Horsa, with their bands in triumph led,
As from a recent victory; their blue eyes
Sparkled, and proud they shook their saffron hair;
And in the bicker of their spears, the toss
Of ponderous mallets, the quick flash of swords, [40]
Th' emblazon'd White Horse on their banners waved,
Was triumph. Thus king Vortigern began:
"Welcome, Deliverers! of our kingdom's foes,
Welcome, thrice-honour'd Conquerors! never more
Shall painted Caledonian o'er our realm [45]
The chariots of his rapine wheel, so full
The desolation, havoc so complete
Hath smote and blasted in Erle Hengist's path.
The mouldering ruins of our Roman wall,
Leagued with the terror of the Saxon name, [50]
Shall be defence more mighty, than when soared
Its battlements unbroken, and above
The imperial Eagle shook its wings of gold.
Oh, toil'd with victory, burthen'd with renown,
For ye our baths float cool and clear, our air [55]
Is redolent with garland wreaths, and rich
Within our royal citadel is crown'd
For ye the banquet; welcome once again,
Mighty to save, and potent to defend!" --
A faint acclaim, a feeble sullen din [60]
Ensued, with less of gladness than fierce grief,
And wrath ill stifled. Seeming all unmoved,
Elate the Monarch onward led the way;
Slow follow'd Saxon Hengist's martial train,
Clashing their armour loud, as they would daunt [65]
All Britain with the clamour: march'd behind
The island Nobles, save some restless hands
Were busy with their sheathed swords, they mov'd
Silent, and cold, and gloomy, as a range
Of mountain pines, when cloudy lowers the storm. [70]
Upon the azure bosom of the Thames
Reclining, with its ponderous mass of shade,
Arose the royal Citadel, the work
Of the great Cæsar. Danger he and dread
Of Rome and Pompey; yet 'gainst savage foes [75]
Vantage of trench and tower and massy wall
Scorn'd not, so swift, so perilous, so fierce
Cassivelan his painted charioteers
Whirl'd to the frantic onset, standing forth
Portent of freedom mid a world enslav'd. [80]
They pass'd the portal arch; the sumptuous hall
Flung back its gates; around the banquet board
Rang'd Prince and Chieftain, where luxurious art
Shower'd prodigal her dainties, poisons sweet,
And baleful splendour. Fierce the Saxon gaz'd [85]
On goblet, and huge charger carved with gold,
Contemptuous wonder. But the Monarch's brow
'Gan lighten, as with greedy joy he quaff'd
Oblivious bliss; thus ever guilty soul
Woos frenzy, and, voluptuous from despair, [90]
Forgets itself to pleasure. High aloof,
Each in his azure robe, the band of Bards
Mingled the wanton luxuries of sound;
Gentle melodious languour, melting fall,
With faint effeminate flattery the soul [95]
Guiling of manhood. Silent veil'd his harp
White-hair'd Aneurin, and indignant tears
Stood in the old man's eye, for wrathful shame
To hear his godlike and heaven-breathing art
Pampering loose revels with officious chime. [100]
Then rose the glorious madness; forth he sprung,
With one rude stroke along the clashing chords
Won silence deep as of a summer eve
After a noontide storm; his silver locks
Wav'd proud, the kindling frenzy of his eye [105]
Flash'd triumph, as the song of Chariots rose.
The song that o'er the van of battle shower'd
Pale horror, when that scourg'd Icenian Queen
Through the square legions drove her car; were heard
Her brazen wheels to madden, the keen scythes [110]
Gride through their iron harvest; then rush'd route,
Wail'd havoc; seem'd Bonduca fiercer urg'd
The trampling steeds; behind her silence sank
Along the dreary path of her revenge.
Ceas'd the bold strain, then deep the Saxon drain'd
The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth [116]
Lit his blue gleaming eyes: nor sate unmov'd
The Briton Chiefs; fierce thoughts began to rise
Of ancient wars, and high ancestral fame.
Sudden came floating through the hall an air [120]
So strangely sweet, the o'erwrought sense scarce felt
Its rich excess of pleasure; softer sounds
Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool,
By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace
Green circlets on the moonlight dews; nor lull [125]
Becalmed mariner from rocks, where basks
At summer noon the Sea-maid; he his oar
Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark
Sleeps on the sleeping waters. Now the notes
So gently died away, the silence seem'd [130]
Melodious; merry now and light and blithe
They danced on air: anon came tripping forth
In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks
Flower-wreath'd, their snowy robes from clasped zone
Fell careless drooping, quick their glittering feet [135]
Glanc'd o'er the pavement. Then the pomp of sound
Swell'd up, and mounted; as the stately swan,
Her milk-white neck embower'd in arching spray,
Queens it along the waters, entered in
The lofty hall a shape so fair, it lull'd [140]
The music into silence, yet itself
Pour'd out, prolonging the soft extacy,
The trembling and the touching of sweet sound.
Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth
And swimming majesty of step and tread, [145]
The symmetry of form and feature, set
The soul afloat, even like delicious airs
Of flute or harp: as though she trod from earth,
And round her wore an emanating cloud
Of harmony, the Lady mov'd. Too proud [150]
For less than absolute command, too soft
For aught but gentle amorous thought: her hair
Cluster'd, as from an orb of gold cast out
A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save
Here and there on her snowy neck repos'd
In a sooth'd brilliance some thin wandering tress. [155]
The azure flashing of her eye was fring'd
With virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem'd
Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it
As the light dew-shower on a tuft of flowers.
The soul within seem'd feasting on high thoughts, [160]
That to the outward form and feature gave
A loveliness of scorn, scorn that to feel
Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back
Those her fair harbingers, their modest eyes,
Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks [165]
In graceful reverence; she, by wond'ring gaze
Unmov'd, and stifled murmurs of applause,
Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way
To where the King, amid the festal pomp,
Sate loftiest; as she rais'd a fair-chas'd cup, [170]
Something of sweet confusion overspread
Her features; something tremulous broke in
On her half-failing accents, as she said,
"Health to the King!" -- the sparkling wine laugh'd up,
As eager 'twere to touch so fair a lip. [175]
A moment, and the apparition bright
Had parted; as before, the sound of harps
Was wantoning about the festive hall.
As one just waking from a blissful dream
Nor moves, nor breathes, lest breath or motion break [180]
The beauteous tissue of fine form woven o'er
His fancy, sate king Vortigern. "Whence came,
And whither went she? of what race and stem
Sprang this bright wonder of our earth, that leaves
The rapture of her presence in our hall, [185]
Though parted thence too swiftly?" -- "King (replied
Erle Hengist) -- in our ancient Saxon faith,
Ill bodes the joyless feast, where maiden's lips
Pledge not the wassail goblet." -- "By my soul,"
Cried Vortigern, "a gallant faith! and I [190]
Omen so sweet discredit not; the health
Those smooth lips wish'd me, well those lips might give,
A fragrance and a sparkling have they left
Even on the wine they touch'd." -- He said, and prest
The goblet to his own. "A father's ear, [195]
King Vortigern, must love the flattering tongue
That descants lavish on his daughter's praise."
"Thy daughter? Saxon!" -- "Mine, though vaunt not I
Her beauty, many a German Erle and King
Hath vow'd at his life's peril to proclaim [200]
Her far-surpassing comeliness." -- None heard
The secret converse that ensued. Lo, rose
King Vortigern, and from his brow transferr'd
A coronet of radiant Eastern gems
To the white hair of Hengist, and drank off [205]
A brimming cup, and cried, "To Kent's high King
A health, a health to Vortigern's fair bride,
The golden-hair'd Rowena." -- Seiz'd at once
Each Saxon the exulting strain, and struck
The wine-drain'd goblet down, "Health, King of Kent!"
As mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood [211]
Perseus, in stern tranquillity of wrath,
Half stood, half floated at his ancle plumes
Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield
Look'd into stone the raging fray; so rose, [215]
But with no magic arms, wearing alone
Th' appalling and control of his firm look,
The solemn indignation of his brow,
The Briton Samor; at his rising, awe
Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute; [220]
But like unruffled summer waters flow'd
His speech, and courtly reverence smooth'd its tone.
"Sovereign of Britain's Sovereigns! of our crowns
The highest! in our realm of many thrones
Enthron'd the loftiest! mighty as thou art, [225]
Thou dost outstep thy amplitude of sway;
Thine is our isle to govern not to give;
A free and sacred property hast thou
In our allegiance; for a master's right
Over our lives, our princedoms, and our souls, [230]
King Vortigern, as well mayst thou presume
To a dominion o'er our winds, to set
Thy stamp and impress on our light from heaven.
This Britain cannot rest beneath the shade
Of Saxon empire, this our Christian soil [235]
The harvest of obedience will not bear
To Heathen sway; and hear me, Vortigern,
The golden image that thou settest up,
Like the pride-drunken Babylonian king,
Though dulcimer and psaltery soothe us down [240]
To the soft humour of submission tame,
We will not worship." -- From the hall he past,
Thus saying. Him the Island's brave and proud
Follow'd, the high and fame-enamour'd souls,
Never to Britain wanting, though in hours [245]
Loosest of revels soft, and wanton ease.
But Vortigern, more largely pouring in
The vine's delicious poison, sate, and cried,
"Whom the flax binds not, must the iron gyve,
Whom sceptres daunt not, must the sword control."
Evening fell gentle, and the brilliant sun [251]
Was going down into the waveless Thames,
As bearing light and warmth to her cold Nymphs
Within their crystal chambers, when the King
Left the hall of banquet. Lofty and alone, [255]
Even as the Pillar great Alcides set,
The limit of the world and his renown,
On Calpe, round whose shaft the daylight wreathed
Its last empurpling, on the battlements
Stood Samor in the amethystine light, [260]
And "Go to darkness, thou majestic orb!
To-morrow shall the nations bask again
In thy full glory." -- Thus he said, and turn'd
To where the King went rapid past. -- "And thou,
Thou to thy setting hastest, never more [265]
Thou thy benighted splendour to renew;
Late at thy noon of pride, now sunk, declined
For ever from thy fair meridian, go
Into thy cloudy rest!" -- The solemn tone
Of his deep voice seized on the King, as frosts [270]
Arrest the rapid flowing stream. -- "What means
The Sovereign of the Vales, even in my halls,
And on my castle battlements, to cast
Bold scorn on Britain's king? Ingrate, and blind,
When I the valiant Saxon have brought in [275]
To check the Caledonian, through your isle
Marching by wild light of your burning towns;
Ye, wedded to your sorrow and your shame,
Mock at the safety my free love provides."
"Ah, provident! ah, sage! ah, generous King! [280]
That sets the emaciate wolf to dog the flock;
The hawk to guard the dovecote." -- "Wise-lipp'd chief,
I thank thee for thy phrase: doves are ye, doves
That fly with piteous and most delicate speed
Before the Scottish kites, that swoop your nests [285]
And flesh their greedy talons in your young." --
"Monarch! the eaglet, were it smoothly nurst
In the dove's downy nest, at its first flight
Would shrink down dazzled from the morning sun;
But with strong plumes refresh'd, anon 'twould claim
Its old aspiring birthright, and unblench'd [291]
Bathe in the bickering of the noontide car.
Oh, we have slumber'd on soft luxury's lap,
To her loose tabret; but, misjudging King!
Britain is like her soil; above the turf [295]
Lies velvet smooth, hard iron lurks beneath.
I know the northern Pagans waste our land,
And the tame mission to the Roman sent
I know, 'The fierce Barbarian to the sea
Drives us, the sea to the Barbarian back [300]
Merciless': so ran the plaintive legend. True!
But soldiers would it cast us back; despair
Hath its own valour; war makes warriors. King!
Calamities are on us, evil days
O'er our isle darken, but the noble wear [305]
Disaster, as an Angel wears his wings,
To elevate and glorify. Nor us
Shroudeth along the enveloping gloom, the frame
And fabric of our world is breaking up.
Rome's dome of empire, that o'ervaulted earth [310]
With its capacious shadow, rent and split,
Disorders the smooth course of human things,
Leaving confusion lord of this wide ball,
While to and fro the Nations sway perplex'd,
Like a tempestuous sea. Oh, mid such wreck, [315]
Our Britain in lone safety to uphold,
On every side 'gainst gathering foes present
A rampire of hard steel, or firmer far,
The bulwark of a haughty spirit pour'd
From the thron'd Sovereign through her sons, were pride,
Were honour, might arrest Heaven's plumed hosts. [321]
And in their sphere-born music win renown.
So He whose sceptre glitters in thy grasp,
He the Deliverer, the Defender nam'd,
So Constantine had done, had the high Soul's bane, [325]
Ambition, never maddened him to wear
The purple, madly worn, yet nobly lost
On the sad plain by Arles." -- "I knew, I knew
'Twould come to this, that Constantine would end
The high-wrought orat'ry. This too I know, [330]
And this I tell thee, Samor! nor yet add
Rebel! thy secret commerce with his sons,
To undermine my stately throne; the right,
So babble ye in your licentious phrase,
Conferr'd by our assembled British Kings [335]
On Constantine for ever and his heirs." --
"Alas! how better were it to know nought,
Than, like Kings, darkly. Constantine's brave sons
And Samor oft have met, have met to wail
The hazard of their native land, to swear [340]
Before the altar of the eternal God,
Never, amid these rude and perilous times,
To blow the trump of civil strife, to prop
With their allegiance Britain's throne, though fill'd
By one they deem usurping. Vortigern! [345]
I am upon the string that jars thy soul,
And it must vibrate to its highest pitch.
Oh what a royal madness, that might build
Upon the strong rock of a people's love,
Yet chooseth the loose quicksand of distrust, [350]
And overlays the palace of his pride
With a rude Saxon buttress, whose stern weight
Must crush it. Thou dost fear thy subjects arm'd,
Fear, lest the old valiance in their hearts inure,
And therefore fight'st their wars with foreign steel; [355]
And is this he, the noble and the wise,
The Vortigern, that Britain on the plain
Of Arles, that fatal plain, hail'd Captain, King?
Arise, be King, be Captain, be thyself!
And we will stand around thy throne, and mock [360]
The ruinous fashion of the times." -- "Away!
My royal word is to the Saxon given."
"Oh, Vortigern! this knee hath never bow'd,
Save to the King of Kings, thus low on earth
I sue thee, cast the Saxon off." -- At once [365]
The swift contagious grandeur set on fire
The Monarch -- "I am thine, am Britain's all:
Now by my throne, thus, thus I have not felt,
Since first this circling gold eat in my brow,
So free, so upright, and so kingly, chains [370]
Fall from me, mists are curling off my soul."
Like two bold Venturers, silently they stand,
Launching amid the sun-light their rich bark
O'er glassy waters to the summer airs:
Their solemn pondering hath the lofty look [375]
Of vaunting, over each high brow flames out
A noble rivalry of hope and pride.
The sound of wheels, lo, sliding came and smooth
A car, wherein, like some fair Idol led
Through the mute tumult of adoring streets, [380]
Bright-hair'd Rowena pass'd the portal arch.
Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy
In beauty, that with such an artful touch
And light ye float about her garment folds,
Displaying what is exquisite display'd, [385]
And thinly scattering the light veil where'er
Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell
With sweet officiousness the clustering hair
Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall
Where drooping most becomes; that thus ye love [390]
To lose yourselves about her, and expire
Upon her shape, or snow-white robes? She stood,
Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out,
As only in the obedience of her steeds
Rejoicing; they their necks arch'd proud and high, [395]
And by her delicate and flower-soft hands
Sway'd, as enamour'd of her mastery mov'd,
Lovingly on their bright-chaf'd bits repos'd,
Or in gay sport upon each other fawn'd.
But as the Monarch she beheld, she caught [400]
The slack rein up, and with unconscious check
Delay'd the willing coursers, and her head,
Upon her ivory shoulder half declin'd
In langour of enjoyment, rising wore
Rosy confusion, and disorder fair [405]
Transiently on her pride of motion broke.
Or chance, or meaning wander'd to his face
Her eye, with half command, entreating half;
Haughty to all the world, but mild to him,
Th' all admir'd admiring, and th' all-awing awed -- [410]
She look'd on him, and trembled as she look'd.
Alone she came, along she went not on.
BOOK II.
Noon is ablaze in Heaven, but gloom, the gloomOf the brown forest's massy vault of shade,
Is o'er the Kings of Britain; the broad oaks,
As in protection of that conclave proud,
Like some old temple's dome, with mingling shade [5]
Meet overheard, around their rugged trunks
Shew like fantastic pillars closely set
By Druids in mysterious circle, wont
Here, when the earth abroad was bright and clear
With moonshine, to install their midnight rites [10]
By blue nor earthly kindled fires, while Bards
Pour'd more than music from their charmed harps.
Each on his mossy seat, in arms that cast
A glimmer which is hardly light, they sit
Colossal, stern, and still; on every brow [15]
Indignant sorrow and sad vengeance lowers.
Them had the Pagan peasant deem'd his Gods,
In cloudy wrath down stooping from the heavens
To blast the mighty of mankind, and wreak
On some old empire ruin and revenge. [20]
And first majestical yet mild arose
A lofty shape, nor less than monarch seem'd,
Whose royal look from souls bold, brave, and free,
Not stooping slavery claim'd, but upright awe
And noble homage; yet uncrown'd, he wore [25]
Dominion, him with stately reverence heard
That armed Senate. "Princes of the land,
Lords of the old hereditary thrones
Of Britain, we, the sons of Constantine,
Emrys and Uther, come not here to charge [30]
Inconstant counsel on your wisdom, nought
Arraigning, that the sceptre to our line
Solemnly given, in those disastrous days,
When for the Empire of the Occident,
For Gaul o'er-master'd, and submitted Spain, [35]
Warr'd Constantine, and warring nobly fell,
Ye placed in elder hand, our right foregone
For the more precious public weal: oh, Chiefs,
'Twas well and wisely done; a stripling's arm
May rear the kingly standard in its pomp [40]
To play with Zephyrs under cloudless skies,
But when the rude storm shakes it ponderous folds
'Twere hard for less than the consummate man
Aloft to bear it, yet unstooping. Well
Stemm'd your new standard-bearer Vortigern [45]
The o'ershadowing tempest, nor abas'd his front
Your crown's old glories; till alas! dire change!
Dread fall! the sceptre that ye fondly hoped,
Would blossom, like the Hebrew Hierarch's rod,
With the almond bloom of mercy and of love, [50]
Liker the Egyptian magic-worker's wand
Became a serpent, withering all your peace
With its infection: then your virtues wrought
Your sorrows, from your valour grew your shame.
Your borders were o'erleap'd, your towns on fire, [55]
And the land groan'd beneath fierce Rapine's wheels.
Ye cried unto your King for arms, he sage
In cold and jealous wisdom fear'd to arm,
Whose arms might brave himself, and cast control
On the fierce wanderings of his royal will. [60]
Saxons must fight our wars, our hard-wrung gold
Buy us ignoble safety, till the slaves
Swell'd into Lords, and realms must pamper
Our hirelings into Princes; Kent, fair Kent,
The frontlet of our isle, where yet are seen [65]
The graves great Cæsar peopled with his dead,
When on his rear the Briton conqueror hung,
Where first the Banner of the Cross was wav'd,
Sinks to a Heathen province. Warriors! Kings!
This must not be among baptized men, [70]
This cannot be 'mong Britons. Therefore here,
Here in your presence dare we call again,
Your throne our throne, and challenge in your love
A Sovereign's title, by our youth we fell
From that great height, but Vortigern hath fall'n [75]
By his own guilt, we therefore rise again
In majesty renew'd; he falls, no more
To soar into the sacred royal seat."
Thereat with concord loud, and stern acclaim,
Gave answer that proud Senate, and denounc'd [80]
Judgment irrevocable. But with mien
Somewhat appall'd, as one in high debate
And solemn council unassay'd, arose
Prince Uther; ere he spake his clanging mail
Smote with fierce stroke, an audience to enchain, [85]
Himself the battle sound enkindling, high
His haughty brow and crested helm upflung,
Thus rude his fiery eloquence pour'd forth.
"Warriors of Britain! me nor pomp of words
Beseems, nor strife of smooth and liquid phrase, [90]
In the debate of swords, the fray of steeds
No combatant unskill'd. I will not boast
That I have brook'd with Emrys' patient pride
A sceptre's loss; a boy, I wept to hear
My father's crown was on a stranger's brow. [95]
But when my arm gan grasp a sword, those tears
Those soft unseemly waters, turn'd to hues
Of burning indignation; every crown
Shew'd, every kingly title to my ear
Sounded a scorn and shame. Even at his height [100]
And plenitude of power I yearned to rise
Against th' enthron'd Usurper -- now, oh Kings!
Thus charter'd, thus commission'd, thus array'd,
With what a noble phrenzy will we rush,
Trampling the wreck of Saxon and of King; [105]
Our path shall be as rapid and as bright
As summer meteor, more pernicious, that
Waning into the dull unkindling air,
We burning, desolating as we pass.
On, Britons, on, a tyrant fills your throne, [110]
Nor fitter monument may tyrant find
Than his throne's ruins; let the flat earth close
O'er both at once; the stranger Saxon lord's
Within our isle, the seas that bore him here,
In his storm-braving navy, bear him back [115]
Weltering and tossing in their drowning surge.
Low'ring he stood, still in fierce act of speech,
Yet speechless. Sudden, then, in dread uproar
Rose shout of war, with thundering clash of arms
Mingled, then hurrying spears and nodding helms [120]
With glittering tumult in the pale gloom flash'd;
War, war each voice, each striken shield denounc'd.
Amid the multitudinous din arose
Solemnly the Bright City's Lord, down sunk
Instant all tumult, broke abruptly off [125]
Fierce voice and clash of arms: so mute and deep
Settled the silence, the low sound was heard
Of distant waterfall, the acorn drop
From the green arch above. Still and abash'd
Sate the fierce conclave, while with mild reproof [130]
Winning all hearts, the gracious Chieftain spake.
"Brave sight for earth and heaven! it doth not fail
A nation's cry for freedom and for faith,
Nor faint, nor deaden in the mist and gloom
Of this low earth, it takes the morning's wings, [135]
Passeth the crystal skies, and beats heaven's gate;
There glideth through the gladdening Angel choirs,
That fan it onward with their favouring plumes,
To the eternal sapphire throne, and him
That sits thereon, Ineffable. Oh Kings, [140]
Our council thus appealing may not wear
Seeming of earthly passion, lust of sway,
Or phrenetic vengeance: we must rise in wrath,
But wear it as a mourner's robe of grief,
Not as a garb of joy: must boldly strike, [145]
But like the Roman, with reverted face,
In sorrow to be so enforc'd. Brave Chiefs,
It would misseem a son of this proud isle,
To trample on the fallen, though a King;
It would misseem a Christian to rejoice [150]
Where virtue hath play'd false, and fame's pure light
Hath sicken'd to dishonourable gloom.
Vortigern is our foe, no more our King,
Yet King he hath been, King he had been still,
Had never his high vaulting pride disdain'd [155]
The smooth dominion of old use, nor striven
To fix on our impatient necks the yoke
Of foreign usurpation; our free land
Will not endure the heathen Saxons rule,
Nor him that rules by heathen Saxon power. [160]
So march we forth in th' armour of our right,
From our once King not falling off in hate
Of fickleness, but by severe constraint
Of duty to ourselves and to our God.
So march we forth, and in such state may make [165]
Our mother land to vaunt of us; raise up,
Side by side, the fair airs to captivate
To an approval of our upright deed,
Our royal banner and the Cross of Christ;
And move within their cirque of splendour, calm, [170]
And yet resistless as the bright-man'd steeds
That bear the Morn to disenthrone old Night.
And now our kingly sceptre, forced aside,
By stress and pressure of disorder'd times,
Devious into an alien hand, reverts [175]
To the old line; the heir of Constantine,
Constans, the elder than this noble pair,
Stands foremost on succession's golden roll.
Nor know not I his gentle soul more apt,
To listen to the soft flowing vesper hymn, [180]
Than danger's spirit-stirring trump, yet deem,
Thus once forewarn'd, 'tis dangerous to divert
The stream of royal blood, that broken, pours
Waters of bitterness and civil strife
O'er th' harass'd land, and therefore thus hail I [185]
Constans the King of Britain. Speak I right?
I pause, and wait, oh Chiefs, your high award."
He ceased, nor time for voice or swift acclaim,
Scowling a sullen laugh of scorn, leaped forth
The mountain King, the Sovereign of the lakes [190]
And dales this side the Caledonian bound;
He only, when the Kings sate awe-struck, stood
Elate with mocking pity in his frown;
A mighty savage, he of God and man
Alike contemptuous; nought of Christian lore [195]
Knew he, yet scoff'd unknown, 'twas peaceful, meek,
Thence worthless knowledge. Him delighted more
Helvellyn's cloud-wrapt brow to climb, and share
The eagle's stormy solitude; 'mid wreck
Of whirlwinds and dire lightnings huge he stood, [200]
Where his own Gods he deem'd on volleying clouds
Abroad were riding and black hurricane.
Them in their misty pride assail'd he oft
With impious threat, and laugh'd when th' echoing glens
His wild defiance cast unanswered back. [205]
Now with curl'd lip of scorn, and brow uplift,
Lordly command, not counsel, fierce he spake.
-- "Shame, coward shame! as though the fowls of heaven,
When in dusk majesty and pride of wing
Sails forth the monarch eagle, down should stoop [210]
In homage to the daw. Oh craven souls,
When Snowdon or high Skiddaw's brow is bare,
To plant the stately standard of revolt
Upon a molehill. Constans! that to him
Caswallon should bow down; aloft our crown [215]
Upon the giddy banner staff, that rocks
On Troynovant's tall citadel, uphang,
And who the dizzy glory will rend down,
Or Constans or Caswallon? The bright throne
Environ with grim ranks of steel-girt men: [220]
Huge Saxons black with grisly scars of war,
Who first will hew to that triumphal seat
His ruinous path? Hear, sceptred Britons, hear,
A counsel worthy the deep thoughts of kings:
Of valorous achievement and bold deeds [225]
Be guerdon to the mightiest of our Isle,
The Sov'reignty of Britain; spurn my voice,
And I renounce your counsels, cast you off,
And with my hardy vassals of the north
I join the Saxon." -- Then fierce sounds again [230]
Broke out, wan flames of brandish'd armour flash'd.
In rude disorder and infuriate haste
Sprang every warrior from his seat, as clouds
Amid the sultry heaven, thunderous and vast,
Gather their blackening disarray to burst [235]
Upon some mountain turrets, so the chiefs
Banded their fierce confusion to rush on,
And whelm in his insulting pride the foe.
He stood as one in joy, and lower'd a smile,
With wolf-skin robe flung back, broad shield outstrech'd,
And battle axe uplift: vaunting and huge [241]
As fabled giant on embattled Heaven
Glaring not less than utter overthrow,
And total wreck; forthwith a youth rush'd out,
His moony buckler high upheld to bar [245]
The onset, and with voice, which youthful awe
Temper'd to tone less resolute, address'd
The haughty Chieftain. "Father, deem not thou,
Malwyn confederate in thy lawless thought,
Mine is a Briton's soul, a Briton's sword, [250]
But mortal man that seeks thy life, must pass
O'er Malwyn's corpse." Back Chief and King recoil'd,
In breathless admiration. Nobler pride,
And human joy almost to softness smooth'd
Caswallon's rugged brow. "Well hast thou said, [255]
Son of Caswallon, worthy of thy sire!
On thine own track mount thou to fame, nor swerve
For man, or more than man." -- Awhile the Kings
Brief parley held, then stately and severe
Rose Emrys, and pronounc'd their stern arrest. [260]
"Caswallon of the Mountains, long our isle
Hath mark'd thy wavering mood, now friend now foe;
Now in the Caledonian inroad prompt
To bear thy share in rapine, foremost now
In our high councils. This we further say, [265]
We scorn thy war, Caswallon, hate thy peace,
And deem it of our mercy that, unscath'd,
We ban thee from our presence." Nor reply
Caswallon deign'd; calm strode he as in scorn
Of wrath 'gainst foes so lowly. Far was heard [270]
His tread along the rocky path, the crash
Of branches rent by his unstooping helm.
They in blank wonder sate, nor wholly quell'd
Wrath and insulted majesty, with look
As he were still in presence fix'd, and stern. [275]
Then spake Prince Emrys, "Not of trivial toil
To shape the rude trunk of our enterprize
To smooth perfection; deeply must we found,
And strongly build the fabric of our hopes,
And each must hold his charge. Be, Samor, thine [280]
To bear our brother Constans Britain's crown,
In name of our assembled Kings. Be mine
From the Armoric shore, King Hoel's realm,
(Our father's brother, Hoel) to embark
The succours of his high-fam'd Chivalry. [285]
Thou, Uther, to the West; each other King
Unto his own, at signal of revolt
To lead his armed Vassallage abroad."
So saying, each departed; fell again
The ancient silence on the solemn place. [290]
Together from the forest pass'd the friends,
Samor and Elidure; below their way
Went wandering on through flowery meads, or sank
Beneath green arches dim of beechen shade.
Around the golden hills in summer wealth [295]
Bask'd in the sunshine; on a river bank
Long gleaming down its woodland course, repos'd
Many a white hamlet: even fierce shrines of war
Wore aspect mild of peace; towers dark of yore
And rugged in the Roman war array, [300]
With wanton ivy and gray moss o'ergrown,
Their green crowns melted in the azure heavens.
"Oh grief! o'er yon fair meads and smiling lawns
Must steeds of carnage batten, men of blood
Their fell magnificence of murtherous pomp [305]
Pavilion in yon placid groves of peace.
The blood-thirst savages of wood and air,
In meet abodes of wilderness and woe,
Shroud their abhorred revels; the gaunt wolf
Prowls gloomy o'er the wintry blasted heath; [310]
Brood desolate on some bare mountain peak
Raven and screaming vulture. Man, fell man,
Envious of bliss he scorns, 'mid haunts of peace,
Spots fair and blissful, the rare stars of earth,
Plays ever his foul game of spoil and death, [315]
Ruthless, then vaunts himself Creation's pride,
Supreme o'er all alone in deeds of blood."
Thus Elidure; him Samor, from deep trance
Wakening, addrest: "Soft man of peace, my prayer
Would ask of heaven no theatre of strife [320]
Save yon fair plain, there forth the weak would start
In the tumultuous valour of despair,
The timorous proudly tower in scorn of death:
There, where each tree, each dell, each grassy knoll,
Lovely from memory of some past delight, [325]
Is kindred to the soul; his house of prayer,
The altar of his bridal vow, the font
Of his sweet infants baptism, kindred all,
Holiest and last, his fathers peaceful graves:
Oh, were all Britain, like yon beauteous plain, [330]
Blissful and free, that angels there might walk
Forgetful of their heavenly bowers of light,
Friend of my boyhood, these all-conquering foes,
Who fetter the free winds, and ride the sea
Kinglike, their menacing prows would turn aloof, [335]
And bitterly, in baffled lust of prey,
Curse the proud happiness that mock'd their might."
Lo, ere he paus'd, gay files of dazzling light
Slow o'er the plain advancing, indistinct
From their full brightness, gradual the long blaze [340]
Broke into form, and lance and bow and helm,
Standard and streamer, chariot and fair steed,
Start from the mingled splendour. On their height
Unseen, the Chieftains watch'd the winding pomp.
And all before the azure-vested Bards [345]
From glancing instruments shook bridal glee.
Then came the gorgeous chariots, rough with gold,
And steeds their proud heads nodding with rich weight
Of frontlet wreathed with flowers and shadowy plumes;
Therein sate ladies robed in costly state, [350]
Each like a Queen; the noble charioteers,
Briton in garb, with purple mantle loose,
O'er steel, in network bright, or scale o'er scale,
Glittering, and aventayle barr'd close and firm,
As yet the gaudy traitors shamed to meet [355]
The cold keen glance of countryman betray'd.
Dark in their iron arms, some wildly girt
With Caledonian spoils, their yellow hair
Down from the casque in broad luxuriant flow
Spreading, and lofty banner wide display'd, [360]
Whereon a milk-white courser reinless shone,
Pace forth the Saxon warriors. High o'er all,
Tempestuous Horsa, chafing his hot steed,
And Hengist with his wreath of amber beads, [Note 4]
His hoary strength, in spite of age or toil, [365]
A tower of might: with that tall grove of spears,
Circled, and rampire close of serried shields,
The bridegroom Monarch rode, his bright attire
Peaceful, as fitting nuptial pomp, his robe
Rich-floating strew'd the earth with purple shade, [370]
And on his lofty brow a regal crown,
Bright as a wreath of sunbeams; high his arm
The ivory sceptre bore of kingly sway:
Yet who his mien and bearing watch'd had seen
Dim gleam of jealous steel, or lurking mail [375]
Beneath those glorious trappings, for his gaze,
Now jocund, chang'd anon to wandering stare,
Fearful and wild, as the still air were rife
With vengeful javelins showering death, his pace
Hurried, yet tardy, as of one who rides [380]
O'er land still tottering with an earthquake shock.
And him beside, on snowy palfrey, deck'd
With silver bells its pendant mane profuse,
Of silver and of stainless ermelin
The bright caparisons, and all her robes [385]
White as of woven lily cups, the Bride
Majestic rode as on a moving throne.
Her sunbright hair she wav'd, and smil'd around,
As though, of less than kingly Paramour
Scornful, she said, Lo, Britain, through your land [390]
I lead the enthralled Sovereign of your isle.
Yet so surpassing fair, brief instant wish'd
Those wrathful Briton Chiefs their leafy screen
A thin transparent cloud: of his high charge
Brief while forgetful, Samor stood entranced, [395]
Fearing her form should fleet too swift away.
Came it from earth or air, yon savage shape,
His garb, if garb it be, of shaggy hair
Close folding o'er his dusky limbs, his locks
And waving matted beard like cypress boughs [400]
On bleak heath swaying to the midnight storm?
Came he from yon deep wood? On the light spray
No leaf is stirring. On the winged winds
Rode he? No breeze awakes the noontide air.
'Mid that arm'd throng, dismaying, undismay'd [405]
With a strange eye dilated, as unus'd
To common sights of earth, and voice that seem'd
Rarely to hold discourse with human ears,
"Joy," and again, and thrice he uttered "Joy."
Cower'd Horsa on his palsied steed; aghast, [410]
As toiling to despise that thing he fear'd,
Sate Hengist. "Joy to Bridegroom and to Bride!
Why should not man rejoice, and earth be glad?
Beyond the sphere of man, the round of earth,
There's loud rejoicing, 'tis not in the heavens! [415]
And many ministrant Angels shake their wings
In gladness, wings that are not plum'd with light.
The dead are jocund, not the dead in bliss.
Your couch is blest -- by all whose blessings blast,
All things unlovely gratulate your love. [420]
I see the nuptial pomp, the nuptial song
I hear, and full the pomp, for Hate, and Fear,
And excellent Dishonour, and bright Shame,
And rose-cheek'd Grief, and jovial Discontent,
And that majestic herald, Infamy, [425]
And that high noble, Servitude, are there,
A blithesome troop, a gay and festive crew.
And the Land's curses are the bridal hymn;
Sweetly and shrilly doth th' accordant Isle
Imprecate the glad Hymenean song. [430]
So joy again, I say, to Britain's King,
That taketh to his bosom Britain's fate,
Her beautiful destruction to his bed.
And joy to Britain's Queen, who bears her Lord
So bright a dow'ry and profuse, long years [435]
Of war and havoc, and fair streams of blood,
And plenteous ruin, loss of crown and fame,
And full perdition of the immortal soul;
So thrice again I utter 'joy,' 'joy,' 'joy!'"
Then upsprung spear to strike, and bicker'd bow; [440]
Ere spear could strike, or shaft could fly, the path
Was bare and vacant; shape nor sound remain'd;
Only the voice of Vortigern moan'd out,
"Merlin;" -- and on the long procession past.
Down in a quiet dale, where beechen groves [445]
With interchanging gold and glossy green
O'ermantled the smooth slopes, that fell around
Like a fair amphitheatre, beneath
A brook went wand'ring through fresh meadow banks,
With a cool summer dashing, here the Chiefs [450]
The royal Hermit met, his gentle brow
Smooth as a slumbering Angel's plumes (effaced
All traces of this rude and wearing earth,
All brands of fiery passions, wild desires)
Wore that calm holiness the sainted dead [455]
Smile on the visions of their lov'd on earth:
His life was like a sleep, with heavenly sights,
And harmonies, as of angelic sounds
Visited ever, nor his barren heart
Touch'd not the light affections, trembled not [460]
His spirit with loves fervent swell, but all
Most wont to bear man's soul to earth, round him
As the thin morning clouds around the lark,
Gather'd, to float him upward to the heavens.
They at his feet down laid the kingly crown, [465]
Fulfill'd their lofty mission. He, the while,
With that mild sadness he had watch'd the leaves
Drip from the sere autumnal bough, survey'd
Its stately glittering. "Men of earth, why mock,
With gaudy pageantry, and titled pomp, [470]
The frail and transient pilgrims of this world.
The fading flag-flower on yon streamlet brink,
Were garland meeter for our mortal brows
Than yon rich blaze of gems." "Prince," Samor spake
"Sweet is it down the silent vale of life [475]
To glide away, of all but Heaven forgot,
Forgetting all but Heaven. Of king-born men,
Lords of mankind, high delegates of Heaven,
Loftier the doom, their rare prerogative
The luxury of conferring bliss. Oh, Prince, [480]
Not by the stream to slumber, not to waste
Idly in joyous dreams the drowsy hours,
Hath Heaven thy kingly heritage ordain'd:
Set badge of Empery on thy brow: of God
The noblest service is to serve mankind, [485]
To save a nation all a mortal's power,
To imitate the Saviour of the world."
Calm answer'd Constans, "Earth's exalted fame,
Grandeurs and glories gleam upon my soul
Like wintery sun-light on a plain of snow. [490]
With prayers, a Hermit's arms, I aid your cause,
Farewell. Why pause ye, as to question more
The wisdom of my choice -- lo, yon fair orb;
How spotless the fine azure where he holds
His secret palace, knows not his pure light [495]
A stain of dimness, till th'abode of men
Pours o'er it its infectious mists." "Oh, Prince,
'Tis not the glory of that peerless light,
The barren glittering, the unfruitful waste
Of splendour on the still inanimate skies, [500]
It is the life, the motion, and the joy
It breathes along this world of man, the broad
Munificence of blessing that awakes,
And in its rapturous gratitude springs up,
To glorify its bounteous source of pride." [505]
"I see thy brow at thine own words on fire;
Mine, Samor, yet is calm and cold." "Dost thou,
Constans, all title, claim, and right renounce
To Britain's throne?" "Even free as I renounce
The everlasting enemy of man." [510]
"Will thy voice mingle with the general cry,
'Long live King Emrys?'" -- "Long may Emrys live,
Even the eternal life beyond the grave."
"Yet one word more; 'tis perilous in the storm
For the tall pine, nor less, in evil days, [515]
For the high born and exalted of the state.
The Saxon blood-hounds are abroad for prey,
Seek thou some quiet solitude remote
Beyond their prowling range." -- His arm to Heaven
Slowly uplifted, "Will they reach me there?" [520]
Spake the meek Hermit, "there is rest secure."
They parted; gentle Elidure alone,
Lingering with somewhat of an envious gaze,
View'd the deep quiet of that placid dell.
That night were seen along the dusky wood, [525]
Of more than human stature moving forms,
Pale faces circled with black iron helms,
Not of the Briton shape their garb or arms;
Stealthy their pace and slow; the peasants thought
Demons of evil that sad night had power, [530]
And pray'd Heaven's grace to guard the saintly man.
At morn roved forth the peasant, down the dale
His dog went bounding to the Hermit's cell,
For all mute creatures loved the man of God.
A quick and desolate moaning nearer call'd [535]
The peasant; in officious grief the dog
Stood licking the cold hand that drooping hung
Lifeless; the mild composure of his brow
On the cross rested; praying he had died,
And his cold features yet were smiling prayer. [540]
BOOK III.
Orient the bright-hair'd Charioteer of heavenPour'd daylight from his opal wheels, and struck
From the blue pavement of the sky clear flakes
Of azure light upon the Eastern sea.
And as the gray mists slowly curl'd away, [5]
Rose the white cliffs of Kent, like palace fair,
On fane of snowy marble, to enshrine
Blue Amphitrite, or the Sea-Gods old
Of Pagan mariner. Rode tall below
The Saxon navy, as from midnight sleep [10]
Wakening; the gray sails in the breeze of morn
'Gan tremble, gleaming oars flash in the spray.
The Sea Kings on the beach in parley stern
Were met, nor less than nation's doom and fate
Of kingdoms in their voice. Lo, in the midst [15]
Stood huge Caswallon, words of mild salute
Deign'd not, but thus addrest the Ocean Lord.
"Saxon! that o'er this fair and princely isle
Thou would'st win empire by the sword of war,
I marvel not, arraign not -- 'tis a dream, [20]
Noble as o'er the heavens to walk abroad,
Companion of yon bright majestic sun.
Now by my glory, Saxon, mortal peer
Never Caswallon brook'd, save thee alone,
Thee, rival in his race of pride and power. [25]
Arm'd with myself and all th' embattled North,
Not Roman Britons, sons of sires who dash'd
The purple Conquerors' haughty wall to earth,
And trampled their strewn ramparts; who ne'er deign'd
Barter for gaudy robe and marble pile,
Fierce naked freedom, and wild mountain cave,
Will I, and thou with Saxon spears begirt,
Bow this fair Britain to our lordly sway.
Then will we two, from pale perplexed earth
Seen, like twin meteors battling in high heaven, [35]
On some lone eminence wage glorious strife,
Sole empire meed of conquest, of defeat
Utter annihilation, dark and full
Solace, and lofty comfort." Bold he paus'd,
Nor Hengist with pale sign of awe or dread [40]
Shamed the proud peerage, but with hardy speech
Guileful, won faith by seeming scorn of guile.
"Briton, to dare high deeds, and to disown,
Argues a wavering valour; the firm soul
Vaunts resolute its lofty dangerous scope. [45]
To us our Gods o'er ocean and its shores
Kingly dominion and wide sway have given;
Were insult to our might and base reproach,
The freedom of one sea-girt isle, to thee
Honouring, not fearing, 'mid our prime we grant [50]
Transcendent state, and eminence of power.
Now speed we of th' immortal Powers in Heaven,
Our high ominiscient Fathers, to demand
If on the eternal shield of fate be graven
Ruin or Conquest, ere to bold emprize [55]
We gird our brazen arms." -- "Of mighty men
The Gods are mighty, whom the Saxon fears,
The paramount of men, 'twere rash to scorn,
No calm and sunshine deities of peace." --
So spake Caswallon, the mild faith of Christ [60]
Scoffing with covert mockery; thus th' All Wise
The imaginations of the proud on earth
Silent endures, till some brief point of time
Crumbles the high-built insolence of years.
"Wilt thou behold our Gods?" fierce Horsa cried [65]
"Then mount the bark, abroad her wings are spread,
And fleet along the obedient deep she speeds.
Fear not, proud Briton." -- "Fear!" Caswallon cried;
All iron as he stood, o'er surf, surge, wave
He bounded, hollow rang his heavy arms, [70]
The bark her tall side to the troubling waves
Stoop'd groaning, nor delay'd the Ocean King.
"Brother, farewell! not singly the bold wolf
Scatters the mountain herd; in grim repose
He rests expectant of his kindred troop, [75]
Numberless from their shaggy dens they sweep,
And spacious o'er the antler'd monarch's realm
Spreads the wide ravage of their muster'd might."
Stern Horsa bow'd assent, yet paus'd to watch
The proud bark tilting o'er the azure plain. [80]
Stately she rode her path of light, her sails
In dalliance with the courteous winds: bold Man!
Well may thy full heart bound: in earth and air
The thunder-maned steed, the eagle thron'd
In the pavilion of his plumes, stand forth [85]
Creation's glories; but the noblest shape
That walks the deep thy workmanship sublime
Owneth, and starts from thee to life. Vaunt thou,
Yet humbly vaunt, all greatness is from God.
What dolphin glancing in his silver sport, [90]
More graceful with translucent pinion parts
The liquid azure? what Leviathan,
Huge heaving on the thick Norwegian foam,
More lordly than the white-wing'd bark, that wafts
The Sea King o'er his empire? the fair waves [95]
Rise in their gamesome turbulence, and pay
Wild homage to that royal Mariner.
The motion and the murmur of the deep,
The rushing of the silent, solemn sky,
Each in its deep abyss and pure expanse, [100]
Seeming its secret mysteries of might,
Its ruling soul of everlasting change,
To veil from mortal knowledge, ever pour
O'er savage ev'n and rude tumultuous awe,
And exultation of a pleasing dread. [105]
From dizzy notions of infinity,
Vague sense of ever-during sights and sounds,
Inactive though the body, the free spirit,
Vagrant along the illimitable void,
Perils uncouth and rich uncertainties [110]
Ranges in restless round, plucks treasures rare,
That gem the caverns of the hoary deep,
Or bathes with sea-maids in their crystal bowers,
Or with gay creatures and fantastical
Peoples some dreamy land; such joys of old [115]
Lured the fierce Saxon from his darksome woods,
To launch along the vast and barren sea.
Such joys through this long voyage, wean'd brief while
From thoughts of war and war-won empire wide,
Haughty Caswallon, or from him assum'd [120]
Fierce aspect, and a battailous character.
'Twas midnight, but a rich unnatural dawn
Sheets the fir'd Arctic heaven; forth springs an arch,
O'erspanning with a crystal pathway pure
The starry sky, as though for Gods to march, [125]
With show of heavenly warfare daunting earth,
To that wild revel of the northern clouds;
That now with broad and bannery light distinct,
Stream in their restless wavings to and fro,
While the sea billows gleam them mellower back; [130]
Anon like slender lances bright upstart,
And clash and cross with hurtle and with flash,
Tilting their airy tournament." -- "Brave signs,"
Cried Hengist; "lo, our Gods their standards rear,
And with glad omen of immortal strife [135]
Salute our high-wing'd purpose." -- "Yea (return'd
Caswallon) from mine own Helvellyn's brow,
Never a brighter conflict in the skies
Taught me that war was dear in Heaven: dream ye
Of tamer faith in gentle Southern skies [140]
Your smooth and basking deities, our North
Wooes not with tender hues and sunny smiles
Soft worship, but emblazons all the air
With semblance of celestial strife, unveils
To us of their empyreal halls the pomp, [145]
The secret majesty of godlike war."
Oh Lord of Lords! incessant thus assail'd
That Pagan with his frantic railings Thee,
Th' Ineffable, yet worshipp'd of thy power
A faint and pale effect, reflection dim [150]
From thy soul-blinding glories. On they sail'd,
Till o'er the dark deep now the wintry winds
Swept on their murky pinions, huge and high
The liquid legions of the main arose;
Like snow upon the sable pines, the foam [155]
Hung hoary on their towered fronts; but slow,
Like a triumphant warrior, their bold bark
Wore onward, now upon the loftiest height
Shaking its streamers gay defiance, now
With brave devotion to the prone abyss [160]
Down rushing, but the sternest Saxon cheek
Put not to shame the dauntless Landsman; he
In the strong passion of a new delight
On the fierce tumult feasts, and almost grieves,
When now beneath the haven rocks embayed, [165]
The angry waves seem wearying to repose,
And the slack sails slow droop their flagging folds.
Their port was southward of that Strait, where bursts
The Baltic, with her massy waves of ice
Encumbering far and wide the Northern main. [170]
South, North, and East, the rapid heralds speed,
Summoning from fen or forest, moor or wild,
Britain! on thee to banquet, all who bathe
In Weser, Elbe, or Rhine, their saffron locks,
Hertog and Erle and King; the huntsman bold [175]
Of bear, or bison, o'er the quaking moss,
Or grim Vikinger, who but sues his Gods
For tempests, so upon some wealthy coast
Bursts unforeseen his midnight frigate fierce,
And freights its greedy hold with amplest spoil. [180]
And now have Hengist and Caswallon climb'd
The chariot of the Oracle; no wheels
Bear that strange car; like wind along the sea,
It glides along the rapid rein deer's track.
Beauteous those gentle rein deer arch'd their necks, [185]
And cast their palmy antlers back, and spread
Their broad red nostrils to the wind; they hear
Old Hengist's voice, like arrows down the wind,
Like shot-stars through the welkin start they forth.
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet: they pass [190]
Dark leagues of pine and fir, the filmy light,
Shivering with every motion of the wind
On their brown path lies tremulous, o'er them sails,
Heard through the dismal foliage hissing shrill,
And hoarser groaning of the swaying boughs, [195]
The funeral descant of the ominous birds.
Around them the prophetic milk white steeds, [Note 5]
Their necks yet virgin of the taming curb,
With all their loose long glories, arch, and pass
In solemn silence, and regardless paw [200]
The unechoing earth. But that old German, set
Inflexible with bolder hand to draw
The veil of dusk futurity, disdains
These tamer omens. Still the car slides light,
The deer bound fleet, they pause not, save to quaff [205]
The narrow cruise, to share their scanty store.
Like swallows o'er the glassy rivers smooth,
O'er the pellucid lake, with glittering breast
Yet wrinkled with its rippling waves, they skim,
The dead unstirring ocean bears them on, [210]
Amid the immortal ice-hills wind they now.
In restless change, God's softer summer works
Glitter and fade, are born and die, but these,
Endiadem'd by undissolving snows,
High Potentates of winter's drear domain, [215]
Accumulate their everlasting bulk,
Eternal and imperishable, stand
Amid Creation's swift inconstant round,
In majesty of silence undisturb'd,
Save when from their long-menacing brows they shake
The ruining Avalanche; unvisited [221]
By motion, but of sailing clouds, when sleets
From their unwasting granary barb their darts,
And the grim North-wind loads his rimy wings.
Nor trace of man, save many a fathom deep, [225]
Haply dark signs of some tall people strange,
That walk'd the infant earth, may shroud profound
Their legends inaccessible. They soar
In headlong precipice, or pyramid
Linking the earth and heaven, to which the piles [230]
Where those Egyptian despots rot sublime,
Or even that frantic Babylonian tower,
Were frivolous domes for laughter and for scorn.
Nor wants soft interchange of vale, where smiles
White mimicry of foliage and thin flower. [235]
Feathery and fanlike spreads the leafy ice,
With dropping cup, and roving tendril loose,
As though the glassy dews o'er flower and herb
Their silken moisture had congeal'd, and yet
Within that slender veil their knots profuse [240]
Blossom'd and blush'd with tender life, the couch
Less various where the fabled Zephyr fans
With his mild wings his Flora's bloomy locks;
But colourless and cold, these flowering vales
Seem meeter for decrepit Winter's head [245]
To lie in numb repose. The car slides light,
The deer bound fleet, the long gray wilderness
Hath something of a roseate glimmering dim,
And widens still its pale expanse: when lo,
A light of azure, wavering to display [250]
No sights, no shapes of darkness and of fear.
Tremblingly flash'd the inconstant meteor light,
Shewing thin forms, like virgins of this earth,
Save that all signs of human joy or grief,
The flush of passion, smile or tear had seem'd [255]
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek,
Strange and unnatural: statues not unlike
By nature, in fantastic mood congeal'd
From purest snow, the fair of earth to shame,
Surpassing beauteous: breath of mortal life [260]
Heaved not their bosoms, and no rosy blood
Tinged their full veins, yet mov'd they, and their steps
Were harmony. But three of that bright troop,
The loveliest and the wildest, stood aloof,
Enwrapt by what in human form were like [265]
Impulse divine, of their fine nature seem'd
The eternal instinct. Them no less survey'd
Caswallon with the knitted brow of scorn,
Bitter he spake -- "No marvel Saxon souls
Revel in war's delights, so stern, so fierce [270]
Their deities." Severe with wrath supprest,
As one ill-brooking that irreverent mirth
Scoff'd the wild lore, himself ne'er dar'd to doubt,
Answer'd the Son of Woden. "These, proud Chief,
So snowy, soft, and airy gentle, these [275]
Are ministers of destiny and death,
The viewless Riders of the battle field:
When sounds the rushing of their sable steeds,
Down sink the summon'd mighty, and expand
Valhalla's cloudy portals; to their thrones [280]
They the triumphant strangers lead, and pour
Lavish the eternal beverage of the Gods.
Mark thou yon bright-hair'd three? and would thy soul
Grasp the famed deeds of ancient time, or know
The master spirits of our present world. [285]
Lo Gudur, she whose deep mysterious soul
Treasureth the past, and Rosta, who beholds
All acts and agents of this living earth;
She too is there before whose spacious sight
The years that have not been start up and live, [290]
Who reads within the soul of man unborn
The unimagin'd purpose, of the sage
Skulda the sagest. Ask and thou shalt know."
-- "I am not King of Britain, have not been,
Hateful the present and the past, my soul [295]
Thirsteth for what shall be." -- The Hengist spake
In tone of mix'd authority and prayer,
"Queen of the Future, Valkyr, hear and speak,
Speak to the Son of Woden." -- All the troop
Instant the thin bright air absorb'd, alone [300]
Stood Skulda with her white hair waving wide,
As trembling on the verge of palpable being,
Ready to languish too in light away.
"O'er Britain's isle doth Woden to his sons
Give empire?" She, but in no human tone, [305]
E'er from the soul's emotion harsh or soft,
One glittering rich unvarying tone replied,
"To thine, but not to thee." -- And, "I am thine,"
Caswallon shouted loud, and sternly shook
His visionary sceptre. "Whence the foe [310]
Fatal to Hengist, and to Hengist's sway?"
"Not from the Mountain, Saxon, from the Vale."
Heard, heeded not the Mountain Chief that strain
Dire and ill-boding, or if heard, disdain'd [314]
Adverse what prosperous seem'd a voice from Heaven.
"By what rich rite," he cried, "may Briton Chief
Win favour from high Woden?" -- "Not the blood
Of steed or stag; a flower of earth must fade.
Blest o'er all virgins of the earth, the chaste,
The beautiful, by Heaven ordain'd to lead [320]
The souls of valiant men to the pale hall
Of the Immortal; air her path, and Heaven
Her dwelling, with the fair and brave of earth
Her sole communion?" -- "By my future throne,
Proud office for the daughter of a King! [325]
A royal damsel, mine own blood, shall join
Your cloudy mysteries." -- A hue like joy
Overspread all her face and form, while slow
Into the air she brighten'd, indistinct
Even now, and now invisible. Sad seem'd [330]
In gloomy converse with his own dark mind
Old Hengist, nor despair'd that bold of soul,
In pride of human wisdom to revoke
The irrevocable, what himself deem'd fate,
By force or fraud t' o'ermaster or elude. [335]
O glorious eminence of virtuous fame,
Glorious from peril! Warriors of the Vales,
Fate-signal'd Samor, vaunt not thou the love
Of a blind people, or weak prince: thy boast
The sworn unerring hate of Britain's foe. [340]
So pass'd they forth, one in wild joy elate,
Already in his high disdainful thought
Wielding supremacy; each of fix'd fate
Nought heeding, but what fed his fierce desires.
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet, nor sun [345]
Nor star in all the hazy heavens. Snow, snow,
Above, around, beneath. Unblinded yet,
Drive on the kingly charioteers, and shake
The showery plumage from their locks; fast fades
The long pale plain, the giant ice-hills sink, [350]
Lakes, rivers, seas are patient of their speed,
Huge, dim, and dusk the forest pines rush back,
Now pant the brown deer by the ocean bay.
How desolate are now thy unplough'd waves,
Dark Baltic! wandering Elbe, thy icy breast [355]
How silent of thy hunters. Sleep thou calm
Amid thy wanton vineyards, Gaul! no more
The blue-eyed Plunderers, bridging thy broad Rhine,
Waste thy inebriate harvests clustering pride.
Sing songs of joy, soft Italy! o'er thee [360]
But Alaric and Attila drive on
Their chariot wheels of conquest, this their peer
In majesty of havoc, in renown
Of devastation, this, the fiercer third
Of human Furies, scap'st thou, therefore sing, [365]
Soft Italy; for lo, at Hengist's call,
Vast Germany dispeoples her wide realm,
Deserts to silence and the beasts of game
Her long and soundless forests. Seems the North
The forge of Nations, in one fleet t' exhaust [370]
Her iron wealth of warriors; helmed high
The Suevian with his towery knotted locks, [Note 6]
Frisian and Scandinavian, Cimbrian rich
In ancient vauntage of his sires, who clomb
The Alpine snows, and shook free Rome with dread. [375]
And others nameless, numberless, sweep forth
Their bands; but three almost in nations came:
The Jute, the Anglian, and the Saxon, each
Leaving earth bare for many a lonesome league,
His wives, his children, and his Gods embarks, [380]
On the fierce quest of peril and of power.
Then forth arose each Chieftain to salute
The polestar of their baleful galaxy,
Prime Architect of ruin: him who sway'd
Their hot marauding, desultory strife [385]
To cool and steady warfare, of their limbs
The domineering soul. As each past on
Shook up the Scald his harsh-strung shell, and cast
The war tones of each nation to the winds;
And Hengist with imperious flattery met [390]
Each tall and titled Leader: "Art thou here,
Bold Frisian Hermengard! a broader isle
And fairer than thy azure Rhine laves round,
Spreads for thee her green vallies. How brook'st thou,
Strong Scandinavian Lodbrog, thou the Chief [395]
Of the renown'd Vikinger, while the waves
So nobly riot with the wintry storms,
The tame and steadfast land? Now freely leap,
Arngrim, along thy Suevian forests brown
The bear and foam-tusk'd wild boar; let them leap, [400]
A braver game is up on Britain's shore.
O Cedric, gray in glory, young in power,
The Drave ran purple with thy boyish deeds,
A darker, redder dye, o'er silver Thames
Shall spread before thy ancient battle axe. [405]
Ho, Offa, the rich-flowing mead hath worn
Your Jutland cups, beneath the British helms
Capacious goblets smooth and fair await
Offa's carousals. Heir of Cimbric fame, [Note 7]
Frotho, how these, of late the Roman's slaves, [410]
Will the race daunt, who set our Thor afront
The Roman's Capitolian Jove. And thou,
My gold-hair'd brother, are the British maids,
Or British warriors, Abisa, the first
In the fierce yearnings of thy boyish soul? [415]
And lo the mighty Anglian; oh, unfold
Ocean more wide, more wealthy realms, too brief,
Too narrow for Argantyr's fame, the round
Of this the choice, the Sovereign of thine isles.
Thereat a sound of clattering shields arose, [420]
As all the rocks around with one harsh rift
Had rent asunder: "Fair must be the land,
And brave the conquest, plenteous the renown,
Where Hengist leads strong Woden's sceptred sons!"
But inly laugh'd Caswallon, as he long'd [325]
With each or all to match his Briton strength;
On the prophetic Valkyr thought, and glanced
Proud pity on the legends of their praise.
Advanced Argantyr, his bold grasp apart,
As peer his peer, led Hengist. "Thou and I, [430]
Saxon, must have our compact; dark I know
Thy paths of strife, while my frank valour loves
The broad bright sunshine; thou by sleight and art
Min'st thy slow conquest; I with naked sword
Affront my peril, till its menacing height [435]
Bow to the dust before me; for bold war,
For noonday battling, tender I mine arm,
But no allegiance own to subtle craft;
To peace Argantyr doth revolt when thou
Array'st stern war in the smooth garb of guile." [440]
"The weak, Argantyr, and the friendless, need
Such politic skill; I take thee at thy word.
Who skulks a fox when he dare prowl a wolf?
Power charters force, where strong Argantyr stands
Is power. -- And now aboard, brave Chiefs, aboard, [445]
Or the soft spring o'ertakes our tardy keels,
And with her slothful breezes smooths the skies."
Wonderous that ocean armament; in shoals
Ride boat and bark, innumerous as the waves
That show white slender streaks of foam between [450]
Their tawny sides, save here and there towers up
Some statelier admiral in lordly height
O'er the frail comm'nalty, whose limber ribs
Are the light wicker, cased with sturdy hides
Their level bottoms smooth. [Note 8] Oh, that frail Man, [455]
Loose-woven frame of dissolube stuff,
Uncharter'd from the boisterous license rude
Of pitiless winds and fierce unfetter'd waves,
To that unshackled libertine, wild Chance,
Amenable, unguaranteed from burst [460]
And inroad of invading surge, that he,
With such thin barrier between life and death,
Should sit and skim along the ocean waste,
Careless as maiden in a flowery field;
Valour or phrenzy is it? They their toil [465]
Ply nimbly, and with gallant oar chastise
The insurgent billows, their despotic sails
Lords o'er the wild democracy of air.
Less vast, and mann'd with tamer, feebler spirits,
In later days, against our Virgin Queen, [470]
The Spaniard's mad Armada; but the flag
Of Howard, and the Almighty's stormy hand,
Belied their braggard baptism, so they won
Brave conquest! graves in ocean's barren caves,
Or on the whirlpool-girded Orcades. [475]
But onward rides that Pagan fleet: young Spring
Hath scarcely tipt the leafless woods with green;
Tyne's jetty tide is blanch'd with German oars.
Now wither with that dark-brow'd priest set forth
Old Hengist and the Briton Mountain Lord? [480]
Is it, fell Hengist, that Caswallon's name
Paragon thine in British hate, close link'd
By fellowship in nameless rites accurst,
Be hence more deeply, execrably thine?
Or, from weak credence in such impious Gods, [485]
Urgest thou that fell sacrifice? Oh, where
The spotless Virgin doom'd (so wild the creed)
The Valkyr's airy troop to join, and glide
Immortal through Valhalla's cloudy halls?
BOOK IV.
Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven,Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage,
Moved the meek Star of Eve; the wandering air
Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man,
Slept, weary of the garish babbling day. [5]
Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing
In slumber droops not; Lilian, thou alone,
'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove,
Idolatress of yon majestic moon,
That like a crystal-throned queen in Heaven, [10]
Seems with her present diety to hush
To beauteous adoration all the earth?
Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops
Stand up and worship, the translucent streams
Down th' hill sides glittering cherish the pure light [15]
Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung
At intervals; the lake, so silver white,
Glistens, all indistinct the snowy swans
Bask in the radiance cool: doth Lilian muse
To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn? [20]
Nursling of solitude, her infant couch
Never did mother watch, within the grave
She slept unwaking; scornful turn'd aloof
Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys
By father's felt, when playful infant grace, [25]
Touch'd with a feminine softness, round the heart
Winds its light maze of undefin'd delight,
Contempuous; he with haughty joy beheld
His boy, fair Malwyn, him in bossy shield
Rock'd proudly, him upbore to mountain steep, [30]
Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest
To battle with the eagle's clamorous brood.
But she the while from human tenderness
Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, [35]
Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone
By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild
Beauteously pale, and sadly playful grew,
A lonely child, by not one human heart
Belov'd, and loving none; nor strange, if learnt [40]
Her native fond affections to embrace
Things senseless and inanimate: she lov'd
All flow'rets that with rich embroidery fair
Enamel the green earth, the odorous thyme,
Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spar'd [45]
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears.
Gray birch and aspen light she lov'd, that droop
Fringing the crystal stream; the sportive breeze
That wanton'd with her brown and glossy locks,
The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank. Ere dawn [50]
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve,
By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge,
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen.
Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard,
Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid [55]
Soothing the child with simple tale or song.
Hence, all she knew of earthly hopes and fears,
Life's sins and sorrows; better known the voice
Belov'd of lark from misty morning cloud
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes [60]
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint,
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird.
Nor they of love unconscious, all around
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet
Tun'd emulous. Her knew all living shapes [65]
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer,
Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch'd,
Courting her fond caress, nor fled her gaze
The brooding dove, but murmur'd sounds of joy.
One summer noon, the silvery birchen shade [70]
Pendant above from dripping crag her brow
Veil'd from the fiery sunbeam, gems of spray
Gleam'd cool around with watery rainbow-light,
From a pure streamlet down its rocky bed
Dashing sweet music; she on mossy couch [75]
Sate listening the blithe thrush, whose airy notes
In amorous contention Echo caught
Responsive. Sudden droop'd its flagging wing
The timorous bird of song, and fluttering sought
Soft refuge in the maiden's snowy breast. [80]
She o'er the nestling prisoner folding light
Her careless vest, stood gazing, where, awhile
Dark in the sun-cloud's white, came fiercely down
A swooping falcon: at her sight it check'd,
Its keen eye bright with joy, th' admiring bird [85]
Fearfully beauteous floated in the air,
Its silver wings, and glossy plumage gray,
Glanc'd in the sun light. Up the maiden gaz'd,
Smiling a pale and terrified delight,
And seem'd for that lov'd warbler in her breast [90]
Beseeching mercy. 'Mid the green wood sank
Th' obedient bird; she, joyous at his flight,
Her bosom half reveal'd, with gentle hand
Caressing smooth'd her captive's ruffled plumes.
Anon around a frighted thankful look [95]
Glancing, what seem'd a human shape she saw,
Or more than human; stately on his arm
The falcon sate, and proudly flapp'd his wings.
She turn'd to fly, yet fled not, turn'd to gaze,
Yet dared not raise her downcast eye; she felt [100]
Her warm cheek, why she knew not, blush, her hand
Unconscious closer drew her bosom's fold.
With accent mild the Stranger brief delay
Entreated; she, albeit his gentle words
Fell indistinct on her alarmed ear, [105]
Listening delay'd, and still at fall of eve
Delay'd, e'en then with dim reverted eye,
Slow lingering on her winding homeward path.
No more in pomp of war, or vaulting steed,
Joyeth the Son of Vortigern, nor feast [110]
With jocund harpings, and rich-jewell'd dames,
Outshining in their pride the starry heavens.
As fair the spring-flower's bloom, as graceful droops
The wild ash spray, as sweet the mountain bee
Murmurs, melodious breathes the twilight grove, [115]
Unheard of her, unheeded, who erewhile
Visited, constant as the morning dew,
Those playmates and sweet sisters of her soul.
In one sole image sees the enamour'd maid
Concentrated all qualities of love, [120]
All beauty, grace, and majesty. The step
Of tall stag prancing stately down the glen,
The keen bright fierceness of the eagle's glance,
And airy gentleness of timorous roe,
And, more than all, a voice more soothing soft [125]
Than wild-bird's carol, or the murmuring brook,
With eloquence endued and melting words
So wond'rous; though unheard since eve, the sounds
Come mingling with her midnight sleep, and make
The damask of her slumbering cheek grow warm. [130]
And she is now beneath the moonlight rock,
Chiding the rippling waters that efface
That image on its azure breast indistinct,
Garb, form, and feature, Vortimer, though mute,
As prodigal of fondness, his bright face [135]
Looks up to her with glance of tenderer love,
Than wild-dove to its mate at earliest spring.
Oft hath that moonlight wax'd and wan'd, since last
He parted, all of him that could depart;
Save that no distance could remove the words, [140]
The look, the touch, that lives within her still,
The promise of return sworn on her lips.
And hark it comes, his steed along the glen;
She o'er the lucid mirror stooping low,
'Gins prank her dark-brown tresses, bashful smiles [145]
Of virgin vanity flit o'er her cheek,
Tinging its settled paleness. Now 'tis near,
But ne'er did Vortimer with iron hoof
Bruise the green flowery sward that Lilian loves.
A gentle frown of winning fond reproach [150]
Arch'd her dark eyelash, as her head she turn'd,
Ah! not on Vortimer. Her father stood
Before her, stern and dark, his trembling child
Cheer'd nor fond word, nor greeting kiss; his arm
Clasp'd round her, on his steed again he sprung. [155]
And on through moon-light and through shade he spurr'd
Gleam'd like a meteor's track his flinty road,
Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn,
His midnight prey. Anon, the mountain path
'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paus'd [160]
Breathless, and faintly raising her thin form;
"Oh, whither bear ye me?" with panting voice,
Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmov'd, "to death."
"Death, Father, death is comfortless and cold?
Aye me! when maiden dies, the smiling morn, [165]
The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray,
Wake her no more; the summer wind breathes soft,
Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed,
Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold
She lies; while all she lov'd, unheard, unseen, [170]
Mourn round her." There broke off her faltering voice.
Dimly, with farewell glance, she rov'd around,
Never before so beautiful the lake
Like a new sky, distinct with stars, the groves,
Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts of bliss, [175]
Smil'd, ne'er before so lovely, their last smile;
The fountains seem'd to wail, the twilight mists,
On the wet leaves were weeping all for her,
Had not her own tears blinded her; there too
She surely had beheld a youthful form, [180]
Wandering the solitary glen. But loud
The courser neigh'd, down bursting, wood and rock
Fly backward, the wide plain its weary length
Vainly outspreads; and now 'tis midnight deep.
Ends at a narrow glen was pal'd with rude black rocks,
There slowly roll'd a brook its glassy depth;
Now in the moon-beams white, now dark in gloom.
She liv'd, she breath'd, she felt, to her denied
That sole sad happiness the wretched know, [190]
Ev'n from excess of feeling, not to feel.
Behold her gentle, delicate, and frail,
Where all around, through rifted rock and wood,
Grim features glare, huge helmed forms obscure
People the living gloom, with dreary light [195]
Glimmering, as of the moon from iron arms
Coldly reflected, lovely stands she there,
Like a blest Angel 'mid th' accurst of Hell.
A voice is heard. -- "Lo, mighty Monarch, here
The stream of sacrifice; to man alone [200]
Fits the proud privilege of bloody death
By shaft or mortal steel; to Hela's realm,
Unblooded, woundless, must the maid descend;
So in the bright Valhalla shall she crown
For Woden and his Peers the cup of bliss. [205]
Her white arms round her father's rugged neck
Winding with desperate fondness, she 'gan pour,
As to some dear, familiar, long-lov'd heart,
Most eloquent her inarticulate prayers.
Is the dew gleaming on his cheek? or weeps [210]
The savage and the stern, yet still her sire?
But some rude arm of one, whose dreadful face
She dared not gaze on, seiz'd her. Gloomy stood,
Folding his wolf-skin mantle to conceal
The shuddering of his huge and mailed form, [215]
Caswallon. Then again the voice came forth,
"Fast wanes the night, the Gods brook no delay,
Monarch of Britain, speed." He, at that name
Shaking all human from his soul, flung back
The foldings of his robe, and stood elate, [220]
As haughty of some glorious deed, nor knew
Barbarian blind as proud, who feels no more
The mercies and affections of his kind,
Casts off the image of God, a man of ill,
With all his nature's earth, without its heaven. [225]
A sound is in the silent night abroad,
A sound of broken waters; rings of light
Float o'er the dark stream, widening to the shore. [NOTE 9]
And lo, her re-appearing form, as soft
As fountain Nymph by weary hunter seen, [230]
In the lone twilight glen; the moonlight gleam
Falls tenderly on her beseeching face,
Like th' halo of expiring Saint, she seems
Lingering to lie upon the water top,
As to enjoy once more that light belov'd; [235]
And tremulously mov'd her soundless lips
As syllabling the name of Vortimer;
Then deep she sank, and quiet the cold stream,
Unconscious of its guilt, went eddying on,
And look'd up lovely to the gazing moon. [240]
What deepest thoughts, young Vortimer, have place
Within thy secret breast? thou slowly rid'st
By Eamont's alder brink, thy silver arms
Through the brown copse with moonshine glittering dim.
Is't that late fight by Thanet, when the fire [245]
From thine and Horsa's steel, frequent and red,
Burnt the pale sea-spray? or thy stately charge,
With show of British war, to curb and check
The threatening Caledonian? or what bathes
Youth's cheek in bitterest and most gall-like tears; [250]
Thy father's shame, the curse that, unredeem'd
By thy young valour, his once kingly name
Brands with the deep-sear'd characters of hate?
Or is 't that gentle Maid by Derwent lake,
Her flower-prankst tresses and her pale sweet smile?
How pleasant, after war and journeying fleet [256]
To Britain's Northern realm, from Kent's white cliffs,
Once more to see her early gliding foot
Skimming the morning dews, to hear her voice,
As artless, as melodious, melt on air, [260]
Among the wood-birds matins, to surprise
Thine own dear name upon her bashful lips!
What floateth down the stream a deep dead white
Amid the glittering moonshine, where the stream
Runs black beneath the thicket boughs, still white, [265]
Still slowly drifting, like a dying swan,
In snowy beauty, on its watery bier?
Oh, were but Lilian here! perchance its neck
May struggle up, to the still waves to chaunt
Its own soft requiem, the most gentle breath, [270]
Most fancifully, delicately sweet,
That ever soothes the midnight's dewy calm.
Near, and more near, it takes a human shape;
Some luckless maiden; haply her lov'd youth
Awaits her at the well known place, upbraids [275]
Her broken faith, as fond as Vortimer,
As full of love. 'Tis closer now; he leaps
From his high steed, he draws it to the shore.
Scarce time for fancy or for fear, the moon
Quench'd her broad light behind a rushing cloud, [280]
And utter darkness settled round. He sate
In solitude, with that cold lifeless thing;
He dared not leave it, for a hideous thought
Was in his brain. -- "Why is it like to thee,
My Lilian! be it any one but thou -- [285]
Hopelessly cold, irrevocably cold:
It cannot be, and yet 'twas like: her height,
Her slender waist like Lilian's, and her hair
As dainty soft, and trick'd with flowers; 'tis she,
And I will kiss her, pardon if I err, [290]
If stranger lips -- round, smooth like thine; but oh!
So coldly passive! when we parted, thine
Thwarted me with a struggling bashfulness,
And, won at length, with meek surrender swell'd.
Wild and delirious fancy! many a maid [295]
Hath full round lips, to trick the hair with flowers
'Tis common vanity. If dead, even dead,
So chilly senseless Lilian could not be
To Vortimer's embrace. Oh, but for light,
Though dim and scanty as a glow-worm's fire, [300]
To make me surely, hopelessly undone!
Aught but this racking ignorance. Dawn forth,
Thou tortoise-footed sluggard, Morn! one beam,
Thou pitiless cold Moon!" -- Morn dawn'd not yet,
And pale and thick remain'd the moonless sky. [305]
Darkness around, the dead within his arms,
He sate, even like a poison'd man, that waits,
Yet haunted by a miserable hope,
The palpable cold sickness in his veins,
And yearns to live or die, scarce cares he which, [310]
So one were certain. But when slow the dawn
Unveil'd its filmy light, he turn'd away
From that which might be Lilian's face, and pray'd
Even for the hateful, dun, uncertain gloom,
As now by habit the slow-creeping grief, [315]
Winding like ivy round and round his heart,
Were rapture, and not lightly to be lost.
It seem'd unconsciously his hand held up,
Unconsciously declin'd his heavy eye,
Where slowly brighten'd on that lifeless face [320]
The intrusive beauty; one tress lay across,
O'erspreading yet a thin and shadowy doubt;
Move it he dare not, but the officious wind
At length dispers'd it. As the thought, the fear
Were new, were sudden; like the lightning flash [325]
That sears the infant in its mother's arms,
Smote on him the dire certainty. He clasp'd
Her dampy dead cheek to his. -- "Thus, meet we thus,
Lilian, my Lilian, silent, strange, and cold?
I do not bid thee fondly gaze, nor ask [330]
Long garrulous welcoming, -- but speak, but move!
Lilian; ne'er thought I, I should live to loathe
Thy gentle presence. -- Most ungrateful girl,
And I for thee forsook my warrior trust,
Was truant to my country's cause for thee. [335]
By the green Tees my murmuring camp upbraids
My soft unwarlike absence -- aye, unbraid!
Henceforth finds Fortune no where on this soul
To fasten misery on; I laugh at Fate,
For I am past its wavering malice now. [340]
Thinks she with hollow gauds of fame, and clang
Of cymbal praise, to lure me forth, a bland
And courteous parasite in her fond train?
No; hang thou there, my helm, my broad-barr'd shield
Rust on yon bank, my sword, one duty more, [345]
To shape the smooth turf for my Lilian's grave;
Thy bridal bed, sweet Maid, it should have been,
Where thou and Vortimer had met. Thy grave
Shall be my field of fame, my wreath of pride
The flowers the courteous spring shall lavish there;
And I'll have glory -- in my depth of woe -- [351]
A wild and strange delight -- in my despair --
Not yet, the cold earth must not part us yet,
One glimmer more from thine eye's dark-fring'd blue,
One throb, one tremor, though it be the last [355]
In thy soft limbs -- dead, sightless, icy dead!" --
O'er his lost Love, thus that sad Prince, undream'd
The hell-born secret of her fate, arraign'd
Blind Chance for keen-ey'd Man's earth-sullying sins.
But southward far the savage fleet bore on. [360]
On Flamborough-head the morning sun look'd dusk
Through their dim sails; where Scarborough's naked foot
Spurns back, and saith, "no further," to the waves,
From cleft and cave the sullen sea birds sprang,
Wheeling in air with dizzy flight, and shriek'd [365]
Their dreary fears abroad. The Shepherd, wont
O'er level Lindesay view the watery plain,
Blue trembling to the soft horizon's line,
Sees, like a baleful portent from the heavens,
That sable train of gloom warp slowly past. [370]
Th' Icenian coast (that sceptered woman's realm,
Bonduca, who from her fair body slaked
The stain of Roman lust in Roman blood,)
Looks haggard, with distracted faces wan,
Hoar age, fair youth, the woman and the child, [375]
From beech or steep cliff, gazing now to Heaven,
Now on that ocean army's watery march.
Oh Nelson! if the unborn soul distinct
Amid the loose infinity of space,
Be visited by apparitions dim [380]
Of this earth's fleeting Present, and inhale
Faint foretaste of its mortal passions, thou,
When, with usurping prow, that foreign fleet
Daunted thy Britain, thou didst surely yearn
To unordained maturity to force [385]
Thy unripe being, to foreseize from Fate
Thy slow existence. Oh, the days must dawn,
When Saxon and when Briton, melted off
All feud, all hate, all discord, of their strength
And valour blent th' abstract and essence rich, [390]
One sword, one name, one glory, and one God,
From their bright armoury of Captains, thee
Their chosen thunderbolt shall usher forth,
From the leagued Nations' frantic grasp to wrest
Britain's allotted sceptre of the sea. [395]
A brighter and more British battlement,
Than tender forms of women, the pale dread
Of infants and decrepit eld, from Thames
To Thanet crown the pale-brow'd cliffs of Kent.
As when from Aulis that immortal fleet [400]
Swept the Ægean, all the hollow beach,
And every Phyrgian promontory glow'd
With brazen battle, here the Morning's Son,
Swarth Memnon, here the invulnerable strength
Of Cycnus, here the beardless Troilus, [405]
Unwounded by soft Cresseide's arrowy eyes;
Here Hector, seeking through the watery route
The tall Thessalian prow, with fatal thirst
Furious even then, the silver-footed Queen
To orphan of her heaven-soul'd boy. So broad, [410]
So brave in splendour tower'd the rampart bold
Of British Warriors on that pallid shore.
On Thanet are the Sea King Brethren met.
Their greeting in that fiercely sportive strain
That, elevate with imminent success, [415]
Scoffs at past ill. -- "On Thanet's marge well met,
Erle Horsa; now meseems our spacious realm
Is somewhat waste and shrunken, since we last
View'd its fair confines, for such noble guests
And numerous as attend our royal march, [420]
Our kingdom's harbours shew too close, our land
Narrow and brief for such free spirits' range.
Ill husbandry! our fertile province wide
To barter for this spare and meagre isle.
Horsa, for anchorage and breathing space [425]
Our weary mariners must e'en go sue
Their gentle Briton neighbours; haply they,
Knowing our native courtesy, may cede
From their abundance some fair leagues of earth.
"Ingrate and blind (cried Horsa), they forswear [430]
Our mild dominion; to their King's behest
Rebellious, they proclaim the British earth
The undivided, indivisible right
Of their old British sires, nor may't descend
Sever'd and mutilate to their British sons. [435]
They shook not off the Roman's gentle sway,
To slave it to Barbarians. Specious terms,
And with such cogent arguments enforc'd,
We were fain shroud us in this narrow isle
From such hot disputants; a desperate spirit [440]
Was that old Caesar, who first planted here
The tree of conquest." -- "Holds the King his faith?"
"Oh, thy fair daughter hath a soft-link'd chain
For the old royal Lion; he obeys,
Like a slim greyhound in a silken leash, [445]
Her eye-won empire. But there walks abroad
A youngling of the brood; no blood but mine
Might flesh the ravine of his dainty jaws.
This Vortimer, this bright-ey'd, beardless boy,
Aye, front to front I met him, but their bands [450]
Rent us asunder, and my crest-lopp'd helm,
My scatter'd blood, past unaveng'd. Now earth
Swallow me in my wrath, heaven's bolt sear up
My constant heart, if I forget thee, Boy,
Nor shear the gay sprouts of thy budding fame!" [455]
"A child their mightiest!" -- "Scornful Hengist, no;
A manlier spirit rideth the fierce storm,
One in whom bravery and counsel vie
For excellence: wild battle wears the shape
His will ordains; and if the rebel swerve, [460]
He forceth it with his strong sword t' obey
His high behest, and take the fate he gives."
"His name -- his name!" -- "The Chieftain of the Vales,
So sounds his title." -- Then a bitter groan,
'Twere hard to tell from what bad passion, hate [465]
Or dread, or hideous hope, from Hengist's breast
Burst forth; with his mail'd hand he clasp'd his head,
As though to mould the discord of his thoughts
To one strong mass: then, as the birth were ripe,
A light and laughing carelessness relax'd [470]
Those knitted furrows, seem'd his eager soul
Clasp'd the dim future with a wanton joy.
But on the mainland, in sad council, meet
The Baronage of Britain, timorous hearts
In hollow unsubstantial valour trick'd, [475]
While those who dare shew fear, fear undisguis'd.
Their first fierce rush of courage pass'd, like flame
The mountain heath devouring, with fleet blaze,
But transitory; they of generous thoughts,
Of appetites whose sole rich draught is fame, [480]
Wanting the steadfast fuel, the strong wind
Wanting of love devotional, heart-deep
To their own native land, that passion proud
That is all passions, that hath breath to fan
To a broad light beyond the noon-day Sun [485]
The waning embers of faint zeal; they hence
Powerful but now with gallant charge to sweep
From Kent's fair valleys Horsa's Saxon train,
Downcast in mien and mind, with prospect sad
Now count that countless navy's gathering sails. [490]
Not now the rapture and the restlessness,
The riding and the racing, burst and shock,
And sudden triumph, or as sudden death;
Now long, long wasting of the limbs and life,
The circumspect cold strife, drear march, long watch,
Forepining day, and vigilant sleepless night, [496]
Eternal and interminable war,
Before them spreads its comfortless wide tract.
Gone all soft joys, all courtly luxuries gone:
The languor of the bath, the harp, the song [500]
By twilight in the Lady's sleepless porch,
The loitering in the sunny colonnade,
The circus and the theatre, the feast
Usurping the mild midnight's solemn hours;
From holier hearts, the chapel and the prayer, [505]
The matins, and melodious vesper hymn,
The bridal with its gay and jocund route,
The baptism with its revel, gone - all gone.
The burial on cold battle field, unhymn'd,
Unmourn'd, untomb'd; nor taper, tear, nor rite: [510]
Gentle commercing between God and man
Broke off, save hasty prayer ere battle morn,
Cold orison upon the midnight watch.
Sole pillar of the quaking temple, firm,
Inflexible, on the foundation deep [515]
Of his broad spirit, Samor bears the weight
Of imminent danger, and his magic voice
With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with scorn,
Scatters the languid mist, that wreathes their souls,
And from their blanch'd cheecks drives the white dismay.
What ho! a trumpet from the Thanet shore, [521]
Truce for the Saxon's embassage; his hand
Outholding the white wand of peace, comes on
Old Cerdic, and before the assemblage proud
Speaks frank and bold that gray Plenipotent [525]
"Britons, most strange 'twill sound, while our vast fleet
Affronts your pale cliffs with fierce shew of war,
Yet would we peace with Britain. Deem not this,
In the blown arrogance of brief success,
The hard-wrung cowering of faint fear; look round [530]
Your own brief camp, then gaze abroad, our sails
Outnumber your thin helms, and that pale fear
Is not familiar with our German souls.
This know ye further, what we Saxons dare,
That dare we nobly, openly. Far south [535]
A rich and wanton land it champaign green
Spreads to the sun, there all the basking hill
Glow with the red wine, there the fresh air floats
So fragrant, that 'tis pleasure but to breathe,
Aye, one blue summer, in the cloudless skies; [540]
And our old Bards have legends, how of yore
From that soft land bright eagles, fledged with gold,
Danube or Rhine o'erflew, their Caesars fired
Our holy groves with insolent flames, and girt
Our fierce free foresters with slavish chains, [545]
That scarce bold Herman rent their massive links.
Not to despoil a mild and gentle isle,
For full fierce vengeance on Imperial Rome
Pours forth embattled Germany. Then hear,
Brave Islanders! our Saxon terms of peace: [550]
For this fair province, our's by royal boon
Of your King, Vortigern, give plenteous gold,
And with it take the gift, that deepest wrings
Our German souls to part with, our revenge.
With most unwonted patience will we bear [555]
Erle Horsa's camp with fierce assault o'er-borne,
And British wolves full-gorged with Saxon gore.
Then not as foes, but friends, we disembark
Our sea-worn crews, ourselves, the Chiefs of war,
In solemn festival to your high Lords, [560]
Pledge on the compact our unwavering faith.
But if ye still with lavish thirst pursue
War's crimson goblets, freely let them flow.
If the fierce pastime of the fire and sword
Be jocund to ye, ho, let slip the game. [565]
Your city walls are not as airy high,
But our fleet flames may climb their dizzy towers,
And revel on their pinnacles of pride;
Your breastplate not so adamantine proof,
But our keen falchions to your hearts may find [570]
A direful passage. And not we alone,
Caswallon, at our call, o'er the wide North
Wakes the hoarse music of his rushing cars;
Then choose your bride, oh Britons, lo, each courts
Your arms with rival beauties, Peace and War. [575]
Thus half in courtesy, defiant half,
To wait their answer he withdrew. Ere died
His voice, ere from a single lip assent
Had parted, Samor rose, and cried aloud --
"Britons! oh Britons! hinds fear fawning wolves, [580]
The peasant flies the snake that smoothly coils
Round his numb foot its gay enamell'd rings;
I dread a peaceful Saxon. 'Tis too rare,
Prodigious, and unnatural, like a star
Seen in the noon day. Was't for this, for this [585]
Round Vortigern's tame soul that proud-ey'd Queen
Wound her voluptuous trammels? did the meek,
The hermit Constans, bleed for this? Oh, Peace
Is like the rain from heaven, the clouds must burst
Ere earth smile lovely with its lucid dews. [590]
Peace must be won by war, swords, and swords alone
Work the strong treaty. Shall our slaves, that sold
Their blood, their lives unto us for base hire,
On our fair provinces set now their price?
Nor feast, nor metal give we, but cold steel! [595]
Give gold! as wisely might the miser lead
The robber to his treasury, and then cry,
"Go hence, and plunder;" 'twere to tempt, to bribe
The undream'd perjury, and spread a lure,
To bring the parted spoiler swiftly back. [600]
Outnumber us! and are we sunk so low
To count our valour by our helmet crests? --
Oh, every soul that loves his native land,
It is a legion; where the fire shall sear
The hydra heads of Liberty? Our earth [605]
Shall burst to bearing of as boon a crop
Of sworded soldiers, as of bladed grass,
And all our hills branch out in groves of steel.
So thought our fathers, so they bravely strove
For the bleak freedom of their steamy moors, [610]
Their black oaks' fruitage coarse, and rites uncouth
Of Druid, by the beal-fire's lurid flame.
But we, less drossy beings, filter'd off
Our natures rude and gross, create anew
Souls of fine wants, and delicate desires, [615]
Rich in the fair civilities of life,
Endued with sensitiveness keen and clear
Of earth's best pleasures, shall we tamely yield
Our beauteous Britain, our own pleasant isle,
To dreary-soul'd Barbarians? 'Tis not now [620]
Merely to 'scape the heaven-branded name of slaves,
For license to breathe where we choose, and wield
At our own wayward will unfetter'd limbs.
Oh, if we fail, free Christians must sink down
To Heathen slaves, our gilded palace roofs [625]
Shout the loose riot of new Lords, our wives
Be like base plunder, vilely bought and sold;
Worse shame! worse sin! the murky Heathen groves
O'er our fall'n Churches their pale gloom advance;
Our holy air go hot and reeking up [630]
With impious incense to blood-beverag'd Gods;
The deep damnation of a Pagan creed
Rot in our children's souls! Then be our peace
Not hasty, as of timorous souls that snatch
At every feeble reed, but stoop we to it [635]
As with a conqueror's pride, with steel-glov'd hand
Seal our stern treaty. So if they depart,
And with their spread sails hunt their mad emprize;
But while one prow dash menace on our shore,
Our earth be patient of one armed hoof, [640]
Tame treaty, temporizing truce, avaunt!
The foreign banner that usurps our winds,
Be it a foe, strange steel that both divert
One ray of sunlight from our shores, be that
The scope and centre of all British swords. [645]
So build we up our peace on the strong rock
Of brave defiance, cement it with scorn,
Set bright-arm'd Valour in its jealous porch,
Bold warden; from our own intrinsic strength,
Not from the mercy of our foes, be free." -- [650]
Oh the soul's fire, of that swift element
Th' intensest, broadest spreads the nimblest mounts,
With flaky fierce contagion; it hath caught
In that Baronial conclave, it hath blazed.
But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien, [655]
Into himself half shrinking, from his lips
The dewy words dropt, delicate and round,
And crept into the chambers of the soul,
Like the bee's liquid honey: -- "And thou too,
Enamour'd of this gaudy murderer, War! [660]
Samor, in hunger's meagre hour who scorns
A fair-skinn'd fruit, because its inward pulp
May be or black or hollow? this bland Peace
May be a rich-rob'd evil; war, stern war,
Wears manifest its hideousness, and bares [665]
Deformities the Sun shrinks to behold.
Because 'tis in the wanton roll of chance
That he may die, who desperately leaps
Into the pit, with mad untimely arms
To clasp annihilation? Were no path [670]
But through the grim and haunted wilds of strife,
To the mild shrine of peace, maids would not wear
Their bridal chaplets with more joy, than I
Th' oppressive morion: then th' old vaunt were wise,
To live in freedom, or for freedom die. [675]
Then would I too dissemble, with vain boast,
Our island's weakness; wear an iron front,
Though all within were silken, soft, and smooth.
For what are we, slight sunshine birds, thin-plum'd,
For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs, [680]
To grapple with these vultures, whose broad vans,
Strung with their icy tempests, but with wind
Of their forth rushing down would swoop us? Then,
Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power,
It were most proud for thee alone to break [685]
The hot assault, with single arm't arrest
The driving ruin -- ruin, ah! too sure.
Oh, t'were most proud; to us sad comfort; sunk,
Amerc'd of all our fair, smooth sliding hours,
Our rich abodes the wandering war-flame's feast. [690]
Samor, our fathers fear'd not death; cast off
Most careless their coarse lives; with nought to lose,
They fear'd no loss; our breathing is too rich,
Too precious this our sensitive warm mould,
Its joyances, affections, hopes, desires, [695]
For such light venture. Oh, then, be we not
Most wretched from the fear of wretchedness?
If war must be, in God's name let war be;
But, oh, with clinging hand, with lingering love,
Clasp we our mistress, Peace. Gold! what is gold? [700]
My fair and wealthy palace set to sale,
Cast me a beggar to the elements' scorn;
But leave me peace, oh, leave my country peace,
And I will call it mercy, bounty, love!" --
So spake he, with vain shew of public zeal [705]
Blazoning his weak intent; and so prevail'd
His loose and languid eloquence. Each rent
The golden frontlet from his helm, cast down
His breastplate's golden scales, in contest free
Prodigal rivals at rich price to buy [710]
That baleful merchandize, their country's shame.
Oh, where the royal Brethren now? the pride
Serene of Emrys? where thy Dragon crest,
Prince Uther? for thy voice, young Vortimer!
Seal, Samor, thy prophetic lips; in vain [715]
The trumpet of thy warning shouts abroad.
Will the winds hear thee? will the rocks obey?
Or hearts than wind more light, than rocks more cold?
Gray Cerdic hath their faint award; they part
Jocund, and light of hope; but Samor grasp'd [720]
The hand of Elidure: -- "My childhood's friend,
I sue thee by all joys we two have shared,
Our interchange of souls, communion free
Of every thought and motion of our hearts,
Our infant pastimes, and our graver joys, [725]
Go not thou to this feast." -- "Doth Samor go?"
"Britain must have no danger, gentle friend,
That Samor shares not; thou art noted well
To hate the riotous and brawling feast.
With thy fond bride, thy Evelene, await [730]
Silent the knowledge whether thou or I
Have err'd in this day's council." -- "No, best friend,
Samor must have no danger Elidure
Shares not; oh, why this cold and gloomy dread?
In the deep centre of our isle be held [735]
This dreaded banquet. Samor, ne'er thought I,
While my mild blood ran contrast, thine would flag,
And curdle with the pallid frost of fear."
'Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush
Of clamorous joy unmark'd, in drearier days [740]
Remember'd, signs on earth, and signs in heaven,
With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd
That hasty treaty; maniacs kindled up
With horrible intelligence that pits
Of their deep hollow eyes, and meaning strange [745]
Gave order to their wandering utterance: stream'd
Amid the dusky woods broad sheeted flames;
The blue fires on the fen at noon-day danc'd
Their wavering morrice, and the bold ey'd wolves
Howl'd on the sun. Life, ominous and uncouth, [750]
Seiz'd upon ancient and forgotten things;
The Cromlechs rock'd, the Druids circles wept
Cold ruddy dews; as of that neighbouring feast
Conscious, the tall Stone Henge did shrilly shriek
As with a whirlwind, though no cloud was mov'd [755]
In the still skies. A wailing, as of harps,
Sad with no mortal sorrow, sail'd abroad
Through the black oaks of Mona. Old deep graves
Were restless, and arm'd bones of buried men
Lay clattering in their stony cells. 'Twas faith, [760]
White women upon sable steeds were seen
In fleet career 'neath the rank air; the earth
Gave up no echo to their noiseless feet,
And on them look'd the Moon with leprous light
Prodigious, haply like those slender shapes [765]
In the ice desert by Caswallon seen.
From Mona to the snowy Dover cliffs,
From Skiddaw to St. Michael's vision'd mount,
Unknown from heaven, or earth, or nether pit,
Unknown or from the living or the dead,
From being of this world, or nature higher,
Pass'd one long shriek, whereat old Merlin leap'd
From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk
And dreary descant mutter'd all abroad
What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear. [775]
'Tis said, rude portents in the Church of God,
With insolent noises, brake the holy calm.
The gray owl hooted at the noontide chaunt,
The young owl clamour'd at the matin song,
The pies and ravens, from the steeple top, [780]
To the priest's Benedicite moan'd back
A sullen hoarse Amen, and obscene bats
Around the altar candlesticks did flap
Their leathern wings. Yea, from his stricken hand
The white-stol'd Bishop to the earth let fall [785]
The consecrated chalice; th' holy wine
(Ineffable!) flow'd on the pavement stone.
BOOK V.
Swan of the Ocean, on thy throne of wavesExultant dost thou sit, thy mantling plumes
Ruffled with joy, thy pride of neck elate,
To hail fair Peace, like Angel visitant,
Descending, amid joy of earth and heaven, [5]
To bless thy fair abode. The laughing skies
Look bright, oh, Britain! on thy hour of bliss.
In sunshine fair the blithe and bounteous May
O'er hill and vale goes dancing; blooming flowers
Under her wanton feet their dewy bells [10]
Shake joyous; clouds of fragrance round her float.
City to city cries, and town to town
Wafting glad tidings: wide their flower-hung gates
Throw back the churches, resonant with pomp
Of priests and people, to the Lord their prayers [15]
Pouring, the richest incense of pure hearts.
With garland and with song the maids go forth,
And mingle with the iron ranks of war
Their forms of melting softness; gentle gales
Blow music o'er the festal land, from harp [20]
And merry rebeck, till the floating air
Seem harmony: still all fierce sounds of war;
No breath within the clarion's brazen throat;
Soft slumber in the war-steed's drooping mane.
Not in the palace proud, or gorgeous hall, [25]
The banqueting of Peace; on Ambri plain
Glitter the white pavilions, to the sun
Their snowy pomp unfolding; there the land
Pours its rejoicing multitudes to gaze,
Briton and Saxon, in majestic league, [30]
Mingling their streaming banners blazon'd waves.
Blithe as a virgin bridal, rich and proud
As gorgeous triumph for fair kingdom won,
Flows forth the festal train; with arms elate
The mothers bear their infants to behold [35]
That Hengist, whose harsh name erewhile their cheeks
Blanch'd to cold paleness; they their little hands
Clap, smiling, half delighted, half in dread.
Upon that hated head, from virgin hands,
Rain showers of bloom; beneath those hated feet [40]
Is strewn a flowery pavement; harp and voice
Hymn blessings on the Saxon, late denounc'd
Th' implacable, inexorable foe.
Lordly they pass'd and lofty; other land
Save Britain, of such mighty despots proud, [45]
Had made a boast of slavery; giant men
In soul as body. Not the Goth more dread,
Tall Alaric, who through imperial Rome
March'd conqueror, nor that later Orient chief,
Turban'd Mohammed, who o'er fall'n Byzance [50]
His moony ensign planted: they, unarm'd,
Yet terrible, went haughty on, of power
A world to vanquish, not one narrow isle.
The hollow vault of heaven is rent with shouts,
Wild din and hurry of tumultuous joy [55]
Waves the wide throng, for lo, in perfect strength,
Consummate height of manhood, but the glow,
The purple grace of youth, th' ambrosial hue
Of life's fresh morning, on his glossy hair,
His smooth and flushing features, Samor comes. [60]
His name is on the lisping infant's lips,
Floats on the maiden's song; him warrior men
Hail with proud crest elate; him present, deem
Peace timorous mercy on the invading foe.
Around the Kings of Britain, some her shame, [65]
Downy and silken with luxurious ease,
Others more hardy, in whose valiant looks
Were freedom and command: of princely stem
Alone were absent the forsaken King
And his sad Son, and those twin royal youths, [70]
Emrys and Uther; nor the Mountain Lord,
With that young eaglet of his race; deign share
The gaudy luxuries of peace; save these,
All Britain's valiance, princedom, and renown
March'd jubilant, with symphony and song. [75]
Noon; from his high empyreal throne the Sun
Floods with broad light the living plain; more rich
Ne'er blaz'd his summer couch, when sea and sky,
In royal pomp of cloudy purple and gold,
Curtain his western chambers, breathing men [80]
Gorgeous and numberless as those bright waves
Flash, in their motion, the quick light; aloof
The banqueters, like Gods at nectar feast,
Sit sumptuous and pavilion'd; all glad tones
From trembling string, or ravishing breath or voice, [85]
In clouds of harmony melt up to Heaven;
O'erwhelming splendour all of sight and sound,
One rich oppression of eye, ear, and mind.
Midnight, in darkness heavy, thick, and chill;
In silence rigid, deep and breathless, stands [90]
On the wide plain one lonely Man. Wan light,
From dim decaying firebrand in his grasp,
Feebly, with gleam inconstant, shews his mien
Hopeless, too haughty to despair: His eye,
As jealous of dark foe, goes wandering round: [95]
Yet seems he one more fear'd than fearing; rent
His robes' rich splendour; and his ponderous arm,
With its wild weapon wearily declin'd,
Bears token of rude strife -- though rude, though fierce,
By thy brow's pride, thou sad and stately Man! [100]
No faint inglorious craven hast thou shrunk,
In dread of death, or avarice base of blood.
At that dead hour, in Caesar's city gates [NOTE 10]
The Briton wives and mothers sate; at eve
They, from the plain, had homeward turn'd, to rock [105]
Their infants' rosy sleep, or trim the couch
For him belov'd and loving; some, from joy
Sleepless, sate watching the gray shadows fall,
In luxury of impatience; slumbering some,
From weariness of pleasure, in light dreams [110]
Liv'd o'er again the morning's jocund hours.
That hour, one horn with long and solemn blast
Went wailing up the heavens; less shrill, less drear,
Blew through the fatal Roncesvalles pass,
In after times, Roland's deep bugle, heard [115]
Dolorous, so poets feign, on Paris' wall.
The air seem'd shivering where the knell pass'd on,
As with a cold wind shudder'd the thick trees.
But those fond women hail that brazen sound,
Joy's harbinger, sweet signal of return; [120]
As the fond maid her lover's moonlight lute,
They drink in its dire harshness, busy round
Gazing, if aught neglected, careless aught
Belie the welcome, or to wakening child
Smile the glad tidings, or along the walls [125]
People the dim air with the forms they love.
Oh, fond of fancy! credulous of hope!
Ye hear but pleasure in that horn; but see,
In the dim tumult of yon moving lights,
Swift homeward hurrying. Now the slow delay [130]
Is but a lengthen'd rapture: steps are heard,
And figures indistinct are in the gloom
Advancing; yet no festal pomp proclaim'd
By music's merry breath, but mute and slow,
As from dark funeral: haply wearied all [135]
With the long revel day. But ye 'gin trace
Some well-known gesture, dear familiar step,
Each boastful of her lover's speedier pace.
Saxon the first, how wearily slow they pass!
Still are they Saxon, Saxon still, the last [140]
Saxon; in wonder they, nor yet in fear,
Question the dark air with their searching eyes,
Incredulous arraign the deepening gloom,
That with an envious melancholy shroud
Palls the long-look'd for, late-returning. Them, [145]
Ah, deeper darkness covers; to their homes
Never more to return! Lo, all at once
The bloody knives, borne boastful, their red light
Flash murtherous; known is all ere aught is fear'd.
And yet are there unfaded on their brows [150]
The garlands that ye fondly wove, the air
Not silent of your blessings. From these walls,
At morn, three hundred breathing valiant men
Went proudly forth -- in solitary life
Moves o'er the plain that one majestic shape, [155]
Like Spirit of Vengeance o'er some ghastly land
That scoff'd erewhile, in high portentous guilt,
The slumbering of God's wrath, now blasted lies,
Infecting with the ashes of its wreck
The late chastising heavens. So lone, so dark, [160]
But pale with human sorrows at his heart,
The King of that Bright City in the Vales,
Walks the waste gloom, around him the cold winds
Speak voices from the dead, and oft he turns,
Brandishing defiance on the air, and smites [165]
Some seeming Saxon with his smouldering brand.
Now rests he in that old mysterious ring,
The dateless and the numberless Stonehenge,
That is, and hath been, whence or how, none knows.
But even the Master Druid with slow dread [170]
Its dangerous precincts trod, though noontide bright
Revell'd in the rich heavens, and holiest harps
Purified the calm air: rose like the wreck
Of some old world the shadowy temple huge,
Shapeless magnificence! here souls profane [175]
Deem'd rites so potent held as made the oaks
Stand still and motionless 'mid the wild storm,
And with a light, nor of the stars nor moon,
Sheeted the midnight heavens: deem'd some, more sage,
Th' Invisible his cloudy presence here [180]
Embodied, and with wisdom heavenly and high
Full feasted the tranced soul; all the dire place
Fled, fearing more, unknowing what they fear'd.
Amid those stony giants that uptower
In massy darkness, or in the wind's rush [185]
Seem swaying on their dizzy balance, stands,
If virtue of aught earthly may feel awe,
Awe-struck the Christian; now his calmer soul
Had time for grief, for memory; o'er him flows
Deep-lulling quiet; here the light and gay [190]
Had felt a motion on their lips like prayer,
Nor marvel then that holy thoughts oppress'd
With a full extacy the Christian soul.
"Merciful! by whose will mine arm hath pav'd
With the strewn corpses of my murtherous foes [195]
A dismal passage, while around me Death
Mow'd Britain with his secret scythe! oh God,
I thank thee, if I die, a warrior's death
May be my brave distinction: if this life
Be worthy thy upholding, though all lost, [200]
The friendships and the prides, that made its course
Blissful and bright, I thank thee for my life:
Thank thee, that yet on British earth shall breathe
A Briton, resolute on that last crag,
That knows not the rude Saxon's tread, to rise [205]
Erect in stately freedom, and o'er-brood
The dim and desert beacon of revenge.
Or deign'st thou this low frame of dust to choose
Thy minister of wrath, I not with prayer
Vain and presumptuous, summon from the clouds [210]
Thy thunders, nor invoke prodigious Death
To smite my foes. Hopes perishable man,
At his wild bidding, thou the laws wilt burst,
Wherewith thou fetterest thy Omnipotence?
Harden to stern endurance these frail limbs, [215]
With adamantine patience sheathe my soul,
That nor pale shrinking of the coward flesh,
Nor inward palsying swerve from its brave scope
Th' aspiring spirit; grant thou this sole prayer,
And I thus lone, thus desolate proclaim, [220]
Single, yet dauntless, to yon Saxon host
Stubborn defiance, haughty to bear up
The wreck of Britain with unstooping neck."
Now over all the orient sky, the Morn
Spread rosy in her youth of light, as fair, [225]
As bright her rising on this plain of death,
As yesterday, when festal multitudes
Greeted her dawn; so vain the boast of man,
That earth, and air, and sky, their mimic hues
Borrow from his frantic woes and joys. [230]
And o'er the plain began his lonely way
The Warrior, on his brow the unheeded wind
Fannd freshness, and the wandering lark unheard,
Quiver'd her blithe song, like an airy voice,
Bathing in light. Anon a dale beneath [235]
Open'd, and slow withdrew the misty veil
That o'er her hamlets roofs and bowery trees
Ting'd with a liquid azure the thin air.
Along the winding path he roves, that none,
Save feet habituate to its maze, could thread, [240]
Heedless that here to Elidure's green home
He came, unweeting visitant. Within,
Breathless, as though she listen'd in her sleep,
Close to the door, as jealous lest some ear
Earlier than her own should catch the sound [245]
Of Elidure's returning tread, or voice
Anticipate the welcome of her own,
Reclin'd the bride, soft Evelene. The step
Up from the pillowing hand her flushing cheek
Waken'd, or ere the threshold he o'erpast, [250]
The form yet indistinct to her quick sight,
Murmur'd her fond upbraiding. "Truant Lord,
Art thou too chang'd, thou too of midnight feast
Enamour'd? time hath been the rosy cup,
Thou Saxon in thy revels, had look'd pale [255]
To Evelen's cheek." -- 'Tis wretched solace, yet
'Tis solace in the drear extreme of grief,
To find one human heart whose deeper woe
Makes weakness of our wailing. Though alone
Of the fray's dizzy tumult lay distinct [260]
Elidure's image on the Wanderer's soul,
His image as beneath the Saxon steel
Dying, he struggled back to life from joy
His stern friend to behold with fiery brand
Piercing his path of flight, less bitter seem'd [265]
His cup of woe, when from his sprang that bride,
Nor knew him; knew him but no Elidure.
Then sued for tidings, and with all her soul
Listen'd, but could not hear, mistrusting all
While yet but fearing, but when all assured, [270]
Mistrusting even her fears, even then to hope
Clinging with desperate energy of soul.
Her Samor left in that dead night of mind,
When madness were a comfort, all wild whirl,
All dizzy hurry of rack'd sense were rich [275]
Were rapturous to that blank and dismal void,
When one incessant miserable thought
Blends with the life, the being of the spirit.
Him scared no Saxon clarion, the drear blast
Winding of fleet pursuit; came o'er his soul [280]
His own, his wedded Emerie, her babes
Hushing, while greedily with ear and soul
She drinks each sound the busy babbling fame
Spreads on the wandering winds; the fleetest steed
Of Elidure bestriding, still he moves [285]
A tardy laggard to his soul's desire.
Sedulous each throng'd haunt of man avoids
His jealous speed, and still from town and tower
Came blithely forth the jubilant hymns of peace;
Still unextinguish'd their glad brilliance, wan'd [290]
In morn's gray mists the yellow festal fires.
Day pass'd, day sank, 'tis now the dewy eve,
Beneath him, in the soft and silent light,
Spread the fair Valleys, mead and flowery lawn
With their calm verdure interspers'd allay [295]
The forest's ponderous blackness, or retire
Under the chequering umbrage of dim groves,
Whose shadows almost slumber: far beyond
Huge mountains, brightening in their secret glens,
Their cold peaks bathe in the rich setting sun, [300]
Sweeps through the midst broad Severn, deep and dark,
His monarchy of waters, its full flow
Still widening, as he scorn'd to bear the main
Less tribute than a sea; or inland roll'd
Ambitious ocean, of his tide to claim [305]
The wealthy vassalage. High on its marge
Shone the Bright City, in her Roman pomp,
Of bath, and theatre, and basilic,
Smooth swelling dome, and spiring obelisk,
Glittering like those more soft and sunny towns [310]
That bask beneath the azure southern skies
In marble majesty. Silent she stands
In the rich quiet of the golden light.
The banner on her walls its cumbrous folds
Droops motionless. But Samor turn'd aloof, [315]
Where lordly his fair dwelling's long arcade
On its white shafts the tremulous glittering light
Cherish'd, and starry with the river dews
Its mantle of gay flowers, the odorous lawn
Down sloped, as in the limpid stream to bathe. [320]
No watch-dog, with glad bark and fawning joy,
His Lord saluted. Samor mark'd it not.
No menial caught the slack rein from his hand.
He heeded not. No swift familiar step
Forth started at his coming; face of joy [325]
Brightened not -- vacant all; yet heeds he not.
No infants, in their giddy, tottering speed,
Clung round his knees. So early at their rest,
Thought the fond father. Emeric's chamber door
Stands open; he but paused his name to hear [330]
Low mingled with her murmur'd orisons:
All hush'd as in a tomb; perchance she sleeps,
At his long absence heartsick. He the folds
Gently withdrawing of his nuptial bed,
As with the amorous violence of his lips [335]
To wake her to delicious fear, bends down.
Cold, cold as marble, the forsaken bed
Received the fervent pressure. Back he sprung,
And strange, like one that moveth in his sleep,
Stood with loose arms and leaden listless gaze. [340]
Unconscious, to the city walls, far seen
From that high chamber, rove his eyes: behold
Against the Sun's last light a wandering breeze
Swells up the heavy banner; in the gleam
The White Horse of the Saxon shakes his mane. [345]
Then felt he the blank silence, then perceiv'd
The tumult, and rude disarray that marr'd
The face of his fair dwelling. Forth he rush'd,
As eager that his soul at one wild draught
Might glut itself with perfect woe, all ill [350]
Exhausted, laugh drain'd destiny to scorn.
Cradle and infants couch with frantic hand
Hurrying he explores, the sad chill void
Almost delights. Now on the river brink
He watches yon huge forms that pace the walls, [355]
Saxon their long black lances, Saxon helms
Nod o'er their lofty brows terrific gloom.
Lo! at his feet, beneath a primrose bed,
Half veil'd, and branching alder that o'er-droop'd
Its dark green canopy, a slumbering child -- [360]
If slumber might be call'd, that but o'erspread
A wan disquiet o'er the wither'd cheek,
Chok'd the thin breath that through the pallid lip
Scarce struggled, clos'd not the soft sunken eye.
Well Samor knew her, of his love first pledge, [365]
First, playfullest, and gentlest: he but late
Luxurious in the fulness of his woe,
Clings to this 'lorn hope, like a drowning man,
Not yet, not yet in this rude world alone.
Lavish of fond officious zeal, he bathes [370]
With water from the stream her marble brow,
Chafes her; and with his own warm breath recalls
The wandering life, that like a waning lamp
Glimmer'd anon, then faded: but when slow
Unfix'd her cold unmeaning eye regain'd [375]
Brief consciousnesss, powerless her languid arm
Down fell again, half lifted in his hair
To wreathe as it was wont, with effort faint
Strove her hard features for a woful smile:
And the vague murmurs of her lips 'gan fall [380]
Intelligible to his ear alone.
"And thou art come -- too late -- yet thou art come," --
He soothing her with hope, he knew most false,
Slow modell'd from her broken faltering voice
One sad continuous story. -- "'Twas at eve [385]
We went to rest, I never slept so soft;
Our mother lull'd us with assurance sweet
Of thy returning. -- By and by I woke,
But the bright morning was not shining fair,
Nor the birds singing as they us'd. I saw, [390]
By a dim and dusky light, huge iron men
With hair like fire, and their fierce voices spake
Strange language: of my prayers I thought, and strove
My eyes to close, still those grim-visag'd men
Stood in the wavering darkness by the light [395]
Of their blue weapons -- then they went away.
I crept out to my mother's couch; she lay
Asleep, but not as I have seen her sleep,
When I have stol'n at morn to look on her,
And thou hast laid me by her quiet side. [400]
She shiver'd in her sleeping, and her skin
Was chilly to the touch, yet, oh to sleep,
Even as she did, I long'd; for they came back,
Those shapes in all their darkness, all their light,
Before their rugged faces I felt cold [405]
As in the snow time; my eyes could not see,
Oh, but I heard a dizzy sound, like shrieks
Of many voices all at once. I thought
Rude hands were busy on my mother's couch,
As though to bear her thence -- yet woke she not. [410]
Oh Father, I have never look'd on death,
But she was dead, I felt that she was dead.
I could not breathe, yet from my thirsty throat
My voice was bursting, but down o'er me fell
The foldings of the couch -- long, long it seem'd, [415]
Ere from that cumbrous weight I struggled forth,
Then all was silent, all except the dash
Of distant oars; I cried aloud, and heard
But my own voice, I search'd, yet found I none;
Not one in all these wide and lofty halls, [420]
My mother, my sweet brothers gone, all gone.
Almost I wish'd those fierce men might return
To bear me too in their dread arms away.
Hither I wander'd, for the river's sound
Was joyous to the silence that came cold [425]
Over my bosom, since the Sun hath shone,
Yet it seem'd dark -- but oh, 'tis darker now,
Darker, my Father, all within cold, cold.
The soft warmth of thy lips no more can reach
This shuddering in my breast -- yet kiss me still." -- [430]
Vain, all in vain, that languid neck no more
Rises to meet his fondness, that pale hand
Drops from his shoulder, that wooed voice hath spent
Its last of sweetness: wanted this alone
That could enhance his agony, baffled hope. [435]
Quiet and cool the deep tide at his feet
Rolls with a tranquil murmur; one lone gleam
Still lingering from the sunken Sun, beneath
The moving surface, lightens its cold depth.
How pleasant in its secret caves to quench [440]
The soul, the body's fever; to cast off
This restless, trembling consciousness, that clings
Enamour'd to its anguish, sedulous
To nurse its own disquiet: not to feel,
Though cast by wandering waves on Emeric's grave;
Though Saxon barks triumphant bound above, [446]
To feel not, and have freedom though in death.
For why this barren wilderness of earth
Still haunt, man's pity, and the arch fiend's scoff?
Why to the wearying wretchedness of life [450]
Cling with a coward fondness? -- but a step
To quiet -- to forgetfulness, a step.
But alien to proud Samor those bad thoughts
Startled his nature, burnt his soul with shame,
That such unholy musings dare intrude [455]
On its sad sanctity; upright he sprung;
Oh, not in vain a Christian, with clench'd hand
And inward rack convulsive of chok'd pain,
Forc'd calmness to his brow: his hollow voice
Wrought to a mournful fortitude. -- "Oh thou, [460]
Glorious in thy prosperity of crime,
Hengist, and thou that barter'st thy old fame
For sweet lascivious chambering, hast unking'd
Thy stately soul within the wreathing arms
Of that fair Saxon, in loose dalliance soft [465]
To steep the inebriate sense, on Samor's state
Look, and be pale with envy; he dares stand
Lofty beneath yon starry throne of God,
And bless him, that his fate is scant and poor
In joys like your's, by all your pomp, your bliss, [470]
Made lovesick of his misery; still he feels
The haughty solace of disdain; still soothes
The madness of his grief by pitying you.
Nor yet, oh impotent of cruelty,
I am not utterly from this dark world [475]
Estrang'd and outcast: gone, for ever gone,
Those exquisite mild luxuries of the heart,
That summer sunshine of the soul, sweet love,
That makes life what we deem of heaven; remain
Hardier delights, severer joys. Oh reft [480]
Of all thy brave, thy princely, of my faith,
Thou hast a deeper need -- be thou my bride,
Oh Britain, to thy wreck I proudly wed
The sadness of my widowhood, and bid
Pale bridesmaids to our nuptials, holy Wrath [485]
And iron-handed Vengeance; and invoke
Death, that dark minstrel from fast-slaughter'd mounds
Of Saxons, to awake our bridal hymn,
And spread for torchlight on our spousal eve
Wild gratulation of their funeral fires. [490]
"And thou, of stainless denizen of heaven,
Soft soul of my lost Emeric, endure
Though jealous my new bride from thee bereave
The rude tumultuous day, the midnight hour
I consecrate thee; then slide thou down, [495]
Like moonlight on the darkness' raven wing,
And oh, if human passion, human love,
Stain the pure essence of immortal spirits,
Leave heaven in heaven, earth's frailer loveliness
Resuming, chaste mild fondness, timorous warmth, [500]
Visit my desert fancy. Him by day,
Savage and merciless, with soul of steel,
And pale brow cloudy with a nation's cares,
Shall midnight find an amorous dreamer fond,
A dotard on a dim unreal shade." [505]
Now o'er what was the rosy, playful, warm,
Now pale, now changeless, icy cold, the maid
Whose blue eyes danc'd with rapture, whose light step
Was consort to the air-roving winds (half seal'd
That lustreless wan azure; stiff and damp [510]
Those sprightly limbs) oft pausing as yet loath
To part from what he shudder'd to behold,
Heaps Samor the light earth; ere o'er her face
He plac'd the primrose knot, once stoop'd his lips,
And started to find cold what he knew dead. [515]
Now closed that mournful office, nearing fast
Is heard a dash of oars, and at his side
Forth leap'd an armed Saxon, with rais'd arm
Menacing; but Samor down with scornful strength
The grim intruder dash'd to earth, and fix'd [520]
His stern heel on his neck, and stood in act
The life to trample from the grasping trunk.
Sudden withdrawn his angry tread, he spake,
"Thee first of Saxon race, thee last, this arm
Spares, not of milky mercy, but as meet [525]
To minister my purpose; go unscath'd,
And tell to Hengist, tell thy Lord, who robs
The Lion's den, should chain the Lion first;
Add, Samor is abroad," -- Then to the boat
He sprang, and pass'd to Severn's western shore. [530]
BOOK VI.
A voice, o'er all the waste and prostate isleWandereth a valiant voice; the hill, the dale,
Forest and mountain, heath and ocean shore
Treasure its mystic murmurs; all the winds
From the bleak moody East to that soft gale [5]
That wantons with the summer's dewy flowers,
Familiar its dark burthen waft abroad.
Is it an utterance of the earth? a sound
From the green barrows of the ancient dead?
Doth fierce Cassivelan's cold sleep disdain [10]
That less than Cæsar with a master's step
Walk his free Britain? Doth thy restless grave,
Bonduca, to the slavish air burst ope,
And thou, amid the laggard cars of war,
Cry, "Harness and away!" But far and wide, [15]
As when from marish dank, or quaking fen,
Venomous and vast the clouds uproll, and spread
Pale pestilence along the withering land,
So sweeps o'er all the isle his wasting bands
The conqueror Saxon; he, far worse, far worse [20]
His drear contagion, that the body's strength
Wastes, and with feverish pallor overlays
The heaven-shap'd features; this the nobler soul,
With slavery's base sickliness attaints,
Making man's life more hideous than his death. [25]
Thames rolls a Saxon tide; in vain delays
Deep Severn on Plinlimmon's summits rude
His narrow freedom, tame anon endures
Saxon dominion: high with arms uplift,
As he had march'd o'er necks of prostrate kings, [30]
Caswallon on the southern shore of Trent
Drives onward, he nought deeming won, while aught
Remains unwon. But still that wonderous voice,
Like vulture in the grisly wake of war,
Hovers, and flings on air his descant strange, [35]
"Vengeance and Vigilance!" -- in van, in rear,
Around, above, beneath, the clouds of Heaven
Enshroud it in their misty folds; earth speaks
From all her caves, "Vengeance and Vigilance!"
Aye, at that sound the Briton crest assumes [40]
High courage and heroic shame, he wears
With such bold mien his slavery, he might seem
Lord over fortune, and with calm disdain
He locks his fetters, like proud battle arms.
Without a foe o'er this wide land of foes [45]
Marcheth the Saxon. City, tower, and fort
On their harsh hinge roll back their summon'd gates,
With such a sullen and reluctant jar,
Submission seems defiance. Though to fear
Impassive, scarce the Victor dare unfurl [50]
Banner of conquest on the jealous air.
Less perilous were frantic strife, were wrath
Desperate of life, and blind to death, wild hate
Of being struck all heedless so it strike,
Than this high haughty misery, that fierce woe [55]
Baffles by brave endurance, and confronts
With cold and stern contentedness all ill,
Outrage, and insult, ravage, rape, and wreck,
That dog barbaric Conquerors march of war.
'Tis like the sultry silence, ushering forth [60]
The thunder's cloudy chariot, rather like
The murky smothering of volcanic fire
Within its rocky prison; forth anon
Bursts the red captive, to the lurid heaven
Upleaps, and with its surging dome of smoke [65]
Shuts from the pale world the meridian Sun.
But in their camp, in fierce divan and full,
The lordly robbers sate, assemblage proud,
Ethling, and Erle, and King, for council met,
For council and carousal; so they deem'd [70] [NOTE 11]
The drunken sense would hardier daring grasp,
And the bold revel of the blood, the soul
Flush to more noble valiance, strong desire
In fierce embrace to meet that mistress dark,
Danger: Hoarse din of merriment, the air [75]
Smote with meet music blending loud and deep.
But Horsa lighting with disdainful mirth
His broad bright eye, 'gan scoff with rugged jest.
"Ill have we done, though for one sumptuous feast
Be our's this spacious isle, ill have we done; -- [80]
That in our prodigal and heedless waste
Of those tall high-born Britons spared we none
To tilt at with our thirsty spears, and scare
The frost and slumber from our sluggish hearts.
Now hang we forth our banners to disport [85]
In the smooth breeze, our armours steeled clasps
To summons soft of Lady's tender hands
Surrender; or go joust the hardy oaks
For pastime. Oh, along these velvet plains
To prance 'mid timorous hinds with their pale souls [90]
In their white faces, heralds crouching low,
With looks beseeching, voices meek, clasp'd hands;
'Tis tame and wearisome as at dead noon
To rock upon the flat and lazy sea."
"This too," cried hoary Cerdic; "this bright sword
Loathes its long Christian fast, yet not despairs [96]
Erewhile to glut with banquet rich and full
Its ravening blade; for trust me, fiery Erle,
Many a fierce steed hath brook'd the brazen curb,
That chaf'd anon, from his high seat to dust [100]
Hath shaken his pale rider; Erle, I read
In yon bow'd foreheads sterner characters
Than abject, tame allegiance, homage base:
There the firm purpose, meditation deep,
And study of revenge; the wand of peace [105]
Is in their hands, but in their souls they grasp
The battle-axe and spear." -- A bitter laugh
Came with the fierce reply, "Shall Horsa watch
The shiftings in the visage of a slave;
I issue forth my mandate, and 'tis done, [110]
Whether with cloudy or with sunshine brow
I know not and regard not." -- Cerdic's voice,
Ruffled to somewhat of prophetic tone:
"Not, Horsa, to the stones, the deaf dull stones,
Nor the cold current of the senseless winds [115]
Speaks that wild orator, the Man, whose paths
Are hidden as the ways of fate, unknown
Who knoweth all, who seeth all unseen,
Nor like the lightning shaft his presence dread
Divulgeth, but to shatter, but to slay. [120]
Whose breath beneath the soft dove's snowy down
A soul might breathe of valour to outsoar
The falcon's pitch of pride: I tell thee, Erle,
This soft effeminate Britain, to our sway
Gentle and pliant as a willow wand, [125]
Will that dark Man uprear a ponderous Mace
To crush our infant empire." -- "Man! hath man
Curdled the blood of Offa, made his soul
Patient of that pale trembling motion, fear,
And Offa live, live shameless of his shame, [130]
Amid his peers with unblench'd front to say,
These knees have quail'd, these stubborn joints have felt
The aspin's coward fluttering, and the Sun
That saw his flight, hath seen not his revenge.
Cerdic, the name of perishable man [135]
Thou dost belie, so titling beings dim;
Viewless and formless denizens of air,
That sport and dally with the human shape
Making of mortals of their mortal peers,
Dark things of doubt and danger. We had sworn, [140]
Gurmund and Sigvart, Ælla, Attilar,
And other six, than whom no German arm
Sways heavier the long lance, nor German foot
Treads firmer battle's crimson paths, I speak,
Fiery-soul'd Horsa, to thy front; to thine, [145]
High-sceptred Hengist! mortal steel we swore
Should choke that full-voic'd Wanderer's clamorous breath.
Sage oath! as to adjure our souls, and vow
Th' irregular mad ocean our word "Peace"
Should hearken, and sleek smooth his cresting waves.
But gaily went we forth with brand and bow, [151]
Like hunters to the chase, scoffing our prey.
'Now if he meet us in his mortal shape,
Let him melt back into his native air;
Then shall he scape' -- high o'er our path a rock [155]
Hung beetling, from its summit came a voice,
'Behold him!' -- with the voice a fragment vast,
An earthquake had been weak to hurl it forth;
Two stately necks to the low earth sank down,
And o'er them that huge mass lay stern and still, [160]
Like an old giant's monument. But we
Leap'd onward, Ælla met the dark unknown,
Heavy with ruin hung his arm in air,
But in his valiant heart a javelin stood,
Drinking the crimson life. Still on we swept, [165]
Many a wild league o'er moor and marish swamp,
Forest and wold, and still our pathway lay
O'er the warm corpses of our foremost peers.
Sole, sad survivors of our host, we came,
Sigvart and Offa; on the giddy brink [170]
Of precipice abrupt the Conqueror paus'd,
As weary with his prowess, our defeat,
To mock us with the calmness of his rest.
"Now come what will," cried Sigvart, "come what may,
Or thou, or I, or both." -- Then on he sprung, [175]
Yet not the more relax'd that shape of gloom
Its stern contemptuous quiet, wav'd his arm
With motion less of strife than proud command,
And then of Sigvart's fall the deep abyss
Sent up a hollow sound. I fled, proud Peers, [180]
I say again, I fled, and, or disdain'd
That being dark a lone and single foe:
Or by the shielding of our mightier Gods
I 'scap'd -- "I too (cried Hermingard), I too
Of that mysterious Wanderer have known [185]
The might and savage mercy. I had stray'd
Into a fabric fair, of Christian Gods,
A fane it seem'd, rich-crested pillars rang'd
On either side, above the hollow roof
Aye lessening, seem'd to melt into the air [190]
On which it floated. -- High uprear'd there shone
An altar, bright with chalice, lamp, and cup
All of the flaming gold. I rush'd to seize,
An arm was on my neck, that dash'd me down
Like a soft infant; then a vengeful voice [195]
Struck on my dizzy hearing. -- "But thy blood
Would dye this holy pavement with foul stain,
Heathen, thy soul and mortal shape were rent
Asunder." -- As I fled, I turn'd -- reclin'd
Low by that altar on his knees, all quench'd [200]
Fierce wrath and fiery menace, drooping all
Stern pride of mastery, triumph, and high scorn
That wild Unknown, calm, not with weariness;
Gentle, but not with sleep. Majestic light
Beam'd on the quiet of his heavenward brow, [205]
Yet human tears stood glittering in his eyes.
My thoughts were vengeance, but the cold clear air
Went creeping up my veins, an awful frost
Drank up the languid current of my blood,
And unrevenged I fled that tranquil Man." [210]
Upsprang young Abisa, and beauteous scorn
Curl'd his smooth cheek --"in tumult or in calm;
But have he blood within his beating veins,
Mine is a steel of such a searching thirst,
'Twill drain its crimson source." "Thou! wanton Boy,"
The pale laugh wrinkling on his swelling lip. [216]
"Thou! thou! (cried Offa) with thy mother's milk
Yet white within thy beardless cheek." -- "Proud Jute,
The stem of Woden is a mounting tree,
Its saplings soar to meet the golden Sun, [220]
While tamer shrubs creep with base trail on earth.
Hengist, my King, my Brother! by our Sire
I swear, that ne'er again metheglin cup
Shall sparkle on these lips, till I have met
This mystic deity of Offa's fear." [225]
Then on the Monarch turn'd all eyes; he sate
In darkness, or by chance, or art the lamps
Stream'd bright and yellow down the festal board
But fell no ray within his folded robe.
Yet wore not Hengist on his brow his soul, [230]
High spake he from its cold and stately calm,
Law to the lawless, to the dauntless dread;
But his were rarer qualities of power,
Dominion o'er himself; deep, deep within
Dwelt all the stormy passions; by no eye [235]
Pierc'd in its dark abiding lay the spirit
With all its shames and grandeurs, loves and hates,
And all its greedy family of lusts.
Though now there seem'd beneath his royal crown
A faint uncertain paleness, as of fear [240]
Not wholly quell'd, and on his cheek and lip
Hover'd a quivering motion, ere he spake,
But cool his speech. -- "Presumptuous youth, thy oath
Though wild, is holy -- Woden guard thee well.
Yet art thou sole in madness? time hath been [245]
When the brave phrenzy of rash daring spread
A broad contagious flame through all our camp;
Till not a sword but sham'd its sluggish sheath,
Needed not Saxon king, as now, to gild
Fair danger ere it please'd, as now proclaim [250]
Rich guerdon to the warrior, that aspires
To rival Woden's blood, and be the peer
Of Abisa in peril and renown.
More lofty duties fetter thee and me,
High Horsa" -- (for the fiery warrior's hand [255]
Had started to his sword's familiar hilt)
Rob we not of their fame the valiant Erles."
No seat was vacant, not a voice came forth,
As he were single in his shame sate each,
Nor dared on his compeers to look, in fear [260]
Soul might be there more dauntless than his own.
Blank silence all! but loud that silence spake.
Not vainly, Samor, worn thy title proud,
Avenger! by thy country's Conquerors thou
Magnificently deified; so soar'd [265]
Thy mortal virtue o'er their tamer Gods.
Not that the vassal elements thy sway
Hearken'd, nor beings of the middle air
Stoop'd on their glistening wings to work thy will.
Avenger! but for thee, the Almighty wrought [270]
Most marv'lous, most mirac'lous; in thy soul,
That nobler field, high wonders manifold
Laboured to light and lustre: for what thought
Unwing'd by inbreath'd Godhead e'er might dream
Of glory to be born from this broad night [275]
Of desolation and deep darkness, strive
For faint, impalpable, and airy good,
Through the thick clouds of evil and of woe,
Strong, stately constant, like an eagle set
To drink the last light of the parting sun? [280]
What heart of earthly clay, that ne'er imbib'd
Holier and purer ether, might endure
Danger, dismay, despair, all ills, that wring
Within, and rack and rankle? not alone
Fierce wrong and insult of triumphant foe, [285]
But worse, far worse, from those our friends misdeem'd,
Pity of calm, cold cowards, or rude scorn
From sleek and smiling slaves; or scoff and mock
At thy hard sufferings from those ingrate hearts
For whom thou suffer'st; these the woes that wait [290]
That nobly desperate, who with stedfast hand
The statue of his country's fame, down dash'd
And trampled by barbarian feet, ingrain'd
With the coarse dust and black, before the world
Would rear again to sov'reignty and state. [295]
But thou didst strive and suffer, thou didst hope,
And therefore in thy dark and silent deeds
Beam'd manifest God's Spirit; till in thee
Even the base body that e'er clogs and clouds
The nobler energies, its state infirm [300]
Shook off, and by communion close assum'd
The soul's immortal essence, or the soul
A climate and peculiar atmosphere
Spread round its weaker instrument of power.
Hence human accidents of heat and cold, [305]
Famine and thirst, wasting and weariness,
Fell light and thin upon thy tranquil frame,
Like flakes of snow upon th' unbroken lake;
Thus didst thou pass most fearless, and most fear'd; [310]
By virtue, and thy foeman's dread, array'd
In attributes of strong divinity;
Danger became thy safety, thy renown
Grew from thy utter desperate wretchedness.
But now the more enjoy'd that Saxon youth
His solitude of glory; forth he springs [315]
Hasty, lest valorous repentance fire
Some rival Erle of half his peril yet
To wrong him. In his tent, soft languid sounds
Expiring on her falling lute, arose
To welcome home her Lord his beauteous slave; [320]
His slave! is that her slavery, round his neck
The snowy girdle of her arms to wreathe?
To catch a master's mandate doth she raise
The bashful fringes of her eyes, and meet
Those glances of no lordly scorn, that soothe [325]
Her gentle wayward angriness of love,
Soothe, dare not chide, that coldness faint and brief
That would be wooed, but sweeter to be won?
Nor dares not she withhold that arm uprais'd
From their high stand the furniture of fight, [330]
Glaive, corslet, morion to displace; her touch
Now clings with soft resistance, playful now
Thwarts his stern purpose. -- "Oh, remove not them;
In hours of absence, thou too dearly lov'st,
They are my comfort, my companions they, [335]
My all but thou: the dusky shades of eve
Brown o'er their glittering steal, and there array,
A bright and armed man, th' officious air
Gives motion, and with all thy graceful pride
Shakes the light plumage, thou art there, in spite [340]
Of thy own tardy lingering, thou art there.
Oh, I have woke at midnight, when my soul
With thee hath been a wanderer through sad fields,
'Mid death and battle, though my lightest touch
Had prov'd thee by my side, yet my faint hand [345]
Lack'd courage with that dangerous proof to front
My unsubstantial fears. Oh then, if light
Of star or moon on their blue surface gleam'd,
Or wind awoke them into sound, again
Calm on my pillow droop'd my cheek to rest, [350]
Secure to find thee sweetly slumbering there.
Yet, yet unwon, oh, lighten that cold brow,
And I will sing the soft and sleepy song
That makes a woman of thy angry eyes,
Lulls the rude tumult in thy troubled breast, [355]
Leaving nought there but melody and me."
Then started she to feel how hard and cold
Between her and her bosom's resting place
The corslet lay, by stealth her fond embrace
Supplanting; gently his one arm declin'd [360]
Over her neck, in careless fondness hangs,
Busy the other, its rude office frames
Linking the breastplate's clasps; now holds he back
From her approaching lips his cheek, to fix
The weighty morion; but her garrulous grief [365]
Paus'd not -- "At midnight! now! oh brave misdeem'd,
Misdeem'd, who only th' open day would front
With his bold armour; who but I would love,
I, weak and brainsick, one whose valour shrouds
Its prowess in the cloudy gloom of night? [370]
Oh not, oh not to war, thou goest to win
Some lovelier or some newer bride. Go, go,
Though faithless, barbarous, cruel, cold to me,
Yet make not her too wretched, make not her
Heartsick with sad expectance." -- But her arms [375]
Belied her desperate language, closer clasp'd
With more than maiden strength. "Oh, stony heart,
And I for thee forsook my infant home,
Where all my steps were music, all my smiles
Glad sunshine to my parents wintry blood, [380]
That glanc'd like summer waters at my sight:
For thee did violence to my virgin fame:
By war's rude force might I have seem'd enthrall'd,
A luckless, pitied damsel; my fond heart
Ill brook'd the coarse reproach of ravisher [385]
Should couple with a name so dear as thine.
At night-fall fled I to thee; even as now
The stars shone beauteous, and a kindly gloom
Curtain'd our meeting even as now; no change
From soft and fond and gentle, but in thee." -- [390]
"Peace, trembler, peace! to-morrow's dawn shall hail,
Borne in the shield of honour, on the necks
Of his tall peers, thy Abisa; no voice
Silent, no quiet in the troubled air,
Restless with his hymn'd triumph, Offa's heart [395]
Sick with wan envy. Then, Myfanwy, then
My glory shall make rapture of thy tears,
And thou shalt bless the grief that wrings thee now."
"Oh, glory hath a stern and savage mate,
Danger, her lawless paramour, enfolds [400]
Her beauties in his churlish arms. Oh pause,
And yet farewell, 'tis exquisite to part,
For oh, thou weep'st at parting, 'twast past hope
To see a tear on that stern face for me." --
She hath her last cold kiss through the barr'd helm
Won hardly; she is calm as though it dwelt [406]
Yet on her lips, she hears his parting steps,
Yet lingers on her cheek that liquid glow,
That brilliant harmony of smile and tear
That at the presence of the one belov'd [410]
Flits o'er the settled purple of the cheek.
Oh, if soft woman hath her wilder fears,
She hath her wilder hopes, for man's stern grasp
Too thin, too airy! "Never yet found false,
Thou wilt return;" (so wanton'd her gay dreams) [415]
"So young, so lovely, fate would shame to snatch
So early the choice glories of the earth." --
Then sate she down triumphal coronets
To weave, but not in modest quiet grief,
And gentle resignation pale and mild, [420]
But with a dancing heart and bright blithe eye;
And when her eyelids droop'd, soft o'er her came
A sweet inconstant slumber, such as sleep
Love-dreaming maidens ere their bridal morn.
But through the clear calm night, the azure plain
Of heaven, with all its glittering paths of light [426]
Distinct and dazzling, mov'd that fair-hair'd youth;
So, if old fable may be won to smile
Its grace upon our darker tale, the boy,
Smooth-cheek'd Endymion, his enamour'd Moon [430]
Woo'd with no lawless witchcraft from her sphere:
Nor she delay'd, her silver-sandal'd feet
Gliding and glancing o'er the dews she came,
And curtain'd in a cloud of snowy light,
Mock'd mortal harps that hymn'd her cold and chaste.
No amorous fancies o'er thy downless cheek [436]
Flushing their rosy heat, no love-lipp'd tones
In sweet disturbance stealing on the air,
Young Abisa! with more imperious charm
Thou summon'st from wild wood or cavern'd heath, [440]
Nor vainly, their fierce habitant. Behold,
A shadow by thine own, its stately length
On the white dews advancing; at thy side
The Avenger, as upsprung from nether earth.
Then fatal gladness leap'd in that young heart, [445]
He flung his vizor'd helmet proudly up,
And dash'd defiance 'gainst fierce Offa's dread.
But Samor, for when his pure heart was wean'd
From all the faint and feeble of his kind,
The mercies clung within, and gentleness [450]
So mingled with his nature, that it slaked
Even the blood-thirsting phrenzy of revenge;
Samor that beauteous youth survey'd, the stars
Glimmer'd a blue and hazy light, that shewed
His soft locks spreading their bright clusters wide, [455]
His vermeil cheek most lovely in its wrath,
And brow that seem'd to wonder and delight
At its own dauntlessness. So tall, so fair;
Oft had he imag'd his own perish'd boy
In flower of youth, that flower which never bloom'd. [460]
Tender and mild his voice, as though he spake
Even to that dead belov'd -- "Oh, brave and fair,
Why thus abroad amid the silent night,
With menace and fierce gesture wild and strange?"
"Thou heardst my call, thou seest my arms, my aim [465]
Idly thou question'st." -- "Tis not, gentle youth,
Thy golden luxury of hair, nor cheek
Warm in the rosy wantonness of youth,
But thy brave bearing, gallant mien and proud,
That winds long-banish'd mercy round my sword, [470]
To save from it one Saxon life." -- "Soft praise,
And sweet from lady's lips, but not to hear
Smooth Flattery's descant come I, but to win
What, being won, is in its lofty self
Imperishable beauty, garlands youth [475]
With honour passing the white hairs of age,
Glory, the life of life." -- "And is there none
Whose pillow dreams of thee are haunting now?
No mother, whose last waking thought was hope,
At morn, to meet thee in thy wonted glow [480]
Of loveliness and life? No gentle maid
Whom the bare thought of paleness in thy cheek,
Of death's wan chill upon thy brow, would waste
And wither like the canker'd flower of spring?
Return to her, oh fair, high-minded youth! [485]
Ere yet too late, return." -- But more delay
The hot youth brook'd not; down he clasp'd his helm
And leaping to the frantic onset, cried,
Now, Offa, for thy shame, and for thy meed,
My brother Hengist!" -- As when lightning flame [490]
Dashes at midnight o'er his slumbering lids,
Up starts the wild steed, all his tawny mane
Bristling and blazing, he devours the earth
In fury; even so sudden those rash words
Set flames upon the Avenger's brow, set wrath [495]
On the impetuous motion of his spear.
Oh, holy Night! in thy injurious gloom
How blank the proud distinctions of man's fame!
Languor and loftiness, and shame and pride
In one dead darkness, deep forgetfulness, [500]
Lie, as within a grave, till Virtue's self,
But for her haughty consciousness within,
Might weary of her mute and viewless deeds.
Secret and still, that I might violate
Thy mysteries, and redeem from envious gloom [505]
That Saxon boy's dead honours, dearly won,
Most dearly, yet most nobly. Morn shall tell
The issue of that conflict, but no morn
Will dawn upon his silent, perish'd praise.
Two hours are past, alone the Avenger moves [510]
Under the stars of heaven; 'tis midnight deep,
Now comes his hour of softness; love-sick boy,
Tuning soft phrenzies to his wanton lute,
Is not more wild, fantastical, or fond,
Than Britain's stately hope, high Hengist's dread. [515]
For ever at this hour, of parted joy
Dim gleams revisit his forsaken soul,
Like once-lov'd music o'er a maniac's ear,
Faintly and feebly sweet, the dead put on
Their earthly lustre, Emeric comes, as fair [520]
As from the bridal altar, but less coy,
In fervent full abandonment of love.
The breezes are melodious with her voice,
The dews are printed by her slender feet,
She flows into his arms, her fond embrace [525]
Is warm upon his soul. Thus aye she comes,
Or when 'tis wintry in the starless skies,
Or when the moonlight bathes the earth, to her
Heaven opes its crystal portals, beauteous light
Ushers her presence, sleep can ne'er estrange [530]
That luxury from his heart; when consciousness
Of all things earthly slumbereth and is dead,
She haunts within, her sweet intrusion clings
To the lull'd spirit, senseless but to her,
All, all the living of the man is her's. [535]
Oh, in their dreamings, their communions wild
With airy, immaterial visitants,
Most differ Guilt and Virtue; there are shapes
Hideous and hateful, snaky Gorgon smiles,
And all the fabled populace of hell, [540]
Brooding disquiet o'er the thorny couch;
But Virtue's visions are almost as fair
As Angels blest realities; to thee
Lovely thy nightly visitant, sad Chief!
As to man, sinless yet in Eden's bowers, [545]
On beds of odorous amaranth asleep,
Yet uncreated, came his virgin bride,
Delicate phantom; then his fresh pure soul
Amorous enchantment, first entranc'd, first rose
That our best feeling, of lost Paradise [450]
That sole surviving pleasure, holy love.
Beauteous thy blue uprising, mist-rob'd Morn;
All thy bright glittering of fantastic dews
With their thin tissue silkening the green meads,
And all thy music of blithe leaves that dance [555]
In the caressing breeze, and matins gay
From all the living woodland, Sleep is pleas'd
To be so sweetly banish'd her soft reign.
But dreary are thy sounds, and sad thy light
On the lewd wassail, riots orgies rude,
Polluting day with sights that shame dark night.
Now from the state pavilion forth are pour'd
The synod of high banqueters, their eyes
Hot with loose raptures and distemper'd joy,
Voluptuously turbulent their souls. [565]
Right in their way stood fix'd a lofty spear,
Not with gay garland crown'd, or streaming silk,
But, with that beauteous head that yesternight
Confronted them with graceful pride; the cheek
Where wantonly youth's rosy banner gleam'd, [570]
Pale, dewy, stiffening, lifeless, lustreless;
Part matted with red damp the golden locks
Clung round the spear, part curling on the air,
Sad semblance shew'd of life, in all the rest
Making the stillness and fix'd cold more dread. [575]
No cheek was there so bright, voluptuous heart
So hot, but, like bleak snow, fear fell on it
With a cold thrill and searching; if their sight
Had yet perception, humbler chiefs might draw
From high example comfort for their dread; [580]
Brow might they see with kingly crown beset,
White, sad, and shrunken as their own. Alone,
Fierce smil'd the pride of Offa; he held up
To those wan lips the sparkling shell of mead:
"Drink, thou hast kept thy oath, drink, soft-lipp'd boy!"
O'er all the camp spread loud and wide and far [586]
The name of Abisa; Myfanwy heard
Where lay she dreaming half, and fabling half
Of garlands and of gay triumphal pomp.
How nimble are the feet that bear light hearts. [590]
She is gone forth, and all for joy forgot
The veil e'er wont to dim her dazzling cheek,
Forgot the braiding of her hair, the maid
So soft, so timorous, at the wanton breeze
She oft hath trembled, 'neath day's eye retired [595]
Even from the fondness of her own loved youth.
Through files of warriors, who uncasque their brows
To fill their curious gaze, she hurries on,
She knows not what she sees, and only knows,
She sees not what she seeks, that cheek, that eye [600]
Which fed on her with such excess of love
As if 'twere worse than blindness to lose sight
Of its sole idol; only she is blithe,
She only smiling 'mid those many sad.
She meets even all she longs for; up from earth [605]
(For now from that sad eminence of scorn
Had friendly hand remov'd it, now had cleans'd
Its damp defilement) that dear face on her
Settled its fixed and inexpressive gaze.
Her mien was strangely rational, her look [610]
Like one that calmly ponder'd what it saw,
Her voice articulate and passionless.
"What hath done this?" -- "The Avenger, the unknown,"
Spake many voices. -- "Oh, my hands are weak;
Ye see them soft and delicate and white, [615]
But thou, and thou, and thou, art bold and strong,
And bear'st bright armour, ye will sure requite
The slaughter on the slaughter's head." -- Ensued
Brief moments of a stagnant grief, life paus'd,
As 'twould prolong unconsciousness, delay [620]
Yet, yet that state that wakes with waking sense.
Then kindled up her eye, but not with joy,
Then flush'd her cheek a light and sanguine red,
That is fair marble flitted o'er, but left
Nor tinge nor warmth; she snatch'd up to her heart
That lifeless thing and fled; as some fond bird [626]
With spread wings hovering o'er her nest, looks round
At some black shape of fear, then turns to see
If yet her callow brood are slumbering safe,
So wandering her dim eye on all around, [630]
Anon with full intensity of love,
Settled on her cold care. She reach'd the tent,
There miserly her treasure she o'erbroods;
She lays it on her lap, and sings to it,
Now gazes as she thought even yet those eyes [635]
Might open, those wan lips their wonted sounds
Murmur, now almost sees a forming smile:
Now gaily carols on her broken songs,
Ever his favourite, most familiar tones,
And now breaks off, as fearful to disturb [640]
His quiet slumbers, only speaks in smiles,
Language by him e'er understood, and once,
Once her rash lips approach'd: so pass'd the hours
From earliest morning till the setting sun.
Then that wild spirit and playfulness of grief [645]
Sadden'd to drear sobriety, gave place
Sweet-dreaming twilight to the bright clear day.
Then first she thought of beasts and fowls obscene
Battening on his fair limbs, no hand to heap
The scanty pity of a little earth [650]
Upon the brave, the princely, and the fair:
Envious of partner in her sacred toil,
Bearing her cold wan burthen in her arms,
Alone upon the pious quest she speeds.
She fears not, ah too wretched now to fear! [655]
Darkness is on her steps, but what to her
Though nature's rich varieties are blank?
Her guide the unblinded sympathies within;
The love that link'd her to his living soul
Will light her to him lifeless; yon wan stars, [660]
That struggle with the haze, are bright enough
To beam upon the dead. But now more fast
Their golden cressets multiply, more clear,
And lo fierce Offa in her path: his eye
Fix'd on her with a rude imperious lust, [665]
As the pollution of his bad desires
Did honour to their victim. But the maid,
Unbelieving, unsuspecting aught impure,
With sweet beseeching, almost with caress,
Would win her onward passage; when her soul [670]
Was startled into fear, she would not think,
Such savage nature dwelt in human hearts.
She wept, she sued, she drew the veil away,
Upheld that lovely lifeless thing -- in vain:
The snowy dove is in the rude kite's grasp, [675]
Pale, fluttering, fainting; upon Heaven she call'd,
Cruelly calm look'd on her the cool skies;
She call'd on Abisa, but only felt
More deeply that cold glassiness of face,
That dull, indifferent witness of her shame; [680]
But in the stress and hurry of despair
Strange energies were hers, with frantic voice
She call'd on the Avenger -- Lo, he comes,
Terrible in the silence of his arms,
And earth is dank with Offa's lustful blood. [685]
But her first motion was a frantic kiss
On Abisa's cold lips, as though for him
Proud of the untainted treasure of her love;
Then turn'd to her preserver, but with looks
Of loathing more than thankfulness; he stood [690]
In gentle majesty serene, yet proud
Of that light victory, of prevented crime
Severely joyful; bitter strife of heart
Spake in her language -- "Had it been but death,
I yet had curs'd thee! oh, look here, look here! [695]
(And she withdrew the clust'ring curls that veil'd
The rigid deathfulness of that fair brow)
Oh, one sole feeling to this dead heart seem'd
A duty and delight, the hate of thee.
Cruel, even that thou enviest me, even that." -- [700]
"That, British maiden! is a Saxon's face,
Yet mourns thy amorous heart in guilty tears?"
"Is there not beauty in a Saxon's cheek,
Is there not music on a Saxon's tongue,
Is there not tenderness in Saxon hearts? [705]
Oh, he is kind and true, his love to me
Almost as deep and fond, as mine to him,
Wild that I am, he was, that fatal was
Makes agony my sacred thought of him." --
"Maiden, by Wye's transparent stream abode [710]
An aged pair, and their declining day
One beauteous child enlighten'd, and dispens'd
Soft moonlight o'er their darkening eve; they thought
The only pang of death from her to part.
But heavy was their sinking to the grave, [715]
For that fair beam in unchaste darkness quench'd
Its virgin lustre, and its light withdrew,
Of their old limbs of life: alone they dwelt,
In discontent and cold distaste of all,
As her ingratitude had made them sick [720]
Of the world's hollowness, and if she fail'd
All earthly things must needs be false and frail.
They ne'er reproach'd her, for so near the grave
They could not hate; but for her sake they loath'd
Each old familiar face, that once they lov'd. [725]
Where she was wont to wander, wander'd they;
The garden flowers she tended, they bound up
With woeful care; their chill and shaking hands
Made tremulous music with her lute, I shrunk
In hoary age to see such childish joys. [730]
They felt one after pleasure, the same hour
They glided from their woes, their parting breath,
Blended in languid blessings on her head,
For her went suppliant to the throne of God,
Their lost Myfanwy." -- Trembling stood she there, [735]
Like one that strives to weep, but the hard tears
Are frozen in their source. "Oh thou are I,
Sweet Abisa (to that cold head she spake),
We will go weep upon their graves, and win
Their spirits to forgiveness; when they hear [740]
How fervent and how fatal were our loves,
Heaven will lend airs to waft their mercy down."
"Fond Maid, beware! repentance must be chaste
And spotless as the unsunn'd snow; wilt thou
Yet wanton with the memory of thy sin, [745]
Bad thoughts at revel in thy heart, with vows
Lightly made up of guilty breath impure,
Pollute and sicken the clear air that dwells
About the holy dwellings of the dead;
Waver from God to Pagan paramour [750]
With wandering loose affections." "Hard and cold,"
Be thou content to have robb'd this widow'd heart
Of that most lovely breathing thing earth bore,
But spare, oh spare, the sinless, senseless dead!
Cruel, by yon bright stars I oft have sworn [755]
Ne'er to forego him; shall I crown my sins
With perjury? I will weep, and fast, and pray,
And wear the rough stones with my tender knees,
So thou wilt leave me my sad thoughts of him.
Oh, God hath grace for all; my earliest prayer [760]
Shall be for mercy on his perish'd soul,
The next for those who dying pray'd for me,
And for my sad and sinful self the last."
Most exquisite sorcery of womankind!
Even to the fall'n some cherish'd loveliness [765]
Yet clings, with innocent hypocrisy
Tricking their failures in such tender hues,
We blame with tears, enamour'd while we blame.
Even thus her fervent constancy of love
Brighten'd that guilty maiden. -- "God will weigh [770]
With righteous hand thy sorrows and thy sins,
Damsel, I nor absolve thee, nor condemn.
Come thou with me, and we will reunite
That beauteous boy's remains; oh thou, even thou,
Knewst thou the studious cruelties, cold crimes [775]
By these barbarians wrought on this sad land,
Wouldst pardon this dishonour to the corpse
Of that brave youth." -- She leap'd up to his neck,
"And who are thou, that doest such savage deeds,
Yet forcest us to love thee?" -- On they past, [780]
They reach'd the place of death, he dug away
The earth that fenc'd from wandering kite and wolf
Young Abisa's fair limbs; he sooth'd her woes
By soft participation, her consol'd
By suffering, and the Christian's voice rose up [785]
In prayers for mercy on a Saxon's soul.
BOOK VII.
How measureless to erring human sightIs glory! Glorious thy majestic state,
Hengist! with captive cities for thy thrones,
And captive nations thy pale satellites,
Britain, with all her beauty, power, and wealth, [5]
Thy palace of dominion. Glorious thou,
Caswallon, in Caer Ebranc's stately courts,
By the slow waters of the wandering Ouse,
Bright-sceptred Renegade! Even in your crimes
Glitters a dazzling and meteorous pomp, [10]
Though your wild voyage hath lain through waves of blood.
Ye ride triumphant in your royal port;
But he, sad Pilgrim, outcast and forlorn
How doth the midnight of his honour shame
Your broad meridian, his wild freedom pass [15]
Your plenitude of sway, his nakedness
Transcend your sweeping purples, rayed with gold!
Nor wanteth to his state its gorgeous pride,
And high peculiar majesty; the pomp
Of the conspiring elements sheds on him [20]
Tumultuous grandeurs; o'er his midnight couch,
Amid the scath'd oaks of the mountain moor,
On its broad wings of gloom the tempest stoops.
Around his head in crystal coronets
The lightning falls, as though thy fiery hand, [25]
Almighty! through the rolling clouds put forth,
Did honour to the Freeman. Mighty winds
And the careering thunders spread around
Turbulent music; darkness rivals day,
And day with darkness vies in stateliest pride [30]
The Avenger's lofty miseries to array.
When from the East forth leaps the warrior Sun
In panoply of golden light, dark cowers
His own proud eagle, marvelling what strong form,
Uprising to usurp his haughty right, [35]
Drinks in the intense magnificence with brow
Undazzled and unshrinking; nor to him
Fails homage from the living shapes of earth:
On him the savage, fierce and monstrous, fawn
Tame adoration; from his rugged sleep [40]
The wild boar, sleek his bristling wrath, aloof
Shrinks, the grim wolf no more his rest disturbs,
Than the calm motion of the moon she bays.
Now, by her native sylvan Wye, that Maid,
Left to cold penitence and prayer, again [45]
Sets forth the high Avenger: now his path
Through Towey's vale winds velvet soft and green.
The year is in its waning autumn glow,
But the warm Sun, with all his summer love,
Hangs o'er this gentle valley, loath to part [50]
From the blue stream that to his amorous beams
Now her cool bosom spreads, now coyer slides
Under her alder shade, whose umbrage green,
Glancing and breaking the fantastic rays,
The deep dark mirror frets with mazy light. [55]
A day that seems in its rich noon to blend
All seasons choice deliciousness, high hung
On Dinevaur and Carreg Cennon rude,
And on bold Drusslyn gleam'd the woods their hues,
Changeful and brilliant, as their leaves had drank [60]
The sun's empyreal fountains; not more bright
The groves of those Atlantic Isles, where rove
(Dream'd elder Poesy such fancies sweet)
The spirits of the brave, stern Peleus' son,
And Diomede, through bowers that the blue air [65]
Arch'd with immortal spring of fragrant gold.
The merry birds, as though they had o'erdream'd
The churlish winter, spring-tide virelays
Carolling, pruned their all-forgotten plumes.
Upon the sunny shallow lay the trout [70]
Kindling the soft gems of its skin; the snake
As fresh and wanton in its green attire
Wound its gay rings along the flowery sward.
That overpowering beauty in mild bonds
Of sweet amazement and infatuate bliss, [75]
Took prisoner Samor's spirit. On a rock,
'Neath a white canopy of glistening birch,
He lay surrender'd. The thin whispering leaves,
The welling waters flow, the lingering, long,
Love-dwelling descant of the joyous birds [80]
Came mingling with the languor of his sense,
Most soothing each in turn, most slumb'ring soft.
'Tis no harsh breaking in that train of sound
Delicious, but a low and measur'd dash
That blends and deepens all the mingling tones; [85]
'Tis nought to cloud of dim that slow intrudes
On the universal brilliance, crowning all
Moves the gay apparition, and fires up
The restless glittering of intenser blaze.
Slow up the tide the gaudy bark comes on, [90]
Her oars scarce startling the unruffled air;
The waters to her swan-like prow give place,
Along the oar-blades leap up to the sun
In lucid flakes, and dance, as 'twere their sport
To waft that beauteous freight. And exquisite [95]
As that voluptuous Memphian on the stream
Of Cydnus, leading with bliss-breathing smiles
Her throngs of rash beholders, glided down
To welcome to his soft imprisonment
The Lord of half the world, so wond'rous fair [100]
Under an awning cool of fluttering silk
The Lady of that graceful galley sate.
But not in her instinct the melting form
With passion, the smooth limbs in dazzling glow
Translucent through the thin lascivious veil, [105]
Skilful with careless blandishments to fire
The loose imaginations, she herein
Least like the Oriental harlot Queen.
Of all her shape, of all her soul was pride
The sustenance, the luxury, the life. [110]
The innate scorn of her full eye repaid
With lofty thanklessness the homage fawn'd
By her fair handmaids, and her oarmen gay,
Who seem'd to wanton in their servile toil.
Around she gaz'd, as in her haughtiness [115]
She thought that God had form'd this living pomp
Of woodland, stream, and rock, her height of soul
To pamper, that to welcome her to earth
Attired its breathing brightness, and the sun
Only on her look'd from his azure sphere. [120]
Knows Samor that bright Lady? Who knows not
Amid her twinkling retinue of stars
The queenly summer moon? Ye too he knows,
The minion rowers of her royal state,
Entitled once by courteous falsehoods bland [125]
Nobles of Britain, from the general wreck
Most despicably saved by Saxon scorn,
Meet vassalage for Vortigern, now shrunk
And dwindled from proud Britain's sov'reign lord
To petty Prince of Dyfed. Ye yet cling [NOTE 12]
Even to the hollow semblance of a crown.
Ye gauzy summer motes, that float and bask
In the warm noontide of a court, light things
Of noise and glittering, that to royal ears
Tinkle your poisonous flatteries, then most proud [135]
When most obtrusive your gay nothingness.
Under a rock where Samor lay unseen
Beneath the sparkling birchen shade, the bark
Glided so near, the silver-twinkling leaves
Play'd like a wavering veil o'er the bright face [140]
And marble neck of that reclining Queen.
Now, Samor, now 'tis at thy thirsty lips
The cup of vengeance, now quaff deep, quaff deep!
Now, by the bones that bleach on Ambri plain,
By thy lost Emeric's silent chamber bowers, [145]
By that soft cheek o'er which the primrose blooms,
Now launch the unerring javelin! lo she tempts,
The Saxon's daughter, and the false King's bride,
The tame and baffled lingering of revenge.
And up the Avenger stood, a ray of light [150]
Quiver'd the brandish'd javelin, creeping awe
Froze up the rowers hearts, down fell the oars,
And to the shore round swung the ungovern'd bark.
But 'mid those feminine and timorous men
Intrepid that soft lady her fair front
Advanc'd, and, "Who art thou, whose impious arm
'Gainst royalty's anointed head dare sway
Irreverent menace?" -- "One whom grinding wrong,
And injuries savage, black, and manifold
Have almost madden'd to the deep base shame [160]
Of soiling his bright arms with woman's blood."
(He cast the javelin from him, and went on)
"But tell thy sire, Rowena, tell thy lord,
Britons have yet to learn their codes of war,
That yet fastidious vengeance will not slake [165]
But on a worthy victim its deep thirst."
Then was the mingling of their looks elate,
As when two falcons, far from this low earth,
Meet in the sun's broad blaze, they glad and proud
Each of their kindred, flap their radiant wings. [170]
"I know thee now, majestic Rebel! thee
The untraceable, untameable! I know
The chosen Man of Fate! of all our race
The designated danger; merciful
Saxon ne'er coupled with thy name till now. [175]
Yet think not thou from rivalry aloof
In proud and lonely excellence to stand,
For with requital royal and profuse
I will outsoar thee; this white woman's hand
Shall cast thee Hengist's pardon for thy deeds [180]
Of guilty fame; this smooth and purple cheek
Smile thee fair honours in Caer Merdhyn's court."
"Pardon, and honour, Lady! one alone
Jealous prerogative of pardon holds
O'er Samor's soul, the universal God! [185]
Caer Merdhyn's honours! to fall'n Vortigern
To be install'd prime flatterer, meekly laud
The bounteous-hearted monarch, who cast off
His throne, his people, and his fame, and thought
For bride so fair the dowry all too poor." [190]
No wrath, but brighter joy the Lady's cheek
Emblazon'd: "Why should slight and tinsel ties
Of blood and birthplace hold asunder hearts
Kindred in grandeur? thou art brave and free,
And brave and free is Hengist; why disdains [195]
Valour to mate with valour, might with might?"
"Valour beneath the sun goes proudly forth;
And in the cloudy battle's van affronts
His hauberk'd foe, but folds not secret steel
Under the mild and festal robe of peace, [200]
Nor creeps with midnight stealth on the weak sleep
Of women and soft infants." -- Then appear'd
Tears in her haughty eyes, tears beautiful,
For drops of shame they were for those black crimes
That fleck'd and dimm'd her father's blaze of fame. [205]
Still paus'd not the Avenger. -- "Did my God,
Did Britain claim the offering, I dare hope
Yet I could rend from his worn heart away
Its pleasant lust of vengeance; private wrongs
Are but thin drops in my full tide of hate; [210]
But all my country's injuries, all my God's
Concentrate in the mighty passion flood,
My life, my soul, my being; we must be,
I and thy father, through all space of time,
Even to the end, Destroyer or Destroy'd." -- [215]
"Harsh and implacable! yet be not thou
Discourteous: wilt thou to Caer Merdhyn come,
An honour'd guest, in freedom to depart
When, where thou wilt, thy pledge my royal faith?"
"A Saxon's faith!" burst bitter from his lips, [220]
He check'd the upbraiding tone. "If fraud and sin
In such a lovely temple hold their shrine,
It were not strange did fiends of darkness dwell
Within yon beauteous sun!" But she with smile
Mild as May morning on a violet bank,
"Why stayst thou? can the Unconquerable fear --?"
"Fear, Lady! fear and I are strangers now." --
"What wondrous spell," pursued her playful mirth,
"So steels thee?" -- "One most simple and most strong,
A calm proud conscience, and a faith in God." [230]
Then sate he by the Lady's side; set forth
Upon its dancing voyage down the tide
The bark obeisant to its dashing oars.
But those gay rowers veering with the wind
Of soft court favour, 'gan with subtle joy [235]
And cold factitious transport hail again
Their gentle peer, their old and honour'd friend.
But with a glance the imperial Lady froze
To silence their smooth-lying lips, nor brook'd
Idle instrusion on her rapturous feast. [240]
Deep drank she in the majesty and pomp,
Wherewith instinct the Avenger mov'd and spake,
And what high beauty from heroic soul
Emanates on the outward shape, nor pall'd
On her insatiate appetite the joy;
Till that commercing deep of stately thoughts,
Proud admiration, and intense delight
In what is heart-subliming, towering, grand,
Regenerate from the trance that bath'd her sense,
Sprang up a fiery passion, o'er her flow'd [250]
Secret the intoxicating extacy,
Love, dangerous, deep, intolerable love.
What beauteous seeming and magnificent,
Weareth that brilliant sin! now not o'er her
Came it in melting languor, soft and bland, [255]
But like her own high nature, eminent,
Disdainful, and elate, allied to all
That beautified, that glorified, and seem'd
Mysterious union of upsoaring spirits,
Wedding of lofty thoughts with lofty thoughts, [260]
And the fine joy of being to this earth
A thing of wonder: and as floats the air
Clear, white, and stainless in the highest heavens,
Seem'd from its exaltation fresh and pure,
Above all taint her amorous madness rose. [265]
Had it seem'd love, her very pride had quell'd
The umplum'd phantasy, her inbred scorn
Warr'd on the young infirmity, but now
Upon her soul's bold crest it planted high
Its banner of dominion, and she hail'd [270]
Its coming as a guest of pomp and power.
But, though o'er all her features mantling spread
A vivid restlessness, a lustrous glow,
A deepening purple, though her eye indulg'd
Richer delirium, though her languid breath [275]
Came with a throb and struggle from her heart,
Yet in that noble kindness that disdains
With greedy and suspicious gaze to seach
The sin that may be, rather chastening all
With his own native purity, serene [280]
The Warrior sate. The placid gliding bark,
With motion like to stillness, flowing on,
Where with green diadem of woods above,
Beneath the white breadth of the expanding stream,
Caer Merdhyn in the liquid noontide rose. [285]
Fair rose Caer Merdhyn, rose her towery height
The air enriching, nor mis-seem'd a King
Such stately dwelling; populous her streets,
And throng'd with human faces, but o'er all
A lassitude and heavy sadness hung, [290]
Blankness of looks and weariness of hearts,
And listlessness of motion faltering on.
With all the pomps, the luxuries of life,
It seem'd a city of the dead. The shapes,
The steps of men were there, but soul and spirit, [295]
And stirring energy, and vivid mind,
Passion and earnestness in torpor slept,
The cold blood stagnate in the drowsy veins:
Alike all feelings lazy languor seal'd.
To still them, not delight, the mothers held [300]
Their infants, as the radiant Queen past on;
But even in them the laughing spring of joy
Was dead, and dry, and frozen. -- "Oh, high God!
(So spake the Wanderer in his secret soul)
Hath tyranny such bleak and withering power [305]
Man's heavenly essence to embrute, and thou,
Once princely Vortigern, the tyrant thou!" --
Worse sight! worse shame! they reach the broad hill's brow,
Where in its royalty the palace look'd
Awe on its vassal city; there, even there, [310]
On that high threshold, armed Saxon files
From the weak people fenc'd the weaker King.
But through that legion hateful and accurst
Onward the Avenger that bright Lady's hand
Led, as the Sybil sage the Love-queen's son [315]
Calm through the doleful regions of the dead.
Within the hall with royal banners hung,
And shields of royal blazon, royal arms,
Least royal he, sate Vortigern; deep thought
And miserable on his faded brow [320]
Traced its bleak lines, before him glittering lay
The crown of Britain, which his eye perused
With a sick sadness, as each gem were full
Of woeful ruminations, blank remorse;
And as bad Angels loathe, yet upward watch, [325]
Heaven's Sun, bright type of their once radiant state,
Even so in bitterness that fallen King,
Painfully banquetting on self-reproach,
A drear remembrance of lost grandeurs drew
From that fair ring, and curs'd its blaze that flash'd [330]
Past splendours o'er the darkness of his soul,
And memory from what height to what depth sunk,
He welters in the abyss of shame profound.
Beside him o'er his harp Aneurin bow'd,
The white-hair'd Bard, sole faithful he, sole friend; [335]
For minds of poets from their own high sphere
Look down on earth's distinctions, high and low,
Sunken or soaring, as the equal sun
Sheds light along the vale and mountain's brow.
He in the hall of feasting who fast seal'd [340]
The treasures of his harmony, now pours
Into the wounded heart his syrups sweet,
And laps it in the silken folds of sound.
But even along his strings the infectious grief
Hath crept, and wither'd up their wantonness. [345]
And wayward wanderings of despair belate
His fickle tones: anon bursts full and free
A start, a swell of pride, then sinks away
Involuntary to such doleful fall,
Misery so musical, its languid breath [350]
Feeds, while it softens the deep-rooted woe.
Such melodies at tragic midnight heard
'Mid a deserted city, gliding o'er
The deep green moss of tower and fane o'erthrown,
Had seem'd immortal sorrows in the air, [355]
O'er man's inconstant grandeurs. Sad such wreck,
More sad, more worthy Angels woe the waste
And desolation of a noble mind,
High fertile faculties run wild and rank,
Bright fiery qualities in darkness slaked. [360]
That liquid intercourse of grief broke off,
Thus spake the King -- "Who thus unbidden bursts
On kingly solitude? why ask I thee?
No brow between the Scot and Southern sea
Beareth such gallant insolence abroad, [365]
But Samor, the wild Wanderer, the denounc'd,
The desperate! Art thou here to stun mine ears
With "Vortigern is abject, lost, disgrac'd?"
'Tis well that with thee comes by bright excuse,
My poverty's rich treasure, my night's star, [370]
Beauteous Rowena." -- Joy seem'd his, but yet
Was effort and was struggle in that joy,
The clinging of a desperate soul to what
It would delight in, but did not delight,
The striving of a barren heart to force [375]
The perish'd bloom of pleasure, -- "King, I come
To put a spell upon thee, conjure up
Thy valour from its tomb within thy breast,
To rend the adamant that trammels fast
Thy strength of soul. By yon bright glaive that smote
By Esk's wild bank, beneath his father's shield, [381]
The royal Caledonian's son; yon flag,
That, when by fated Arles rash Britain lost
Her wild bright hazard for imperial state,
Clouding the car of adverse victory shook [385]
Untarnish'd in the sun its blazon broad,
Nor stoop'd, though all was fallen; by yon rich crown,
Whereon when flow'd the holy oil, this isle
From all her seas her gratulant acclaim
Sent up, and overcast heaven's vault with joy; [390]
By Vortigern, the great, the brave, the wise! --
"Brave! wise! aye, that it is. The veriest wretch
That from the base birth-place to his baser grave,
Creeps with his fellow reptiles, that ne'er knew
What luxury 'tis, what loftiness to soar, [395]
And with one soul to wield a host of souls
In free subjection, oh that fireless dust,
Clay uninform'd, that only lives to die,
That is to me a God: to me whose curse,
And brand, and mock it is to have been great -- [400]
And be -- oh! Samor, Samor, I was King,
King of this spacious, rich, and glorious isle,
And thou, and such as thou, my regal state
Didst vassal; now, but now an eye may trace
The circuit of my realm, a shepherd's boy [405]
Count my thin people, like his mountain flock."
"Oh, Monarch, ill must be atoned by good,
And to repentant deeds of mightiest fame
Heaven can upraise the farthest sunken. Power
Fails not the aspirant will. I knew thee once [410]
A being of those arduous energies,
Strong aspirations, graspings undefin'd,
Tumultuous thirsts and passions, that of man
Make Fiend or Angel." -- "True, too true, but thou
Hast seiz'd the Seraph's air-plum'd wings, and I [415]
The Demon's vans of darkness. Had all fallen,
All perish'd, one wide ignominy swept
Princes and Lords and People, I had found
A forlorn comfort in the general wreck;
But in its curst sublimity thy fame [420]
Obtrudes its radiant presence, and makes groan
This ruin of a Monarch." -- "Rare it is,
Oh King, in Fame's rich galaxy to shine
With stedfast blaze unwithering, but to dawn
From darkness, scatter off the black eclipse [425]
That veils the wither'd lustre, this most rare,
Maketh man's soul an everlasting fire
Worthy the God that hung the Heavens with light;
'Tis hard for downcast spirit to o'erleap
Ruin's sad barriers, but Heaven's angels drop [430]
Soft dews beneath his burning feet, his flight
Imp with strong plumes; his coming doth adorn
The earth he moves on; till Remorse abash'd
Before the orient glories fades and flies." --
"Peace! peace! thou canst not see what cold within
Lies like a palsy on the flagging powers, [436]
Makes me a thin and shrinking reed, the sport
Of every lazy wind, the shape, the life,
The woe, without the faculties of man,
Shame, shame. -- Oh, turn thy lofty brow away, [440]
Heavy it hangs o'er me like loosen'd crag
Over the mountain traveller -- I endure,
Of all this nation, the curse-wrinkled lips,
Out-pointed fingers, ribald jests, coarse scorns.
Men that have lick'd the dust beneath my feet, [445]
Worn their tame faces by the mould of mine,
Them, to confront even them." -- Unkingly tears
Chok'd the full utterance, met his eye the glance
Of that proud Queen, who, all unmark'd, drank in
That passionate discourse, from her contempt, [450]
Though far below his own, he shrunk, and wrought
To a brief pride his wan dejected mien.
"Here is my throne, my kingdom is this breast,
My diadem the wealth of light that shines
From yon fair brow upon me." -- Stronger pain [455]
Burst in upon the infant pride; forth fled
The Monarch, happy could he fly himself.
Him follow'd that old Bard. "'Tis vain, all vain,
(Thus spake the high Avenger.) "Beauteous Queen,
I claim thy faith, and part." -- "So swift, so soon, [460]
Our festal cheer untasted, welcome cup
Uncrown'd?" -- "Fair Queen, in the pellucid stream
My beverage dances; the coarse mountain boor
Shares his hard fare with me; the hand that feasts
The winged wanderers of the air, feasts me." -- [465]
With lips in act of speech apart, the Queen,
As to her will her tongue didainful scorn'd
Allegiance, chain'd in silence stood again.
Twice she essay's to speak, twice o'er her shame
Swept his petrific hand, and rosy fire [470]
O'er face and neck and forehead flush'd, till shrunk
From that strong heat the eye, and down on earth
Settled its close-fring'd orb; with pressure soft
Her blushing fingers his bronz'd hand embrac'd.
"Here in this palace is my rule, this land [475]
Is mine by my prevailing power, would'st thou
Of this high seat, this realm be Lord? -- Why starts
Unwonted colour to thy cheek? why shrinks
Into its sphere thine eye? Said I this soul
And what soft beauty glitters in this shape, [480]
Had it appall'd thee? -- Eagerly she grasp'd
The hand she held, as though from thence to wring
A swift reply, yet gaz'd upon the earth,
As wistful 'neath its darkness she might shrink
From her own shame. Blank wonder Samor's brow [485]
To living stone congeal'd -- "This then the close
To all thy lavish love of Vortigern!"
"My love! he was a King, upon his brow
The beauty of a royal crown, his height
Dominion, like a precious mantle, dipt [490]
In heaven's pure light array'd, and o'er him flung
Transcendant grandeur; above all he stood,
And I by such fond splendours wooed and won,
Took seat upon his eminence; a plant
To spread, and mantle an imperial throne, [495]
Not like tame ivy round a ruin creep,
Or wreathe the tomb of royalty. His pride
I wedded, not his shame; bats may not build
With the light-loving lark. He, he himself
By self-abasement has divorc'd me, set [500]
Distance between us wide and far as heaven
From the black pit of infamy." -- "High Queen,
What seest thou in this bleak and batter'd brow,
These rough scath'd limbs, this wan and sunken face,
With misery's rugged furrows deeply plough'd, [505]
To dazzle or delight? Lone outcast I,
Friendless, but daily, nightly by fierce foes
Beset and hunted like a loathsome brute;
Thy nation's mothers vent all hate on me,
Link with a scathing curse no name but mine. [510]
Oh, what would'st thou and softness with a life
Like mine so dreary, desperate, dark, and fierce?
"Oh, 'tis because all hate thee, that I love,
Because all dread thee, I would mate with thee,
Thy miseries, thy dangers deeper drown [515]
My soul with passion, that thou walk'st alone,
Smote at by every arm, yet struck by none,
That mastery of thy single soul holds down
The Saxons mounting empire, clips its wings
Rapacious and wide-shadowing, that thy fame [520]
Like a rich rainbow cloud, sails on through air,
To mortal grasp impalpable, to sight
In lonely brilliance manifest; my soul
To that thy airy chariot would aspire,
And dazzle by thy side, and daunt the world." -- [525]
"Loose and unrighteous to thy lawful Lord,
Yet would'st thou poison with adulterous shame
Its spotless lustre, its pure white defile,
And clog with guilt its vaunted wheels." -- Guilt! Guilt!
Ah, now I know why mine eye shrunk from thine, [530]
Why sought the base earth, why brook'd not my tongue
The motions of my will -- but we -- shrink we?
The lofty are their own high law; dull codes,
Cold customs, trammel but the base; our sins
Shall be the wanderings of the meteor fire, [535]
More wonder'd than the regular calm stars:
Our acting shall ennoble, what tame tongues
Falter at even in word, opinions hues
Shall at our haughty bidding shift and change,
And what we do, shall therefore be call'd great. [540]
Yes, yes, I feel thy shrinking hand, I see
White-lipp'd abhorrence quivering in thy mien
As at some loathsome viper. Woe, oh woe
To him that tramples on the viper's wrath." --
Then shook she back her golden hair, away [545]
Cast his cold hand. -- "Ho, Saxons at the gate,
Ho, Saxons, to your injured Queen!" The hall
Sudden was walled with fiery arms and spears
Bickering fierce menace; numerous, swift, and strong,
As when old Cadmus by clear Dirce spread [550]
That dangerous seed uncouth, long, wide, and bright
Under the fatal ploughshare leap'd to life,
To havock the wild harvest, and shook up
Its bearded grim fertility of death.
But then his sword the Avenger grasp'd, and cried,
"Twice have I trusted Saxon faith, and twice [556]
Beneath my feet the smooth fair ice hath burst
Its glassy treachery: once this arm redeem'd
The infatuate blindness. Saxons, I am he
Who with his single strength on Ambri plain [560]
Scared your hot massacre, your proudest necks
Strew'd for his pavement of retreat, ye see
Mine arm unwither'd; yet unbroken sword."
But they sprung onward; that bright Lady's brow
Awful delight absorb'd the while, she moved [565]
Before their wrath, her arm's high sway wav'd back
Their fury from her presence. Swift they came,
Swift they departed; silence down the walls
Crept o'er the banners broad, and pendant shields.
She look'd on Samor, all his pride was hers, [570]
She look'd on Samor, all that pride was quench'd
In exquisite mild transport; at his feet
The Queen, the haughty, the disdainful fell.
Her fine fair hair lay floating on the earth;
Her round arms clung beseeching to his knees. [575]
"A curse upon me, that my wilful heart
'Gainst head so brave, so noble, dream'd of wrath,
Of danger and rude menace. What I did,
I know not, what I said, it pleased not thee,
Enough, 'twas base, 'twas criminal, 'twas false. [580]
Oh Chief! when we would compass wild desires,
Words alien to the heart start up, yet seem,
Most strong persuasion; of all serpents, scorn
Stings to worse frenzy, worst a woman's soul.
Forget, all, all forget, but one soft word, [585]
And that I charge thee, by thy rescued life,
Forget not." -- "Lady, were I rich in love,
As yon full Sun in light, I could not spare
A beam upon a Saxon. Now, but now
The fountains of my heart are dry, the stock [590]
Where fresh and rich my green affections bloom'd,
Is wither'd to the root; hard, doleful, dead,
My breast's impassive iron scatters off
All melting blandishments, all soft delights,
As the wav'd banner the thin morning dews. [595]
With one harsh discord to consummate all;
Thou art thy Father's daughter." -- She arose
In miserable calmness resolute.
She took his hand, she led him forth, beneath
The murky scowling of those Saxons stern, [600]
Whose angry wonder scarce herself controll'd:
Gave one fond lingering pressure, and but one,
Then watch'd him through the city, up the vale,
If gazing with such emptiness of eye
Were watching, which his distance seem'd to freeze [605]
Gradual to hollower wanness; down her arms
Hung, only that she stood and faintly breath'd,
Pulse, motion, sense, life, all seem'd fled with him.
Sudden above her, the mild air 'gan waft
Wild fiery sounds, like those of battle morn, [610]
Which champing war-steed's neigh, and lance's rush,
Impatient answers. On the palace top
Aneurin in his bardic glory stood;
The sunlight on his old prophetic brow
Flash'd strong, yet dazzled not, his long white locks [615]
Stream'd back upon his azure robe, like rack
O'er heaven's unclouded blue, his pale thin hand
With strength of mounting phrenzy launch'd abroad
The war-song of Cassivelan: glad sounds
To that tranc'd queen, for Samor's hastier port [620]
Deliberate grandeur slacken'd, he look'd back,
Proud gratitude for that wild flattery. -- "All,
All in one wide conspiracy, (so spake
Rowena's bitter joy) thee, only thee
To glorify. Oh, were man mute, this earth [625]
Would leap to utterance of thy fame, the winds
Find voices eloquent, the streams, the stones,
To lofty music burst of thy renown."
Slowly retired the Queen; she call'd around
Her slaves, her handmaids; arrogant their looks [630]
Seem'd to confront her, eyes aye wont to shrink
Before her gaze, now seem'd to pry and pierce
Her deepest soul's recesses; and she blush'd
Even in her plenitude of scorn. They stood
Trembling before her wayward mood, yet seem'd [635]
Mockeries their tremors; solitude she sought,
Yet solitude found none, things senseless took
Stern cognizance of all her acts, her thoughts:
Eyes hung the empty walls, weak laughing sounds
Of triumph o'er her shame, pervaded wide [640]
The tranquil air, all with herself at league
Shook scorns upon herself. Dim evening falls,
O'er earth and sky, slow flits the shadowy night.
"Slaves there!" she cried, "my steed! alone I ride."
She wont to find her every look a law, [645]
Now almost wonders all so swift obey.
The moon's white sickle tenderly array'd
With dubious lustre the gray heavens; scarce tinged
The dew-webs, whiten'd not the yellow crown
Of the unwaving forest; ignorant, [650]
Or with feign'd ignorance 'guiling even herself,
Long upon Samor's track the Lady rides.
'Tis not a stag that couches on the heath;
Hope on her dim cheek brightens, from her steed
Soft she dismounts, she ruffles not the fern, [655]
The moss springs printless up beneath her feet,
So light her gliding to that slumbering man.
She knows him, she starts back. -- "Oh, came I here,
Lost and abas'd, him, only him to seek,
That answers mine immodest heart with flight, [660]
With scorn, perchance with hate! yet wonderous he,
Wonderous in rest as action! Sleep'st thou calm,
While numberless as these brown heath-spikes rise
Legions of spears around thee, for thy blood
Leagued in one furious thirst? Unwise and rash! [665]
To night thou slumber'st not unguarded, sleep;
And if Rowena mingle with thy dreams,
Sleep calmly, breathingly as now! He wakes --
Oh, hateful even in slumber that harsh name
Grates on his sense." -- His eyes unfold, nor start, [670]
So soft the vision; wonder's self is calm,
And quaffs it in with mild unshrinking gaze.
Her long bright hair, like threads of silver streak
The moonlight, her fair forehead's marble arch
Wild joyous fearfulness, extatic doubt, [675]
Bathe with the dewyness of melting snow,
Ere yet unblanch'd its stainless glitter pure.
Oh, soft and slow that melody of mien
Steals o'er the slumberer, ere the reason woke,
The sense was drunken, one hand folded her's [680]
That answer'd not its pressure, nor withdrew,
Tremulous, yet motionless: his rising head
Found on her other arm such pillowing soft,
As the fond ringdove on its mate's smooth down.
They spake not, moved not. 'Tis the noon of night, [685]
Hour known to Samor not by sign or sound
Of man's wise art to mark the fleeting time,
Nor changing of the starry heavens; but e'er
By motion of the secret soul, by calm
Habitual sliding into the sooth'd heart, [690]
Distinct from turbulent day and weary eve,
Emeric's own hour, her consecrated spot
In his life's wilderness. She comes, she comes,
The clouds have dropt her from their silvery folds;
The mild air wafts her, the rank earth impure [695]
Stainless she skims, distrust, doubt, fear, no place
Find in the sinless candour of her mien.
In languid soft security she melts
On Samor's fever'd soul, she fills his sense,
Her softness like the nightingale's first notes [700]
After rude evening, o'er his passion steals:
He cast not off Rowena's hand, it fell
As from a dead man's grasp; slow rose his head
From its fair zone, as from a bank of snow
The winter traveller, by its smoothness guil'd [705]
Almost to deathful sleep; he dares not now
Welcome that heavenly visitant, nor could,
Nor would he her mild rescue bid depart.
Nor dares he now with chill abhorrence shrink
From that empassion'd Lady; on his lips [710]
Clung wretched, pale, beseechingness, that framed
Nor word nor sound. But time for thought in her
Gave time for shame, for struggling pride gave time.
"Thou deem'st me loose, wild, wanton, deem'st me come
To lure thee with light sweets of lawless love, [715]
Hunting mine own shame through the midnight woods.
Oh false, all false. -- How thee shall I persuade,
Aye me! that scarce persuade myself, 'twas chance,
'Twas fate, 'twas ministration of bad spirits,
That led me thoughtless, hopeless -- did I say [720]
Hopeless? yet scorn not thou, the lightest won
Are oft best won. Oh why, ere now so mild,
So gentle, why so stern, so ghastly still?"
"Thou love'st my pride, my honour, my renown.
Now, Queen Rowena, may'st thou do a deed [725]
Shall make my pride thine own, make thee my fount
Of honour, all my noontide of renown
On thee in all its golden brilliance shine;
And if henceforth man's voice cry out, High deeds
Hath Samor's arm achiev'd, thy heart shall bound [730]
And thy lips answer, 'Mine! all mine!' and I
Will bless thee, thank thee, praise thee for that truth."
O'er proud Rowena past his solemn voice
Tremendously delightful, as the sound
Of thunder over Jove's bold-minist'ring bird, [735]
That sternly rocks on th'agitated air.
"Speak, speak, 'tis hours, 'tis years until 'tis done."
Return'd one brief, one powerful word -- "Depart."
She struggled yet to wear the lofty light
That flush'd her brow, she struggled, and she fell [740]
Her white arms round his neck. Light as the breeze
Pass'd over his her cheek. Then back
She started, seiz'd her courser's rein; far, far
The rocks gave answer to its trampling hoofs.
To solitude, to peace, ah, not to peace! [745]
Was Samor left; large dewy beads distil
From his full brow, as from the forest leaves
The sunny icicle: fierce, merciless,
Relentless inquest o'er himself he holds,
In him a sin in thought is sin in deed. [750]
"And I, that on the frantic waxen wings
Of mine own arrogance, have deem'd my soul
Kindred and heritor of that rich bliss
That bathes the Angels radiant wings in strength,
That wander'd o'er this sublunary wild [755]
As with a charter'd scorn, that mix'd with men
But in disdainful mastery to o'er-rule
Their dim and wavering destinies, that took
With noble violence admiring earth,
O'er me hath passion wound her silken nets; [760]
And that soft Dalila, lascivious sin,
Shorn my full honours. Now, who clothed my steps
With darkness, dread, and danger, hung my arms
With light'ning, kept at bay the envious death
That feasts upon the famous of mankind; [765]
God, God abandons me. So farewell pride,
And with pride farewell strength, the burning hope,
Glad agonies, brave bliss of holy war,
Transports of trampling on my country's foes,
And all the beauty, majesty, renown, [770]
Vengeance, of thy triumphal state. Ye too,
Farewell, soft midnights, delicate regards
Fix'd on me from fond eyes yet bright from heaven,
Mild agitations of the purer sense,
Fresh bloomings of my faded joys, ye dreams [775]
Lovelier than actual bliss, as heaven than earth,
Emeric abandons me. For how can snow
Drop on this foul earth stainless? how canst thou
Visit unsullied thy sad shrine defil'd,
Or beam upon this lust-benighted heart? [780]
Oh never felt before, the fear to front
Mine own past life, the ignoble shame that burns
At human sight, and memory that ne'er sleeps;
Heart-sickening at its own deformities,
A miserable welcome bid I ye, [785]
Come, dismal comforters, faint-footed guides,
Teach me the hate of life, the dread of death."
And Samor wander'd on, not now with scope
Resolv'd, and steady purpose that absorb'd
And fix'd on one stern centre all his soul, [790]
True as the arrow to its mark. Now where,
Whither, is all indifferent, he pursues
The wildering of the forest track, the brook
Winding its lucid error: two sad days
And chance hath led him back to Wye's green bank. [795]
Sudden before him swept in gallant pack,
Fleet hounds, whose keen scent quaff'd the morning dews.
Sole on their track a noble huntsman bow'd
O'er his steed's high-curv'd neck. But when he saw
Samor, that scarce his coming mark'd or heard, [800]
He vaulted from his uncheck'd steed so fleet,
The courser seem'd to feel it not, but on
Went stately bounding down the glen. But he
Unslung his bugle horn, his hunting spear
Cast to the winds, and held his burnish'd sword [805]
To heaven, as though to paragon its light.
"Oh, thunderer Thor, but one bold prayer of mine
E'er scaled thy heavens, and that, munificent,
I thank thee for thy granting. Samor now,
Now Christian, now baptiz'd in German blood, [810]
Avenger, we are met, and ere we part,
Earth must be ruddier with some blood of ours."
"Noble Argantyr, deem not thou unknown
Thy name, thy presence, nor forgot, how thou,
When Murther quaff'd his glut on Ambri plan, [815]
Didst hold thy jealous steel aloft, lest stain
From gore by treason shed, should dim its gleam;
And when I burst my iron toils, and won
My dangerous safety, how indignant joy
Stood bathing thy stern brow. Brave Anglian, thou, [820]
But thou, of German race, to faint sloth chill'st
My sword's quick wrath." -- "What, Samor out of love
With strife, with music of conflicting steel?
Hath Abisa's pale blood so quench'd his fire?
Were't not I now could force my glorious will, [825]
Yea, I could sue thee, Briton, for the joy.
Thou wilt not credit, air hath been defil'd
With creeping whispers cold, that I, I shrunk
To second in his dangers that brave boy,
As though Argantyr would partake a foe, [830]
And with division spiritless and base,
Mete out his province in one man to slay,
Hear; 'Well the famous Anglian won his half
Of that great conquest!' But I have thee now
Whole, undivided, now, or man, or more, [835]
If aught be mortal in thee, guard that spot,
My steel will search it," -- "Samor is not now
As Samor was, but knows not yet to scorn
Such brave allurements." Forth his anlace flash'd,
But not as wont, uplooks he to the sky; [840]
He thinks not now, on, if I fall, float near,
My Emeric, that no Angel's voice but thine
Welcome thy Samor to his opening heaven:
And if I vanquish, Britain and the Lord
Take to your hecatomb one Saxon more. [845]
But on Argantyr sprung, as wanton boy
To the cool health of summer streamlet pure:
Around, above, beneath his winged sword
Leaps in its fiery joy, red, fierce and far
As from a midnight furnace start the sparks. [850]
As brazen statue on proud palace top,
Shakes off the pelting tempest, so endur'd
Samor, but not in patient hope austere
Of victory; but habitual skill and power
Protracting long the cold indifferent strife; [855]
Till twice that sword that in its downward sweep
Flash'd the white sunlight, cloudy rose and dim
With ominous purple: then his nature burst
Its languid bonds, not front alone to front;
But soul to soul the riot of the fight [860]
They mingle, like to giddy chariot wheels
The whirling of their swords, as fierce the din
Of buckler brast, helm riven, and breastplate cloven,
As when the polar wind the ice field rends.
Such nobleness sublime of hideous fight [865]
From Ilion's towers her floating mantled dames
Saw not, nor Thebes, when Capaneus call'd down
Jove's thunder, and disdain'd its fall, nor pride
Of later Bards, when mad Orlando met
On that frail bridge the giant Sarzan king, [870]
And with him in the boiling flood dash'd down,
Till that fond eagerness, that brave delight
O'erpower'd frail nature, breathless each, and each
Careless, yet conscious of deep trenching wounds,
For admiration paus'd, for hope, for power [875]
To satiate the unwearying strong desire.
Lo, the far hills Argantyr first descried
Radiant with spearmen, and he cried, "Away,
'Tis Hengist with his bloody bands, I know
The motion of his crest; brave Chief, away." -- [880]
"Away! and leave Argantyr here to boast
Samor hath fled him!" -- "Oh, we meet again;
Thou art a quarry for the Gods, base lance
Must ne'er vaunt blood of thine. Argantyr spares
But for himself such noble game. Still here! [885]
Froward and furious, if thou need'st must die,
Why so must I; fell Hengist will not spare
And inch of quivering life on all thy limbs.
And I with such a jealous lust pursue
A noble conquest o'er thee, I must shield [890]
Thy life with mine, for my peculiar fame;
Freely mine own death on the hazard cast
For such a precious stake as slaying thee."
As through dusk twilight stolen, love-breathless maid
For interchange of gentle vows, by noise [895]
Startled of envious footstep, chides away
Her lingering youth, yet for his lingering loves,
Till her fond force hath driven him from her side;
So earnest the brave Anglian sued to flight
Reluctant Samor; o'er his sword hilt bow'd, [900]
Stood sorrowing for the wounds himself had made,
That marr'd his speedier flight. Anon approach'd
Hengist, encircled by his state of spears,
And bright Rowena by his side. "But now
Thy steed along our camp rush'd masterless, [905]
Therefore we seek thee, Anglican. How! thou bleedst!
And strange! thy foeman bites not the red earth.
What might hath scathless met Argantyr's steed?"
"He, gasp'd he here in death, thy soul would dance,
The Wanderer!" -- "He! he wars but on soft boys, [910]
He dare not front Argantyr." -- "False, 'tis false!"
Burst from Rowena; "he dares deeds our Gods
Had shrunk from (Hengist's cloudy brow she mark'd),
Or whence his proud claim to my father's hate?"
"Where hath the Recreant fled? Pursue, pursue!" [915]
Cried Hengist. "Hast thou wings to cleave the air?
Or windest the deep bosom of the earth,
Thou may'st o'ertake. Yet Samor is not now,"
He said, "as Samor was; were Samor more,
Earth and Argantyr had been wed erenow." [920]
So spake the Anglian; leap'd Rowena's heart
In hope, in shame, in anguish, in delight.
"Oh, hath my softness sunk so deep to change
Thy steadfast nature, yet thus chang'd, thy might
Wrests honour from thy foeman's lips." -- "Oh now," [925]
Laughing in baffled bitterness, exclaim'd
The Saxon King, "now weave we softer nets
To toil this dangerous Wanderer. What say'st thou,
Fair-ey'd Rowena, now thou hast cast off
Thy fond, thy lovesick Vortigern? perchance [930]
The sunshine of thy beauty might melt down
This savage to a tame submissive slave."
Rowena, whose proud look with beauteous awe
Smote her beholders, wore her loveliness
As though she gloried in its power; now close [935]
Crowded o'er all her face her mantle's folds,
That ill conceal'd the purple fire within.
Then forward past they to the Saxon camp.
But far by Wye's green marge had Samor fled,
Till now the ebbing blood with short quick throb [940]
Beat at his heart, his languid feet were clogg'd
With the thick forest leaves, the keen air search'd
With a cold thrill his wounds. He falls, scarce sobs;
"Merciful God, on this in all my life
The sole, the single day I would not die." [945]
Then faint, and sickly, an oppressive rest
Seal'd sight and sense. When sleep feel on him, eve
Was gathering fast, but when he woke, more shot
From the gray east her faint pellucid light.
His blood was staunch'd, a soothing coolness lay [950]
On his mild wounds, the rude arch of the boughs
Seem'd woven with officious care to veil
The bright Sun from his eyelids; the dry leaves
Were gathered round him, like a feathery couch.
He lay and listen'd, a soft step approach'd [955]
Light as the wren along the unshaking spray,
And o'er him lean'd a maiden pale, yet blithe
With tinge of joy, that settled hue. -- "Is't thou,
Gentle Myfanwy?" "Blessings on thy waking;
I long'd to tell thee what sweet dreams have sooth'd [960]
My sorrows since we parted; in my sleep
My parents came, and with them that fond youth,
And they smil'd on him kindly. Think'st thou God
Can have such mercy on sins dark as mine?"
"God's plenteous mercies on thee for thy care [965]
Of me, sweet maiden." -- "Pardon me, oh thou,
Heaven pardon me, when first I saw thee cold,
Helpless, and bleeding, evil thoughts arose
Of my poor Abisa's untimely death."
But deeper meditation Samor's mind [970]
Beset. "Almighty, truely thou ordain'st
Wisdom from baby lips; what moral high
Breathes in this simple maid's light-hearted smiles!
And I, for wisdom fam'd, for pride of mind,
Insulted with weak doubts thy infinite, [975]
Illimitable goodness; she so soft,
So delicate, so sinful and so sad,
Springs on her airy plumes of hope to thee.
Oh, were mine guilt of act not thought, the stain
Thy fount of living mercy might efface." [980]
He prest a kiss upon her cheek so pure
Even Abisa had granted it. -- "Farewell,
My kind preserver, cherish thou thy hope,
As 'twere an infant fondling on thy breast."
And fresh with hope, like gay stag newly bath'd, [985]
Forth on his voyage lone the Avenger past.
BOOK VIII.
His path is 'mid the Cambrian mountains wild;The many fountains that well wandering down
Plinlimmon's huge round side their murmurs smooth
Float round him; Idris, that like warrior old
His batter'd and fantastic helmet rears, [5]
Scattering the elements wrath, frowns o'er his way
A broad irregular duskiness. Aloof
Snowdon, the triple-headed giant, soars,
Clouds rolling half way down his rugged sides.
Slow as he trod amid their dizzy heights, [10]
Their silences and dimly mingling sounds,
Rushing of torrents, roar of prison'd winds;
O'er all his wounded soul flow'd strength, and pride,
And hardihood; again his front soar'd up
To commerce with the skies, and frank and bold [15]
His majesty of step his rugged path
Imprinted. So in old poetic faith
Hyperion from his native Delian bowers,
'Mid the rich music of those sisters nine,
Walk'd the bright heights of Helicon, and shook [20]
His forehead's clustering glories wide, and flush'd
The smoothness of his fair immortal face
With purple Godhead. Whence, ye mountains, whence
The spirit that within your secret caves
Holds kindred with man's soul? Is't that your pomp [25]
Of exaltation, your aërial crowns
In their heaven-scaling rivalry cast forth
Bold sympathies of loftiness, and scorn
Contagious? or in that your purer air,
Where fresh and virgin from its golden fount, [30]
Lies the fine light at morning, or at eve
Melts upward and resolves itself from earth,
And with its last clear trembling round ye clings;
The soul, unwound its coarse material chains,
Basks in its own divinity, and feels [35]
There in the verge and portal of the heavens,
The neighbourhood of brighter worlds unseen?
Where the blue Glasslyn hurries her fleet course
To wanton on the yellow level sands,
On either side in sheer ascent abrupt [40]
The rocks, like barriers that in elder time
Wall'd the huge cities of the Anakim
Upblacken to the sky, whose tender blue
With mild relief salutes th' o'erlabour'd sight.
There on the scanty slippery way, that winds [45]
With the stream's windings, Samor loiters on.
But who art thou, that in the Avenger's path
Standest in dark serenity? what joy
Instinct amid thy thick black locks reveals
The full voluptuous quietude within? [50]
Oh, Prophet! in thy wanderings wide and far
Amid the pregnant hours of future time,
Haply the form of Samor, disarray'd
Calamity's sad vesture, hath appear'd
In plenitude of glory. Hence thine eye [55]
With recognition glad and bright salutes
The Man of Fate. To earth that Prophet old
Bow'd down, then look'd he on the waters dark,
Then upward to the mountains. "Stony earth,
Within thy secret bosom feel'st not thou [60]
A wonderous presence? dwells not, thou blue stream,
Under thy depth of waves a silent awe? --
Yea, Snowdon, lift thou up in sternest pride
Thy cloudy mantled brow; ye know him all,
Ye know the Avenger." -- "Merlin, mock not thou [65]
Thy fellow creature of the dust, the child
Of sin and sorrow, with o'erlabour'd phrase.
Abasing the immortal elements
From their high calm indifference to sense
Of our light motions. Simple truth severe [70]
Best seemeth aged lips; oh, holy famed
And sage, how ill strong Wisdom's voice melts down
To the faint chime of flattery." -- "Poor of pride!
Feeble of hope! thou seest thyself forlorn,
An hunted wanderer in thy native land. [75]
I see thee clad in victory and revenge,
Thy glory sailing wide on all the winds,
Beautiful with thy blessings at thy feet
Thy own fair Britain, Fate so freely spreads
Her mystic volume to my sight." -- "Oh, blind, [80]
And ignorant as blind our insect race!
The mole would count the sunbeams, the blind worm
Search the hid jewels in the depths of earth,
And man, dim dreamer, would invade the heavens,
Self-seated in the Almighty's councils read [85]
The secrets of Omniscience, yea, with gaze
Familiar scruntinize the Inscrutable.
I tell thee, Merlin, that the soul of man
Is destiny on earth; God gave us limbs
To execute, and intellect to will [90]
Or good or evil, and his unseen Spirit
Our appetites of holiness, else faint
And wavering doth corroborate: hence man's prides,
Man's glories, and man's virtues all are God's.
If yet this heart unwearied may bear on, [95]
Nor from its holy purpose faintly swerve,
The Lord be prais'd, its fate is pride and joy.
But if, and oh the peril! it play false
Its country's lofty hazard, shall it shift
On wayward destiny its sloth and sin? [100]
Evil is not, where man no evil wills,
And good is not, where will not man and God."
"Chief wise as brave, as to our feeble sight
Yon pebble's slight circumference, the Past,
The Present, and the Future of this world [105]
Are to the All-seeing vision; oft doth Heaven
In sign and symbol duskily reveal
The unborn future; oft Fate's chariot wheels
Are harbinger'd by voices that proclaim
The fashion of their coming; gifted Seers [110]
Feel on their lips articulate the deeds
Of later days, and dim oracular sights
Crowd the weak eyes, till pall'd attention faint
To dizziness." -- "Oh, Merlin, time hath been
When in the guilty cities the Lord's voice [115]
Hath spoken by his Prophets, hath made quail
By apparitions ominous and dire
Strong empires on their unassailed height.
But oh, for us of this devoted isle,
Drench'd with the vials of Almighty wrath, [120]
To gaze up, and beseech the clouds to rain
Bright miracles on this poor speck of earth."
"Shame choke thy speech, despondent slanderer! thee
Avenger! this from thee! Away! my lips
Burn with the fire of heaven, my heart flows o'er [125]
With gladness and with glory. Peerless Isle,
How dost thou sit amid thy blue domain
Of ocean, like a sceptred Queen! The bonds
Like flax have wither'd from thy comely limbs.
Thou, the strong freedom of thy untam'd locks [130]
Shaking abroad, adornest God's fair world.
Thou noblest Eden of man's fallen state,
Apart and sever'd from the common earth,
Even like a precious jewel, deep and far
In the abyss of time thy dawn of pride
Still with a fuller and more constant blaze
Grows to its broad meridian, and Time's rolls
Are silent of thy setting. Oh, how fair
The steps of freemen in thy vales of peace;
Thy broad towns teem with wealth, thy yellow fields
Laugh in their full fertility; thy bays [141]
Whiten and glisten with thy myriad barks.
The Angels love thee, and the airs of heaven
Are gladden'd by thy holy hymns, while Faith
Sits on thy altars, like a nestling dove, [145]
In unattainted snowyness of plume."
"Now, by my soul, thou strange and solemn Man.
Mistrust thee more I dare not; be't a dream
Or revelation of immortal truth,
Of Britain's fame I cannot choose but hear [150]
With a child's transport." -- Then the Prophet shook
The dark profusion of his swelling hair
With a stern triumph; then his aged eye
Grew restless with delight: his thin white hand
Closing around the Baron's arm, lay there [155]
Like a hard glove of steel. He led him on,
Till now the black and shaggy pass spread out
To a green quiet valley, after named
The Bed of Gelert, that too-faithful hound
Slain fondly by his erring Lord: the stream [160]
Here curl'd more wanton, lightly wafting down
The last thin golden leaves the alders dropt,
Like fairy barges skimming the blue waves.
That stream o'erpass'd, rightward their silent way
Lay to the foot of Snowdon. Pause was none, [165]
They front the steep ascent, and upward wind
A long, sheer, toilsome path, their footfalls struck
Upon the black bare stillness, audible
As in thick forest the lone woodman's axe.
'Twas strange, yet slack'd not that old reverend Man
His upward step, as though the mountain air [171]
Were his peculiar element, still his breath
Respir'd unlabouring, lively bounded on
His limbs, late slow and tremulous. Three long hours,
Now front to front upon that topmost peak,
Erwydfa, sit they motionless, alone:
As when two vultures on some broken tower,
That beetles o'er a dismal battle field,
In dark and greedy patience ruminate
Their evening feast, a stillness as of sleep [180]
Heaves in their ruffled plumes, their deep bright eyes
Half clos'd in languid rest; so undisturb'd,
So lofty, sate the Avenger and the Seer.
The atmosphere, that palls our restless world,
Lay coiling in its murky folds below: [185]
So in some regal theatre, when droops
The unfolding curtain, and within it shrouds
The high disastrous passions, crimes, and woes
Erewhile that fretted on its pomp of scene;
Thus Earth, with all its solemn tragedies, [190]
Heroic vauntings, sumptuous imagings,
Set in its veil of darkness from their sight.
The filmless, the pellucid heaven above
One broad pure sheet of sunlight. -- "Gifted Man,
(Cried Samor,) wherefore to this desolate [195]
Untrodden!" -- "Ha! untrodden! know ye not,
Where course humanity defiles not, there
The snowy-footed Angels lightly skim
Their taintless soil, the fragrance of their plumes
Fans the pure air where chokes no breath of sin [200]
The limpid current? Desolate! the motes
That flicker in the sun are few and rare
To the immortal faces that smile down
Exquisite transport on the ravish'd sense.
Here, from their kindred elements, emanate [205]
The festive creatures of the heavenly fields,
Glories, and Mercies, and Beatitudes;
Some dropping on the silent summer dews,
Some trembling on the rainbow's violet verge,
Some rarely charioteering on the wings [210]
Of the mild winds, in moonlight some. Why shakes
The Man of Vengeance? wherefore of mine hand
This passionate wringing?" -- "Tell me, truely tell;
The name of Emeric, from some mild-lipp'd tone
Hath it e'er trembled on thine ear? Old Man, [215]
Is't sin to say her presence might adorn
That gentle company?" -- "To souls like thine,
Warrior, Heaven grants sweet intercourse and free
With its beatified." -- "Ah, now thou rak'st
The ashes of a buried grief: gone all, [220]
My gentle visitations broken off,
My delicate discoursings silent, ceas'd!
Oh, I talk idly, Prophet, speak thou on."
"Aye, Warrior, and of mild and soft no more;
Grandeurs there are, to which the gates of heaven [225]
Set wide their burnish'd portals: midnight feels
Cherubic splendours ranging her dun gloom,
The tempests are ennobled by the state
Of high seraphic motion. I have seen,
I, Merlin, have beheld. It stood in light, [230]
It spake in sounds for earth's gross winds too pure.
Between the midnight and the morn 'twas here
I lay, I know not if I slept of woke,
Yet mine eyes saw. Long, long this heart had yearn'd,
'Mid those rich passings and majestic shows [235]
For shape distinct, and palpable clear sound.
It burst at length, yea, front to front it stood,
The Immortal Presence. I clench'd up the dust
In the agony and rapture of my fear,
And my soul wept with terror and deep joy. [240]
It stood upon the winds, an Angel plumed,
And mail'd and crown'd; his plumes cast forth a tinge
Like blood on th' air around: his arms, in shape
Etherial panopoly complete, in hue
The moonlight on the dark Llanberis lake, [245]
A bright blue rippling glitter; for the crown,
Palm leaves of orient light his brown enwreath'd,
That bloom'd in fair divinity of wrath,
And beautiful relentlessness austere.
Knowledge was in my heart, and on my lips; [250]
I felt him, who he was. -- "Archangel! hail,
Destroyer! art not thou God's Delegate,
To break the glassy glories of this world?
The gem-knosp'd diadem, the ivory ball,
Sceptre and sword, imperial mantle broad, [255]
The Lord of Nations, Thundershaft of war,
Are glorious on the pale submissive earth:
Thou com'st, and lo, for throne, for sword, for king,
Bare ashes and thin dust. Thou art, that aye
The rich tower'd cities smoulder'st to pale heaps [260]
Of lazy moss-stones, and aye after thee
Hoots Desolation like a dank-wing'd owl
Upon the marble palaces of Kings.
Thou wert, when old Assyrian Niniveh
Sank to a pool of waters, waste and foul; [265]
Thou, when the Median's brow the massy tiar
Let fall, and when the Grecian's brazen throne
Sever'd and split to the four winds; and now
Consummatest thy work of wreck and scorn,
Even on Rome's Caesars, making the earth sick [270]
Of its own hollowness. Archangel! Hail,
Vicegerent of destruction, Cupbearer,
That pour'st the bitter liquor of Heaven's wrath,
A lamentable homage pay I thee,
And sue thee tell if Britain's days are full, [275]
Her lips for thy sad beverage ripe. Thereat
Earthward his sunny spear its lurid point
Declin'd, and lo, a White Horse, through the land
Ranging in stately speed; our city gates
Shrunk open at his coming, our fair fields [280]
Wither'd before him, so his fiery breath
Flar'd broad amazement through the gasping land.
Triumph was in the trampling of his feet,
And the strong joy of mockery, for he trod
On broken principalities; his mane [285]
Familiar Conquest, as a rushing wind,
Fann'd in loose brilliant streamings." -- "False-lipp'd Seer,
Thou spak'st of gladness, and thy ominous tone
Is darkness and dismay." -- "Hark, Warrior, hark:
That wanton mane was trail'd down to the dust, [290]
That fiery trampling falter'd to dull dread,
That pale victorious steed Thee, Thee I saw,
Visible as thou stand'st, with mastering arm
Drag down, and on his strong and baffled neck
Full trod thy iron-sandal'd heel. The sight [295]
Was wine unto my soul, and I laugh'd out,
And mock'd the ruinous Seraph in the clouds.
"Yet stood he in the quiet of his wrath,
Angelic Expectation, that awaits
Calmly till God accomplish God's high will, [300]
Full on his brow. Then stoop'd the spear again,
And lo, Seven Steeds, like that pale One, bestrode
The patient Isle, and they that on them rode
Wore diadem and regal pall; then rose
To war against those royal riders fierce, [305]
From a round table, Knights in sunlike arms,
Shields bossy with rich impress quaint, and fair
Their coursers, as the fire-hoof'd steeds of Morn.
To white-arm'd Ladies in a stately court
Bards hymn'd the deeds of that fine chivalry, [310]
And their crown'd Captain's title smote mine ear,
Arthur of Bretagne." -- Years went rolling on,
Cloudy, discordant, and temptestuous years,
For the sword reap'd the harvest of the land,
And battle was the may-game of her sons. [315]
And lo, a Raven o'er the Eastern sea
Swoop'd desolation on the Isle; her wings
Blasted wheree'er they wav'd, the earth wept blood
In her foul talons gripe. But he that rode
On the White Steed, the Sovereign of the Land, [320]
(Patience, Avenger, patience!) fair was he,
That Sovereign, as the virgin's spring-tide dream,
Holy as new anointed Christian Priest,
Valiant as warrior burnish'd for the fight,
Fond and extatic, as love-dreaming Bard, [325]
Solemn and wise, as old Philosopher,
Stately, as kingborn lion in the wood;
As he his fine face heavenward turn'd in prayer,
The Angels bent down from their throning clouds,
To wonder at that admirable King, [330]
Sky-wandering voices peal'd in transport out --
'Alfred!' the baffled Raven cower'd aloof,
The isle look'd up to heaven in peace and joy.
"Still stood he there, betwixt me and the sun,
Th' Archangel; not in sleep, nor senselessness [335]
Absorb'd, but terrible inaction spread
Over his innate menace. Oh, I strove,
Yet dared not hope the dregs of wrath were drain'd,
The mission of dismay fulfill'd and done;
Yet had those wings of fatal hue droop'd down [340]
In folded motionlessness, wreathy light
Had crept and wound around the dusky spear,
Silvering its perilous darkness. Dropt at once
That tender light away; at once those wings
Started asunder, and spread wide and red [345]
The rain of desolation, thicker roll'd
The pedestal of clouds whereon he stood,
As to bear up the effort of his wrath.
Again the Eastern Raven snuff'd our air,
The frantic White Horse laved his hoofs in blood, [350]
Till from the Southern Continent sprung forth
A Leopard, on the ocean shore he ramp'd.
Woe to the White Horse, to the Raven woe,
Woe for the title of the Leopard Lord,
The Conqueror! and a Bell I heard, that sway'd [355]
Along the isle, and froze it into peace
With its majestic tyranny of sound.
"But he, upon the air, th' Archangel, he,
The summons of whose eye from climes remote
Beckon'd those grisly ministers of wrath, [360]
Northward he look'd, no northern ruin came.
To th' East, there all was still. The South, nor shape
Nor sound. The West, calm stretch'd th' unruffled sea.
Ha! thought I, earth hath now no ruin more,
The race of havock in extinct for us, [665]
Angel of wreck away! thy task is o'er;
Majestic Mischief, from our isle away!
He went not; as an earthquake's second shock,
With dreary longing watch'd I what might come;
Moments were years; and lo, the Island's sons [370]
Nor Briton they, nor Saxon, nor the stock
Of those new comers, but from each had flow'd
All qualities of honour and renown,
The foul dishonest dregs had fum'd away,
And the rich quintessence, unmix'd, unsoil'd, [375]
An harmony of energies sublime,
Knit in that high-brow'd people. Courtesy,
Death-scorning valour, Fame's immortal thirst,
And honour inbreath'd like the life of life.
Then rose that strong Archangel, and he smote [380]
The bosom of the land; at once leap'd up
That mighty people. Here a Snow-white Rose,
And there a Red, with a fatal blossoming,
And deadly fragrance, maddening all the land.
I heard, I saw -- ah, impious sights and sounds! [385]
Two war-cries in one tongue, two banner-rolls
Wov'n in one loom, two lances from one forge,
Two children from one womb in conflict met;
'Gainst brother brother's blood cried out to heaven,
And he that rent the vizor of his foe, [390]
Look'd through the shatter'd bars, and saw his son.
Ha Britain! in thine entrails dost thou flesh
Thy ravine! thy Baronial castles blaze
With firebrands from their hospitable hearths.
"Mercy, I cried aloud, thou Merciless! [395]
Destroy no more, Destroyer! Prone I fell,
And hid mine aching eyes deep in the dust;
So from my rocking memory to shut out
Those wars unnatural. Pass'd a sound at length
As of a Wild Boar hunted to his death; [400]
I raised mine head, still there the Archangel stood;
Another pause, another gleam of hope;
But in that quiet interval me-seem'd
Trumpetings as of victory from the sea,
Flow'd o'er the Isle, and glories beam'd abroad [405]
From a triumphal throne, where sate elate
A Virgin: all around her Poets harps
Strew'd flowers of amaranth blooming; and methought
Was joy and solemn welcoming in heaven
Of a pure incense, that from all the Isle [410]
Soar'd to the unapproached throne of God.
"Then saw I through the Isle, a River broad
And full, and they that drank thereof look'd up
Like children dropt forth from a nobler world,
So powerful that proud water work'd within, [415]
Freshening the body and the soul: and each
Beauty array'd and a frank simple strength.
The river's name was Freedom: her fair tide
So pleasant thrall'd mine eye, I saw not rise
Th' Archangel's spear: th' earth's reeling work me then,
For lo, upon a throne, a gallant Prince, [421]
That with misguided sceptre strove to check
That powerful stream: whereat the rebel tide
Swell'd up with indignation, and aloof
Stood gathering its high-cresting waves; down came [425]
The deluge, that fair throne, and all its strong
Nobility of pillars, with a crash
Came to the earth, while they that drank rush'd out
Inebriate with excess of that fierce stream,
And cast a bloody sacrifice, that head [430]
Endiadem'd with royalty, to glut
The tide implacable. 'Tis sad to hear,
Aye Samor, what was it to see! Brave Chief,
Cold winter leads the pleasant summer on,
The night must darken ere the morning dawn; [435]
The summer came, the morning dawn'd, I saw
The arch'd heavens open o'er the angelic shape,
And upward like a cloud he mingled in
To the sky's cloudiness. I cried aloud
'For ever!' the close settling in the heavens [440]
Seem'd to reply 'For ever.' Not with him
Pass'd off my vision fair. Another throne
Stood by the venturous margin of that stream;
Then merriment, and loose-harp'd wantonness
Smooth'd the late ruffled air; immodest tones, [445]
To which fair forms in dancing motion swam:
They paus'd, then dark around that throne it seem'd,
Whereat those holy hymns that scarce had ceas'd
To float up in their airy-winged course,
In faintness 'gan to tremble and break off; [450]
That stream again upgather'd its wak'd wrath,
And foamy menace. When behold, a fleet
Came tilting o'er the ocean waves, and cast
A Lady and a Warrior on the shore,
And kingly crowns around their brows august [455]
Out blossom'd; on the throne they took their seat,
Soar'd gladness on the wings of those pure hymns,
And the majestic stream in sunlight flow
And full rejoicing murmur, all its waves
Wafted around the high and steady throne. [460]
Now listen with thy soul, not with thine ears,
Briton! beside that stream a Tree sprang out,
With ever-mounting height, and amplitude
Aye-spreading; deep in earth its gnarled roots
Struck down, as though to strengthen this frail world:
Its crown amid the clouds seem'd soaring up [466]
For calm above earth's tossing and rude stir,
And its broad branching spread so wide, its shade
Lay upon distant realms; one golden bright,
Close by the cradle of the infant sun, [470]
And others in new western worlds remote;
And from that mystic river, Freedom, flow'd
A moisture like the sap of life, that fed
And fertilized the spacious Tree: the gales
Of ocean with a gorgeous freshness flush'd [475]
The beauty of its foliage. Blossoms rare
Were on it; holy deeds, that in the airs
Of heaven delicious smelt, and fruits on earth
Shower'd from it, making its sad visage smile,
For life and hope and bliss was in their taste. [480]
Amid the state of boughs twin Eagles hung
Their eyries, Victory and Renown, and swung
In rapturous sport with the tumultuous winds,
But birds obscene, Dishonour, Shame, Dismay,
Scar'd by the light of the bright leaves, aloof [485]
Far wheel'd their sullen flight, nor dar'd to stoop.
I saw the Nations graft their wasted trunks
From those broad boughs of beauty and of strength,
And dip their drain'd urns in that sacred stream.
But in the deep peculiar shade there stood [490]
A Throne, an Altar, and a Senate-house.
Upon the throne a King sate, triple-crown'd
As by three kingdoms; voices eloquent
In harmony of discord fulmin'd forth
From that wise Senate: in swift intercourse [495]
To and fro from heaven's crystal battlements
To that pure altar Angels stoop'd their flight.
And through the sunny boughs Philosophers
Held commerce with the skies, and drew from thence
The stars to suffer their sage scrutiny; [500]
And Poets sent up through the bowery vault
Such lavish harmonies, the charm'd air seem'd
Forgetful of its twinkling motion dim.
"Oh, admirable Tree! thou shalt not fall
By foreign axe, or slow decay within! [505]
The tempests strengthen thee, the summer airs
Corrupt not, but adorn. Until that tide,
Freedom, the Inexhaustible, exhaust,
Lives thy coeval Immortality."
The Prophet ceas'd: still Samor on his face, [510]
That in solemnity of firm appeal
Look'd heavenward, with a passionate belief
Gaz'd, and a glad abandonment. "Ha, Seer,
But now when thou begann'st 'twas noon of day,
And now deep night. Yea, Merlin, and by night [515]
The Tamer of the White Steed must go forge
His iron curb." Forth like a cataract
He burst, and bounded down the mountain side.
"Yet once again, tumultuous world, I plunge
Amid thy mad abyss; thou proud and fierce, [520]
I come to break and tame thee! see ye not,
Wise Hengist! stong Caswallon! how the sand
Is under your high towering thrones, the worm
Is in your showy palms." -- And then a pause
Of tumult and proud trembling in his soul, [525]
And, "False it was not, but a gleam vouchsaf'd
From the eternal orb of truth, the sense
That inbred and ingrain'd with my soul's life,
Hath made of Britain to this leaping heart
A sound not merely of deep love, but pride [530]
Intense, and inborn majesty. I feel,
And from my earliest consciousness have felt,
That in the wide hereafter, where old Fate
Broods o'er the unravelling web of human things,
Wov'n by the Almighty, spreads thy tissue broad [535]
In light, among the dark and mazy threads;
Vicissitude or mutability
Quench not its desolate lustre, on it winds
Unbroken, unattainted, unobscur'd." --
So pass'd he, who had seen, him then had deem'd, [540]
By the proud steedlike tossing of his crest,
His motion like the uncheck'd August sun
Travelling the cloudless vacancy of air,
A monarch for his summer pastime gone
Into the shady grove, with courtier train, [545]
And plumed steed, and laden sumpter mule,
Cool canopy, and velvet carpeting.
But he beneath the sleety winter sky,
Even his hard arms bit into by the keen
And searching airs, houseless, by hazard found [550]
His coarse irregular fare, his drink, the ice
Toilsomely broken from the stiff black pool.
The furr'd wold in the mossy oaken trunk
Lapp'd himself from the beating snow, but on
Went Samor with unshivering naked foot; [555]
The tempest from the mountain side tore down
The pine, like a scath'd trophy casting it
To moulder in the vale, but Samor's brow
Fronted the rude sky; the free torrent felt
The ice its rushing turbulence o'ergrow, [560]
Translucent in its cold captivity
It hung, but Samor burst the invading frost
From the untamed waters of his soul, and flow'd
Fetterless on his deep unfathom'd course.
And thou, wild Deva, how hast thou foregone [565]
Thy summer music, and thy sunny play
Of eddies whitening 'mid thy channel stones;
Bard-belov'd river, on whose green-fring'd brink
The fine imagining Grecian sure had feign'd
'Twixt thy smooth Naiads and the Sylvans rude [470]
Of thy gray woods stol'n amorous intercourse;
With such a slow reluctance thou delay'st
Under the dipping branches, that flap up
With every shifting motion of the wind,
Thy limpid moisture, and with serpent coil [575]
Dost seem as thou would'st mingle with thyself
To wander o'er again the same lov'd course.
Now lies thy ice-bound bosom mute and flat
As marble pavement, thy o'ershadowing woods
One bare, brown leaflessness, that faintly drop [580]
At intervals the heavy icicles,
Like tears upon a monumental stone.
But though thy merry waters and brisk leaves
Are silent, with their close-couch'd birds of song,
Even in this blank dead season music loves [585]
Thy banks, and sounds harmonious must be heard
Even o'er thy frozen waters. 'Twas an hymn
From a low chapel by the river side,
Came struggling through the thick and hazy air,
And made a gushing as of tears flow o'er [590]
The Wanderer's soul; the form winds could not bow
Nor crazing tempests, those soft sounds amate;
Those dews of music melt into the frame
Of adamant, proof against the parching frost.
Under the porch he glided in, and knelt [595]
Unnotic'd in the throng: whose motion sway'd
The beasts of ravine, he before his God
Wore nought distinctive, save of those bruis'd reeds,
Was he the sorest bruis'd, and deepest seem'd
The full devotion settling round his heart. [600]
More musical than the music on that soul,
So long inured to things tumultuous, sights
Rugged and strange, and hurrying and distract,
Came the sensation of a face belov'd.
The calm of that old reverend brow, the glow [605]
Of its thin silver locks, was like a flash
Of sunlight in the pauses of a storm.
Now hath the white stol'd Bishop lifted up
His arms, his parting benison descends
Like summer rain upon his flock. Whose ear, [610]
Oh, holy Germain, felt thy gentle tones
As Samor's? ah, when last thy saintly brow
For him look'd heavenward, and less tremulous then
Thy voice on him breath'd blessing, 'twas in times
Far brighter, at that jocund bridal hour [615]
When Emeric, rosy between shame and joy,
Stood with him by the altar side: -- "Thus live
In love till life's departure;" -- Such thy prayer,
Ah, words how vain! sweet blessings unenjoy'd!
The throng hath parted; in the House of God [620]
Still knelt the armed man; with pressure strong
He clasp'd old Germain's hand -- "Good Bishop, thou
Art skill'd in balancing our earthly sins
I was a man, whose high ambitious head
Was among God's bright stars; I deem'd of earth, [625]
As of a place whose dust my feet shook off
With an heaven-gifted scorn, so far, so high
Seem'd I above its tainting elevate.
At midnight, on my slumber came the sin,
I will not say how exquisite and fair, [630]
Mine eyelids sprung apart to drink it in,
My soul leap'd up to clasp it, and the folds
Of passion, like a fiery robe, wrapt in
My nature; I had fall'n, but bounteous Heaven
Of its most blest permitted one t'extend [635]
A snow-white arm of rescue." -- "The hot tears
Corrode and fret the warrior's brazen helm;
I will not ask thee if thine outward eyes,
Hath thy soul wept?" -- "Aye, Bishop, tears of blood;
Sorrow and shame weigh'd down my nerveless arm [640]
And clipp'd th' aspiring plumage of my soul;
From out mine own heart scorn hiss'd at me." -- "Well,
Strong Man of arms, hast fought the inward fight,
And God remit thy sins, as I remit." --
"Then take thou to thine arms thy ancient friend." [645]
So saying, uprose Samor, like a star
Out of the ocean, shining his bright face
With the pure dews of penitence. But he,
The old man, fell upon his neck and wept,
As though th' endearing name, my Son, were voic'd [650]
By nature, not by saintly use, a sound
Not of the lips, but th' overflowing heart.
Their's was a broken conference, drear thoughts
Of anguish, desolation, and despair,
So moulded up with recollections sweet, [655]
They made the sunken visage smile through tears;
A few fair roses shed on a brown heath,
A little honey in deep cups of gall:
Light bridal airs broke in upon by sounds
Funereal, shouts of triumph languishing [660]
To the faint shriek of agony, direness forc'd
Into the fresh bowers of delight, and death,
Th' unjoyous, in the laughing feast of joy.
'Tis th' one poor luxury of the wretched have
To speak of wretchedness -- yet brief their speech, [665]
"Vengeance and vigilance," the stern adieu
Even in that hoary Bishop's ear, he went.
But by the Bishop's side, just there where knelt
Th' Avenger, a new form: 'twas man in garb,
But the thin fringing of the humid eye, [670]
The delicate wanderings of the rosy veins,
The round full alabaster of the skin,
The briefness of the modest sliding step,
Something of womanly composure smooth,
Even in the close and girt habiliments, [675]
Belied the stern appearance. -- "Priest, with him
But now who parted, is my soul allied
In secret, close society; his faith
Must be my faith, his God my God." -- "Fair youth,
I question not by what imperious tie [680]
Of admiration or strong love, thou 'rt led;
For as the Heavens with silent power intense
Draw upward the light mists and fogs of earth,
And steeping them in glory, hang them forth
Fresh, renovate, and radiant; virtue holds [685]
The like attractive influence, to her trains
Souls light and clayey-tinctur'd, till they catch
The fair contagion of her beauty, beam
With her imparted light. Hear, heathen youth,
Hear and believe." -- As when beneath the nave [690]
Tall arching, the Cathedral organ 'gins
Its prelude, lingering exquisite
Within retir'd the bashful sweetness dwells,
Anon like sunlight, or the floodgate rush
Of waters, bursts it forth, clear, solemn, full; [695]
It breaks upon the mazy fretted roof,
It coils up round the clustering pillars tall,
It leaps into the cell-like chapels, strikes
Beneath the pavement sepulchres, at once
The living temple is instinct, ablaze [700]
With the uncontrolled exuberance of sound.
Even so with smoothing gentleness began
The mitred Preacher, winning audience close:
Till rising up, the rapid argument
Soar'd to the Empyrean, linking earth [705]
With heaven by golden chains of eloquence;
Till the mind, all its faculties and powers
Lay floating, self-surrender'd in the deep
Of admiration. Wondrous 'twas to see,
With the transitions of the Holy Creed, [710]
The workings of that regular bright face:
Now ashy blank, now glittering bright, now dew'd
With fast sad tears, now with a weeping smile,
Now heavy with droop'd eyelids, open now
With forehead arch'd in rapture; 'till at last [715]
Ensued a gasping listening without breath.
But as the voice severe wound up the strain,
And from the heavenly history to enforce
The everlasting moral, 'gan extort
From the noviciate in the jealous faith [720]
Passionless purity, and life sincere
From all the soft indulgences of sin;
Forbidden in the secret heart to shrine
A dear unlawful image, to reserve
A sad and narrow sanctuary for desire: [725]
Then stood in speechlessness, yet suppliant,
With snowy arms outstrech'd, and quivering loose,
The veiling mantle thrown in anguish back,
Confest the Woman; starting from their band,
Like golden waters o'er a marble bed, [730]
Flow'd out her long locks o'er her half-bare neck.
"To tell me that in such cold solemn tones,
All, all unwelcome, bitter as it is,
I must believe, for its oppressive truth
Loads on my soul, and he believes it all. [735]
To tell it me here, here, where all around
Linger his vestiges, where the warm air
Yet hath the motion of his breath, the sound
Of his departing footsteps beating yet
Upon my heart. Long sought! and found in vain! [740]
In sunshine have I sought thee and in shade,
O'er mountain have I track'd thee, and through vale,
The clouds have wrapp'd thee, but I lost thee not,
The torrents drown'd thy track, but not from me,
I dared not meet thee, but I sought thee still; [745]
To me forbid, alone to me, what all
The coarse and common things of nature may,
The airs of heaven may touch thee, I may not,
All human eyes behold thee -- all but mine;
And thou, the senseless, enviable dust [750]
May'st cherish the round traces of his limbs,
His fresh fair image must away from me.
Oh, that I were the dust whereon thou tread'st,
Even though I felt thee not!" -- And is this she,
The Virgin of the festal hall, who won [755]
A kingdom for a smile, nor deign'd regard
Its winning, and who stoop'd to be a Queen?
And is this she, whose coming on the earth
Was like the Morn in her impearled car,
Loftiest or loveliest which, 'twere bold to say? [760]
She whose enamouring scorn feel luxury-like
On her beholders, who seem'd glad to shrink
Beneath the wreath'd contempt of her full lip?
This she, the Lady of the summer bark,
To whom the sunshine and the airs, and all [765]
Th' inconstant waters play'd the courtier smooth,
That cast a human feeling of delight
At her bewitching presence o'er the blind
Unconscious forms of nature? Is this she!
Those rich lips, for a monarch's banquet meet, [770]
Visiting the dust with frantic kiss, thus low,
Thus desolate, thus fallen, of her fall
Careless, so deep in shame, yet unasham'd!
But thou, Heaven reconcil'd, on earth the seal'd,
The anointed by the prophet's gladdening oils, [775]
God's instrument, hath midnight now resum'd
Its spirit-wafting function? Emeric, she
On earth so mild, in her had anger seem'd
Unnatural as a war-song on a lute,
As blood upon the pinion of a dove. [780]
In heaven hath she her heavenly qualities
Unlearnt? is she the angel now in all
But its best part, forgiveness? Can it be
Th' ungentle North, the bleak and snowy air
Estrange her now? those elements of earth [785]
But tyrannize beneath the moon, the stars
And spirits in their nature privileg'd
From heat and cold, from fevering and from frost,
Their pure and constant temperament maintain,
Glide through the storm serene, and rosy warm [790]
Rove the frore winter air. Are sounds abroad,
That Samor from his mossy pillow, stretch'd
Under the oak, uplifts his head, and then
Like one bliss overcome, subsides again
Half asleep, half sense he lies, his nuptial hymn, [795]
Articulate each gay and dancing word,
Distinct each delicate and dwelling fall,
Is somewhere in the air about him, looks
Are on him of a bashful eye, too fond
To turn away, too timorous to fix [800]
And rest unwavering. All the marriage rite
Is acting now anew; the sunlight falls
Upon the gold clasp'd book of prayer, as then
It fell, and Germain speaks as Germain spake;
And Emeric, on her cheek the tear is there, [805]
Where then it hung in lucid trembling bright;
The very fluttering of her yielded hand,
When gliding up her finger small, the ring
Made her his own for ever, throbs again
Upon his sensitive touch. He dares not move [810]
Lest he should break the lovely bubble frail,
His tranc'd eyes stir not, lest they rove away
From that delicious sight, his open hand
Lies pulseless, lest the slightest change disturb
That exquisite sensation, so he lies,
Knowing all false, yet feeling all as true.
And it was false, yet why? that is indeed,
Which is to sense and sight. Ah, well beseems
Us, the strong insects of an April morn,
Steady and constant as the thistle's down [820]
When winds are on it, lasting as the flake
Of spring snow on the warm and grassy ground,
Well beseems us, ourselves, our forms, our lives,
The earth we tread on, and the air we breathe,
The light and glassy peopling of a dream, [825]
T' arraign our visions for their perishing,
And on their unreality to rail,
Ungrateful to the illusion, that deceives
To rapture, and unwise, to cast away
Sweet flowers because they are not amaranth. [830]
Thou, Samor, nor ungrateful nor unwise,
That, scaping from this cold and dark below,
Dost spread thee out for thy peculiar joy
A land of fair imaginings, with shapes,
And sounds, and motions, and sweet stillnesses, [835]
Dost give up all the moon beholds to woe
And tumult, but in some far quiet sphere
Findest thyself a pure companionship
With spirits thou dids't love, and who lov'd thee
While passionate and earthly sense was theirs. [840]
BOOK IX.
Who tracks the ship along the sea of storms?Who through the dark haste of the wintry clouds
Pierceth to where the planet is retired
And constant motion the blue arch of heaven
Traverseth? Sometimes on the mountain top [5]
Of some huge wave the reappearing bark
Takes its high stand, with pennon fluttering far
And cautious half furl'd, yet eminent
As of th' assaulting element in disdain.
Sometimes amid' the darkness falling off, [10]
And scattering from its crystal sphere away,
Bursts out the argent orb refresh'd, and shews
Its lamp unquenchable. Thou voyager
'Mid the rude waves of desolation, Star
Of Britain's gloomy night, so bafflest thou [15]
My swift poetic vision! now the waves
Ride o'er thee, now the clouds devour thee up,
And thou art lost to sight, and dare I say
Lost to thy immortality of song.
Thee to anon I see emerging proud [20]
From the dusk billows of calamity,
That swol'n and haughty from the recent wreck
Of thy compatriot navy, thee assail
With their accumulated weight of surge,
Thou top'st some high-brow'd wave, and shaking off [25]
On either side of their fury, brandishest
Thy solitary banner. Thee I see,
Within th' embosoming midnight of the land,
On gliding with smooth motion undisturb'd,
And through the glimpses of the breaking gloom, [30]
Sometimes a solemn beauty sheddest forth
Of the distemper'd face of human things.
Full in the centre of Caer Ebranc stood [NOTE 13]
A temple, by the August Severus rear'd
To Mavors the Implacable; what time [35]
That Cæsar stoop'd his eagles on the wreck
Of British freedom, when the mountaineer,
The King of Morven, if old songs be sooth,
Fingal, from Carun's bloody flashing waves
Shook the fled Roman on his new-built wall; [40]
And Ossian woke up on his hill of dreams,
And spread the glory of his song abroad,
To halo round his sceptred Hero's head.
But not the less his work of pride pursued
Th' imperial Roman; up the pillars rose, [45]
Slow lengthening out their long unbroken lines,
In delicate solidity advanc'd,
And stately grace toward the sky, till met
By the light massiveness of roof, that sloped
Down on their flowery capitals. Nor knew [50]
That man of purple and of diadem,
The Universal Architect at work,
Framing for him a narrow building dark,
The grave's lone building. Th' emperor and his bones
Into the blank of things forgot and past [55]
Had moulder'd, but this proud and 'during pile,
By wild weeds overgrown, by yellow hues
Of age deep tinted, still a triumph wrought
O'er time, and Christian disregard, and stood
As though to mock its Maker's perishing. [60]
Upon the eastern pediment stood out
A fierce relief, where the tumultuous stone
Was nobly touch'd into a fit device
For th' immortal Homicide within: it showed
His coming on the earth; the God had burst [65]
The gates of Janus, that fell shattering back
Behind him, from the wall the rearing steeds
Sprung forth, and with their stony hoofs the air
Insulted. Them Bellona urg'd, abroad
Her snaking locks from her bare wrinked brow [70]
Went scattering; forward th' haggard charioteer
Lean'd, following to the coursers reeking flanks
The furrowing scourge with all herself, and hung
Over their backs half fury, and half joy,
As though to listen to their bruising hoofs, [75]
That trampled the thick massacre. Erect
Behind, with shield drawn in and forward spear,
The con'd helm finely shap'd to th' arching brow,
The God stood up within the car, that seem'd
To rush whenever the fleet wind swept by. [80]
His brow was glory, and his arm was power,
And a smooth immortality of youth,
Like freshness from Elysium newly left,
Th' embalming of celestial airs inhal'd,
Touch'd with a beauty to be shudder'd at [85]
His massy shape, a lightning-like fierce grace,
That makes itself admir'd, whilst it destroys.
There on a throne, fronting the morning sun,
Caswallon sate, his sceptre a bright sword
Unsheath'd; with savage art had he broke up [90]
His helmet to the likeness of a crown,
Thereon uncouthly set and clustering bright
Rich jewels glitter'd; to his people rang'd
Upon the steps of marble sloping down,
Barbaric justice minist'ring he sate, [95]
Expounding th' absolute law of his own will,
And from the abject at his feet receiv'd
Homage that seem'd like worship: not alone
From his wild people, but from lips baptiz'd,
Came titles that might make the patient Heavens [100]
Burst to the utterance of a laughing scorn;
Might wake up from the bosom of the grave,
A bitter and compassionate contempt,
To hear the inheritance of her dull worms,
Nam'd in his dauntless and unblushing style, [105]
"Unconqu'rable! Omnipotent! Supreme!"
But all along the ranging column files,
And all abroad the turgid laudings spread,
Unconqu'rable! Omnipotent! Supreme!" --
Yet he, the Stranger, whom Prince Malwyn leads, [110]
He bows not, those hymn'd flatteries seem to jar
Upon his sense, so high his head he bears
Above them, like a man constrain'd to walk
Amid low tufts of poisonous herbs; he fronts
The monarch, and thus 'gins his taunting strain: [115]
"Unconqu'rable! whose conquering is the wolf's,
That when the shifting battle rages yet,
Steals to some desert corner of the field,
And riots on the spoils. Omnipotent!
Aye, as a passive weapon, wielded now, [120]
Now cast away contemptuous for the dust
To canker and to rust around. Supreme!
O'er whom is Ruin on its vultures wings,
Scoffing the bubble whereupon thou rid'st,
And waiting Hengist's call to swoop and pierce [125]
And dissipate its swoln and airy pride.
Whose diadem of glory, sword of power,
Yea, breath of life, at Hengist's wayward will,
Cling to thee, ready at his beck to fade,
And shiver and expire" -- "At Hengist's call! [130]
At Hengist's beck! at Hengist's!" -- the word chok'd,
With eyes that dug into the Stranger's face,
Yet so by wrath bewilder'd, they had lost
Distinction, rose Caswallon. From the wall
A lance he seiz'd, huge as a pine-tree stem, [135]
That on Blencathara stands sheer 'gainst heaven's storms:
Far o'er all heads a long and rapid flight
It cut along the air, till almost fail'd
The sight to track it to its ponderous fall.
Then taking on his throne his quiet seat, [140]
"Back, back to Hengist, say my lance flies thus,
Bid him o'ercast it, then come here again
To menace at Caswallon" -- "Soft and weak,
(Pursued the unwondering Stranger) know'st thou not,
There is a strength, that is not of the arm, [145]
Nor standeth in the muscles sinewy play?
It striketh, but its striking is unseen,
It wieldeth, what it wieldeth seeming yet
Sway'd by its own free motion. King, I saw,
Thou stepp'st not, speak'st not, but obedient still [150]
To Hengist's empire, thou'rt a dog that hunts
But as thy master slips thee on his game,
A bridled steed, that vaunteth at his own
His rider's prowess." -- "Hah! I know thee now,
Insolent outcast, Samor!" -- "And I thee, [155]
Self-outcast, once a Briton -- oh thou fall'n
When most thou seem'st exalted, oh most base
When most ennobled, a most pitiful slave
When bearing thee most lordly! Briton once,
Ay, every clod of earth that makes a part [160]
Of this isle's round, each leaf of every tree,
And every wave of every streamlet brook,
Should look upon thee with a mother's glance.
And speak unto thee with a mother's voice.
But thou, most impious and unnatural son, [165]
Hast sold thy mother to the shame and curse
Of foreign lust, hast knit a league to rend
And sever her, most proud if some torn limb
Be cast thee for thy lot". -- Then rose again
Caswallon, from his brow the crown took off, [170]
And placing it in Samor's hand -- "I read
Thy purpose, and there's fire in't, by my throne!
Now, Samor, place that crown upon my head,
Do me thy homage, kneeling, as thy king,
And thou and I, we'll have a glorious tilt [175]
At these proud Saxons. Turn not off; may boys
Gild their young javelins in Caswallon's blood,
And women pluck me by the beard, if e'er
On other terms I league with thee." -- The crown
Samor received, and Samor look'd to heaven, [180]
And Samor bow'd his knee, -- "Almighty God,
If thine eternal thunderbolts are yet
Unweary of their function dire, if earth
Yet, yet have not exhausted and consum'd
Thy flame-wing'd armoury of wrath, reserve [185]
Some signal and particular revenge
For this man's head, so this foul earth shall learn,
Ere doomsday, that the sin, whose monstrous shape
Doth most offend thy nice and sensitive sight,
Is to bear arms against our native land. [190]
Make thou of him a monumental ruin,
To publish in the ages long remote,
That sometimes is thy red right hand uplift
Against the living guilty." -- And to earth,
Upleaping, Samor dash'd the crown; the gems [195]
Lay starry on the pavement white. On high
Caswallon the rear'd sword of justice swung,
Heavy with death, above th' Avenger's head.
But he -- "Caswallon, hold thine hand, here, here
Thy warrant for my safety, by thy son [200]
A poniard given, upon his heart to wreak
All evil done myself." With bosom bare
Stood Malwyn by the Avenger's side. But he
Viewing that downy skin, empurpled o'er
With youth's light colouring, and his constant mien, [205]
Cast down the dagger, and "Fall what fall may,
Excellent boy, my hand shall still be white
From blood of thine." -- Like wild-boar in his rush
Baffled, or torrent check'd, Caswallon paus'd --
"Now, Christian, where learnt thou the art to wrest [210]
My vengeance from me? Go, go I may strike
If the fit fire me. -- By Andraste, boy,
Boy Malwyn, there's thy father in thy blood.
Hah, Samor, thou hast 'scap'd me now, erewhile
I'll make a footstool of thy neck, to mount [215]
On Britain's throne: alive or dead, I'll have
A knee as supple, and a front as low
From thee, as any of my milk-fed slaves:
Go, go." -- And Malwyn led the Avenger forth
Along the dull and sleepy shore of Ouse, [220]
Till all Caer Ebranc's sounds flagg'd on his ear,
And all its towers had dwindled from his sight.
Ere parting, Malwyn clasp'd his hand, and tears
Hung in his eyelids. -- "Oh, thou know'st not yet
How Hengist sways my father's passive mind; [225]
My sister, my sweet Lilian, she whose sight
Made mine eyes tremble, whom I've stol'n to see,
Despite my father's stern command, asleep
With parted lips, and snowy breathing skin,
Scarce knew she me, her brother, her knew I [230]
So only that my spirit yearn'd to mix
With her's in fondness, she, even she, the soft
The innocent, a wolf had lov'd her, she
Hath felt the drowning waters o'er her close,
Fair victim of an hellish sacrifice." [235]
After a troubled silence, spake the Chief:
"Malwyn, my Christian pupil, God will give
The lov'd on earth another meeting place;
Adieu, remember, Vengeance, Vigilance." --
The Spring had made an early effort faint, [240]
T' encroach upon the Winter's ancient reign;
And she had lur'd forth from the glittering earth
The snowdrop and pale cowslip, th' elder tree
And hawthorn their green buds shot out, yet fear'd
T' entrust the rude air with their dainty folds. [245]
A fresh green sparkled where the snow had been,
And here and there a bird on the bare spray
Warbled a timorous welcome, and the stream
Of Eamont, as rejoicing to be free,
Went laughing down its sunny silvering course. [250]
The only wint'ry thing on Eamont's shore
Is human; powerless are the airs that touch
To breathing and to kindling the dead earth,
Powerless the dewy trembling of the sun,
To melt around the heart of Vortimer
The snow that flakes and curdles there -- that bank,
That little bank of fair and cherish'd turf,
Whereon his head reclines, ah, doth not rest!
By its round swelling, likest were a grave,
Save that 'twere brief and narrow for all else [260]
But fairy, or those slender watery shapes
That dance beneath the stream. Yet there the Spring
Hath dropp'd her first, her tenderest bloom; the airs
Find the first flowery odours on that spot;
Cowslip is there, and primrose faint and pale, [265]
The daisy and the violet's blue eyes,
Peeping from out the shaking grass. The step
Of Samor wakens the pale slumberer there,
He lifts his lean hands up, and parts away
The matting hair from o'er his eyes, which look [270]
As though the painful sunlight wilder'd them,
With stony stare that saw not; save that lay
A shepherd's wallet by his side, had seem'd
That foot of man ne'er ventur'd here; all sounds
Were strange and foreign, save the pendant arms [275]
Swinging above the heavy knolling sound.
But Samor's presence made a sudden break
Upon his miserable flow of thought;
He motion'd first with bony arm, then spake.
"Away, away, thou'rt fearful, thou'lt disturb, [280]
Away with thy arm'd head and iron heel,
She will not venture, while thy aspect fierce
Haunts hereabout, she cannot brook a sound,
Nor anything that's rude, and dark, and harsh,
Nor any voice, nor any look but mine; [285]
She will not come up, if thou linger'st here;
Hard and discourteous man, why seek to keep
My own, my buried from me? why prevent
The smiling intercourse of those that love?" --
"Sad man, what mean'st thou?" -- "Speak not, but begone, [290]
I tell thee, she's beneath, I laid her there,
And she'll come up to me, I know she will,
Trembling and slender, soft and rosy pale.
I know it, all things sound, and all things smile,
As when she wont to meet me." -- "Woful youth, [295]
The dead shall never rise but once." -- "And why?
The primrose that was dead, I saw it shed
Its leaves, and now again 'tis fresh and fair;
The swallow, fled on gliding wing away,
Like a departing spirit, see, it skims [300]
The waters; the white dormouse, that went down
Into its cave, hath been abroad; the stream,
That was so silent, hark! its murmuring voice
Is round about us; Lilian too, to meet
The voices and the breathing things she lov'd, [305]
Amid the sunshine and the springing joy
Will rise again." -- "Kind Heaven, I should have known,
Though rust embrown'd yon breast-plate, and yon helm,
I should have known, though furrowy sunk and wan,
That face, though wreck'd and broken, that tall form;
Prince Vortimer! in maiden or in child, [311]
Fancies so sick and wild had been most sad,
But in a martial and renowned chief,
Might teach a trick of pity to a fiend.
Oh, much abus'd! much injur'd! well, too well [315]
Hath that fell man the deed of evil wrought." --
"Man, man! then there is man, whose blood will flow,
Whose flesh will quiver under the keen steel,
Samor!" -- And up he leap'd, as though he flung
Like a dead load, the dreamy madness off. [320]
"Samor! thou tranquil soul! that walk'st abroad
With thy calm reason, and thy cloudless face
Unchangeable, as a cold midnight star:
Thou scarce wilt credit, I have found a joy
In hurling stones down on that glassy tide, [325]
And with an angry and quick-dashing foot,
Breaking the senseless smoothness, that methought
Smiled wickedly upon me, and rejoic'd
At its own guilt, and my calamity.
But oh, upon a thing that feels and bleeds, [330]
And shrieks and shudders, with avenging arm
To spring! Where is't and who? good Samor tell." --
And Samor told the tale, and thus -- "Brave youth,
Not only from yon narrow turf, come up
From Britain's every hill, and glen, and plain, [335]
Deep voices that invoke thee, Vortimer,
To waken from thy woful rest. Thy arm
No selfish, close, and singular revenge
Must nerve and freshen; in thy country's cause,
Not in thy own, that fury must be wreak'd." [340]
His answer was the brandishing his sword,
Which he had rent down from th' o'erhanging bough,
And the infuriate riot of his eye.
"Oh, perilous your hazard," still went on
Samor, "ye foes of freedom, ye take off [345]
Heaven's bonds from all our fiercer part of man,
Ye legalize forbidden thoughts, the thirst
Of blood ye make a glory, give the hue
Of honour and self-admiration proud,
To passions murky, dark, unreconcil'd: [350]
The sterm and Pagan vengeance sanctify
T' a Christian virtue, and our prayers, that mount
Unto the throne of God, though harshly toned
With imprecations, take their flight uncheck'd."
But Vortimer upon the grassy bank
Had fall'n, "Not long, sweet spirit, oh not long,
Shall violets be wanting on thy grave." --
Yet unaccompanied the Avenger past, --
As though the wonted dark and solemn words,
"Vengeance and Vigilance," had fix'd him there, [360]
Prince Vortimer remains by Eamont side.
Samor! the cities hear thy lonely voice,
Thy lonely tread is in the quiet vale,
Thy lonely arm, amid his deep trench'd camp,
The Saxon hears upon some crashing helm [365]
Breaking in thunder and in death. But thee,
Why see I thee by Severn side? what soft
And indolent attraction wiles thee on,
Even on this cold and gusty April day,
To the sad desert of thy ancient home? [370]
Why mingle for thyself the wormwood cup?
Why plunge into the fount of bitterness?
Or why, with sad indulgence, pamper up,
Wilful the moody sorrow, and relax
Thy high-strung spirit? Oh, so near, no power [375]
Hath he to pass from those old scenes away,
He must go visit every sport belov'd,
And think on joys, no more to be enjoy'd.
Ruin is there, but ruin slow and mild,
The spider's wandering web is thin and gray [380]
On roof and wall, here clings the dusky bat,
And, where his infants voices us'd to sound,
The owlet's sullen flutter and dull chirp
Come o'er him; on his hospitable hearth
The blind worm and slow beetle crawl their round. [385]
Yet is not little, light, and trivial thing,
Without its tender memory; first with kiss,
Long and apparent sweet, the primrose bed
He visits, where that graceful girl is laid.
Then roves he every chamber; eye, and ear, [390]
And soul, all full of her, that is not there:
Emeric haunts everywhere, there's not a door
Her thin form hath not glided through, no stone
Upon the chequer'd marble where her foot
Hath never glanc'd, no window whence her eyes [395]
Have never gaz'd for him; the walls have heard
Her voice; her touch, now deathly cold, hath been
Warm on so many things; there hangs, even now,
The lute, from whence those harmonies she drew,
So spherelike sweet, they seem'd to drop from heaven.
There, where the fox came starting out but now, [401]
There, circled with her infants, did she sit:
And here the bridal couch, the couch of love,
A little while, and then the bed of death.
And lo that holy scroll of parchment, stamp'd [405]
With many a sentence of the word of God,
Still open, Samor could not choose but read
In large and brilliant characters emblaz'd,
The Preacher's "Vanity of vanities."
How like is grief to pleasure! here to stay [410]
One day, one night, to see the eve sink down
Into the water, with its wonted fall
'Tis strange temptation -- and to gather up
Sad relics. And the visionary night!
How will its airy forms come sliding down, [415]
Here, where is old familiar footing all,
'Tis strange temptation. -- But the White-horse flag
Past waving o'er his sight, at once he thought
Of that seal'd day of destiny, when his foot
Should trample on his neck, and burst away. [420]
Oh secret traveller o'er a ruin'd land,
Yet once more must I seek thee 'mid the drear,
The desolate, the dead. On Ambri plain,
On Murder's blasted place of pride. Might seem
At distance 'twas a favour'd meadow, bright [425]
With richer herbage than the moorland brown
Around it, the luxurious weeds look'd boon,
And glanc'd their many-colours fleck'd with dew.
Seen nearer, scattter'd all around appear'd
Few relics of the sumptuous feast, the wrecks [430]
Of lifeless things, that gaily glitter'd still,
While all the living had been dark so long.
Fragments of banners, and pavilion shreds,
Of broken goblet here and there, or ring,
Or collar on that day how proudly worn! [435]
A stol'n and hurried burying had there been;
Here had the pious workman, as disturb'd
At his imperfect toil, left struggling out
A hand, whose bleach'd bones seem'd even yet to grasp
The earth, so early, so untimely left. [440]
And here the gray flix of the wolf, here black
Lay feathers of the obscene raven's wing,
Shewing, where they had marr'd the fruitless toil.
And uncouth stones bore here and there a name,
Haply the vaunted heritage of kings. [445]
It was a sad and stricken place; though day
Was in the heaven, and the fresh grass look'd green,
The light was wither'd, nor was silence there
A soothing quiet; busy 'twas, and chill
And piercing, rather absence of strong sound, [450]
Than stillness, like the shivering interval
Between the pauses of a passing bell.
Oh Britain! what a narrow place confines
Thy powerful and thy princely! that gray earth
Was what adorn'd and made thee proud: the fair, [455]
Whose beauty was the rapture of thy maids,
The treasure of thy mothers: and the brave,
Whose constant valour was thy wall of strength:
The wealthy, whose air-gilding palace towers
Made thee a realm of glory to detain [460]
The noon-day sun in his career; thy wise,
Whose grave and solemn argument controll'd
Thy councils, and thy mighty, whose command
Was law in thy strong cities, Beauty, wealth,
Might, valour, wisdom, mingled and absorb'd [465]
In one cold similarity of dust,
One layer of white and silent ashes all.
The air breathes of mortality; abroad
A spirit seems to hover, pouring in
Dim thoughts of Doomsday to the soul; steal up [470]
Voiceless sensations of eternity,
From the blank earth. Oh, is it there beneath
Th' invisible everlasting? or dispers'd
Among its immaterial kindred free,
The elements? Oh man! man! fit compeer [475]
Of worms and angels, trodden under foot,
Yet boundless by the infinite expanse
Of ether! mouldering and immutable!
But thou, Avenger, in that quiet glebe,
How many things are hid, once link'd to thee [480]
By ties more gentle than the coupling silk,
That pairs two snowy doves! hands used to meet
In brotherly embrace with thine, and hearts
Wherein thy image dwelt, clear, changeless, full
As the Spring moon upon a crystal lake, [485]
Faces in feast, in council, and in fight,
That took their colouring from thine. And thou
Alone art breathing, moving, speaking here,
Amid the cold, the motionless, the mute!
Among that solemn multitude of graves [490]
One woman hath her dwelling: round and round
She wanders with a foot that seems to fear
That it is treading over one belov'd.
She seems to seek what she despairs to find.
There's in her eye a wild enquiring roll, [495]
Yet th' eye is stony. Oft she stops to hear,
Then, as in bitter disappointment, shakes
Her loose hair, and again goes wandering on.
She shriek'd at Samor's presence, and flung up
Her arms, and in her shriek was laughter. "Thou!
What dost thou with that face above the earth, [501]
Thou should'st be with the rest!" -- "My friend's soft bride,
The dainty Evelene!" -- "That's it, the name
Wherewith the winds have mock'd me every morn,
And every dusky eve -- or was it then? [505]
Aye then it was, when I was wont to sleep
On a soft bed, and when no rough winds blew
About me, when I ever saw myself
Drest glitt'ringly, and there was something else
Then, which there is not now." -- "Thy Elidure, [510]
Ah! houseless widow!" -- "Hah! thou cunning man,
'Twas that, 'twas that, and thou canst tell me too
Where they have laid him -- well thou canst, I know
There's deep connexion 'twixt my grief and thee.
Thou, thou art he that wakest sleepers up, [515]
And send'st them forth along the cold bare heath,
To seek the dark and disappearing. There
Sound howlings at the midnight bleak, and blasts
Shivering and fierce. And there come peasant boors
That bring the mourner bread, and weave the roof [520]
Above her, of the brown and rustling fern,
But never sounds the voice, or comes the shape
She sought for. Oh, my wakings and my sleeps
How exquisite they were, upon his breast
I slept, and when I woke there smil'd his face." [525]
Even as the female pigeon to her nest,
All ruffled by rude winds and discompos'd,
Returning, with full breast sits brooding down,
And all sinks smooth around her and beneath:
So when the image of departed joy [530]
Revisited the heart of that sad wife,
Settled to peace its wayward and distraught,
Sweetly she spake, and unconfus'dly heard,
Of him the low, the undistinguish'd laid,
Of Samor's friend, her bridegroom, Elidure. [535]
And somewhat of her pale and tender bloom
With a faint flourishing enliven'd up
The wither'd and the sunken in her cheek;
But when again alone, o'er heart and brain
Flash'd back the wandering, recommenc'd the search
Ever with broken questionings, and mute [540]
Lip-parted listenings, pauses at each grave,
As though it were her right, where lay her lord,
That some inherent consciousness should start
Within her; though 'tis nature's law, that one [545]
Cold undistinguished silence palls the dead,
Yet, yet 'tis hard and cruel not to grant
One low sound, even the likeness of a sound,
To tell her where to lay her down and die.
Sure there are spirits round her, yet all leagued [550]
T' abuse and lead astray, and hid, even his,
Pitiless as the rest, with jealous care
Concealing its felt presence. Ghostly night
Wafts her no dusk intelligence; the day
Shews nothing with its broad and glaring rays. [555]
BOOK X.
But thou from North to South hast rang'd the isle,From Skiddaw to the Cornwall sea-beat rocks,
One icy face of desolation cold,
One level sheet of sorrow and dismay,
Avenger! thou hast travers'd, hast but held [5]
Companionship with mourners and with slaves.
Upon the northern rocks of Cornwall meet
Th' Avenger and the Warrior; thus spake he --
"How name ye yon strong castle on the rock?"
"Tintagel, the Prince Gorlois' towers." -- "And whose
Yon soldiers cresting with their camp the shore, [11]
And yon embattled navy on the sea,
Rounding their moony circle?" "Mine." -- "And thou?"
"Methinks, most solemn questioner, the helm
Might well proclaim Pendragon." -- "No, the brow, [15]
Whereon that scaly blazon us'd to glow,
Had ne'er been girding with unnatural siege
A British castle, while all Britain lay
In chains beneath the Stranger." -- "What art thou,
That beardest in thy high and taunting vein [20]
The Princes of the land?" -- "A Prince." -- "Thus arm'd
And thus attir'd!" -- "Misjudging, must thou learn
The actions are the raiment of the man,
Better to serve my country in worn weeds
And dinted arms like mine, than 'gainst her sons [25]
To lace a golden panoply. This rust,
'Tis Saxon blood, for thine, its only praise
Is its bright stainlessness. Look not, fierce Prince,
As from my veins its earliest spots should fall,
'Tis Britain barbs the arrows that I speak, [30]
And makes thy heart its mark." -- "What man or more
Thus fires and freezes, angers and controls
With the majestic valour of his tongue,
The never yet controll'd, and bears the name
Of Britain, like a shield before him, broad [35]
And firm against my ripe and bursting wrath?
Samor! come, honour'd warrior, to my arms;
Oh shame to see, and seeing not to know
The noblest of our isle." -- "No arms may fold
Samor within them, but a Briton's; thou [40]
By this apostate war disown'st the name,
And leaguest dark alliance with her foes."
"Ah, then thou know'st not, in yon rock is mew'd
The crafty kite that hath my dove in thrall.
My dove, my bride, my sweet Ignera; her [45]
That Gorlois with his privy talon swoop'd,
The gentle, the defenceless, and looks down
From his air-swinging eyrie on my wrath,
That like the sea against the rooted rock,
Lashes and roars in vain." -- "Thy bride!" -- "My bride,
By holy words in saintly chapel spoke; [51]
And all before the twilight meeting stolen,
Upon the shelly beach, when came my bark
Sliding with smooth oar through the soundless spray
From the Armoric shore, and vows so fond [55]
The unfelt waters crept up round our feet;
All after rapturous union undisturb'd,
Her father's blessing on our bridal couch,
Promise of infant pledges, all o'erthrown,
All wither'd by that Gorlois, that low worm [60]
I were too proud to tread on heretofore;
He with some cold and antiquated plea
Of broken compact by the sire, away
Reft with a villain stealth th' ill-guarded gem,
And hoards it in his lone and trackless cave." [65]
"A darker and more precious theft has been:
This Britain hath been stolen, this fair isle,
This land of free-born Christian men become
The rapine of fierce Heathens. Uther, hear,
Hear, son of Constantine! most dear the ties [70]
Of wedlock earthly woven, yet seal'd by God;
But those that link us to our native land.
Are wrought out from th' eternal adamant
By the Almighty. Oh thy country's call
Loud with a thousand voices drowns the tone [75]
Of sweet-complaining even from wife belov'd --
Forego the weaker, Uther, and obey
The stronger duty." -- "Bloodless man and cold,
Or wrong I thee; perchance the Saxon holds
Thy Emeric, and my claims must cede to thine, [80]
Even as all beauties to that peerless star." --
Spare, Uther, spare thy taunting, she is safe,
Briton or Saxon harm not her." -- "'Tis well,
Fair tidings! but thy shuddering brow looks white."
"There's a cold safety, Uther, with the dead, [85]
There is where foes disturb no more, the grave."
"Pardon me, friend -- oh pardon -- but my wife,
She too will seek that undisturbed place,
Ere yield to that pale craven's love; if false
She dare not live, and yet, oh yet she lives." [90]
Uprose the Avenger, and his way he took
To where the rock broke off abrupt and sheer.
Before him yawn'd the chasm, whose depth of gloom
Sever'd the island Castle from the shore:
The ocean waves, as though but newly rent [95]
That narrow channel, tumbled to and fro,
Rush'd and recoil'd, and sullenly sent up
An everlasting roar, deep echoed out
From th' underworking caverns; the white gulls
Were wandering in the dusk abyss, and shone [100]
Faint sunlight here and there on the moist slate.
The Castle drawbridge hung aloof, arm'd men
Pac'd the stern ramparts, javelins look'd out
From embrasure and loop-hole, arbalist
And bowstring loaded lay with weight of shaft [105]
Menacing. On the dizzy brink stood up
Th' Avenger, like a Seraph when absolv'd
His earthly mission, on some sunny peak
He waits the gathering cloud, whereon he wont
To charioteer along the azure space; [110]
In vain he waits not, under his plum'd feet,
And round about his spreading wings it floats,
And sails off proudly with its heavenly freight.
Even thus at Samor's call down heavy fell
The drawbridge, o'er the abyss th' Avenger springs; [115]
Tintagel's huge portcullis groaning up
Its grooves gives way; then up the jealous bridge
Behind him leaps, the gate falls clashing down.
Half wonder, and half fear, Pendragon shook
The terrors of his crest, and gasping stood, [120]
As when a hunter is gone in to brave
The bear within his shaggy den, down peers
His fellow through the dusk, and fears to see
What his keen eyes strain after. But elate
Appear'd upon the rampart that tall Chief, [125]
Seeming on th' outpour'd garrison to cast
Words potent as the fabled wizard's oils,
With the terrific smoothness of their fire
Wide sheeting the hush'd ocean; th' arbalist
Discharg'd its unaim'd bolt, the arrow fell [130]
From the slack bowstring; careless of his charge,
The watchman from his turret lean'd, o'er all
Bright'ning and stilling the high language spread,
Giving a cast of pride to vulgar brows,
Shedding o'er stupor and thick-breathing awe [135]
A solemn hue of glory: Far it spread
Beyond the sphere of sound, th' indignant brow,
The stately waving of the arm discours'd,
Flow'd argument from every comely limb,
And the whole man was eloquence. From cliff, [140]
From bark gaz'd Uther's soldiery, one voice
Held in suspense the wild and busy war,
And on the motion of his lips, the fate
Of two strong armies hung. Anon the gate
Flew up, the bridge lay shuddering o'er the chasm. [145]
Forth Samor comes, a Lady by his side,
And Gorlois in the garb of peace behind.
Tremblingly she came gliding on, and smooth,
As the west wind o'er beds of flowers, a child
Was with her: the cool freshness of the air [150]
Seem'd o'er her marble cheek a flush unus'd
To breathe, and human faces o'er her threw
A modest, faint disturbance. Uther rush'd
To meet her, ere he came her failing frame
Seem'd as it sougth some breast to sink upon, [155]
Though feebly resolute, that none but his
Should be the chosen resting place. But he
Severe withheld her. -- "Can the snowdrop bloom
Untainted on the hemlock bank, near thee,
Igerna, long hath trail'd a venomous plant, [160]
Hast thou the sullying influence scap'd?" -- She strove
To work displeasure to her brow, the joy,
The fondness would not give it place; she held
Her boy on high, she pointed from the lines
Of his soft face to Uther's, with appeal [165]
Half rapture, half reproach, and cast herself
With timid boldness on her rightful couch,
Her husband's bosom, that receiv'd her in,
Even as the opening clouds an angel home
Returning. But the joyous boy relax'd [170]
His features to a beautiful delight;
To the fierce Dragon on his father's helm
Lifting his sportive hand, and smoothing down
The horrent scales, and looking with glad eye
Into the fiery hollow of his jaws. [175]
Mute lay the armies, the pale Gorlois wrought
His features to a politic joy, alone
Stood Samor and aloof, he stood in tears.
Samor, amid the plain of buried men
Tearless, and in his own deserted home, [180]
In tears unveil'd before th' assembled camp;
It was so like a meeting after death,
That union of the husband and the wife,
So ghostly, so unearthly. Thus shall meet
The disembodied, Emeric and himself, [185]
Not with rude rocks their footing, the cold airs
And cloudy sunshine of this world around.
But all of life must intervene, and all
The long dark grave mysterious; yet even here
It was a sweet impossibility, [190]
Wherewith at times his soul mad dalliance held,
An earthly, bodily, sensible caress,
Even long and rapturous, as that hanging now
On Uther's neck from soft Igerna's arms.
Upon the silence burst a voice, that cried [195]
"Arthur," whereat the child his sport broke off
With that embossed serpent, and stretch'd out
His arms, where, on the fragment of a rock,
Stood Merlin. "Arthur, hail! hail, fatal Boy,
Bright arrow from the bow of Destiny, [200]
Go forth upon thy fiery course! the steeds
Are in the meadows, that shall bear thee forth,
Thee and thy barded chivalry! the spears
Are forg'd wherewith in tourney and in fight
Ye shall o'erbear the vaunting Saxon! shields [205]
Are stamping with your bright devices bold;
And Bards are leaning on their high-strung harps,
Awaiting thee, to flower out in their boon
And ripe fertility of song. Go forth,
Strong reaper in the harvest of renown, [210]
Arthur! the everlasting Lord of Fate
Hath summon'd thee to thy immortal race!"
The infant clapp'd his hands, Pendragon flung
Aloft his scaly bickering crest, her child
Igerna folded to her heart, and wept. [215]
And forward leap'd the Avenger to salute
Snowdon's dark Prophet, Merlin was not there.
Good fortune on good fortune followeth fast;
Tidings come rapid of a Breton fleet
Seen on the southern shore; the Chiefs are past [220]
To where th' Archangel's Mount o'erlooks the sea.
Oh go not to thy couch, thou bright hair'd Sun!
Though Ocean spread its welcoming breast, yet pause
'Mid that etherial architecture wrought
Around thee by thine own creative light. [225]
How broad the over-vaulting palace arch
Spreads up the heavens with amethyst ciel'd, and hung
With an enwoven tapestry of flame,
Wav'd over by long banner and emblaz'd,
Like hall of old barbaric Potentate, [230]
With scutcheon and with shield, that now unfold,
Now in their cloudy texture shift; and paved
With watery mosaic rich, the waves
Quick glancing, like a floating surface, laid
With porphyry and crystal interwrought. [345]
There's yet a sight, oh Sun! to check awhile
Thy setting; lo, the failing breezes lift
The white wings of that fair Armoric fleet
To catch the level lines of light; the oars
Flash up the spray, that purples as it falls: [240]
While wearing one by one, their armed freight
They cast out on the surfy beach. The Kings,
King Emrys and Armoric Hoel meet
Pendragon, Samor, and their band of chiefs.
There meet they on the land's extremest verge [245]
To conquer, to deliver, few, but strong,
Strong in the sinews of the soul; as rose
The giant wrestler from his mother's breast,
Earth-born Anteus, his huge limbs refresh'd
For the Herculean combat, so shall ye, [250]
Kings, Chiefs, and Warriors, from your native soil
Draw to the immortal faculties of mind
A springtide everlasting and unchang'd.
The armour of a holy cause outshines
The iron or the knosped brass, and hopes [255]
And memories to the home-returning brave
Crowding from every speck of sacred earth,
Outplead the trumpet's wakening blast, till leaps
Vengeance to Glory's vanguard post, and leads
The onset, and looks proudly down to see [260]
The red blood deepening round her laving feet.
Alas, that in your harvest of high thoughts,
Thick set with golden promise of renown,
The poppy seeds of envy and distrust
Should take their baleful root. Slow winds along [265]
Gorlois, the sower of that noxious crop,
Scattering it with careless toil; now stands
By royal Emrys' side, now mines beneath
Pendragon's towery soul, now sadly warns
With cautious words and dark speech broken off, [270]
Hoel, the crown'd Armorican; his looks
Belying his feign'd confidence of speech,
But half surmising fear, and killing hope
By his cold care of keeping it alive.
"Not that I love not, whom all love, admire [275]
On whom the admiration of all hearts
Falls with such free profusion, 'tis no shame
For us mean lamps before great Samor's light
To wane and glimmer in our faint eclipse.
Yet whence this fettering of all eyes and hearts? [280]
This stern unsocial solitude of fame?
True, from that fatal banquet 'scap'd he, true
Undaunted hath he rov'd the isle, nor doubt
From some high purpose, that 'twere rash for us
To search our with our dim and misty sight; [285]
Nor think, King Emrys, I thy crown assert
Unstably set upon thy royal brow,
But there's a dazzling in its jewel'd round
Might tempt a less self-mastering grasp. Who holds
The souls of men in thraldom with his tongue, [290]
Makes bridges grow before him, stony walls
Break up to give him way, -- I speak not now
In vengeance of Tintagel, 'twas a deed
Most worth my richest praise, that made me friend
To brave Pendragon. But ambition wreck'd [295]
The angels, and the climbing soul of man
Hath sinn'd for meaner gain than Britain's throne." --
So one by one he wound his serpent coil
Around the Chieftains souls; and inly breath'd
The creeping venom. But Pendragon's heart, [300]
Too fiery or too noble to suspect,
In Samor's teeth flung fierce th' oppressive doubt:
Th' Avenger's tranquil smile was like the change
Of aspect in a green and lofty tree,
Touch'd by the wings of some faint breeze, nor shakes [305]
The massy foliage, nor is quite at rest,
While languidly the undisturbing air
Falls away and expires. "Will Emrys hold
At midnight on St. Michael's Mount, his pomp
Of coronation? Samor will be there." [310]
"At midnight!" -- "Aye, the fires will gaily blaze,
The silent air is meet for solemn oaths." --
The night is starless, soft and still, the heavens
O'erwoven with a thin and rayless mist;
A long low heavy sound of breaking surge [315]
Roams down the shore, and now and then the woods
Flutter and bend with one short rush of wind.
The tide hath risen o'er the stony belt,
That to the mainland links the Mount, where meet
Even now the Chieftains, ocean all around, [320]
On every side the white and moaning waves.
On the bare summit, 'neath the cope of heaven,
The conclave stands, bare, save a lofty pile
Of wood compacted like funereal pyre
Of a departed hero in old time
On some Ægean promontory rear'd,
Or by the Black Inhospitable Sea.
The crown is on king Emry's head, his hair
Is redolent with the anointing oil.
"Hail, King of Britain!" -- Samor cried, and "Hail!"
Replied that band of heroes; Hail! the shores [330]
Echoed, from bark and tent came pealing up
The universal Hail, the ocean waves
Broke in with their hoarse murmur of applause.
"Air, earth, and waters, ye have play'd your part, [335]
There's yet another elemnt," -- cried aloud
Samor, and in the pyre he cast a brand.
A moment, and uprush'd the giant fire,
Piercing the dim heavens with its blazing brow,
And on the still air shakings its red locks. [340]
There by its side the Vassals and their King,
Motionless on their shadows huge and dun,
Show'd like destroying Angels, round enwrap'd
In their careering pomp of flame; far flash'd
The yellow midnight day o'er shore and sea: [345]
The waves now ruddy heav'd, now darkly plung'd,
Upon the rocks, within the wavering light
Strong featur'd faces fierce, and hard-lin'd forms
Broke out and disappear'd; the anchor'd fleet
Were laving their brown sides in rainbow spray. [350]
No sound was heard, but the devouring flame,
And the thick plashing waters. -- "Keep your faith,
(Cried Samor) ye eternal hills, and ye
Heaven-neighbouring mountains!" -- Eastward far anon
Another fire rose furious up, behind [355]
Another and another: all the hills
Each behind each held up its crest of flame;
Along the heavens the bright and crimson hue
Widening and deepening travels on, the range
O'erleaps black Tamar, by whose ebon tide [360]
Cornwall is bounded, and on Heytor rock,
Above the stony moorish source of Dart,
It waves a sanguine standard; Haldon burns,
And the Red City glows a deeper hue; [NOTE 14]
And all the southern rocks, the moorland downs [365]
In those portentous characters of flame
Discourse, and bear the glaring legend on,
Even to the graves on Ambri plain, where woke
That pallid woman, and rejoic'd, and deem'd
'Twas sent to guide her to the tomb she sought. [370]
Fast flash they up, those altars of revenge,
As the snake-tressed Sister torch-bearers,
Th' Eumenides, from the Tartarian depths
Were leaping on from hill to hill, on each
Leaving the tracks of their flame-dropping feet. [375]
Or as the souls of the dead fathers, wrapt
In bright meteorous grave-clothes, had arisen,
And each sate crowning his accustom'd hill,
Silent and radiant: or as th' isle devote
Had wrought down by her bold and frequent guilt [380]
Th' Almighty's lightning shafts, now numberless
Forth raining from the lurid reeking clouds,
And smiting all the heights. On spreads the train,
Northward it breaks upon the Quantock ridge,
It reddens on the Mendip forests dark, [385]
It looks into the cavern'd Cheddar cliffs,
The boatman on the Severn mouth awakes
And sees the waters rippling round his keel
In spots and streaks of purple light, each shore
Ablaze with all its answering hills; the streams [390]
Run glittering down Plinlimmon's side, though thick
And moonless the wan night: and Idris stands
Like Stromboli or Ætna, where 'twas feign'd
E'er at their flashing furnace wrought the Sons
Of Vulcan, forging with eternal toil [395]
Jove's never idle thunderbolts. And thou,
Snowdon, the king of mountains, art not dark
Amid thy vassal brethren gleaming bright.
Is it to welcome thy returning Seer,
That thus above thy clouds, above thy snows [400]
Thou wear'st that wreathed diadem of fire,
As to outshine the pale and winking stars?
O'er Menai's waters blue the gleaming spreads,
The Bard on Mona's secret grove beholds
A glitter on his harp-strings, and looks out [405]
Upon the kindling cliffs of Penmanmawr.
Is it a pile of martyrdom above
Clwyd's green vale? beside the embers bright
Stands holy Germain, as a Saint new come
From the pure mansions of beautitude, [410]
The centre of a glory, that spreads round
Its film of thin pellucid gold. Nor there
Pauses the restless Messenger, still on
Vaults it from rock to rock, from peak to peak.
Far seen it shimmer'd on Caer-Ebranc wall, [415]
And Malwyn blew a bugle blast for joy.
The sun uprising sees the dusk night fled
Already from tall Pendle, and the height
Of Ingleborough, sees Helvellyn cast
A meteor splendour on the mountain lakes, [420]
Like mirrors of the liquid molten brass.
The brightest and the broadest and the last,
There flakes the beacon glare, and in the midst
Dashing the ruddy sparkles to and fro
With the black remnant of pine-tree stem, [425]
Stands arm'd from head to foot Prince Vortimer.
BOOK XI.
Mighty in thy endurance, in revengeMightier! thou shak'st thy dusky patience off,
Oh Britain! as a snake its wither'd skin,
That boastful to the sunshine coils and spreads
In bright and cruel beauty. Not in vain [5]
Have those wild beacons rear'd their fires, thou wak'st,
The slumber falls from thee, as dewdrops shed
From the morn-kindling falcon's wing. On hill,
In vale, in forest and in moor, in field
And city, like the free and common air, [10]
Like the wide-spreading golden hue of dawn,
Ranges the boundless passion uncontroll'd.
The "Vigilance," hath drop'd absorb'd away
From the fierce war-cry, one portending word
"Vengeance," rides lonely upon all the winds. [15]
Alas, delicious Spring! God sends thee down
To breathe upon his cold and perish'd works
Beauteous revival; earth should welcome thee,
Thee and the West wind, thy smooth paramour,
With the soft laughter of her flowery meads, [20]
Her joys, her melodies. The prancing stag
Flutters the shivering fern, the steed shakes out
His mane, the dewy herbage silver-webb'd
With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down
From his empurpling bed of heath, where break [25]
The waters deep and blue with crystal gleams
Of their quick leaping people: the fresh lark
Is in the morning sky, the nightingale
Tunes evesong to the dropping waterfall.
Creation lives with loveliness, all melts [30]
And trembles into one mild harmony.
Man, only harsh and inharmonious Man,
Strews for thy delicate feet the battle field,
Makes all thy smooth and flowing airs to jar
With his hoarse trumpetings, scares thy sweet light [35]
With gleams of violent and angry brass.
Away! it is a yearly common joy,
A rapture that ne'er fails the solemn Sun
In his eternal round, the blossoming
And fragrance of the green resolving earth. [40]
But a fresh springtide in the human soul,
A nation from its wintry trance set loose,
The bursting ice of servitude, the bloom
Of freedom in the wither'd mind obscure,
The bleakness of the heart discomfited, [45]
And over the bow'd shape and darkling brow
The flowering out of faded glories, sounds
Of cheering and of comfort to the rent
And broken by the tyrannous northern blast,
These are earth's rich adornings, these the choice [50]
Of nature's bounteous, and inspiring shows.
Therefore the young Sun with his prime of light
Shall beam on ensigns; the blithe airs shall waft
Jocund the lofty pealing battle words;
And not unwelcome, fierce crests intercept [55]
The spring-dews from the thirsty soil; the brass
For vestment the admiring earth shall wear
More proud than all her flowery robe of green.
In all the isle was flat subjection tame,
In all the isle, hath Freedom rear'd her, plum'd [60]
With terror, sandal'd with relentlessness:
Her march like brazen chariots, or the tramp
Of horsemen in a rocky glen; and clouds
Of javelins in her front, and in her rear
Dead men in grisly heaps, dead Saxons strewn [65]
Upon their trampled White Horse banners: them
Her fury hath no time to scorn, no pause
To look back on her deathful deeds atchiev'd,
While aught remains before her to atchieve.
Distract amid the wide spread feast of blood, [70]
The wandering raven knows not where to feed,
And the gorg'd vulture droops his wing and sleeps.
War hath the garb of holiness, bear proof,
Thou vale of Clwyd, to our cold late days,
By the embalming of tradition named, [75]
Maes Garmon, of that saintly Bishop. He
His gray thin locks unshaken, his slow port
Calm as he trod a chapel's rush-strewn floor,
Comes foremost of his Christian mountaineers,
Against th' embattled Pagans fierce array. [80]
By the green margin of the stream, the band
Of Arngrim glitter in the morning light.
Their shadowy lances line the marble stream
With long and level rules of trembling shade;
The sunshine falling in between in streaks [85]
Of brightness. They th' unwonted shew of war
Behold slow winding down the wooded hill.
"Now by our Gods," cried Arngrim, "discontent
To scare our midnight with their insolent fires,
They break upon our calm and peaceful day." [90]
But silent as the travel of the clouds
At breathless twilight, or a flock that winds,
Dappling the brown cliff with its snowy specks,
Foldward along the evening dews, a bell
Now and then tinkling, faintly shrill, come on [95]
Outspreading on the meadow the stern band
Of Britons with their mitred Captain; front
Oppos'd to front they stand, and spear to spear.
Then Germain clasp'd his hands and look'd to heaven,
Then Germain in a deep and solemn tone [100]
Cried "Alleluia!" answer was flung back:
From cliff and cavern, "Alleluia," burst;
It seem'd strong voices broke the bosom'd earth,
Dropt voices from the clouds, and in the rush
Of waters was an human clamour, far [105] [NOTE 15]
Swept over all things in its boundless range
The scattering and discomfiting appeal:
'Twas shaken from the shivering forest leaves,
Ceaseless and countless, lifeless living things [110]
Multiplied "Alleluia," all the air
Was that one word, all sounds became that sound,
As the broad lightning swallows up all lights,
All quench'd in one blue universal glare.
On rush'd the Britons, but 'gainst the flying foes, [115]
Quick smote the Britons, but no breast plate clove
Before them, then the ignominous death
First through the back found way to Saxon hearts.
Oh, Suevian forests! Clwyd's vale beholds
What ye have never witnessed, Arngrim's flight -- [120]
Fleet huntsman, thou art now the deer, the herd,
Whereof thou wert the prime and lofty horn'd,
Are falling fast around thee, th' unleash'd dogs
Of havock on their reeking flanks, and thee,
The herdsman of the meek and peaceful goats, [125]
Thee, the soft tuner of the reedy flute
Beside Nantfrangon's stony cataract,
Mordrin pursues. So strong that battle word,
Its holy transmutation and austere
Works in the soul of man, the spirit sheathes [130]
In the thrice folding brass of valour, swells
The thin and lazy blood t' a current fierce
And torrent like, and in the breast erewhile
But open to the tremulous melting airs
Of passions gentle and affections smooth, [135]
Plants armed hopes and eagle-wing'd desires.
Therefore that youth his downy hand hath wreath'd
In the strong Suevian's knotted locks, drawn up
Like a wrought helm of ebon; therefore fix
His eyes, more us'd to swim in languid light, [140]
With an implacable and constant stare
Down on the face of Arngrim, backward drawn,
As he its withering agony enjoy'd;
And therefore he whose wont it was to bear
The many sparkling crystal, or the cup [145]
Of dripping water lily from the spring
To the blithe maiden of his love, now shakes
A gory and dissever'd head aloft,
And bounds in wild ovation down the vale.
But in that dire and beacon haunted night [150]
King Vortigern his wonted seat had ta'en
Upon Caermerdhyn's topmost palace tower.
There, the best privilege of greatness fall'n,
He saw not, nor was seen: there wrapt in gloom,
'Twas his soul's treasur'd luxury and choice joy [155]
To frame out of himself and his drear state,
Dark comfortable likenesses, and full
And frequent throng'd they this wild midnight. All
Cloudy and indistinct lay round; the sole
Dull glimmering like to light was what remain'd [160]
Of day, just not so utterly extinct
And quench'd, as yet to shew splendour had been,
And was not; that dusk simile of himself
Delighted, royal once, now with a mock
And mimic of his lustre haunted. Why, [165]
Why should not human glory wane, since clouds
Put out the immortal planets in the sky?
Why should not crowns have seasons, since the moon
Hath but her hour to queen it in the heavens?
Why should not high and climbing souls be lost [170]
In the benighting shroud of the world's gloom?
Lo, one inglorious, undistinguish'd night
Gathers the ancient mountains in its train,
While e'er the dunnest and most turbulent clouds
Thicken upon the stateliest; but beneath [175]
The lowly and contented waters lie
Asleep upon their weedy banks, yet they
Have all the faint blue brightness that remains.
Then moodier the fantastic humour grown,
Stoop'd upon mean and trivial things, them too [180]
Wrought to his wayward misanthropic scope.
Amid the swaying, and disturbed air
The rooks hung murmuring on the oak-tree tops,
As plaining their uneasy loftiness.
While, solitary as himself, the owl [185]
Sate calling on its deaf and wandering mate.
Him at that sound seiz'd merriment, that made
The lip drop, the brow writhe, "Howl on," he cried,
"Howl for thy dusky paramour," -- and turn'd
To where Rowena's chamber casements stood, [190]
Void, silent, dark of their once-brilliant lights.
Sudden around 'gan spire the mountain tops
Each with its intertwisted sheaf of flame,
South, North, and East and West, fire everywhere,
Everywhere flashing and tumultuous light. [195]
Then gaz'd the unking'd, then cried out the fallen,
"Now, by my soul, when comets gaze on kings
Even from the far and vaulting heavens, 'tis faith
There's hollowness beneath their tottering thrones;
But when they flash upon our earth, and stare [200]
Close in our faces, 'tis ripe time and full
For palaces to quake and royal tombs
To ope their wide and all-receiving jaws.
What is't to me? ye menace at the Great!
Ye stoop not to be dangerous and dread, [205]
Oh haughty and mysterious lights! to thrones
Low and despis'd like mine; in earlier days
Vortigern would have quail'd, he mocks you now.
Ye are not of the heavens, I know, I see,
Discomfiters of darkness, Conquerors [210]
Of midnight, ye are of the earth. Why stands
Caermerdhyn and the realm of Dyfed black
Amid this restless multitude of flame?
'Tis not for idle or for fruitless show
That with such splendid violation Man [215]
Infringeth on stern nature's laws, and rends
From night her consecrate and ancient pall;
Samor, thy hand is there! and Vortigern
Hath not yet learnt the patience cold and tame
To be outblaz'd and stifled thus." -- Down past [220]
The Monarch from his seat; few minutes fled,
And lo, within that Palace all look'd red,
And hurried with a deep confusing glare:
And over it a vaulting dome of smoke
Surging arose and vast, till roaring out [225]
Columns of mounting fire sprung up, and all
Whelm'd in one broad envelopment of flame,
Stood; as when in heroic Pagan song
Apollo to his Clarian temple came;
At once the present Godhead kindled all [230]
Th' elaborate architecture, glory-wreath'd
The pillars rose, the sculptur'd architrave
Swam in the liquid gold, the Worshipper
Within the vestible of marble pure,
Held up his hand before his blinded eyes, [235]
And so ador'd: but th' unconsuming fire
Innoxious rang'd th' unparching edifice.
But ne'er was Palace or was Monarch seen
More in that city, one a smouldering heap
Lay in its ashes white; how went the King [240]
And whither, no one knew, but He who knows
All things. 'Twas frequent in the vulgar tale,
None saw it, yet all knew them well that saw, [NOTE 16]
At midnight manifest a huge arm came
Forth from the welkin; once it wav'd and twice, [245]
And then it was not: but a bolt thrice fork'd,
Each fork a spike of flame, burst on the roof,
And all became a fire, and all fell down
And smoulder'd, even as now the shapeless walls
Lie in scorch'd heaps and black. At that same hour [250]
A dark steed and a darker rider past,
With speed bemocking mortal steed, or man,
Down the steep hill precipitous: 'twas like
In shape and hue black Favorin, on whose back
King Vortigern was wont to ride abroad; [255]
Like, surely not the same, for fire came out
From under his quick hoofs, and in his breath,
And sulphurous the blasted foot-tracks smelt,
Some dinted deep in the hard rock, some seared
On meadow grass, where never since have dews [260]
Lain glittering, never the fresh verdure sprung.
Now is the whole Isle war. But I must crave
Pardon from those in meaner conflict slain,
Or conquerors; Poesy's fair treasure house
Contains not all the bright and rich, that gem [265]
The course of humankind; in heaven alone
Preserves enroll'd th' imperishable brass,
In letters deep of amaranthine light,
All martyrs to their country and their God.
Oh that my spirit, holding the broad glass [270]
Of its invention, might at once condense
All rays of glory from the kindling Isle
Full emanating, as of old 'tis famed
The philosophic Syracusan caught
The wide diverging sunbeams, by the force [275]
Of mind creating to himself a right
And property in nature's common gifts,
And domineering the free elements.
He that heaven-seiz'd artillery pour'd forth
To sear the high beaks of the 'sieging fleet, [280]
That burnt, unknowing whence, 'mid the wet waves.
So I the fine immortal light would pour
Abroad, in the long after-time to beam
A consecrate and vestal fire, to guide
Through danger's precipices wild, the slopes [285]
Sleepy and smooth of luxury and false bliss,
All lovers of their country. They my song
Embosoming within their heart of heart,
Like mine own Samor should bear on, too strong
To perish, and too haughty to despair. [290]
They happier, he uprearing on the sand
A Pharos, steady for a while to stem
The fierce assaulting waves, in after times
To fall; they building for eternity
Britain's rock-founded temple of renown. [295]
In the Isle's centre is a champain broad,
Now broken into cornfield and smooth mead,
Near which a hill, now with the ruin'd towers
Of Coningsborough (from that fight of Kings
Nam'd in old Saxon phrase), soars crested, Dune [300]
Skirts with her azure belt the level plain.
Morn dawn'd with all her attributes, the slow
Impearling of the heavens, the sparkling white
On the webb'd grass, the fragrant mistiness,
The fresh airs with the twinkling leaves at sport, [305]
And all the gradual and emerging light,
The crystalline distinctness settling clear,
And all the wakening and the strengthening sound.
There dawn'd she on a battle-field superb.
The beauty that is war's embellishment, [310]
The splendour under whose quick-glancing pall
Man proudly moves to slay and to be slain,
How wonderful! In semicircle huge,
Round that hill foot, the Saxon camps his strength,
A many-colour'd dazzling cirque, more rich [315]
Than the autumnal woods, when the quick winds
Shake on them broken sunlight, than the skies
When thunder clouds are bursting into light,
And rainbow skirted hangs each fold, or fring'd
With liquid gold, so wav'd that crescent broad [320]
With moving fire, bloom'd all the field with brass:
Making of dread volumptuousness, the sense
Of danger in deep admiration lost --
Oh beauteous if that morning had no eve!
The Eastern horn, his tall steeds to his car [325]
Harness'd, whose scythes shone newly burnish'd, held
Caswallon; he his painted soldiery,
Their naked breasts blue-gleaming with uncouth
And savage portraitures of hideous things,
Human and monstrous terribly combin'd, [330]
Array'd; himself no armour of defence
Cumber'd, as he were one Death dare not slay,
A being from man's vulgar lot exempt,
Commission'd to destroy, yet dangerless
Amid destruction, against whom war shower'd [335]
All its stor'd terrors, but still baffled back
Recoil'd from his unwounded front serene.
The centre were the blue-eyed Germans, loose
Their fierce hair, various each strong nation's arms,
A wild and terrible diversity [340]
In the fell skill of slaughter, in the art
Of doing sacrifice to death. Some helm'd,
Whose visors like distended jaws appear'd
Of sylvan monster, some in brinded furs
Wrapt shaggy, on whose shoulders seem'd to ramp [345]
Yet living the fix'd claws; with cross-bows some,
Some with long lances, some with falchions curv'd.
The Arian, wont to make the sable night
A pander to his terrors, in swarth arms [NOTE 17]
He bursting from the forest, when the shades [350]
Were deepest, like embodied gloom advanc'd,
Shap'd for some dreadful purpose, now he mov'd
Unnatural 'mid the clear and golden day.
Here Hengist, Horsa there amid the troop
Wound their war-horses; he his weapon fell [355]
Shook, a round ball of iron spikes chain'd loose
To a huge pike-stave, like a baleful star,
Aye gleaming devastation in its sweep;
Hengist begirt with that fam'd falchion call'd
The "Widower of Women;" over all [360]
The fatal White Horse in the banner shone.
Round to the left Argantyr with the Jutes
And Anglians; these for Offa's slaughter wild
T' exact the usurious payment of revenge;
He sternly mindful of that broken fight [365]
By Wye's clear stream, and his defrauded sword
Of its hope-promis'd banquet, Samor's blood.
Above the multitude of brass the heights
Were crowded with the wives and mothers, they [NOTE 18]
With their known presence working shame of flight, [370]
And the high fear of being thought to fear.
With them the spoils of Britain, vessels carv'd,
Statues, and vestments of the Tyrian dye,
Standards with antique legend scroll'd of deeds
Done in old times, and gorgeous arms, and cups [375]
And lamps, and plate, or by fantastic art
Minister'd to fond luxury's wayward choice,
Or consecrate to th' altar use of God.
And there the Saxon Gods, the wood and stone
Whereto that people knelt, and deified [380]
Their own hands work; the Father of the race
Woden, all arm'd and crown'd; the tempest Lord,
The thunder-shaking Thor, twelve radiant stars [NOTE 19]
His coronet, and sceptred his right hand.
He on his stately couch reclining; fierce [385]
In his mysterious multitude of signs,
Arminsul; and th' Unnameable, he fix'd [NOTE 20]
On his flint pedestal, his skeleton shape
Garmented scantly in a winding sheet,
And in his hand a torchblaze, meet to search [390]
Earth's utmost, while in act to spring, one hand
Upon his head, upon his shoulder one,
His faithful Lion ramp'd in sculptur'd ire.
Southward, with crescent its out-stretching horns
Circling the foe, lay stretch'd the British camp; [395]
The centre held King Emrys, on the right
Pendragon, on the left th' Armoric King,
With all his tall steeds and brave riders, they
The fathers of that fam'd chivalric race
Of knights and ladies, glorious in old song, [400]
White handed Iseult, Launcelot of the Lake,
Chaste Perceval, that won the Sangreal quest.
But every where and in all parts alike
The Avenger held his post; all heard his voice,
All felt his presence, all obey'd his sway. [405]
As western hurricane whirls up from earth,
And bears where'er it will, the loose-sheaf'd corn,
The fluttering leaves, the shatter'd forest boughs,
Even so his spirit seiz'd and bore along,
And swept with it those proud brigades. Nor there [410]
Was not young Malwyn, he his helmet wore
Light shadow'd by an eagle plume, so sued
His sire, lest in the wildering battle met
Their cars should clash in impious strife, nor sought
The father more obedience from the son, [415]
For Britain and with Samor fix'd to war.
And in his brown and weather beaten arms
Came Vortimer, a pine-tree stem his mace
That clove the air with desultory sweep.
But by the river brows'd a single steed, [420]
Sable as one of that poetic pair,
On the fair plain of Enna, in the yoke
Of Pluto, when Proserpina let fall
From her soft lap her flowers, and mourn'd their loss
Lavish, nor for herself reserv'd her tears. [425]
The horseman, not unlike that ravisher,
Wore kingly aspect, and his step and mien
Were as his realm were in a gloomier clime,
Amid a drearier atmosphere, 'mid things
Sluggish and melancholy, slow and dead. [430]
As though disclaimed by each, and claiming none,
He lay, with cold impartial apathy
Eying both armies, as their fates to him
Were equal, and not worth the toil of hope.
But over either army silence hung, [435]
Silence long, heavy, deep, as every heart
Were busied with eternity; all thoughts
Were bidding farewell to the Sun, whose rise
They saw, whose setting they might never see,
And all the heavens were thinly overdrawn [440]
With light and golden clouds, as though to couch
The angels and the spirits floating there,
While Heaven the lucid hierarchy pour'd forth
To view that solemn spectacle beneath,
A battle waged for freedom and for faith. [445]
First rose a clamour and a crowding rush
On the hill side, and an half-stifled cry,
"The Prophetess! the Prophetess!" was heard.
Upon a waggon, 'mid her idol Gods,
She of the seal'd lip and the haunted heart, [450]
The aged Virgin sate; her thin gray hair [NOTE 21]
And hollow eyes in a strange sparkling steep'd:
Twice in the memory of the oldest spake
Her voice, when Gothic Alaric had set
His northern ensign on Rome's shatter'd walls, [455]
That day along the linden shadow'd Elbe
She went, with bitter smile and broken song
That mock'd at grandeur fall'n and pride in dust.
Once more, when Vortigern in that fam'd feast
Crown'd the fierce Hengist; in the German woods [460]
She roam'd, with lofty and triumphal tone,
Shrieking of sceptres dancing in her sight,
And Woden's sons endiadem'd that rose
And swept and glitter'd past her. Now with eye
Restless, and churning lip she sate, and thrice [465]
She mutter'd -- "Flight! Flight! Flight!" Then look'd she out
Upon the orient Sun, and cried, "Down! down!" --
The westward turn'd she, and withdrew her hand,
From dallying with her loose and hanging chin,
And beckon'd to the faint remaining haze [470]
Of twilight. "Back, fair darkness, beauteous gloom,
Back!" Still the Sun came on, the shades dispell'd.
Then rose she up, then on the vacant space
Between both armies fix'd her eye; half laugh,
Half agony her cheek relax'd. -- "I see, [475]
I see ye, ye Invisible! I hear,
Soundless, I hear ye! Choosers of the slain!
Ye of the white forms hors'd on thunder clouds!
Ye of Valhalla! colourless as air,
As air impalpable! wind on and urge [480]
Your sable and self-govern'd steeds; They come,
They whom your mantling hydromel awaits,
Whose cups are crown'd, the guests of this night's feast.
They come, they come, for whom the Gods shall leap
From their cloud thrones, and ask ye whom ye bring
In stern troops crowding to their secret joy." [486]
She shook her low dropt lip, and thus went on:
"The bow is broken, and the shafts are snapt;
The lance is shiver'd, and the buckler rent;
The helm is cloven, and the plumes are shed; [490]
The horse hath founder'd, and the rider fallen;
The Crown'd are crownless, kingdomless the Kings;
The Conquerors conquer'd, and the Slayers slain;
One falls not, but he shall not stand, the axe
Shall glean th' imperfect harvest of the sword; [495]
The scaffold drinks the lees of battle's cup;
And one is woundless amid myriad wounds,
And one is wounded where there is but one.
Ho, for the broad-horn'd Elk that leads the herd!
Ho, for the Pine that tops the shattering wood!
Ho, for the Bark that Admirals all the fleet!
The herd is scatter'd, and the Elk unscath'd,
The wood is levell'd, upright is the Pine,
The fleet is wreck'd, the Admiral on the waves.
That Elk is in himself a sacrifice, [505]
That Pine shall have a storm its own, that Bark
Shall perish in a solitary wreck,
A sacrifice of shame! a storm of dread!
A bitter ignominious solitude!" --
She had not ended, when a single steed [510]
Burst furious from the British line, with flight
That had a tread of air, and not of earth.
Fierce and direct he whirl'd to the hot charge
His youthful Rider. Upright sate the Boy
Arthur, at first with half reverted look, [515]
As to his mother to impart his joy,
His transport. Early, oh fame-destin'd Child,
Put'st thou thy sickle in the field of fame.
Over his head a dome of fiery darts
And cross-bow bolts vault o'er th' encumber'd air. [520]
Yet forward swept the child his rapid charge,
And all at once to rescue all the Chiefs
Rush'd onward; Uther's dragon seem'd to sear
The winds with its hot waving, Emrys struck
His coursers reeking flanks, his weapon huge [525]
Rear'd Vortimer, and Malwyn's wheels 'gan whirl.
And on the other side Argantyr tall,
Hengist and Horsa, all the titled brave,
Burst from their tardy lines, that vast behind
Came rolling in tumultuous order on; [530]
As when at spring time under the cold pole
Two islands high of ice warp heavy and huge
Upon the contrary currents, first th' assault
The promontories break, till meet the whole
With one long crash, that wakes the silence, there [535]
Seated since time was born, far off and wide
Rock'd by the conflict fierce old ocean boils.
Still th' upright Child seem'd only to rejoice
In the curvettings of his wanton steed,
And in the mingled dazzling of bright arms. [540]
But over him a shield is spread, before
A sword is wav'd, on every side the shield
Dashes rude death aside, whirls every where
The rapid and unwearied sword; the rein
Of the fleet steed hath Samor grasp'd, and guides [545]
Amid the turmoil. As when the eagle sire
Up in the sunshine leads his daring young,
Sometimes the dusk shade of his wing spreads o'er,
And soft and broken in through the thick plumes
Gleams the unblinding splendour. So secure [550]
Wag'd that fair Child his early war. But wild
The wavering fray rock'd to and fro, and burnt
Like one huge furnace the quick-flashing plain.
Ever as 'twere the same the Apostle saw
In the Apocalypse, Death's own pale steed, [555]
Over the broad fight shook the White Horse, spread
Where'er its gleaming lighten'd the dun gloom,
Steamy and vast the curdling slaughter pools.
And such confusion burst around of lines
Mingling and interchanging, Valour found [560]
No space for proud selection, forc'd to strike
What cumber'd and obstructed its free path,
To hew out through a mass of vulgar life
A passage to some princely foe; twice met
Horsa and Vortimer, Argantyr twice [565]
Smote at Pendragon, but the whirlpool fierce
Asunder swept them, and the deep of war
Swallow'd them; many a broad and shapeless chasm
Was rent in either battle, but new fronts
Rush'd in, and made the shiver'd surface whole. [570]
The sun was shut out by a sphere of dust
That wrapt the tumult, 'twas no sight for Heaven
That rending and defacing its prime work,
That waste of man, its masterpiece. But far
Th' Avenger had borne off the Child, his steed [575]
First drew his breath before Igerna's tent.
With her soft face upon the dust she lay,
Struggling to hush her own lament, in hope
From the fierce din of war might haply come
Some sound of cheer and comfort; but when full [580]
It rush'd upon her hearing, loud she shriek'd
To drown the very noise she strove to hear.
But when her Child's voice sounded, she look'd up
With a cold glance which said, "That sound I've heard
Every sad moment since he went, my soul [585]
Is sick of self-deception, will not trust
Again, to be again beguil'd." She saw,
And forc'd a sportive look to her sad face
To lure him to her snowy arms. While he
Back to the battle, as a scene of joy, [590]
Look'd waywardly, she clasp'd him to her breast
With a fond anger, and both smil'd and wept.
A moment Samor gaz'd on her, and -- "All
All have their hopes, and all those hopes fulfill'd,
But I, this side the grave no hope for me [595]
And no fulfillment." -- Fast as sight could track
The battle felt him in its thousand folds.
But the undistinguish'd and chance-mingled fight
Brook'd not young Malwyn; he his virgin shield
Disdain'd mean blood should stain: where Hengist fought
He swept, the Saxon saw the eagle plume. [601]
And turn'd aloof, and on some other head
Discharg'd the blow for him uprear'd. But he
Next plung'd where Horsa's starlike weapon shone,
Disastrous, shaking ruin, yet even that [605]
Glanc'd aside from the eagle plume. The Boy
Utter'd a wrathful disappointed cry,
And 'gainst Argantyr drove his car. He paus'd,
And cried aloud, "The eagle plume," and plung'd
Elsewhere for victims. That Pendragon heard, [610]
Even as he toil'd the third time to make way
Amid' the circling slain to the Anglian crest,
And taunting thus, -- "Methinks the eagle plume
Hath some few feathers of the dove, so soft
Spreads its peace-breathing influence." But the Youth,
"Ha, Father! thus, thus guil'st thou to a faint [616]
And infamous security thy son?
Thus enviest thou a noble foe? thus guard'st
With a base privilege from peril? Off
Coward distinction! off, faint hearted sign!"
And helm and plume away he rent, his hair [620]
Curl'd down his shoulders, radiant on his brow
The beauty of his anger shone, the pride
Of winning thus a right to glorious death.
Then set he forth on his bold quest again [625]
Impatient. Him Prince Vortimer beheld
Sweeping between himself and Horsa, met
Their sea-shore fight by Thanet to renew;
But something of his sister in his face,
Something of Lilian harden'd and grown fierce, [630]
As that ungodly creed were true, and she
Familiar to rude deeds of blood, had come
One of Valhalla's airy sisters hence
To summon him she lov'd. That gleam of her,
That though ungentle and unfeminine touch, [635]
Exquisite, in mid air his rugged mace
Suspended; but fierce Horsa on the Boy,
Just on his neck, let fall the fatal spikes,
And him the affrighted steeds bore off. But then
Began a combat over which Death seem'd [640]
To hover, as of one assur'd, in hope
Of both for victims at his godless shrine.
Then wounded and bareheaded Malwyn urged
On Hengist his remaster'd steeds, the scythe
Ras'd his majestic war horse. But aside [645]
He sprung, and flank'd the chariot; long the strife,
Long, though unequal, like a serpent's tongue
Vibrated Malwyn's battle axe, twice bow'd
The Monarch to his saddle bow. -- 'Twas fame
More splendid, thus with Hengist to have fought [650]
Than to have conquer'd hosts of meaner men.
Heavy at length and fatal glided in
The wily Chief's eluding falchion stroke;
Fast flew the steeds, the master lay behind,
Dragging with his face downward, still the reins [655]
Cling in his cold and failing fingers, trail
His neck and spread locks in the humid dust,
His sharp arms character the yielding sand.
On fly they, him at length deserting mute
And gasping on the bank, their hot hoofs plunge [660]
Into the limpid Dune, and to the wood
Rove on. It chanc'd erewhile that thither came
To freshen with the water his spent steeds,
And lave the clogging carnage from his wheels,
Caswallon, he his huge and weary length [665]
Cast for brief rest upon the bank; a groan
Came from a helmless head that in the grass
Lay undistinguish'd. "'Tis a Briton," cried
Caswallon, "cast the carrion off to feed
The dogs and kites, that thus irreverent breaks [670]
Upon its monarch's rest." Even as a flower,
Poppy or hyacinth, on its broken stem,
Languidly raises its encumber'd head,
And turns it to the gentle evening sun,
So feebly rose, so turn'd that Boy his face [675]
Unto the well-known voice; twice rais'd his head,
Twice it feel back in powerless heaviness;
Even at that moment from the dark wood came,
Lured by their partners in the stall and field,
His chariot coursers, heavily behind [680]
Dragging the vacant car, loose hung the reins,
And mournfulness and dull disorder slack'd
The spirit of their tread. Caswallon knew,
And he leap'd up; the Boy his bloodless lips
With a long effort opened. -- "Was it well, [685]
Father, at this my first, my earliest fight,
To mock me with a baffled hope of fame?
Well was it to defraud me of my right
To noble death?" -- and speaking thus he died
Above him his convuls'd unconscious hands [690]
Horribly with his rough black beard at play,
Wrenching and twisting off the rooted locks,
Yet senseless of the pain, the Father lean'd.
Then leap'd he up, with cool and jealous care
Within his chariot plac'd the lifeless corpse, [695]
And with his lash fierce rent the half-unyok'd
Half-harness'd steeds; disorderly and swift
As with their master's ire instinct they flew,
Making a wide road through the hurtling fray.
Briton or Saxon, friend or foe alike, [700]
Kinsman or stranger, one wide enmity
'Gainst general humankind, one infinite
And undistinguishing lust of carnage fill'd
The Master and the Horses; so wild groans
Follow'd where'er he moved, 'twas all to him, [795]
So slaughter dripp'd and reek'd from the chok'd scythes.
The low lay mow'd like the spring grass, down swept
On th' eminent, like lightning on the oaks,
His battle axe, each time it fell, each time
A life was gone, each time a hideous laugh [710]
Shone on the Slayer's cheek and writhing lip;
As in the Oriental wars where meet
Sultan and Omrah, under his broad tower
Moves stately the huge Elephant, a shaft
Haply casts down his friendly rider, wont [715]
To lead him to the tank, whose children shar'd
With him their feast of fruits: awhile he droops
Affectionate his loose and moaning trunk:
Then in his grief and vengeance bursts, and bears
In his feet's trampling rout and disarray [720]
To either army, ranks give way, and troops
Scatter, while swaying on his heaving back
His tottering tower, he shakes the sandy plain.
Meanwhile had risen a conflict high and fierce
For Britain's royal banner; Hengist here, [725]
Argantyr, the Vikinger, Hermingard,
And other Chiefs. But there th' Armoric King,
Emrys, and Uther, with the Avenger stood,
An iron wall against their inroad; turn'd
Samor 'gainst him at distance heard and seen, [730]
The car-borne Mountaineer, then Uther met
Argantyr, Hengist and King Emrys fought,
The rest o'erbore King Hoel; one had slain
The standard bearer, and all arms at once
Seiz'd as it fell, all foreign and all foes. [735]
When lo, that sable Warrior, that retir'd
And careless had look'd on, upon his steed
And in the battle, like a thundercloud
He came, and like a thundercloud he burst,
Black, cold, and sullen, conquering without pride [740]
And slaying without triumph; three that grasp'd
The standard came at once to earth, while he
Over his head with kingly motion sway'd
The bright redeemed ensign, and as fell
The shaken sunlight radiant o'er his brow, [745]
Pride came about him, and with voice like joy
He cried aloud, "Arles! Arles!" -- and shook his sword,
"Thou'st won me once a royal crown, and now
Shalt win a royal sepulchre." -- The sword
Perform'd its fatal duty, down they fell [750]
Before him, Jute and Saxon, nameless men
And Chieftains; what though wounds he scorn'd to ward,
Nor seem'd to feel, show'r'd on him, and his blood
Ooz'd manifest, still he slew, still cried, "Arles! Arles!"
Still in the splendour the wav'd standard spread [755]
Stood glorying the arm'd darkness of his form;
Stood from his wounded steed dismounted, stood
Amid an area of dead men, himself
About to die, none daring an assault,
He powerless of assailing. But the crown [760]
That on the flag-staff gleam'd, he wrench'd away,
And on his crest with calm solicitude
Plac'd it, then planting 'mid the high-heap'd slain
The standard, to o'ercanopy his sleep,
As one upon his nightly couch of down [765]
Composes quietly his weary head,
So royally he laid him down to die. --
But now was every fight broke off, a pause
Seiz'd all the battle, one vast silence quench'd
All tumult; slain and slayer, life and death [770]
Possess'd one swoon of torpor, droop'd and fail'd
All passions, pride, wrath, vengeance, hate, dismay,
All was one wide astonishment: alone
Two undistracted on each other gazed,
Where helpless in their death-blood they lay steep'd, [775]
The ebbing of each other's life, the stiff
Damp growing on of death; till in a groan
Horsa exhausted his fierce soul: then came
A momentary tinge, soft and subdued
As of affections busy at his heart, [780]
On Vortimer's expiring brow, his lip
Wore something of the curl men's use, when names
Belov'd are floating o'er the thought, the flowers
On that lone grave made fragrant his sick sense,
And Eamont murmured on his closing ear. [785]
But he, whose coming cast this silence on
Before it, as the night its widening shade,
Curtaining nature in its soundless pall,
An atmosphere of dying breath, where'er
He moved, his drear envelopment, his path [790]
An element of blood: so fleet, so fast
The power to fly seem'd wither'd, ere he came,
Men laid them down and said their prayers and look'd
For the quick plunging hoofs and rushing scythes:
As when the palsied Universe aghast [795]
Lay, all its tenants, even Man, restless Man,
In all his busy workings mute and still,
When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth
Devious through heaven's affrighted signs, his Sire's
Ill-granted chariot, him the Thunderer hurl'd [800]
From th' empyrean headlong to the gulph
Of the half-parch'd Eridanus, where weep
Even now the Sister Trees their amber tears
O'er Phaeton untimely dead. And now
Had the Avenger reach'd the path of death, [805]
And stood in arms before the steeds, they came
Rearing their ireful hoofs to dash him down;
But with both hands he seiz'd their foaming curbs,
Holding them in their spring with outstrech'd arm
Aloft, and made their lifted crests a shield [810]
Against their driver. He with baffled lash
Goaded their quivering flanks, but that strong arm
Held them above avoiding, their fore-hoofs
Beat th' unhurt air, and overspread his breast,
Like a thick snow-shower, the fast falling foam. [815]
Then leap'd Caswallon down, back Samor hurl'd
Coursers and chariot, and, "Now," cried aloud,
"Now, King of Britain, in the name of God
I tender thee a throne, two yards of earth
To rot on, and a diadem, a wreath [820]
Of death-drops for thy haught aspiring brow.
"There, there, look there," Caswallon cried, his hand
Stretch'd tow'rd his son, and in a frantic laugh
Broke out, and echoed. -- "Diadems and thrones!"
With rigid finger pointing at the dead. [825]
A moment, and the fury burst again;
Down came the ponderous battle axe, from edge
To edge it rived the temper'd brass, as swift
As shot-stars the thin ether; but the glaive
Of Samor right into his bosom smote. [830]
Like some old turret, under whose broad shade
At summer noon the shepherd oft his flock
Hath driven, and in the friendly cool rejoic'd,
Suddenly, violently, from its base
Push'd by the winter floods, he fell; his look [835]
Yet had its savage blasphemy: he felt
More than the blow, the deadly blow, the cries
Of joy and triumph from each army sent,
Taunting and loud; to him to die was nought,
He could not brook the shame of being slain. [840]
But other thoughts arose; hardly he crept
To where dead Malwyn from the car hung down,
Felt on his face the cold depending hand,
And with a smile half joy, half anguish died.
Th' Avenger knelt, his heart too full for prayer, [845]
Knelt, and held up his conquering sword to heaven,
Yet spake not. But the battle, as set free,
Its rugged game renew'd, nor equal now
Nor now unbroken, Flight and shameful Rout
Here scattered, Victory there and Pride array'd, [850]
And mass'd in comely files and full square troops
Bore onward. Mountaineer and German break
Around the hill foot, and like ebbing waves
Disperse away. Argantyr, Hengist move
In the recoiling flood reluctant. Them [855]
Nought more resembled, than two mountain bulls
Driven by the horse and dog and hunter spear,
Still turning with huge brow and tearing up
The deep earth with their wrathful stooping horns.
But as the hill was opened, from the top [860]
Even to the base arose a shriek and scream,
As when some populous Capital besieg'd,
Sees yawning her wide-breached wall, and all
Her shatter'd bulwarks on the earth, so wild,
So dissonant the female rout appear'd [865]
Hanging with fierce disturbance the hill side.
Some with rent hair ran to and fro, some stood
With silent mocking lip, some softly prest
Their infants to their heart, some held them forth
As to invite the foe, and for them sued [870]
The mercy of immediate slaughter. Some
Spake fiercely of past deeds of fame, some sang
In taunting tone old songs of victory. Wives
With eye imploring and quick heaving breast
Look'd sad allusions to endearments past; [875]
Mothers, all bashfulness cast down, rent down
Their garments, to their sons displaying bare
The fountains of their infant nourishment,
Now ready to be plough'd with murtherous swords.
Some knelt before their cold deaf Gods, some scoff'd
With imprecation blasphemous and shrill [881]
Their stony and unwakening thunders. Noise
Not fiercer on Cithæron side, th' affright
Not drearier, when the Theban Bacchic rout,
Their dashing cymbals white with moonshine, loose [885]
Their tresses bursting from their ivy crowns,
And purple with enwoven vine-leaves, led
Their orgies dangerous. In the midst the Queen
Agave shook the misdeem'd Lion's head
Aloft, and laugh'd and danc'd and sung, nor knew [890]
That lion suckled at her own white breast.
But Elfelin that Prophetess her seat
Chang'd not, nor the near horror could recall
Her eye from its strange commerce with th' unseen;
There had she been, there has she been in smiles [895]
All the long battle; just before the spear
Or falchion drank a warrior's life-blood, she
Audible, as an high-tribunal'd judge,
Spake out his name, and aye her speech was doom.
Nor long the o'erbearing flight enwrapt thy strength,
Argantyr, thou amid the shattering wreck [901]
Didst rise, as in some ruinous city old,
Babylon or Palmyra, magic built,
A single pillar yet with upright shaft
Stands, 'mid the wide prostration mossy and flat, [905]
Shewing more eminent. Past the Saxon by,
And look'd and wonder'd, even that he delay'd;
Cried his own Anglians. -- "King, away, away!"
First came King Hoel on, whose falchion clove
His buckler, with a wrest he burst in twain [910]
The shivering steel; came Emrys next, aside
His misaim'd blow he shook; last Uther, him
His war horse, by Argantyr's beam-like spear
Then first appall'd, bore in vain anger past.
From his late victory in proud breathlessness [915]
Slow came the Avenger, but Argantyr rais'd
A cry of furious joy, "Long sought, late found,
I charge thee, by our last impeded fight,
I charge thee, give me back mine own, my sword
Is weary of its bathes of vulgar blood,
And longs in nobler streams to plunge; with thine
I'll gild and hang it on my Father's grave,
And his helm'd ghost in Woden's hall shall vaunt
The glories of his son." "Generous and brave,
When last we met, I shrunk to see my sword [925]
Bright with God's sunlight, now with dauntless hand
I lift it, and cry On, in the name of God."
They met, they strove, as with a cloud enwrapt
In their own majesty; their motions gave
Terror even to their shadows; round them spread [930]
Attention like a sleep. Flight paus'd, Pursuit
Caught up its loose rein, Death his furious work
Ceas'd, and a dreary respite gave to souls
Half parted; on their elbows rear'd them up
The dying, with faint effort holding ope [935]
Their dropping eyelids, homage of delight
War from its victims thus exacting. Mind
And body engross'd the conflict. Men were seen
At distance, for in their peculiar sphere,
Within the wind and rush of their quick arms [940]
None ventur'd, following with unconscious limbs
Their blows, and shrinking as themselves were struck.
Like scatter'd shiverings of a scath'd oak lay
Fragments of armour round them, the hard brass
Gave way, and broke the fiery temper'd steel, [945]
The stronger metal of the human soul,
Valour, endur'd, and power thrice purified
In Danger's furnace fail'd not. Victory, tired
Of wavering, to those passive instruments,
Look'd to decide her long suspense. Behold [950]
Argantyr's falchion, magic wrought, his sires
So fabled, by the Asgard dwarfs, nor hewn
From earthly mines, nor dipp'd in earthly fires,
Broke short. Th' ancestral steel the Anglians saw,
Sign of their Kings, and worship of their race, [955]
Give way, and wail'd and shriek'd aloud. The King
Collected all his glory as a pall
To perish in, and scorn'd his sworded foe
To mock with vain defence of unarm'd hand.
The exultation and fierce throb of hope [960]
Yet had not pass'd away, but look'd to death
As it had look'd to conquest, death so well,
So bravely earn'd to warrior fair as life:
Stern welcoming, bold invitation lured
To its last work the Conqueror's sword. Him flush'd
The pride of Conquest, vengeance long delay'd, [966]
Th' exalted shame of victory won so slow,
So toilsomely; all fiery passions, all
Tumultuous sense-intoxicating powers
Conspir'd with their wild anarchy beset [970]
His despot soul. But he -- "Ah, faithless sword,
To me as to thy master faithless, him
Naked at his extreme to leave, and me
To guile of this occasion fair to win
Honour or death from great Argantyr's arm." [975]
"Christian, thy God is mightiest, scorn not thou
His bounty, nor with dalliance mock thy hour,
Strike and consummate!" -- "Anglian yes, my God,
Th' Almighty, is the mightiest now and ever,
Because I scorn him not, I will not strike." -- [980]
So saying, he his sword cast down. "Thus, thus
Warr'st thou?" the Anglian cried, "then thou hast won.
I, I Argantyr yield me, other hand
Had tempted me in vain with that base boon
Which peasants prize and women weep for, life: [985]
To lord o'er dead Argantyr fate might grant,
He only grants to vanquish him alive,
Only to thee, well nam'd Avenger!" Then
The Captive and the Conqueror th' armies saw
Gazing upon each other with the brow [990]
Of high arch'd admiration; o'er the field
From that example flow'd a noble scorn
Of slaughtering the defenceless, mercy slak'd
The ardour of the fight. As the speck'd birch
After a shower, with th' odour of its bark [995]
Freshens the circuit of the rain-bright grove;
Or as the tender argent of Love's star
Smiles to a lucid quiet the wild sky:
So those illustrious rivals with the light
Of their high language and heroic act [1000]
Cast a nobility o'er all the war.
That capture took a host, none scorn'd to yield,
So loftily Argantyr wore the garb
Of stern surrender, none inclin'd to slay,
When Samor held the signal up to spare. [1005]
But where the Lord of that dire falchion nam'd
The Widower of Women? He, the Chief
Whose arms were squadrons, whose assault the shock
Of hosts advancing? Hath the cream-blanch'd steed,
Whom the outstripped winds pant after, borne away
His master, yet with hope uncheck'd, and craft [1011]
Unbaffled, th' equal conflict to renew?
Fast flew the horse, and fierce the rider spurr'd,
That horse that all the day remorseless went
O'er dead and dying, all that Hengist slew [1015]
All he cast down before him. Lo, he checks
Suddenly, startingly, with ears erect,
Thick tremor oozing out from every pore,
His broad chest palpitating, the thick foam
Lazily gathering on his dropping lip: [1020]
The pawing of his uplift forefoot chill'd
To a loose hanging quiver. Nor his Lord
Less horror seiz'd; slack trembled in his left
The bridle, with his right hand dropt his sword,
Dripp'd slowly from its point the flaking blood [1025]
Of hundreds, this day fall'n beneath its edge.
For lo, descended the hill side, stood up
Right in his path the Prophetess, and held
With a severe compassion both her arms
Over her head, and thus -- "It cannot be, [1030]
I've cried unto the eagle, air hath none;
I've sued unto the fleet and bounding deer,
I've sought unto the sly and mining snake;
There's none above the earth, beneath the earth,
No flight, no way, no narrow obscure way. [1035]
I've call'd unto the lightning, as it leaped
Along heaven's verge, it cannot guide thee forth;
I've beckon'd to the dun and pitchy gloom,
It cannot shroud thee; to the caves of earth
I've wail'd and shriek'd, they cannot chamber thee."
He spoke not, mov'd not, strove not: man and steed,
Like some Equestrian marble in the courts [1042]
Of Emperors; that fierce eye whose wisdom keen
Pierc'd the dark depths of counsel, hawk-like-roved,
Seizing the unutter'd thoughts from out men's souls,
Wrought order in the battle's turbulent fray [1046]
By its command, on the aged Woman's face
Fix'd like a moonstruck idiot. She upright
With strength beyond her bow'd and shrivell'd limbs
Still stood, and murmur'd low, "Why com'st thou not,
Thou of the Vale? thou fated, come! come! come!"
The foes o'ertook, he look'd not round, their tramp
Was round him, still he mov'd not; violent hands
Seiz'd on him, still the enchanted falchion hung
Innocent as a feather by his side. [1055]
They tore him from his steed, still clung his eyes
On her disasterous face; she fiercely shriek'd
Half pride at her accomplish'd prophecy,
Half sorrow at Erle Hengist's fall, then down
Upon the stone that bore her, she fell dead. [1060]
Book XII.
Oh, Freedom, of our social UniverseThe Sun, that feedest from thy urn of light
The starry commonwealth, from those mean lamps
Modestly glimmering in their sphere retir'd,
Even to the plenar and patrician orbs, [5]
That in their rich nobility of light,
Or golden royalty endiadem'd,
Their mystic circle undisturb'd round thee
Move musical; but thou thy central state
Preserving, equably the fair-rank'd whole [10]
In dutiful magnificence maintain'st,
And stately splendour of obedience. Earth
Wonders, th' approval of th' Almighty beams
Manifest in the glory of the work.
Though sometimes drown'd within the red eclipse [15]
Of tyranny, or brief while by the base
And marshy exhalations of low vice
And popular license madden'd thou hast flash'd
Disastrous and intolerable fire;
Yet ever mounting hast thou still march'd on [20]
To thy meridian throne; my waxen wing
Oh, quenchless luminary! may not soar
To that thy dazzling and o'erpowering noon;
Rather the broken glimpses of thy dawn
Visiteth, when thy orient overcast [25]
A promise and faint foretaste of its light
Beam'd forth, then plung'd its cloud-slak'd front in gloom.
Even with such promise dost thou now adorn
Thy chosen city by the Thames, where holds
Victorious Emrys his high Judgment court. [30]
Thither the long ovation hath he led,
Amid the solemn music of rent chains,
The rapture of deliverance, where he past
Earth brightening, and the face of man but now
Brow-sear'd with the deep brand of servitude, [35]
To its old upright privilege restor'd
Of gazing on its kindred heaven. The towns
Gladden'd amid their ruins, churches shook
With throngs of thankful votaries, till 'twas fear [NOTE 22]
Transport might finish Desolation's work, [40]
And bliss precipitate the half moulder'd walls.
'Tis fam'd, men died for joy, untimely births
Were frequent, as the eager mothers prest
To show their infants to the brightening world.
They that but now beheld the bier-borne dead [45]
With miserable envy, past them by
Contemptuously pitying, as too soon
Departed from this highly gifted earth.
So they the Trinobantine City reach'd:
Without the walls, close by the marge of Thames, [50]
The synod of the Conquerors met; a place
Solemn and to the soul discoursing high.
Here broad the bridgeless Thames, even like themselves
Thus at their flush and high tide of renown,
Swell'd his exulting waters. There all waste [55]
The royal cemetery of Britain lay,
The monuments, like their cold tenantry,
Mouldering, above all ruin as beneath,
A wide profound, drear sameness of decay.
Upon the Church of Christ had heavily fallen [60]
The Pagan desolation, hung the doors
Loose on their broken and disused hinge,
And grass amid the checquer'd pavement squares
Was springing, and along the vacant choir
The shrill wind was God's only worshipper. [65]
Even where they met, through the long years have sate
In Parliament our nation's high and wise.
There have deep thoughts been ponder'd, strong designs
On which the fate of the round world hath hung.
Thence have the emanating rays of truth, [70]
Freedom, and constancy, and holiness
Flow'd in their broad beneficence, no bound
Owning but that which limits this brief earth,
Brightening this misty state of man; the winds
That thence bear mandates to th' inconstant thrones [75]
Of Europe, to the realms of th' orient Sun,
Or to the new and ocean-sever'd earth,
Or to the Southern cocoa-feather'd isles,
Are welcome, as pure gales of health and joy.
Still that deep dwelling underneath the earth [80]
Its high and ancient privilege maintains,
Dark palace of our island's parted Kings,
Earth-ciel'd pavilion of our brave and wise,
Whose glory ere it swept them off, hath cast
A radiance on the scythe of Death. Disus'd [85]
For two long heathen ages, it became
The pavement of our sumptuous minster fair,
That ever and anon yet gathers in
King, Conqu'ror, Poet, Orator, or Sage
To her stone chambers, there to sleep the sleep [90]
That wakens only at the Archangel's trump.
First in the synod rose King Emrys; he
The royal sword of justice from his side
Ungirding, plac'd it in the Avenger's hand,
And led him to the judgment-seat. He shrunk, [95]
And offer'd back the solemn steel. -- "Oh! King,
Judge and Avenger! who shall reconcile
The discord of those titles, private wrongs
Will load my partial arm, and drag to earth
The unsteady balance. Only God can join [100]
And blend in one the Injur'd and the Judge."
But as a wave lifts up and bears along
A stately bark, so the acclamation swell
Floated into the high Tribunal throne
Reluctant Samor: on his right the King [105]
Sate sceptred, royal Uther on the left.
While all around the assembled Nation bask'd
In his effulgent presence. 'Twas a boast
In after ages this day to have seen
Him whom all throng'd to see; memory of him, [110]
Every brief notice of his mien and height
Became an heir-loom; mothers at the font
Gave to their babes his name, and e'er that child
Was held the staff and honour of the race.
So met the Nation in their judgment Hall, [115]
Its pavement was the sacred mother earth,
Its roof the crystal and immortal heavens.
Then forth the captives came, Argantyr first,
Even with his wonted loftiness of tread:
Nature's rich heraldry upon his brow [120]
Emblazing him of those whose scorn the world
Bears unasham'd, by whom to be despis'd
Is no abasement. Men's eyes rang'd from him
To Samor, back to him -- in wonder now
Of conquest o'er such mighty foe, now lost [125]
The wonder in their kindred Conqueror's pride.
Then said the Anglian -- "Wherefore lead ye here?"
The sternness of his questioning appall'd
All save the Judge. -- "What Briton," he replied,
"Witnesseth aught against the Anglian Chief?" -- [130]
Thereat was proclamation, East and West
And North and South: the silent winds came back
With wings unloaded: so that noble mien
Wrought conquest o'er man's darkest passions, hate,
And doubt, and terror, so the Captive cast [135]
His yoke on every soul, and harness'd it
Unto his valiant spirit's chariot wheels.
Then spake the stately and tribunal'd Judge --
"Anglian Argantyr! Britain is not wont
T' inflict upon a fair and open foe [140]
Aught penal but defeat; her warfare bows
Beneath her feet but tramples not; her throne
Hath borne the stormy brunt of thy assault,
And dash'd it off, and thus she saith, "Return,
Return unto thy German woods, nor more, [145]
Once baffled, vex our coasts with fruitless war.
And thy return shall be to years remote
Our bond and charter of security;
A shudder and cold trembling at our name
Shall pass with thee, the land that hath spurn'd back [150]
Argantyr's march of victory, shall be known
T' eternal freedom consecrate. Your ships
Shall plough our seas, but turn their timorous prows
Aloof, while on the deck the Sea King points
To our white cliffs, and saith -- 'The Anglian thence [155]
Retreated, shun the unconquerable shore." --
So nevermore shall my hot warhorse bathe
In British waters, nor my falchion meet
The bold resistance of a British steel,
So wills the Conqueror, thus the Conquer'd swears." [160]
Thus spake Argantyr; sudden then and swift
Loftier shot up his brow, prophetic hues
Swam o'er his agitated features, words
Came with a rush and instantaneous flow. --
"I tell thee, Briton, that thy sons and mine [165]
Shall be two meeting and conflicting tides,
Whose fierce relentless enmity shall lash
This land into a whirlpool deep and wide,
To swallow in its vast insatiate gulph
Her peace and smooth felicity, till flow [170]
Their waters reconcil'd in one broad bed,
Briton and Anglian one in race and name.
'Tis written in the antient solemn Runes,
'Tis spoken by prophetic virgin lips.
Avenger, thou and I our earthly wars [175]
Have ended, but my spirit yet shall hold
Noble, inexorable strife with thine.
It shall heave off its barrow, burst its tomb,
And to my sons discourse of glorious foes
In this rich Island to be met: my shade [180]
Shall cross them in their huntings, it shall walk
The ocean paths and on the winds, and seize
Their prows, and fill their sails, and all its voice
And all its secret influences urge
To the White Isle; their slumbers shall not rest, [185] [NOTE 23]
Their quiet shall be weariness, till lull'd
Upon the pillow of success repose
The high, the long hereditary feud."
So saying, he the bark that lay prepar'd
With sail unfurl'd, ascended. She went forth [190]
Momently with quick shadow the blue Thames
Darkening, then leaving on its breast a light
Like silver. The fix'd eyes of wondering men
Track'd his departure, while with farewell gleam
The bright Sun shone upon his brow, and seem'd [195]
A triumph in the motion of the stream;
So loftily upon its long slow ebb
It bore that honour-laden bark. -- Nor pause,
Lo, in the presence of the Judgment Court
The second Criminal; pride had not pass'd [200]
Nor majesty from his hoar brow; he stood
With all except the terror of despair,
Consciously in fatality's strong bonds
Manacled, of the coming death assur'd,
Yet fronting the black future with a look [205]
Obdurate even to scornfulness. He seem'd
As he heard nought, as though his occupied ears
Were pervious to no sound, since that dim voice
Of her who speaking died, the silver hair'd,
The Prophetess, that never spake untrue: [210]
As ever with a long unbroken flow
Her song was ranging through his brain, and struck
Its death-knoll on his soul. Nor change had come
Since that drear hour to eye or cheek; the craft,
The wisdom that was wont to make him lord [215]
Over the shifting pageant of events,
Had given its trust up to o'er-ruling fate,
And that stern Paramount, Necessity,
Had seal'd him for her own. Amid them all
He tow'r'd, as when the summer thunderbolt [220]
'Mid a rich fleet some storm-accustom'd bark
Hath stricken, round her the glad waters dance,
Her sails are full, her strong prow fronts the waves;
But works within the irrevocable doom,
Wells up her secret hold th' inundant surge, [225]
And th' heavy waters weigh her slowly down.
For the arraignment made the Judge a sign,
And the first witness was a mighty cry,
As 'twere the voice of the whole Isle, as hills
And plains and waters their abhorrence spake; [230]
Hoarse harmony of imprecation seem'd
To break the ashy sleep of ruin'd towns,
And th' untomb'd slumbers of far battle vales.
As if the crowd about the Judgment Court
Did only with articulate voice repeat [235]
What indistinct came down on every wind.
Then all the near, the distant, sank away,
Only a low and melancholy tone,
Like a far music down a summer stream
Remain'd; upon the lull'd, nor panting air [240]
Fell that smooth snow of sound, till nearer now
It swell'd, as clearer water-falls are heard
When midnight grows more still. A funeral hymn,
It pour'd the rapture of its sadness out,
Even like a sparkling soporific wine. [245]
But now and then broke from its low long fall,
Something of martial and majestic swell,
That spake its mourning o'er no vulgar dead.
Lo to the royal burying place, chance borne
Even at his solemn time, or so ordain'd [250]
From their bright-scuteheon'd biers their part to bear
In this arraignment, came King Vortigern,
And th' honour'd ashes of his Son. But still
And voiceless these cold witnesses past on,
Unto the place of tombs. Along the Thames [255]
Far floated into silence the spent hymn:
And one accusing sound arose from them,
The heavy falling of their earth to earth.
One female mourner came behind the King,
Half of her face the veil conceal'd, her eyes [260]
Were visible, and though a deadly haze
Film'd their sunk balls, she sent into the grave,
Following the heavy and descending corpse,
A look of such imploring loveliness,
A glance so sad, so self-condemning, all, [265]
(So softly, tremulously it appeal'd)
Might wonder that the spirit came not back
To animate for the utterance that she wish'd
Those bloodless lips; forgivenss it was plain
She sought, and one so beauteous to forgive, [270]
The dead might almost wake. And she sate down,
Leaning her cheek upon a broken stone
(Once a King's monument) as listening yet
Th' acceptance of her prayers: nor cloister'd Nun
Hath ever since mourning her broken vows, [275]
And his neglect for whom those vows she broke,
Come to the image of her Virgin Saint
With such a faded cheek and contrite mien,
As her who by those royal ashes sate.
But lo, new witnesses; a matron train [280]
In flowing robes of grief came forth, the wives
And mothers of those nobles foully slain
At the Peace Banquet, them the memory yet
Seem'd haunting of delicious days broke off.
On Hengist, even a captive, dared not they [285]
Look firmly, as their helpless loneliness
Spake for them, they their solitary breasts
Beat, wrung their destitute cold hands, and pass'd.
Arose the mitred Germain, glanc'd his hand
From that majestic criminal, where lay [290]
The ruins of God's church, and so sate down.
But Samor look'd upon the mourner train,
As though he sought a face that was not there,
That could not be, soft Emeric's. -- "I have none,
I only none to witness of my wrongs." -- [295]
So said he, but he shook the softness off,
On the tribunal rose severe, and stood
Erect before the multitude. "Thou, King,
And ye, assembled People of this Isle,
If that I speak your sentence right, give in [300]
Your sanction of Amen. Here stands the man,
Who two long years laid waste with fire and sword
Your native cities and your altar shrines:
Here stands the man, who by slow fraud and guile
Discrown'd your stately Monarch, Vortigern: [305]
Here stands the man, hath water'd with your blood
The red and sickening herbage of your land:
Here stands the man, that to your peaceful feast
Brought Murther, that grim seneschal, and drugg'd
With your most noble blood your friendly cups." [310]
And at each charge came in the deep Amen,
Even like the sounds men hear on stormy nights,
When many thunders are abroad. Nought moved
Stood Hengist, if emotion o'er him pass'd,
'Twas likest an elate contemptuous joy [315]
And glorying in those lofty worded crimes.
Then, "Saxon Hengist, as thy sword hath made
Our children fatherless, so fatherless
Must be thy children! And Amen knoll'd back, [NOTE 24]
As a plague visited Metropolis [320]
Mourning the wide and general funeral, tolls
From all her towers and spires the bell of death.
"Thy children fatherless! not so -- not so" --
Rose with a shriek that Woman by the grave,
And she sprang forth, as from beneath the earth, [325]
As a partaker of, no mourner near
That kingly coffin. Veil fell off, and band
Started, through her bright tresses her pale face
Glitter'd, like fine-chaf'd ivory set in gold.
Between the Criminal and Judge her stand [330]
Rowena took; him as she saw and knew
Flush'd a sick rapture o'er her face and neck,
A fading rose-hue, like eve's parting light
On a snow bank; but from her marble brow
She the bright-clustering hair wip'd back, and thus, [335]
"Samor, the last time thou this brow beheld'st
The moonlight was upon it, since that hour
The water hath flow'd o'er it, holy sign
Hath there been left by Christian hand, and I
Thy creed have learnt, and one word breathes it all, [340]
Mercy." -- "But Justice is God's attribute,
Lady, as well as mercy, Man on earth
Must be Vicegerent of both stern and mild,
Lest over-ramping Evil set its foot
Upon the prostrate world. The doom is said, [345]
The doom must be." -- "Ha! Man with heart of clay,
To answer with that cold and stedfast mien;
Oh, I'll go back and sue the dead again,
There's more forgiveness in the cold deaf corpse,
Than the warm keen-ear'd living. From that vault [350]
I felt sweet reconcilement stealing up,
That turn'd my tears to honey dew, here all,
All sullen and relentless on me glares.
I ask not for myself, not for myself,
The ice of death is round my heart, there long [355]
I've felt the slow consuming prey, I feel
The trembling ebb of my departing life.
That hoary head, though granted to my prayers,
Shall never rest upon my failing knee,
The father that ye give me back (I feel [360]
Ye give him, thou that bear'st the Avenger's name,
I know thee by a milder character)
That father cannot long be mine; his hands
May lay me in the grave, his eyes may weep,
For they can weep, although ye think it not; [365]
Those hands ye deem for ever blood-embrued,
I've felt them fondling with my golden hair,
When with gay childish foot I danc'd to meet
His far resounding horn. That horn shall sound,
But on my deaf and earth-clos'd ears no more, [370]
No more." -- "Rowena, when a Nation speaks,
The irrevocable sentence cannot change."
Then up her fair round arm she rais'd, and wrapt
Like a rich mantle round her: her old pride
As the poetic Juno in the clouds [375]
Walking in her majestic ire, while slow
Before her th' azure-breasted peacocks draw
Her chariot. -- "Tell me, thou that sit'st elate,
And ye, who call yourselves this British realm,
By what new right ye judge a German King, [380]
Where are your charters, where your scrolls of law
Whose bright and blazon'd titles give ye power
To pass a doom on crowned head? Down, down,
Ye bold Usurpers of the Judgment seat,
Insolent doomers of a sacred life, [385]
Beyond your sphere to touch, your grasp to seize."
"Lady, we judge by the adamantine law,
That lives within the eternal soul of man,
That God-enacted charter, "Blood for blood."
Exhausted she sank down upon her kness, [390]
Her knees that fainted under her. -- "Ye can,
Ye will not shew unto a woman's eyes
That bloody consummation, not to mine.
Oh, thou that speakest in that brazen tone
Implacable, the last time thou and I [395]
Discours'd, thy voice was broken, tender, soft,
Remember'st thou? 'twas then as it had caught
The trembling of the moonlight, that lay round
With rapturous disquiet bathing us.
Remember'st thou?" -- "Almost the Judgment sword
Fell from the Avenger's failing hand, but firm [401]
He grasp'd it, and with eyes to heaven upturn'd,
"Oh, duty, duty, why art thou so stern?"
Then, "Lady, lo, the headsman with his steel;
To that dark Priest 'tis given to sacrifice [405]
The victim of to day -- depart! depart!
Colours may flow too deep for woman's sight,
And sounds may burst too drear for woman's ear."
Stately as lily on a sunshine bank,
Shaken from its curl'd leaves the o'ercharging dew, [410]
Freshens and strengthens its bow'd stem, so white
So brightening to a pale cold pride, a faint
And trembling majesty, Rowena sate.
On Hengist's dropping lip and knitted brow
Was mockery at her fate-opposing prayer, [415]
And that was all. But she -- "Proud-hearted Men,
Ye vainly deem your privilege, your right,
Prerogative of your high-minded race,
The glory of endurance, and the state
Of strong resolving fortitude. Here I, [420]
A woman born to melt and faint and fail,
A frail, a delicate, dying woman, sit
To shame ye." She endur'd the flashing stroke
Of th' axe athwart her eyesight, and the blood
That sprung around her she endur'd: still kept [425]
The lily its unbroken stateliness,
And its pellucid beauty sparkled still,
But all its odours were exhal'd -- the breath
Of life, the tremulous motion was at rest;
A flower of marble on a temple wall, [430]
'Twas fair but lived not, glitter'd but was cold.
While from the headless corpse t' its great account
Went fiercely forth the Pagan's haughty soul.
Notes:
[1] Gibbon, Chap. 31.
[2] Whitaker, Hist. of Manchester.
[3] Lewis, Hist. of Britain.
[4] He is so decorated by the Welsh Poets. See Translation of the Brut of Tysilio, by Peter Roberts.
[5] Proprium gentis, equorum quoque præsagia ac monitus experiri: publicè aluntur iisdem nemoribus ac lucis. Candidi, et nullo mortali opere contacti, quos pressos sacro curru sacerdos ac rex vel princeps civitatis comitantur, hunnitusque ac fremitus observant. Tac. Germ.
[6] Insigne gentis obliquare crinem, nodoque substringere -- In altitudinem quandam et terrorem, adituri bella, compte, ut hostium oculis, ornantur. Tac. Germ. 38.
[7] Cimbri, parva nunc civitas, sed gloriâ ingens. Tac. Germ.
[8] Primum cana salix, madefacto vimine, parvam
Texitur in puppim, cæesoque induta juvenco,
Vectoris patiens tumidum super emicat amnem:
Sic Venetus stagnante Pado, fusoque Britannus
Navigat oceano. LUCAN.
[9] Homo autem quem sors immolandum obtulerat, in fontem qui ad locum sacrificiorum scaturiebat vivus immergebatur: qui si facile efflaret animam, faustum renunciabant sacerdotes votum: moxque inde ereptum in vicinum nemus, quod sacrum credebant, suspendentes, inter Deos translatum affirmabant. Quo factum erat, ut beatum se crederet, qui eo immolatione e vivis excaderet. Accidit nonnunquam reges ipsos simili sorte delectos victimari. Quod quia faustissimum regno libamen aestimabatur, totius populi multitudo cum summa congratulatione tam insignes victimas prosequebantur. Eniumvero sic defunctos non omnino mori, sed tam illos quam se ipsos immortales esse. Olaus Magnus, Book 3. cap. 6.
[10] Salisbury - Sarisburga, qu. Caesaris burga.
[11] De pace denique ac bello plerumque in conviviis consultant; tanquam nullo magis tempore aut ad simplices cogitationes pateat animus, aut ad magnas incalescat. Tac. Germ.
[12] Or, Dimetia, i.e. South Wales.
[13] York.
[14] Caer ruth, Exeter.
[15] Holinshed, Book 5, Chap. 6
[16] Henry Huntingdon, Hist.
[17] Ceterum Arii super vires, quibus enumeratos paullo ante populos antecedunt, truces, insitae feritati arte ac tempore lenocinantur: nigra scuta, tincta corpora: atras ad proelia noctes legunt: ipsaque formidine atque umbra feralis exercitus terrorum inferunt, nullo hostium sustinente novum ac velut infernum aspectum: nam primi in omnibus proeliis oculi vincuntur. - Tac. Ger. c. 43.
[18] --et in proximo pignora: unde feminarum ululatus audiri, unde vagitus infantium; hi cuique sanctissimi testes, hi maximi laudatores. Ad matres, ad conjuges vulnera ferunt: new illae numerare, aut exigere plagas pavent. Cibosque et hortamina pugnantibus gestant. Tac. Germ.
[19] Verstegan
[20] Verstegan
[21] Vetere apud Germanos more, quo plerasque feminarum fatidicas, et augescente superstitione, arbitrantur deas. Tac. Hist. 4-61.
[22] Then did Aurelius Ambrosius put the Saxons out of all other parts of the land, and repaired such cities, towns, and also churches, as by them had been destroyed or defaced, & c. Holl. Book 6. Chap. 8.
[23] The Welsh called it Inis Wen, the White Island. Speed, B. 5. C. 2. Some derive Britain from Pryd Cain - Beauty and White. ibid.
[24] The words used to Agag were applied on this occasion, according to the Welsh tradition. Robert's Translation of the Brut of Tysilio.
THE SHRIVING OF GUINEVERE
by
S. WEIR MITCHELL
Still she stood in the shunning crowd.
"Is there none," she said, aloud,
"None who knelt to me, great and proud,
Will say one word for me, sad and bowed?
Alas! it seems to me, if I
Were one of you, who, standing by,
Hear gathered in a woman's cry
The years of such an agony,
It seemeth me that I would take
Sweet pity's side for mine own sake,
And, knowing guilt alone should quake,
For chance of right one battle make."
But, no man heeding her, she stayed
Beneath the linden's trembling shade,
And peered, half hopeful, half afraid,
While passed in silence man and maid.
She, staring on the stone-dry street
Through the long summer-noonday heat,
And, stirring never from her seat,
Half saw men's shadows pass her feet.
"Ah me!" she murmured, "well I see
How bitter each day's life may be
To them who have not where to flee
And are as one with misery."
But, whether knight to tourney rode,
Or bridal garments past her flowed,
Or by some bier slow mourners trode,
No sign of life the woman showed.
When as the priestly evening threw
The blessed waters of the dew,
About her head her cloak she drew
And hid her face from every view;
Till, asthe twilight grew to shade,
And passed no more or man or maid,
A sudden hand was on her laid.
"And who art thou?" she moaned, afraid;
Beside her one of visage sad
Which yet to see made sorrow glad
Stood, in a knight's white raiment clad,
But neither sword nor poniard had.
"One who has loved you well," he said.
"Living I loved you well, and dead
I love you still; when joys were spread
Like flowers, and greatness crowned your head,
None loved you more. Not Arthur gave--
He will not check me from his grave--
So pure a love; nor Launcelot brave
With deeper love had yearned to save."
"Then," said the woman, still at bay,
"Why do I tremble when you lay
A hand upon my shoulder? Stay,
What is thy name, sir knight, I pray?
For wheresoever memory chase
I know not one such troubled face,
Nor one that hath such godly grace
Of solemn sweetness any place:
But, whatsoever man thou be,
What is it I should do for thee?"
Whereon, he, smiling cheerily,
Said: "I would have thee follow me."
Not any answer did he wait,
But turned towards the city gate;
Not any word said she, but straight
Went after, bent and desolate;
And, as a dream might draw, he drew
Her feet to action, till she knew
That house and palace round her grew,
And some wild revel's reeling crew,
And dame and page and squire and knight,
And torches flashing on the sight,
And fiery jewels flaming bright,
And love and music and delight;
But slow across the spangled green
The stern knight went and went the queen,--
He solemn, silent, and serene,
She bending low with humble mien.
But where he turned the music died,
Love-parted lips no more replied,
And, shrinking back on either side,
Serf and lord stared, wonder-eyed,
Or marveling shrunk swift away
Before that visage solemn, gray,
Till, where the leaping fountains sway,
Thick showed the knights in white array.
There where he passed, though moved no breeze,
The leaves stirred trembling on the trees;
And where he looked, by slow degrees
Fell silence and some strange unease,
Whilst whispers ran: "Who may it be?
What knight is this? And who is she?
But only Gawain looked to see,
And, praying, fell upon his knee.
Then said a voice full solemnly:
"Of all the knights that look on me,
If only one of them there be
That never hath sinned wittingly,
Let him the woman first disown,
Let him be first to cast a stone
At one, who, fallen from a throne,
Is sad and weary and alone.
Him, when the lists of God are set,
Him, when the knights of God are met,
If that he lacketh answer yet,
The soul of him shall answer get."
Then, as a lily bowed with rain
Leaps shedding it, she shed her pain,
And towering looked where men, like grain
Storm-humbled, bent upon the plain;
Whilst over her the cold night air
Throbbed with some awful pulse of prayer,
As, bending low with reverent care,
She kissed the good knight's raiment fair.
When as she trembling rose again,
And felt no more in heart and brain
The weary weight of sin and pain,
For him that healed she looked in vain;
And from the starry heavens immense
Unto her soul with penitence
Came, as if felt by some new sense,
The noise of wings departing thence.
HOW LANCELOT CAME TO THE NUNNERY IN SEARCH OF THE QUEEN
by
S. WEIR MITCHELL
Three days on Gawain's tomb Sir Lancelot wept,
Then drew about him baron, knight, and earl,
And cried, "Alack, fair lords, too late we came,
For now heaven hath its own, and woe is mine:
But 'gainst the black knight Death may none avail.
I will that ye no longer stay for me.
In Arthur's realm I go to seek the Queen,
Nor ever more in earthly lists shall ride."
So, heeding none, seven days he westward rode,
And at the sainted mid-hour of the night
Was 'ware of voices, and above them all
One that he knew, and trembled now to hear.
Rose-hedged before him stood a nunnery's walls,
With gates wide open unto foe or friend.
Unquestioned to the cloister court he came,
And in the moonlight, on the balcony, saw
Beneath the arches nuns and ladies stand,
And in their midst a cowled white face he loved,
Whereat he cried aloud, "Lo, I am here!
Lo, I am here!--I, Lancelot, am here!
Would ye I came? I could not help but come."
Spake then the Queen, low-voiced as one in pain:
"Oh, call him here, I pray you call him here."
Then lit Sir Lancelot down, and climbed the stair,
And doffed his helm, and stood before the Queen.
But she that had great fear to see his face:
"Oh, sinless sisters, ye that are so dear,
Lo, this is he through whom great ills were wrought;
For by our love, which we have loved too well,
Is slain my lord and many noble knights.
And therefore, wit ye well, Sir Lancelot,
My soul's health waneth; yet through God's good grace
I trust, when death is come, to sit with Christ,
Because in heaven more sinful souls than I
Are saints in heaven; and therefore, Lancelot,
For all the love that ever bound our souls
I do beseech thee hide again thy face.
On God's behalf I bid thee straitly go,
Because my life is as a summer spent;
Yea, go, and keep thy realm from wrack and war,
For, well as I have loved thee, Lancelot,
My heart will no more serve to see thy face;
Nay, not if thou shouldst know love in mine eyes.
In good haste get thee to thy realm again,
And heartily do I beseech thee pray
That I may make amend of time mislived.
And take to thee a wife, for age is long."
"Ah no, sweet madam," said Sir Lancelot,
"That know ye well I may not while I breathe;
But as thou livest, I will live in prayer."
"If thou wilt do so," said the Queen, "so be.
Hold fast thy promise; yet full well I know
The world will bid thee back." -- "And yet," he cried,
"When didst thou know me to a promise false?
Wherefore, my lady dame, sweet Guinevere,
For all my earthly bliss hath been in thee,
If thou wilt no more take of this world's joy,
I too shall cease to know the bliss of life.
I pray thee kiss me once, and nevermore."
"Nay," said the Queen, "that shall I never do.
No more of earthly lips shall I be kissed."
Then like to one stung through with hurt of spears,
Who stares, death-blinded, round the reeling lists,
At gaze he stood, but saw no more the Queen;
And as a man who gropes afoot in dreams,
Deaf, dumb, and sightless, down the gallery stairs
Stumbling he went, with hands outstretched for aid,
And found his horse, and rode, till in a vale
At evening, 'twixt two cliffs, came Bedevere,
And with his woesome story stayed the knight.
At this, Sir Lancelot's heart did almost break
For sorrow, and abroad his arms he cast,
And cried, "Alas! ah, who may trust this world!"
A BALLAD OF CORNWALL
by
F. B. MONEY-COUTTS
I
Sir Tristram lay by a well,
Making sad moan;
Fast his tears tell,
For wild the wood through,
Stricken with shrewd
Sorrow, he ran,
When he deemed her untrue --
La Beale Isoud!
For he loved her alone.
II
So as he lay,
Wasted and wan,
Scarce like a man,
Pricking that way
His lady-love came,
With her damsels around,
And her face all a-flame
With the breezes of May;
While a brachet beside her
Still bayed the fair rider,
Still leaped up and bayed her;
A small scenting hound
That Sir Tristram purveyed her.
III
So she rode on;
But the brachet behind
Hung snuffing the wind,
Till seeking and crying
Faster and faster,
Beside the well lying
She found her dear master!
Then licking his ears
And cheeks wet with tears,
For joy never resting
Kept whining and questing.
IV
Isoud (returned
Seeking her hound)
Soon as she learned
Tristram was found,
Straightway alighting,
Fell in a swound.
V
Won by her lover
Thence to recover,
Who shall the greeting
Tell of their meeting?
Joy, by no tongue
E'er to be sung
Passed in that plighting!
VI
Thus while they dallied,
Forth the wood sallied
An horrible libbard, and bare
The brachet away to his lair!
SIR DAGONET'S QUEST
by
F. B. MONEY-COUTTS
I
King Mark came riding, in great despite,
Seeking Sir Tristram to slay,
And chanced on a merry and courteous knight,
But knew him not for that jesting wight
Sir Dinadan, brave and gay.
II
As saddle to saddle they paced along,
Hoving afar they saw
Horses and knights in a gallant throng
Under the forest shaw.
III
Said Dinadan, "Lo! by yon cloth of gold
Launcelot rides this way!"
And Mark, like a man that shakes with cold,
Said, "Launcelot here? Then I cannot hold
Longer with you today!"
IV
When Dinadan spied he might scarce abide
For terror, he cried, "I see
Sir Launcelot's shield! On a silver field
Three lions and lilies three!"
V
But he said it to shape a jest and jape,
That cowardly King to school;
For lions and lilies emblazoned thrice
He wist full well were the new device
Of Dagonet, Arthur's fool.
VI
Now Mark had turned him about, to slip
Back, like a snake, for fear;
But Dinadan rode to his fellowship,
Who made of him passing cheer.
VII
He told them his craft and all agreed;
So Dagonet, armed to fight,
Adventured his spear and spurred at speed,
Crying, "Ho! ye caitiff of Cornish breed !
Keep ye, ye craven knight!"
VIII
Now out, now in, through thick and through thin,
Mark fled from that shield aghast;
Through thick and through thin, with dindle and din,
Sir Dagonet followed fast!
IX
Then the knights chased after, with Ho! and Yield!
And he ran like a rated hound;
And the cry rose high and the laughter pealed,
Till wood and water and forest and field
Rang with the noise and sound.
ARTHURIAN PASSAGES FROM THE HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF BRITAIN
by
GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH
Edited and Translated by
J.A. Giles, D.C.L.
But Gratian Municeps, hearing of the death of Maximian, seized the crown, and made himself king. After this he exercised such tyranny that the common people fell upon him in a tumultuous manner, and murdered him. When this news reached other countries, their former enemies returned back from Ireland, and bringing with them the Scots, Norwegians, and Dacians, made dreadful devastations with fire and sword over the whole kingdom, from sea to sea. Upon this most grievous calamity and oppression, ambassadors are despatched with letters to Rome, to beseech, with tears and vows of perpetual subjection, that a body of men might be sent to revenge their injuries, and drive out the enemy from them. The ambassadors in a short time prevailed so far, that, unmindful of past injuries, the Romans granted them one legion, which was transported in a fleet to their country, and there speedily encountered the enemy. At last, after the slaughter of a vast multitude of them, they drove them entirely out of the country, and rescued the miserable people from their outrageous cruelty. Then they gave orders for a wall to be built between Albania and Deira, from one sea to the other, for a terror to the enemy, and safeguard to the country. At that time Albania was wholly laid to waste, by the frequent invasions of barbarous nations; and whatever enemies made an attempt upon the country, met with a convenient landing-place there. So that the inhabitants were diligent in working upon the wall, which they finished partly at the public, partly upon private charge.
The Romans, after this, declared to the Britons, that they should not be able for the future to undergo the fatigue of such laborious expeditions; and that it was beneath the dignity of the Roman state to harass so great and brave an army, both by land and sea, against base and vagabond robbers; but that they ought to apply themselves to the use of arms, and to fight bravely in defending to the utmost of their power, their country, riches, wives, children, and, what is dearer than all these, their liberty and lives. As soon as they had given them this exhortation, they commanded all the men of the island that were fit for war, to appear together at London, because the Romans were about to return home. When, therefore, they were all assembled, Guethelin, the metropolitan of London, had orders to make a speech to them, which he did in these words:--
"Though I am appointed by the princes here present to speak to you, I find myself rather ready to burst into tears, than to make an eloquent oration. It is a most sensible affliction to me to observe the weak and destitute state into which you are fallen since Maximian drew away with him all the forces and youth of this kingdom. You that were left were people wholly inexperienced in war, and occupied with other employments, as tilling the ground, and several kinds of mechanical trades. So that when your enemies from foreign countries came upon you, as sheep wandering without a shepherd, they forced you to quit your folds, till the Roman power restored you to them again. Must your hopes, therefore, always depend upon foreign assistance? And will you never use yourselves to handle arms against a band of robbers, that are by no means stronger than yourselves, if you are not dispirited by sloth and cowardice? The Romans are now tired with the continual voyages wherewith they are harassed to defend you against your enemies: they rather choose to remit to you the tribute you pay them, than undergo any longer this fatigue by land and sea. Because you were only the common people at the time when we had soldiers of our own, do you therefore think that manhood had quite forsaken you? Are not men in the course of human generation often the reverse of one another? Is not a ploughman often the father of a soldier, and a soldier of a ploughman? Does not the same diversity happen in a mechanic and a soldier? Since then, in this manner, one produces another, I cannot think it possible for manhood to be lost among them. As then you are men, behave yourselves like men: call upon the name of Christ, that he may inspire you with courage to defend your liberties."
No sooner had he concluded his speech, than the people raised such a shout, that one would have thought them on a sudden inspired with courage from heaven.
After this the Romans encouraged the timorous people as much as they could, and left them patterns of their arms. They likewise commanded towers, having a prospect towards the sea, to be placed at proper distances along the all the south coast, where their ships were, and from whence they feared the invasions of the barbarians. But, according to the proverb, "It is easier to make a hawk of a kite, than a scholar of a ploughman;" all learning to him is but as a pearl thrown before swine. Thus, no sooner had the Romans taken their farewell of them, than the two leaders, Guanius and Melga, issued forth from their ships, in which they had fled over into Ireland, and with their bands of Scots, Picts, Norwegians, Dacians, and others, whom they had brought along with them, seized upon all Albania as far as the very wall. Understanding, likewise, that the Romans were gone, never to return any more, they now, in a more insolent manner than before, began their devastations in the island. Hereupon the country fellows upon the battlements of the walls sat night and day with quaking hearts, not daring to stir from their seats, and readier for flight than making the least resistance. In the meantime the enemies ceased not with their hooks to pull them down headlong, and dash the wretched herd to pieces upon the ground; who gained at least this advantage by their speedy death, that they avoided the sight of that most deplorable calamity, which forthwith threatened their relations and dearest children. Such was the terrible vengeance of God for that most wicked madness of Maximian, in draining the kingdom of all its forces, who, had they been present, would have repulsed any nation that invaded them; an evident proof of which they gave, by the vast conquests they made abroad, even in remote countries; and also by maintaining their own country in peace, while they continued here. But thus it happens when a country is left to the defence of country clowns. In short, quitting their high wall and their cities, the country people were forced again to fly, and to suffer a more fatal dispersion, a more furious pursuit of the enemy, a more cruel and more general slaughter than before; and like lambs before wolves, so was that miserable people torn to pieces by the merciless barbarians. Again, therefore, the wretched remainder send letters to Agitius, a man of great power among the Romans, to this effect. "To Agitius, thrice consul, the groans of the Britons." And after some few other complaints they add: "The sea drives us to the barbarians, and the barbarians drive us back to the sea: thus we are tossed to and fro between two kinds of death, being either drowned or put to the sword." Notwithstanding this most moving address, they procured no relief, and the ambassadors returning back in great heaviness, declared to their countrymen the repulse which they had suffered.
Hereupon, after a consultation together, Guethelin, archbishop of London, passed over into Lesser Britain, called them Armorica, or Letavia, to desire assistance of their brethren. At that time Aldroen reigned there, being the fourth king from Conan, to whom, as has been already related, Maximian had given that kingdom. This prince, seeing a prelate of so great dignity arrive, received him with honour, and inquired after the occasion of his coming. To whom Guethelin:--
"Your majesty can be no stranger to the misery which we, your Britons, have suffered (which may even demand your tears), since the time that Maximian drained our island of its soldiers, to people the kingdom which you enjoy, and which God grant you may long enjoy in peace. For against us the poor remains of the British race, all the people of the adjacent islands, have risen up, and made an utter devastation in our country, which then abounded with all kinds of riches; so that the people now are wholly destitute of all manner of sustenance, but what they can get in hunting. Nor had we any power or knowledge of military affairs left among us to encounter the enemy. For the Romans are tired of us, and have absolutely refused their assistance. So that now, deprived of all other hope, we come to implore your clemency, that you would furnish us with forces, and protect a kingdom, which is of right your own, from the incursions of barbarians. For who but yourself, ought, without your consent, to wear the crown of Constantine and Maximian, since the right your ancestors had to it is now devolved upon you? Prepare then your fleet, and go with me. Behold! I deliver the kingdom of Britain into your hands."
To this Aldroen made answer: "There was a time formerly when I would not have refused to accept of the island of Britain, if it had been offered me; for I do not think there was anywhere a more fruitful country while it enjoyed peace and tranquillity. But now, since the calamities that have befallen it, it is become of less value, and odious both to me and all other princes. But above all things the power of the Romans was so destructive to it, that nobody could enjoy any settled state or authority in it, without loss of liberty, and bearing the yoke of slavery under them. And who would not prefer the possession of a lesser country with liberty, to all the riches of that island in servitude? The kingdom that is now under my subjection I enjoy with honour, and without paying homage to any superior; so that I prefer it to all other countries, since I can govern it without being controlled. Nevertheless, out of respect to the right that my ancestors for many generations have had to your island, I deliver to you my brother Constantine with two thousand men, that with the good providence of God, he may free your country from the inroads of barbarians, and obtain the crown for himself. For I have a brother called by that name, who is an expert soldier, and in all other respects an accomplished man. If you please to accept of him, I will not refuse to send him with you, together with the said number of men; for indeed a larger number I do not mention to you, because I am daily threatened with disturbance from the Gauls." He had scarcely done speaking before the archbishop returned him thanks, and when Constantine was called in, broke out into these expressions of joy: "Christ conquers; Christ commands; Christ reigns: behold the king of desolate Britain! Be Christ only present, and behold our defence, our hope and joy." In short, the ships being got ready, the men who were chosen out from all parts of the kingdom, were delivered to Guethelin.
When they had made all necessary preparations, they embarked, and arrived at the port of Totness; and then without delay assembled together the youth that was left in the island, and encountered the enemy; over whom, by the merit of the holy prelate, they obtained the victory. After this the Britons, before dispersed, flocked together from all parts and in a council held at Silchester, promoted Constantine to the throne, and there performed the ceremony of his coronation. They also married him to a lady, descended from a noble Roman family, whom archbishop Guethelin had educated, and by whom the king had afterwards three sons, Constans, Aurelius Ambrosius, and Uther Pendragon. Constans, who was the eldest, he delivered to the church of Amphibalus in Winchester, that he might there take upon him the monastic order. But the other two, viz. Aurelius and Uther, he committed to the care of Guethelin for their education. At last, after ten years were expired, there came a certain Pict, who had entered in his service, and under pretence of holding some private discourse with him, in a nursery of young trees where nobody was present, stabbed him with a dagger.
Upon the death of Constantine, a dissension arose among the nobility, about a successor to the throne. Some were for setting up Aurelius Ambrosius; others Uther Pendragon; others again some other persons of the royal family. At last, when they could come to no conclusion, Vortigern, consul of the Gewisseans, who was himself very ambitious of the crown, went to Constans the monk, and thus addressed himself to him: "You see your father is dead, and your brothers on account of their age are incapable of the government; neither do I see any of your family besides yourself, whom the people ought to promote to the kingdom. If you will therefore follow my advice, I will, on condition of your increasing my private estate, dispose the people to favour your advancement, and free you from that habit, notwithstanding that it is against the rule of your order." Constans, overjoyed at the proposal, promised, with an oath, that upon these terms he would grant him whatever he would desire. Then Vortigern took him, and investing him in his regal habiliments, conducted him to London, and made him king, though not with the free consent of the people. Archbishop Guethelin was then dead, nor was there any other that durst perform the ceremony of his unction, on account of his having quitted the monastic order. However, this proved no hindrance to his coronation, for Vortigern himself performed the ceremony instead of a bishop.
Constans, being thus advanced, committed the whole government of the kingdom to Vortigern, and surrendered himself up so entirely to his counsels, that he did nothing without his order. His own incapacity for government obliged him to do this, for he had learned any thing else rather than state affairs within his cloister. Vortigern became sensible of this, and therefore began to deliberate with himself what course to take to obtain the crown, of which he had been before extremely ambitious. He saw that now was his proper time to gain his end easily, when the kingdom was wholly intrusted to his management; and Constans, who bore the title of king, was no more than the shadow of one; for he was of a soft temper, a bad judge in matters of right, and not in the least feared, either by his own people, or by the neighbouring states. And as for his two brothers, Uther Pendragon and Aurelius Ambrosius, they were only children in their cradles, and therefore incapable of the government. There was likewise this farther misfortune, that all the older persons of the nobility were dead, so that Vortigern seemed to be the only man surviving, that had craft, policy, and experience in matters of state; and all the rest in a manner children, or raw youths, who only inherited the honours of their parents and relations that had been killed in the former wars. Vortigern, finding a concurrence of so many favourable circumstances, contrived how he might easily and cunningly depose Constans the monk, and immediately establish himself in his place. But in order to do this, he waited until he had first well established his power and interest in several countries. He therefore petitioned to have the king's treasures, and his fortified cities, in his own custody; pretending there was a rumour, that the neighbouring islanders designed an invasion of the kingdom. This being granted him, he placed his own creatures in those cities, to secure them for himself. Then having formed a scheme how to execute his treasonable designs, he went to the king, and represented to him the necessity of augmenting the number of his domestics, that he might more safely oppose the invasion of the enemy. "Have I not left all things to your disposal?" said Constans: "Do what you will as to that, so that they be but faithful to me." Vortigern replied, "I am informed that the Picts are going to bring the Dacians and Norwegians in upon us, with a design to give us very great annoyance. I would therefore advise you, and in my opinion it is the best course you can take, that you maintain some Picts in your court, who may do you good service among those of that nation. For if it is true that they are preparing to begin a rebellion, you may employ them as spies upon their countrymen in their plots and stratagems, so as easily to escape them." This was the dark treason of a secret enemy; for he did not recommend this out of regard to the safety of Constans, but because he knew the Picts to be a giddy people, and ready for all manner of wickedness; so that, in a fit of drunkenness or passion, they might easily be incensed against the king, and make no scruple to assassinate him. And such an accident, when it should happen, would make an open way for his accession to the throne, which he so often had in view. Hereupon he despatched messengers into Scotland, with an invitation to a hundred Pictish soldiers, whom accordingly he received into the king's household; and when admitted, he showed them more respect than all the rest of the domestics, by making them several presents, and allowing them a luxurious table, insomuch that they looked upon him as the king. So great was the regard they had for him, that they made songs of him about the streets, the subject of which was, that Vortigern deserved the government, deserved the sceptre of Britain; but that Constans was unworthy of it. This encouraged Vortigern to show them still more favour, in order the more firmly to engage them in his interest; and when by these practices he had made them entirely his creatures, he took an opportunity, when they were drunk, to tell them, that he was going to retire out of Britain, to see if he could get a better estate; for the small revenue he had then, he said, would not so much as enable him to maintain a retinue of fifty men. Then putting on a look of sadness, he withdrew to his own apartment, and left them drinking in the hall. The Picts at this sight were in inexpressible sorrow, as thinking what he had said was true, and murmuring said one to another, "Why do we suffer this monk to live? Why do not we kill him, that Vortigern may enjoy his crown? Who is so fit to succeed as he? A man so generous to us is worthy to rule, and deserves all the honour and dignity that we can bestow upon him."
After this, breaking into Constan's bed-chamber, they fell upon him and killed him, and carried his head to Vortigern. At the sight of it, he put on a mournful countenance, and burst forth into tears, though at the same time he was almost transported with joy. However, he summoned together the citizens of London, (for there the fact was committed,) and commanded all the assassins to be bound, and their heads to be cut off for this abominable parricide. In the meantime there were some who had a suspicion, that this piece of villany was wholly the contrivance of Vortigern, and that the Picts were only his instruments to execute it. Others again as positively asserted his innocence. At last the matter being left in doubt, those who had the care of the two brothers, Aurelius Ambrosius, and Uther Pendragon, fled over with them into Lesser Britain, for fear of being killed by Vortigern. There they were kindly received by king Budes, who took care to give them an education suitable to their royal birth.
Now Vortigern, seeing nobody to rival him in the kingdom, placed the crown on his own head, and thus gained the preeminence over all the rest of the princes. At last his treason being discovered, the people of the adjacent islands, whom the Picts had brought into Albania, made insurrection against him. For the Picts were enraged on account of the death of their fellow soldiers, who had been slain for the murder of Constans, and endeavoured to revenge that injury upon him. Vortigern therefore was daily in great distress, and lost a considerable part of his army in a war with them. He had likewise no less trouble from another quarter, for fear of Aurelius Ambrosius, and his brother Uther Pendragon, who, as we said before, had fled, on his account, into Lesser Britain. For he heard it rumoured, day after day, that they had now arrived at man's estate, and had built a vast fleet, with a design to return back to the kingdom, which was their undoubted right.
In the meantime there arrived in Kent three brigandines, or long galleys, full of armed men, under the command of two brothers, Horsa and Hengist. Vortigern was then at Dorobernia, now Canterbury, which city he used often to visit; and being informed of the arrival of some tall strangers in large ships, he ordered that they should be received peaceably, and conducted into his presence. As soon as they were brought before him, he cast his eyes upon the two brothers, who excelled all the rest both in nobility and gracefulness of person; and having taken a view of the whole company, asked them of what country they were, and what was the occasion of their coming into his kingdom. To whom Hengist (whose years and wisdom entitled him to a precedence), in the name of the rest, made the following answer:--
"Most noble king, Saxony, which is one of the countries of Germany, was the place of our birth; and the occasion of our coming was to offer our service to you or some other prince. For we were driven out of our native country, for no other reason, but that the laws of the kingdom required it. It is customary among us, that when we come to be overstocked with people, our princes from all the provinces meet together, and command all the youths of the kingdom to assemble before them; then casting lots, they make choice of the strongest and ablest of them, to go into foreign nations, to procure themselves a subsistence, and free their native country from a superfluous multitude of people. Our country, therefore, being of late overstocked, our princes met, and after having cast lots, made choice of the youth which you see in your presence, and have obliged us to obey the custom which has been established of old. And us two brothers, Hengist and Horsa, they made generals over them, out of respect to our ancestors, who enjoyed the same honour. In obedience, therefore, to the laws so long established, we put out to sea, and under the good guidance of Mercury have arrived in your kingdom."
The king, at the name of Mercury, looking earnestly upon them, asked them what religion they professed. "We worship," replied Hengist, "our country's gods, Saturn and Jupiter, and the other deities that govern the world, but especially Mercury, whom in our language we call Woden, and to whom our ancestors consecrated the fourth day of the week, still called after his name Wodensday. Next to him we worship the powerful goddess, Frea, to whom they also dedicated the sixth day, which after her name we call Friday." Vortigern replied, "For your credulity, or rather incredulity, I am much grieved, but I rejoice at your arrival, which, whether by God's providence or some other agency, happens very seasonably for me in my present difficulties. For I am oppressed by my enemies on every side, and if you will engage with me in my wars, I will entertain you honourably in my kingdom, and bestow upon you lands and other possessions." The barbarians readily accepted his offer, and the agreement between them being ratified, they resided at his court. Soon after this, the Picts, issuing forth from Albania, with a very great army, began to lay waste the northern parts of the island. When Vortigern had information of it, he assembled his forces, and went to meet them beyond the Humber. Upon their engaging, the battle proved very fierce on both sides, though there was but little occasion for the Britons to exert themselves, for the Saxons fought so bravely, that the enemy, formerly so victorious, were speedily put to flight.
Vortigern, therefore, as he owed the victory to them, increased his bounty to them, and gave their general, Hengist, large possessions of land in Lindesia, for the subsistence of himself and his fellow soldiers. Hereupon Hengist, who was a man of experience and subtilty, finding how much interest he had with the king, addressed him in this manner:--"Sir, your enemies give you disturbance from all quarters, and few of your subjects love you. They all threaten you, and say, they are going to bring over Aurelius Ambrosius from Armorica, to depose you, and make him king. If you please, let us send to our country to invite over some more soldiers, that with our forces increased we may be better able to oppose them. But there is one thing which I would desire of your clemency, if I did not fear a refusal." Vortigern made answer, "Send your messengers to Germany, and invite over whom you please, and you shall have no refusal from me in whatever you shall desire." Hengist, with a low bow, returned to him thanks, and said, "The possessions which you have given me in land and houses are very large, but you have not yet done me that honour which becomes my station and birth, because, among other things, I should have had some town or city granted me, that I might be entitled to greater esteem among the nobility of your kingdom. I ought to have been made a consul or prince, since my ancestors enjoyed both those dignities." "It is not in my power," replied Vortigern, "to do you so much honour, because you are strangers and pagans; neither am I yet so far acquainted with your manners and customs, as to set you upon a level with my natural born subjects. And, indeed, if I did esteem you as my subjects, I should not be forward to do so, because the nobility of my kingdom would strongly dissuade me from it." "Give your servant," said Hengist, "only so much ground in the place you have assigned me, as I can encompass with a leathern thong, for to build a fortresss upon, as a place of retreat if occasion should require. For I will always be faithful to you, as I have been hitherto, and pursue no other design in the request which I have made." With these words the king was prevailed upon to grant him his petition; and ordered him to despatch messengers into Germany, to invite more men over speedily to his assistance. Hengist immediately executed his orders, and taking a bull's hide, made one thong out of the whole, with which he encompassed a rocky place that he had carefully made choice of, and within that circuit began to build a castle, which, when finished, took its name from the thong wherewith it had been measured; for it was afterwards called, in the British tongue, Kaercorrei; in Saxon, Thancastre, that is, Thong Castle.
In the meantime, the messengers returned from Germany, with eighteen ships full of the best soldiers they could get. They also brought along with them Rowen, the daughter of Hengist, one of the most accomplished beauties of that age. After their arrival, Hengist invited the king to his house, to view his new buildings, and the new soldiers that were come over. The king readily accepted of his invitation, but privately, and having highly commended the magnificence of the structure, enlisted the men into his service. Here he was entertained at a royal banquet; and when that was over, the young lady came out of her chamber bearing a golden cup full of wine, with which she approached the king, and making a low courtesy, said to him, "Lauerd king wacht heil!" The king, at the sight of the lady's face, was on a sudden both surprised and inflamed with her beauty; and calling to his interpreter, asked him what she said, and what answer he should make her. "She called you, 'Lord king,'" said the interpreter, "and offered to drink your health. Your answer to her must be, 'Drinc heil!'" Vortigern accordingly answered, "Drinc heil!" and bade her drink; after which he took the cup from her hand, kissed her, and drank himself. From that time to this, it has been the custom in Britain, that he who drinks to any one says, "Wacht heil!" and he that pledges him, answers "Drinc heil!" Vortigern being now drunk with the variety of liquors, the devil took this opportunity to enter into his heart, and to make him in love with the damsel, so that he became suitor to her father for her. It was, I say, by the devil's entering into his heart, that he, who was a Christian, should fall in love with a pagan. By this example, Hengist, being a prudent man, discovered the king's levity, and consulted with his brother Horsa and the other ancient men present, what to do in relation to the king's request. They unanimously advised him to give him his daughter, and in consideration of her to demand the province of Kent. Accordingly the daughter was without delay delivered to Vortigern, and the province of Kent to Hengist, without the knowledge of Gorangan, who had the government of it. The king the same night married the pagan lady, and became extremely delighted with her; by which he quickly brought upon himself the hatred of the nobility, and of his own sons. For he had already three sons, whose names were Vortimer, Catigern, and Pascentius.
At that time came St. Germanus, bishop of Auxerre, and Lupus, bishop of Troyes, to preach the gospel to the Britons. For the Christian faith had been corrupted among them, partly by the pagans whom the king had brought into society with them, partly by the Pelagian heresy, with the poison whereof they had been a long time infected. But by the preaching of these holy men, the true faith and worship was again restored, the many miracles they wrought giving success to their labours. Gildas has in his elegant treatise given an account of the many miracles God wrought by them. The king being now, as we have said, possessed of the lady, Hengist said to him: "As I am your father, I claim the right of being your counsellor: do not therefore slight my advice, since it is to my countrymen you must owe the conquest of all your enemies. Let us invite over my son Octa and his brother Ebissa, who are brave soldiers, and give them the countries that are in the northern parts of Britain, by the wall, between Deira and Albania. For they will hinder the inroads of the barbarians, and so you shall enjoy peace on the other side of the Humber." Vortigern complied with his request, and ordered them to invite over whomsoever they knew able to assist him. Immediately upon the receipt of this message, came Octa, Ebissa, and Cherdich, with three hundred ships filled with soldiers, who were all kindly received by Vortigern, and had ample presents made them. For by their assistance he vanquished his enemies, and in every engagement proved victorious. Hengist in the meantime continued to invite over more and more ships, and to augment his numbers daily. Which when the Britons observed, they were afraid of being betrayed by them, and moved the king to banish them out of his coasts. For it was contrary to the rule of the gospel that Christians should hold fellowship, or have any intercourse, with pagans. Besides which, the number of those that were come over was now so great, that they were a terror to his subjects; and nobody could now know who was a pagan, or who a Christian, since pagans married the daughters and kinswomen of Christians. These things they represented to the king, and endeavoured to dissuade him from entertaining them, lest they might, by some treacherous conspiracy, prove an overmatch for the native inhabitants. But Vortigern, who loved them above all other nations on account of his wife, was deaf to their advice. For this reason the Britons quickly desert him, and unanimously set up Vortimer his son for their king; who at their instigation began to drive out the barbarians, and to make dreadful incursions upon them. Four battles he fought with them, and was victorious in all: the first upon the river Dereuent; the second upon the ford of Epsford, where Horsa and Catigern, another son of Vortigern, met and, after a sharp encounter, killed each other; the third upon the sea-shore, where the enemies fled shamefully to their ships, and betook themselves for refuge to the Isle of Thanet. But Vortimer besieged them there, and daily distressed them with his fleet. And when they were no longer able to bear the assaults of the Britons, they sent king Vortigern, who was present with them in all those wars, to his son Vortimer, to desire leave to depart, and return back safe to Germany. And while a conference upon this subject was being held, they in the meantime went on board their long galleys, and, leaving their wives and children behind them, returned back to Germany.
Vortimer, after this great success, began to restore his subjects to their possessions which had been taken from them, and to show them all marks of his affection and esteem, and at the instance of St. Germanus to rebuild their churches. But his goodness quickly stirred up the enmity of the devil against him, who entering into the heart of his stepmother Rowen, excited her to contrive his death. For this purpose she consulted with the poisoners, and procured one who was intimate with him, whom she corrupted with large and numerous presents, to give him a poisonous draught; so that this brave soldier, as soon as he had taken it, was seized with a sudden illness, that deprived him of all hopes of life. Hereupon he forthwith ordered all his men to come to him, and having shown them how near he was to his end, distributed among them all the treasure his predecessors had heaped up, and endeavoured to comfort them in their sorrow and lamentation for him, telling them, he was only going the way of all flesh. But he exhorted those brave and warlike young men, who had attended him in all his victories, to persist courageously in the defence of their country against all hostile invasion; and with wonderful greatness of mind, commanded a brazen pyramid to be placed in the port where the Saxons used to land, and his body when dead to be buried on the top of it, that the sight of his tomb might frighten back the barbarians to Germany. For he said none of them would dare approach the country, that should but get a sight of his tomb. Such was the admirable bravery of this great man, who, as he had been a terror to them while living, endeavoured to be no less so when dead. Notwithstanding which, he was no sooner dead, than the Britons had no regard to his orders, but buried him at London.
Vortigern, after the death of his son, was again restored to the kingdom, and at the request of his wife sent messengers into Germany to Hengist, with an invitation to return into Britain, but privately, and with a small retinue, to prevent a quarrel between the barbarians and his subjects. But Hengist, hearing that Vortimer was dead, raised an army of no less than three hundred thousand men, and fitting out a fleet returned with them to Britain. When Vortigern and the nobility heard of the arrival of so vast a multitude, they were immoderately incensed, and, after consultation together, resolved to fight them, and drive them from their coasts. Hengist, being informed of their design by messengers sent from his daughter, immediately entered into deliberation what course to pursue against them. After several stratagems had been considered, he judged it most feasible, to impose upon the nation by making show of peace. With this view he sent ambassadors to the king, to declare to him, that he had not brought so great a number of men for the purpose either of staying with him, or offering any violence to the country. But the reason why he brought them, was because he thought Vortimer was yet living, and that he should have occasion for them against him, in case of an assault. But now since he no longer doubted of his being dead, he submitted himself and his people to the disposal of Vortigern; so that he might retain as many of them as he should think fit, and whomsoever he rejected Hengist would allow to return back without delay to Germany. And if these terms pleased Vortigern, he desired him to appoint a time and place for their meeting, and adjusting matters according to his pleasure. When these things were represented to the king, he was mightily pleased, as being very unwilling to part with Hengist; and at last ordered his subjects and the Saxons to meet upon the kalends of May, which were now very near, at the monastery of Ambrius, for the settling of the matters above mentioned. The appointment being agreed to on both sides, Hengist, with a new design of villany in his head, ordered his soldiers to carry every one of them a long dagger under their garments; and while the conference should be held with the Britons, who would have no suspicion of them, he would give them this word of command, "Nemet oure Saxas;" at which moment they were all to be ready to seize boldly every one his next man, and with his drawn dagger stab him. Accordingly they all met at the time and place appointed, and began to treat of peace; and when a fit opportunity offered for executing his villany, Hengist cried out, "Nemet oure Saxas," and the same instant seized Vortigern, and held him by his cloak. The Saxons, upon the signal given, drew their daggers, and falling upon the princes, who little suspected any such design, assassinated them to the number of four hundred and sixty barons and consuls; to whose bodies St. Eldad afterwards gave Christian burial; not far from Kaercaradauc, now Salisbury, in a burying-place near the monastery of Ambrius, the abbat, who was the founder of it. For they all came without arms, having no thoughts of anything but treating of peace; which gave the others a fairer opportunity of exercising their villainous design against them. But the pagans did not escape unpunished while they acted this wickedness; a great number of them being killed during this massacre of their enemies. For the Britons, taking up clubs and stones from the ground, resolutely defended themselves, and did good execution upon the traitors.
There was present one Eldol, consul of Gloucester, who, at the sight of this treachery, took up a stake which he happened to find, and with that made his defence. Every blow he gave carried death along with it; and by breaking either the head, arms, shoulders, or legs of a great many, he struck no small terror into the traitors, nor did he move from the spot before he had killed with that weapon seventy men. But being no longer able to stand his ground against such numbers, he made his escape from them, and retired to his own city. Many fell on both sides, but the Saxons got the victory; because the Britons, having no suspicion of treachery, came unarmed, and therefore made a weaker defence. After the commission of this detestable villany, the Saxons would not kill Vortigern; but having threatened him with death and bound him, demanded his cities and fortified places in consideration of their granting him his life. He, to secure himself, denied them nothing; and when they had made him confirm his grants with an oath, they released him from his chains, and then marched first to London, which they took, as they did afterwards York, Lincoln, and Winchester; wasting the countries through which they passed, and destroying the people, as wolves do sheep when left by their shepherds. When Vortigern saw the desolation which they made, he retired into the parts of Cambria, not knowing what to do against so barbarous a people.
At last he had recourse to magicians for their advice, and commanded them to tell him what course to take. They advised him to build a very strong tower for his own safety, since he had lost all his other fortified places. Accordingly he made a progress about the country, to find out a convenient situation, and came at last to Mount Erir, where he assembled workmen from several countries, and ordered them to build the tower. The builders, therefore, began to lay the foundation; but whatever they did one day the earth swallowed up the next, so as to leave no appearance of their work. Vortigern being informed of this again consulted with his magicians concerning the cause of it, who told him that he must find out a youth that never had a father, and kill him, and then sprinkle the stones and cement with his blood; for by those means, they said, he would have a firm foundation. Hereupon messengers were despatched away over all the provinces, to inquire out such a man. In their travels they came to a city, called afterwards Kaermerdin, where they saw some young men, playing before the gate, and went up to them; but being weary with their journey, they sat down in the ring, to see if they could meet with what they were in quest of. Towards evening, there happened on a sudden quarrel between two of the young men, whose names were Merlin and Dabutius. In the dispute, Dabutius said to Merlin: "You fool, do you presume to quarrel with me? Is their any equality in our birth? I am descended of royal race, both by my father and mother's side. As for you, nobody knows what you are, for you never had a father." At that word the messengers looked earnestly upon Merlin, and asked the by-standers who he was. They told him, it was not known who was his father; but that his mother was daughter to the king of Dimetia, and that she lived in St. Peter's church among the nuns of that city.
Upon this the messengers hastened to the governor of the city, and ordered him, in the king's name, to send Merlin and his mother to the king. As soon as the governor understood the occasion of their message, he readily obeyed the order, and sent them to Vortigern to complete his design. When they were introduced into the king's presence, he received the mother in a very respectful manner, on account of her noble birth; and began to inquire of her by what man she had conceived. "My sovereign lord," said she, "by the life of your soul and mine, I know nobody that begot him of me. Only this I know, that as I was once with my companions in our chambers, there appeared to me a person in the shape of a most beautiful young man, who often embraced me eagerly in his arms, and kissed me; and when he had stayed a little time, he suddenly vanished out of my sight. But many times after this he would talk with me when I sat alone, without making any visible appearance. When he had a long time haunted me in this manner, he at last lay with me several times in the shape of a man, and left me with child. And I do affirm to you, my sovereign lord, that excepting that young man, I know no body that begot him of me." The king full of admiration at this account, ordered Maugantius to be called, that he might satisfy him as to the possibility of what the woman had related. Maugantius, being introduced, and having the whole matter repeated to him, said to Vortigern: "In the books of our philosophers, and in a great many histories, I have found that several men have had the like original. For, as Apuleius informs us in his book concerning the Demon of Socrates, between the moon and the earth inhabit those spirits, which we will call incubuses. These are of the nature partly of men, and partly of angels, and whenever they please assume human shapes, and lie with women. Perhaps one of them appeared to this woman, and begot that young man of her."
Merlin in the meantime was attentive to all that had passed, and then approached the king, and said to him, "For what reason am I and my mother introduced into your presence?"-- "My magicians," answered Vortigern, "advised me to seek out a man that had no father, with whose blood my building is to be sprinkled, in order to make it stand."-- "Order your magicians," said Merlin, "to come before me, and I will convict them of a lie." The king was surprised at his words, and presently ordered the magicians to come, and sit down before Merlin, who spoke to them after this manner: "Because you are ignorant what it is that hinders the foundation of the tower, you have recommended the shedding of my blood for cement to it, as if that would presently make it stand. But tell me now, what is there under the foundation? For something there is that will not suffer it to stand." The magicians at this began to be afraid, and made him no answer. Then said Merlin, who was also called Ambrose, "I entreat your majesty would command your workmen to dig into the ground, and you will find a pond which causes the foundations to sink." This accordingly was done, and then presently they found a pond deep under ground, which had made it give way. Merlin after this went again to the magicians, and said, "Tell me ye false sycophants, what is there under the pond." But they were silent. Then said he again to the king, "Command the pond to be drained, and at the bottom you will see two hollow stones, and in them two dragons asleep." The king made no scruple of believing him, since he had found true what he said of the pond, and therefore ordered it to be drained: which done, he found as Merlin had said; and now was possessed with the greatest admiration of him. Nor were the rest that were present less amazed at his wisdom, thinking it to be no less than divine inspiration.
I had not got thus far in my history, when the subject of public discourse happening to be concerning Merlin, I was obliged to publish his prophecies at the request of my acquaintance, but especially of Alexander, bishop of Lincoln, a prelate of the greatest piety and wisdom. There was not any person, either among the clergy or laity, that was attended with such a train of knights and noblemen, whom his settled piety and great munificence engaged in his service. Out of a desire, therefore, to gratify him, I translated these prophecies, and sent them to him with the following letter.
"The regard which I owe to your great worth, most noble prelate, has obliged me to undertake the translation of Merlin's prophecies out of British into Latin, before I had made an end of the history which I had begun concerning the acts of the British kings. For my design was to have finished that first, and afterwards to have taken this work in hand; lest by being engaged on both at once, I should be less capable of attending with any exactness to either. Notwithstanding, since the deference which is paid to your penetrating judgment will screen me from censure, I have employed my rude pen, and in a coarse style present you with a translation out of a language with which you are unacquainted. At the same time, I cannot but wonder at your recommending this matter to one of my low genius, when you might have caused so many men of greater learning, and a richer vein of intellect, to undertake it; who, with their sublime strains, would much more agreeably have entertained you. Besides, without any disparagement to all the philosophers in Britain, I must take the liberty to say, that you yourself, if the business of your high station would give you leisure, are capable of furnishing us with loftier productions of this kind than any man living. However, since it was your pleasure that Geoffrey of Monmouth should be employed in this prophecy, he hopes you will favourably accept of his performance, and vouchsafe to give a finer turn to whatever you shall find unpolished, or otherwise faulty in it.
As Vortigern, king of the Britons, was sitting upon the bank of the drained pond, the two dragons, one of which was white, the other red, came forth, and, approaching one another, began a terrible fight, and cast forth fire with their breath. But the white dragon had the advantage, and made the other fly to the end of the lake. And he, for grief at his flight, renewed the assault upon his pursuer, and forced him to retire. After this battle of the dragons, the king commanded Ambrose Merlin to tell him what it portended. Upon which he, bursting into tears, delivered what his prophetical spirit suggested to him, as follows:--
"Woe to the red dragon, for his banishment hasteneth on. His lurking holes shall be seized by the white dragon, which signifies the Saxons whom you invited over; but the red denotes the British nation, which shall be oppressed by the white. Therefore shall its mountains be levelled as the valleys, and the rivers of the valleys shall run with blood. The exercise of religion shall be destroyed, and churches be laid open to ruin. At last the oppressed shall prevail, and oppose the cruelty of foreigners. For a boar of Cornwall shall give his assistance, and trample their necks under his feet. The islands of the ocean shall be subject to his power, and he shall possess the forests of Gaul. The house of Romulus shall dread his courage, and his end shall be doubtful. He shall be celebrated in the mouths of the people; and his exploits shall be food to those that relate them. Six of his posterity shall sway the sceptre, but after them shall arise a German worm. He shall be advanced by a sea-wolf, whom the woods of Africa shall accompany. Religion shall be again abolished, and there shall be a translation of the metropolitan sees. The dignity of London shall adorn Dorobernia, and the seventh pastor of York shall be resorted to in the kingdom of Armorica. Menevia shall put on the pall of the City of Legions, and a preacher of Ireland shall be dumb on account of an infant growing in the womb. It shall rain a shower of blood, and a raging famine shall afflict mankind. When these things happen, the red one shall be grieved; but when his fatigue is over, shall grow strong. Then shall misfortunes hasten upon the white one, and the buildings of his gardens shall be pulled down. Seven that sway the sceptre shall be killed, one of whom shall become a saint. The wombs of mothers shall be ripped up, and infants be abortive. There shall be a most grievous punishment of men, that the natives may be restored. He that shall do these things shall put on the brazen man, and upon a brazen horse shall for a long time guard the gates of London. After this, shall the red dragon return to his proper manners, and turn his rage upon himself. Therefore shall the revenge of the Thunderer show itself, for every field shall disappoint the husbandmen. Mortality shall snatch away the people, and make a desolation over all countries. The remainder shall quit their native soil, and make foreign plantations. A blessed king shall prepare a fleet, and shall be reckoned the twelfth in the court among the saints. There shall be a miserable desolation of the kingdom, and the floors of the harvests shall return to the fruitful forests. The white dragon shall rise again, and invite over a daughter of Germany. Our gardens shall be again replenished with foreign seed, and the red one shall pine away at the end of the pond. After that, shall the German worm be crowned, and the brazen prince buried. He has his bounds assigned to him, which he shall not be able to pass. For a hundred and fifty years he shall continue in trouble and subjection, but shall bear sway three hundred. Then shall the north wind rise against him, and shall snatch away the flowers which the west wind produced. There shall be gilding in the temples, nor shall the edge of the sword cease. The German dragon shall hardly get to his holes, because the revenge of his treason shall overtake him. At last he shall flourish for a little time, but the decimation of Neustria shall hurt him. For a people in wood and in iron coats shall come, and revenge upon him his wickedness. They shall restore the ancient inhabitants to their dwellings, and there shall be an open destruction of foreigners. The seed of the white dragon shall be swept out of our gardens, and the remainder of his generation shall be decimated. They shall bear the yoke of slavery, and wound their mother with spades and ploughs. After this shall succeed two dragons, whereof one shall be killed with the sting of envy, but the other shall return under the shadow of a name. Then shall succeed a lion of justice, at whose roar the Gallican towers and the island dragons shall tremble. In those days gold shall be squeezed from the lily and the nettle, and silver shall flow from the hoofs of bellowing cattle. The frizzled shall put on various fleeces, and the outward habit denote the inward parts. The feet of barkers shall be cut off; wild beasts shall enjoy peace; mankind shall be grieved at their punishment; the form of commerce shall be divided; the half shall be round. The ravenousness of kites shall be destroyed, and the teeth of wolves blunted. The lion's whelps shall be transformed into sea-fishes; and an eagle shall build her nest upon Mount Aravius. Venedotia shall grow red with the blood of mothers, and the house of Corineus kill six brethren. The island shall be wet with night tears; so that all shall be provoked to all things. Woe to thee, Neustria, because the lion's brain shall be poured upon thee; and he shall be banished with shattered limbs from his native soil. Posterity shall endeavour to fly above the highest places; but the favour of new comers shall be exalted. Piety shall hurt the possessor of things got by impiety, till he shall have put on his Father: therefore, being armed with the teeth of a boar, he shall ascend above the tops of mountains, and the shadow of him that wears a helmet. Albania shall be enraged, and, assembling her neighbours, shall be employed in shedding blood. There shall be put into her jaws a bridle that shall be made on the coast of Armorica. The eagle of the broken covenant shall gild it over, and rejoice in her third nest. The roaring whelps shall watch, and, leaving the woods, shall hunt within the walls of cities. They shall make no small slaughter of those that oppose them, and shall cut off the tongues of bulls. They shall load the necks of roaring lions with chains, and restore the times of their ancestors. Then from the first to the fourth, from the fourth to the third, from the third to the second, the thumb shall roll in oil. The sixth shall overturn the walls of Ireland, and change the woods into a plain. He shall reduce several parts to one, and be crowned with the head of a lion. His beginning shall lay open to wandering affection, but his end shall carry him up to the blessed, who are above. For he shall restore the seats of saints in their countries, and settle pastors in convenient places. Two cities he shall invest with two palls, and shall bestow virgin-presents upon virgins. He shall merit by this the favour of the Thunderer, and shall be placed among the saints. From him shall proceed a lynx penetrating all things, who shall be bent upon the ruin of his own nation; for, through him, Neustria shall lose both islands, and be deprived of its ancient dignity. Then shall the natives return back to the island; for there shall arise a dissension among foreigners. Also a hoary old man, sitting upon a snow-white horse, shall turn the course of the river Periron, and shall measure out a mill upon it with a white rod. Cadwallader shall call upon Conan, and take Albania into alliance. Then shall there be a slaughter of foreigners; then shall the rivers run with blood. Then shall break forth the fountains of Armorica, and they shall be crowned with the diadem of Brutus. Cambria shall be filled with joy; and the oaks of Cornwall shall flourish. The island shall be called by the name of Brutus: and the name given it by foreigners shall be abolished. From Conan shall proceed a warlike boar, that shall exercise the sharpness of his tusks within the Gallic woods. For he shall cut down all the larger oaks, and shall be a defence to the smaller. The Arabians and Africans shall dread him; for he shall pursue his furious course to the farther part of Spain. There shall succeed the goat of the Venereal castle, having golden horns and a silver beard, who shall breathe such a cloud out of his nostrils, as shall darken the whole surface of the island. There shall be peace in his time; and corn shall abound by reason of the fruitfulness of the soil. Women shall become serpents in their gait, and all their motions shall be full of pride. The camp of Venus shall be restored; nor shall the arrows of Cupid cease to wound. The fountain of a river shall be turned into blood; and two kings shall fight a duel at Stafford for a lioness. Luxury shall overspread the whole ground; and fornication not cease to debauch mankind. All these things shall three ages see; till the buried kings shall be exposed to public view in the city of London. Famine shall again return; mortality shall return; and the inhabitants shall grieve for the destruction of their cities. Then shall come the board of commerce, who shall recall the scattered flocks to the pasture they had lost. His breast shall be food to the hungry, and his tongue drink to the thirsty. Out of his mouth shall flow rivers, that shall water the parched jaws of men. After this shall be produced a tree upon the Tower of London, which, having no more than three branches, shall overshadow the surface of the whole island with the breadth of its leaves. Its adversary, the north wind, shall come upon it, and with its noxious blast shall snatch away the third branch; but the two remaining ones shall possess its place, till they shall destroy one another by the multitude of their leaves; and then shall it obtain the place of those two, and shall give sustenance to birds of foreign nations. It shall be esteemed hurtful to native fowls; for they shall not be able to fly freely for fear of its shadow. There shall succeed the ass of wickedness, swift against the goldsmiths, but slow against the ravenousness of wolves. In those days the oaks of the forests shall burn, and acorns grow upon the branches of teil trees. The Severn sea shall discharge itself through seven mouths, and the river Uske burn seven months. Fishes shall die with the heat thereof; and of them shall be engendered serpents. The baths of Badon shall grow cold, and their salubrious waters engender death. London shall mourn for the death of twenty thousand; and the river Thames shall be turned into blood. The monks in their cowls shall be forced to marry, and their cry shall be heard upon the mountains of the Alps."
"Three springs shall break forth in the city of Winchester, whose rivulets shall divide the island into three parts. Whoever shall drink of the first, shall enjoy long life, and shall never be afflicted with sickness. He that shall drink of the second, shall die of hunger, and paleness and horror shall sit in his countenance. He that shall drink of the third, shall be surprised with sudden death, neither shall his body be capable of burial. Those that are willing to escape so great a surfeit, will endeavour to hide it with several coverings: but whatever bulk shall be laid upon it, shall receive the form of another body. For earth shall be turned into stones; stones into water; wood into ashes; ashes into water, if cast over it. Also a damsel shall be sent from the city of the forest of Canute to administer a cure, who, after she shall have practised all her arts, shall dry up the noxious fountains only with her breath. Afterwards, as soon as she shall have refreshed herself with the wholesome liquor, she shall bear in her right hand the wood of Caledon, and in her left the forts of the walls of London. Wherever she shall go, she shall make sulphureous steps, which will smoke with a double flame. That smoke shall rouse up the city of Ruteni, and shall make food for the inhabitants of the deep. She shall overflow with rueful tears, and shall fill the island with her dreadful cry. She shall be killed by a hart with ten branches, four of which shall bear golden diadems; but the other six shall be turned into buffalo's horns, whose hideous sound shall astonish the three islands of Britain. The Daneian wood shall be stirred up, and breaking forth into a human voice, shall cry: Come, O Cambria, and join Cornwall to thy side, and say to Winchester, the earth shall swallow thee up. Translate the seat of thy pastor to the place where ships come to harbour, and the rest of the members will follow the head. For the day hasteneth, in which thy citizens shall perish on account of the guilt of perjury. The whiteness of wool has been hurtful to thee, and the variety of its tinctures. Woe to the perjured nation, for whose sake the renowned city shall come to ruin. The ships shall rejoice at so great an augmentation, and one shall be made out of two. It shall be rebuilt by Eric, loaden with apples, to the smell whereof the birds of several woods shall flock together. He shall add to it a vast palace, and wall it round with six hundred towers. Therefore shall London envy it, and triply increase her walls. The river Thames shall encompass it round, and the fame of the work shall pass beyond the Alps. Eric shall hide his apples within it, and shall make subterraneous passages. At that time shall the stones speak, and the sea towards the Gallic coast be contracted into a narrow space. On each bank shall one man hear another, and the soil of the island shall be enlarged. The secrets of the deep shall be revealed, and Gaul shall tremble for fear. After these things shall come forth a hern from the forest of Calaterium, which shall fly round the island for two years together. With her nocturnal cry she shall call together the winged kind, and assemble to her all sorts of fowls. They shall invade the tillage of husbandmen, and devour all the grain of the harvests. Then shall follow a famine upon the people, and a grievous mortality upon the famine. But when this calamity shall be over, a detestable bird shall go to the valley of Galabes, and shall raise it to be a high mountain. Upon the top thereof it shall also plant an oak, and build its nest in its branches. Three eggs shall be produced in the nest, from whence shall come forth a fox, a wolf, and a bear. The fox shall devour her mother, and bear the head of an ass. In this monstrous form shall she frighten her brothers, and make them fly into Neustria. But they shall stir up the tusky boar, and returning in a fleet shall encounter with the fox; who at the beginning of the fight shall feign herself dead, and move the boar to compassion. Then shall the boar approach her carcass, and standing over her, shall breathe upon her face and eyes. But she, not forgetting her cunning, shall bite his left foot, and pluck it off from his body. Then shall she leap upon him, and snatch away his right ear and tail, and hide herself in the caverns of the mountains. Therefore shall the deluded boar require the wolf and bear to restore him his members; who, as soon as they shall enter into the cause, shall promise two feet of the fox, together with the ear and tail, and of these they shall make up the members of a hog. With this he shall be satisfied, and expect the promised restitution. In the meantime shall the fox descend from the mountains, and change herself into a wolf, and under pretence of holding a conference with the boar, she shall go to him, and craftily devour him. After that she shall transform herself into a boar, and feigning a loss of some members, shall wait for her brothers; but as soon as they are come, she shall suddenly kill them with her tusks, and shall be crowned with the head of a lion. In her days shall a serpent be brought forth, which shall be a destroyer of mankind. With its length it shall encompass London, and devour all that pass by it. The mountain ox shall take the head of a wolf, and whiten his teeth in the Severn. He shall gather to him the flocks of Albania and Cambria, which shall drink the river Thames dry. The ass shall call the goat with the long beard, and shall borrow his shape. Therefore shall the mountain ox be incensed, and having called the wolf, shall become a horned bull against them. In the exercise of his cruelty he shall devour their flesh and bones, but shall be burned upon the top of Urian. The ashes of his funeral-pyre shall be turned into swans, that shall swim on dry ground as on a river. They shall devour fishes in fishes, and swallow up men in men. But when old age shall come upon them, they shall become sea-wolves, and practise their frauds in the deep. They shall drown ships, and collect no small quantity of silver. The Thames shall again flow, and assembling together the rivers, shall pass beyond the bounds of its channel. It shall cover the adjacent cities, and overturn the mountains that oppose its course. Being full of deceit and wickedness, it shall make use of the fountain Galabes. Hence shall arise factions provoking the Venedotians to war. The oaks of the forest shall meet together, and encounter the rocks of the Gewisseans. A raven shall attend with the kites, and devour the carcasses of the slain. An owl shall build her nest upon the walls of Gloucester, and in her nest shall be brought forth an ass. The serpent of Malvernia shall bring him up, and put him upon many fraudulent practices. Having taken the crown, he shall ascend on high, and frighten the people of the country with his hideous braying. In his days shall the Pachaian mountains tremble, and the provinces be deprived of their woods. For there shall come a worm with a fiery breath, and with the vapour it sends forth shall burn up the trees. Out of it shall proceed seven lions deformed with the heads of goats. With the stench of their nostrils they shall corrupt women, and make wives turn common prostitutes. The father shall not know his own son, because they shall grow wanton like brute beasts. Then shall come the giant of wickedness, and terrify all with the sharpness of his eyes. Against him shall arise the dragon of Worcester, and shall endeavour to banish him. But in the engagement the dragon shall be worsted, and oppressed by the wickedness of the conqueror. For he shall mount upon the dragon, and putting off his garment shall sit upon him naked. The dragon shall bear him up on high, and beat his naked rider with his tail erected. Upon this the giant rousing up his whole strength, shall break his jaws with his sword. At last the dragon shall fold itself up under its tail, and die of poison. After him shall succeed the boar of Totness, and oppress the people with grievous tyranny. Gloucester shall send forth a lion, and shall disturb him in his cruelty, in several battles. He shall trample him under his feet, and terrify him with open jaws. At last the lion shall quarrel with the kingdom, and get upon the backs of the nobility. A bull shall come into the quarrel, and strike the lion with his right foot. He shall drive him through all the inns in the kingdom, but shall break his horns against the walls of Oxford. The fox of Kaerdubalem shall take revenge on the lion, and destroy him entirely with her teeth. She shall be encompassed by the adder of Lincoln, who with a horrible hiss shall give notice of his presence to a multitude of dragons. Then shall the dragons encounter, and tear one another to pieces. The winged shall oppress that which wants wings, and fasten its claws into the poisonous cheeks. Others shall come into the quarrel, and kill one another. A fifth shall succeed those that are slain, and by various stratagems shall destroy the rest. He shall get upon the back of one with his sword, and sever his head from his body. Then throwing off his garment, he shall get upon another, and put his right and left hand upon his tail. Thus being naked shall he overcome him, whom when clothed he was not able to deal with. The rest he shall gall in their flight, and drive them round the kingdom. Upon this shall come a roaring lion dreadful for his monstrous cruelty. Fifteen parts shall he reduce to one, and shall alone possess the people. The giant of the snow white colour shall shine, and cause the white people to flourish. Pleasures shall effeminate the princes, and they shall suddenly be changed into beasts. Among them shall arise a lion swelled with human gore. Under him shall a reaper be placed in the standing corn, who, while he is reaping, shall be oppressed by him. A charioteer of York shall appease them, and having banished his lord, shall mount upon the chariot which he shall drive. With his sword unsheathed shall he threaten the East, and fill the tracks of his wheels with blood. Afterwards he shall become a sea-fish, who, being roused up with the hissing of a serpent, shall engender with him. From hence shall be produced three thundering bulls, who having eaten up their pastures shall be turned into trees. The first shall carry a whip of vipers, and turn his back upon the next. He shall endeavour to snatch away the whip, but shall be taken by the last. They shall turn away their faces from one another, till they have thrown away the poisoned cup. To him shall succeed a husbandman of Albania, at whose back shall be a serpent. He shall be employed in ploughing the ground, that the country may become white with corn. The serpent shall endeavour to diffuse his poison, in order to blast the harvest. A grievous mortality shall sweep away the people, and the walls of cities shall be made desolate. There shall be given for a remedy the city of Claudius, which shall interpose the nurse of the scourger. For she shall bear a dose of medicine, and in a short time the island shall be restored. Then shall two successively sway the sceptre, whom a horned dragon shall serve. One shall come in armour, and shall ride upon a flying serpent. He shall sit upon his back with his naked body, and cast his right hand upon his tail. With his cry shall the seas be moved, and he shall strike terror into the second. The second therefore shall enter into confederacy with the lion; but a quarrel happening, they shall encounter one another. They shall distress one another, but the courage of the beast shall gain the advantage. Then shall come one with a drum, and appease the rage of the lion. Therefore shall the people of the kingdom be at peace, and provoke the lion to a dose of physic. In his established seat he shall adjust the weights, but shall stretch out his hands into Albania. For which reason the northern provinces shall be grieved, and open the gates of the temples. The sign-bearing wolf shall lead his troops, and surround Cornwall with his tail. He shall be opposed by a soldier in a chariot, who shall transform that people into a boar. The boar therefore shall ravage the provinces, but shall hide his head in the depth of Severn. A man shall embrace the lion in wine, and the dazzling brightness of gold shall blind the eyes of beholders. Silver shall whiten in the circumference, and torment several wine presses. Men shall be drunk with wine, and, regardless of heaven, shall be intent upon the earth. From them shall the stars turn away their faces, and confound their usual course. Corn will wither at their malign aspects; and there shall fall no dew from heaven. The roots and branches will change their places, and the novelty of the thing shall pass for a miracle. The brightness of the sun shall fade at the amber of Mercury, and horror shall seize the beholders. Stilbon of Arcadia shall change his shield; the helmet of Mars shall call Venus. The helmet of Mars shall make a shadow; and the rage of Mercury pass his bounds. Iron Orion shall unsheath his sword: the marine Phoebus shall torment the clouds; Jupiter shall go out of his lawful paths; and Venus forsake her stated lines. The malignity of the star Saturn shall fall down in rain, and slay mankind with a crooked sickle. The twelve houses of the star shall lament the irregular excursions of their guests; and Gemini omit their usual embraces, and call the urn to the fountains. The scales of Libra shall hang obliquely, till Aries puts his crooked horns under them. The tail of Scorpio shall produce lightning, and Cancer quarrel with the Sun. Virgo shall mount upon the back of Sagittarius, and darken her virgin flowers. The chariot of the Moon shall disorder the zodiac, and the Pleiades break forth into weeping. No offices of Janus shall hereafter return, but his gate being shut shall lie hid in the chinks of Ariadne. The seas shall rise up in the twinkling of an eye, and the dust of ancients shall be restored. The winds shall fight together with a dreadful blast, and their sound shall reach the stars.
Merlin, by delivering these and many other prophecies, caused in all that were present an admiration at the ambiguity of his expressions. But Vortigern above all the rest both admired and applauded the wisdom, and prophetical spirit of the young man: for that age had produced none that ever talked in such a manner before him. Being therefore curious to learn his own fate, he desired the young man to tell him what he knew concerning that particular. Merlin answered:-- "Fly the fire of the sons of Constantine, if you are able to do it: already are they fitting out their ships: already are they leaving the Armorican shore: already are they spreading out their sails to the wind. They will steer towards Britain: they will invade the Saxon nation: they will subdue that wicked people; but they will first burn you being shut up in a tower. To your own ruin did you prove a traitor to their father, and invite the Saxons into the island. You invited them for your safeguard; but they came for a punishment to you. Two deaths instantly threaten you; nor is it easy to determine, which you can best avoid. For on the one hand the Saxons shall lay waste your country, and endeavour to kill you: on the other shall arrive the two brothers, Aurelius Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, whose business will be to revenge their father's murder upon you. Seek out some refuge if you can: to-morrow they will be on the shore of Totness. The faces of the Saxons shall look red with blood, Hengist shall be killed, and Aurelius Ambrosius shall be crowned. He shall bring peace to the nation; he shall restore the churches; but shall die of poison. His brother Uther Pendragon shall succeed him, whose days also shall be cut short by poison. There shall be present at the commission of this treason your own issue, whom the boar of Cornwall shall devour." Accordingly the next day early, arrived Aurelius Ambrosius and his brother, with ten thousand men.
As soon as the news of his coming was divulged, the Britons, who had been dispersed by their great calamities, met together from all parts, and gaining this new accession of strength from their countrymen, displayed unusual vigour. Having assembled together the clergy, they anointed Aurelius king, and paid him the customary homage. And when the people were urgent to fall upon the Saxons, he dissuaded them from it, because his desire was to pursue Vortigern first. For the treason committed against his father so very much affected him, that he thought nothing done till that was first avenged. In pursuance therefore of this design, he marched with his army into Cambria, to the town of Genoreu, whither Vortigern had fled for refuge. That town was in the country of Hergin, upon the river Gania, in the mountain called Cloarius. As soon as Ambrosius was arrived there, bearing in his mind the murder of his father and brother, he spake thus to Eldol, duke of Gloucester.
"See, most noble duke, whether the walls of this city are able to protect Vortigern against my sheathing this sword in his bowels. He deserves to die, and you cannot, I suppose, be ignorant of his desert. Oh most villainous of men, whose crimes deserve inexpressible tortures! First he betrayed my father Constantine, who had delivered him and his country from the inroads of the Picts; afterwards my brother Constans whom he made king on purpose to destroy him. Again, when by his craft he had usurped the crown, he introduced pagans among the natives, in order to abuse those who continued stedfast in their loyalty to me: but by the good providence of God, he unwarily fell into the snare, which he had laid for my faithful subjects. For the Saxons, when they found him out in his wickedness, drove him from the kingdom; for which nobody ought to be concerned. But this I think matter of just grief, that this odious people, whom that detestable traitor invited over, has expelled the nobility, laid waste a fruitful country, destroyed the holy churches, and almost extinguished Christianity over the whole kingdom. Now, therefore, my countrymen, show yourselves men; first revenge yourselves upon him that was the occasion of all these disasters; then let us turn our arms against our enemies, and free our country from their brutish tyranny."
Immediately, therefore, they set their engines to work, and laboured to beat down the walls. But at last, when all other attempts failed, they had recourse to fire, which meeting with proper fuel, ceased not to rage, till it had burned down the tower and Vortigern in it.
Hengist, with his Saxons, was struck with terror at this news, for he dreaded the valour of Aurelius. Such was the bravery and courage this prince was master of, that while he was in Gaul, there was none that durst encounter with him. For in all encounters he either dismounted his adversary, or broke his spear. Besides, he was magnificent in his presents, constant at his devotions, temperate in all respects, and above all things hated a lie. A brave soldier on foot, a better on horseback, and expert in the discipline of an army. Reports of these his noble accomplishments, while he yet continued in Armorican Britain, were daily brought over into the island. Therefore, the Saxons, for fear of him, retired beyond the Humber, and in those parts fortified the cities and towns; for that country always was a place of refuge to them; their safety lying in the neighborhood of Scotland, which used to watch all opportunities of distressing the nation; for that country being in itself a frightful place to live in, and wholly uninhabited, had been a safe retreat for strangers. By its situation it lay open to the Picts, Scots, Dacians, Norwegians, and others, that came to plunder the island. Being, therefore, secure of a safe reception in this country, they fled towards it, that, if there should be occasion, they might retreat into it as into their own camp. This was good news to Aurelius, and made him conceive greater hopes of victory. So assembling his people quickly together, he augmented his army, and made an expeditious march towards the north. In his passage through the countries, he was grieved to see the desolation made in them, but especially that the churches were levelled with the ground: and he promised to rebuild them, if he gained the victory.
But Hengist, upon his approach, took courage again, and chose out the bravest of his men, whom he exhorted to make a gallant defence, and not be daunted at Aurelius, who, he told them, had but few Armorican Britons with him, since their number did not exceed ten thousand. And as for the native Britons, he made no account of them, since they had been so often defeated by him. He therefore promised them the victory, and that they should come off safely, considering the superiority of their number, which amounted to two hundred thousand men in arms. After he had in this manner animated his men, he advanced with them towards Aurelius, into a field called Maisbeli, through which Aurelius was to pass. For his intention was to make a sudden assault by a surprise, and fall upon the Britons before they were prepared. But Aurelius perceived the design, and yet did not, on that account of them, since they had been so often defeated by him. He therefore promised them the victory, and that they should come off safely, considering the superiority of their number, which amounted to two hundred thousand men in arms. After he had in this manner animated his men, he advanced with them towards Aurelius, into a field called Maisbeli, through which Aurelius was to pass. For his intention was to make a sudden assault by a surprise, and fall upon the Britons before they were prepared. But Aurelius perceived the design, and yet did not, on that account, delay going into the field, but rather pursued his march with more expedition. When he was come within sight of the enemy, he put his troops in order, commanding three thousand Armoricans to attend the cavalry, and drew out the rest together with the islanders into line of battle. The Dimetians he placed upon the hills, and the Venedotians in the adjacent woods. His reason for which was, that they might be there ready to fall upon the Saxons, in case they should flee in that direction.
In the meantime, Eldol, duke of Gloucester, went to the king, and said, "This one day should suffice for all the days of my life, if by good providence I could but get an opportunity to engage with Hengist; for one of us should die before we parted. I still retain deeply fixed in my memory the day appointed for our peaceably treating together, but which he villainously made use of to assassinate all that were present at the treaty, except myself only, who stood upon my defence with a stake which I accidentally found, until I made my escape. That very day proved fatal, through his treachery, to no less than four hundred and sixty barons and consuls, who all went unarmed. From that conspiracy God was pleased to deliver me, by throwing a stake in my way, wherewith I defended myself and escaped." Thus spoke Eldol. Then Aurelius exhorted his companions to place all their hope in the Son of God, and to make a brave assault with one consent upon the enemy, in defence of their country. Nor was Hengist less busy on the other hand in forming his troops, and giving them directions how to behave themselves in the battle; and he walked himself through their several ranks, the more to spirit them up. At last, both armies, being drawn out in order of battle, began the attack, which they maintained with great bravery, and no small loss of blood, both to the Britons and Saxons. Aurelius animated the Christians, Hengist the pagans; and all the time of the engagement, Eldol's chief endeavour was to encounter Hengist, but he had no opportunity for it. For Hengist, when he found that his own men were routed, and that the Christians, by the especial favour of God, had the advantage, fled to the town called Kaerconan, now Cunungeburg. Aurelius pursued him, and either killed or made slaves of all he found in the way. When Hengist saw that he was pursued by Aurelius, he would not enter the town, but assembled his troops, and prepared them to stand another engagement. For he knew the town would not hold out against Aurelius, and that his whole security now lay in his sword. At last Aurelius overtook him, and after marshalling his forces, began another most furious fight. And here the Saxons steadily maintained their ground, notwithstanding the numbers that fell. On both sides there was a great slaughter, the groans of the dying causing a greater rage in those that survived. In short, the Saxons would have gained the day, had not a detachment of horse from the Armorican Britons come in upon them. For Aurelius had appointed them the same station which they had in the former battle; so that, upon their advancing, the Saxons gave ground, and when once a little dispersed, were not able to rally again. The Britons, encouraged by this advantage, exerted themselves, and laboured with all their might to distress the enemy. All the time Aurelius was fully employed, not only in giving commands, but encouraging his men by his own example; for with his own hand he killed all that stood in his way, and pursued those that fled. Nor was Eldol less active in all parts of the field, running to and fro to assault his adversaries; but still his main endeavour was to find opportunity of encountering Hengist.
As there were therefore several movements made by the parties engaged on each side, an opportunity occurred for their meeting, and briskly engaging each other. In this encounter of the two greatest champions in the field, the fire sparkled with the clashing of their arms, and every stroke in a manner produced both thunder and lightning. For a long time was the victory in suspense, as it seemed sometimes to favour the one, sometimes the other. While they were thus hotly engaged, Gorlois, duke of Cornwall, came up to them with the party he commanded, and did great execution upon the enemies' troops. At the sight of him, Eldol, assured of victory, seized on the helmet of Hengist, and by main force dragged him in among the Britons, and then in transports of joy cried out with a loud voice, "God has fulfilled my desire! My brave soldiers, down, down, with your enemies the Ambrons. The victory is now in your hands: Hengist is defeated, and the day is your own." In the meantime the Britons failed not to perform every one his part against the pagans, upon whom they made many vigorous assaults; and though they were obliged sometimes to give ground, yet their courage did not fail them in making a good resistance; so that they gave the enemy no respite till they had vanquished them. The Saxons therefore fled withersoever their consternation hurried them, some to the cities, some to the woods upon the hills, and others to their ships. But Octa, the son of Hengist, made his retreat with a great body of men to York: and Eosa, his kinsmen, to the city of Alclud, where he had a very large army for his guard.
Aurelius, after this victory, took the city of Conan above-mentioned, and stayed there three days. During this time he gave orders for the burial of the slain, for curing the wounded, and for the ease and refreshment of his forces that were fatigued. Then he called a council of his principal officers, to deliberate what was to be done with Hengist. There was present at the assembly Eldad, bishop of Gloucester, and brother of Eldol, a prelate of very great wisdom and piety. As soon as he beheld Hengist standing in the king's presence, he demanded silence, and said, "Though all should be unanimous for setting him at liberty, yet would I cut him to pieces. The prophet Samuel is my warrant, who, when he had Agag, king of Amalek, in his power, hewed him in pieces, saying, As thy sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women. Do therefore the same to Hengist, who is a second Agag." Accordingly Eldol took his sword, and drew him out of the city, and then cut off his head. But Aurelius, who showed moderation in all his conduct, commanded him to be buried, and a heap of earth to be raised over his body, according to the custom of the pagans.
From hence Aurelius conducted his army to York, to besiege Octa, Hengist's son. When the city was invested, Octa was doubtful whether he should give him any opposition, and stand a siege against such a powerful army. After consultation upon it, he went out with his principal nobility that were present, carrying a chain in his hand, and sand upon his head, and presented himself to the king with this address: "My gods are vanquished, and I doubt not that the sovereign power is in your God, who has compelled so many noble persons to come before you in this suppliant manner. Be pleased therefore to accept of us, and of this chain. If you do not think us fit objects of your clemency, we here present ourselves ready to be fettered, and to undergo whatever punishment you shall adjudge us to." Aurelius was moved with pity at the spectacle, and demanded the advice of his council what should be done with them. After various proposals upon this subject, Eldad the bishop rose up, and delivered his opinion in these words: "The Gibeonites came voluntarily to the children of Israel to desire mercy, and they obtained it. And shall we Christians be worse than the Jews, in refusing them mercy? It is mercy which they beg, and let them have it. The island of Britain is large, and in many places uninhabited. Let us make a covenant with them, and suffer them at least to inhabit the desert places, that they may be our vassals for ever." The king acquiesced in Eldad's advice, and suffered them to partake of his clemency. After this Eosa and the rest that fled, being encouraged by Octa's success, came also, and were admitted to the same favour. The king therefore granted them the country bordering upon Scotland, and made a firm covenant with them.
The enemies being now entirely reduced, the king summoned the consuls and princes of the kingdom together at York, where he gave orders for the restoration of the churches, which the Saxons had destroyed. He himself undertook the rebuilding of the metropolitan church of that city, as also the other cathedral churches in that province. After fifteen days, when he had settled workmen in several places, he went to London, which city had not escaped the fury of the enemy. He beheld with great sorrow the destruction made in it, and recalled the remainder of the citizens from all parts, and began the restoration of it. Here he settled the affairs of the whole kingdom, revived the laws, restored the right heirs to the possessions of their ancestors; and those estates, whereof the heirs had been lost in the late grievous calamity, he distributed among his fellow soldiers. In these important concerns, of restoring the nation to its ancient state, repairing the churches, re-establishing peace and law, and settling the administration of justice, was his time wholly employed. From hence he went to Winchester, to repair the ruins of it, as he did of other cities; and when the work was finished there, he went, at the instance of bishop Eldad, to the monastery near Kaercaradoc, now Salisbury, where the consuls and princes, whom the wicked Hengist had treacherously murdered, lay buried. At this place was a convent that maintained three hundred friars, situated on the mountain of Ambrius, who, as is reported, had been the founder of it. The sight of the place where the dead lay, made the king, who was of a compassionate temper, shed tears, and at last enter upon thoughts, what kind of monument to erect upon it. For he thought something ought to be done to perpetuate the memory of that piece of ground, which was honoured with the bodies of so many noble patriots, that died for their country.
For this purpose he summoned together several carpenters and masons, and commanded them to employ the utmost of their art, in contriving some new structure, for a lasting monument to those great men. But they, in diffidence of their own skill, refusing to undertake it, Tremounus, archbishop of the City of Legions, went to the king, and said, "If any one living is able to execute your commands, Merlin, the prophet of Vortigern, is the man. In my opinion there is not in all your kingdom a person of a brighter genius, either in predicting future events, or in mechanical contrivances. Order him to come to you, and exercise his skill in the work which you design." Whereupon Aurelius, after he had asked a great many questions concerning him, despatched several messengers into the country to find him out, and bring him to him. After passing through several provinces, they found him in the country of Gewisseans, at the fountain of Galabes, which he frequently resorted to. As soon as they had delivered their message to him, they conducted him to the king, who received him with joy, and, being curious to hear some of his wonderful speeches, commanded him to prophesy. Merlin made answer: "Mysteries of this kind are not to be revealed but when there is the greatest necessity for it. If I should pretend to utter them for ostentation or diversion, the spirit that instructs me would be silent, and would leave me when I should have occasion for it." When he had made the same refusal to all the rest present, the king would not urge him any longer about his predictions, but spoke to him concerning the monument which he designed. "If you are desirous," said Merlin, "to honour the burying-place of these men with an ever-lasting monument, send for the Giant's Dance, which is in Killaraus, a mountain in Ireland. For there is a structure of stones there, which none of this age could raise, without a profound knowledge of the mechanical arts. They are stones of a vast magnitude and wonderful quality; and if they can be placed here, as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand for ever."
At these words of Merlin, Aurelius burst into laughter, and said, "How is it possible to remove such vast stones from so distant a country, as if Britain was not furnished with stones fit for the work?" Merlin replied, "I entreat your majesty to forbear vain laughter; for what I say is without vanity. They are mystical stones, and of a medicinal virtue. The giants of old brought them from the farthest coast of Africa, and placed them in Ireland, while they inhabited that country. Their design in this was to make baths in them, when they should be taken with any illness. For their method was to wash the stones, and put their sick into the water, which infallibly cured them. With the like success they cured wounds also, adding only the application of some herbs. There is not a stone there which has not some healing virtue." When the Britons heard this, they resolved to send for the stones, and to make war upon the people of Ireland if they should offer to detain them. And to accomplish this business, they made choice of Uther Pendragon, who was to be attended with fifteen thousand men. They chose also Merlin himself, by whose direction the whole affair was to be managed. A fleet being therefore got ready, they set sail, and with a fair wind arrived in Ireland.
At that time Gillomanius, a youth of wonderful valour, reigned in Ireland; who, upon the news of the arrival of the Britons in his kingdom, levied a vast army, and marched out against them. And when he had learned the occasion of their coming, he smiled, and said to those about him, "No wonder a cowardly race of people were able to make so great a devastation in the island of Britain, when the Britons are such brutes and fools. Was ever the like folly heard of? What are the stones of Ireland better than those of Britain, that our kingdom must be put to this disturbance for them? To arms, soldiers, and defend your country; while I have life they shall not take from us the least stone of the Giant's Dance." Uther, seeing them prepared for a battle, attacked them; nor was it long ere the Britons had the advantage, who, having dispersed and killed the Irish, forced Gillomanius to flee. After the victory they went to the mountain Killaraus, and arrived at the structure of stones, the sight of which filled them both with joy and admiration. And while they were all standing round them, Merlin came up to them and said, "Now try your forces, young men, and see whether strength or art can do the most towards taking down these stones." At this word they all set to their engines with one accord, and attempted the removing of the Giant's Dance. Some prepared cables, others small ropes, others ladders for the work, but all to no purpose. Merlin laughed at their vain efforts, and then began his own contrivances. When he had placed in order the engines that were necessary, he took down the stones with an incredible facility, and gave directions for carrying them to the ships, and placing them therein. This done, they with joy set sail again, to return to Britain; where they arrived with a fair gale, and repaired to the burying-place with the stones. When Aurelius had notice of it, he sent messengers to all parts of Britain, to summon the clergy and people together to the mount of Ambrius, in order to celebrate with joy and honour the erection of the monument. Upon this summons appeared the bishops, abbats, and people of all other orders and qualities; and upon the day and place appointed for their general meeting, Aurelius placed the crown sepulchre upon his head, and with royal pomp celebrated the feast of Pentecost, the solemnity whereof he continued the three following days. In the meantime, all places of honour that were vacant, he bestowed upon his domestics as rewards for their good services. At that time the two metropolitan sees of York and Legions were vacant; and with the general consent of the people, whom he was willing to please in this choice, he granted York to Sanxo, a man of great quality, and much celebrated for his piety; and the City of Legions to Dubricius, whom divine providence had pointed out as a most useful pastor in that place. As soon as he had settled these and other affairs in the kingdom, he ordered Merlin to set up the stones brought over from Ireland, about the sepulcher; which he accordingly did, and placed them in the same manner as they had been in the mountain Killaraus, and thereby gave a manifest proof of the prevalence of art above strength.
At the same time Pascentius, the son of Vortigern, who had fled over into Germany, was levying all the forces of the kingdom against Aurelius Ambrosius, with a design to revenge his father's death; and promised his men an immense treasure of gold and silver, if with their assistance he could succeed in reducing Britain under his power. When he had at last corrupted all the youth of the country with his large promises, he prepared a vast fleet, and arrived in the northern parts of the island, upon which he began to make great devastations. The king, on the other hand, hearing this news, assembled his army, and marching against them challenged the enraged enemy to a battle; the challenge was accepted, and by the blessing of God the enemy was defeated and put to flight.
Pascentius, after this flight, durst not return to Germany, but shifting his sails, went over to Gillomanius, in Ireland, by whom he was well received. And when he had given him an account of his misfortune, Gillomanius, in pity to him, promised him his assistance, and at the same time vented his complaint of the injuries done him by Uther, the brother of Aurelius, when he came for the Giant's Dance. At last, entering into confederacy together, they made ready their fleet, in which they embarked, and arrived at the city of Menevia. This news caused Uther Pendragon to levy his forces, and march into Cambria to fight them. For his brother Aurelius then lay sick at Winchester, and was not able to go himself. When Pascentius, Gillomanius, and the Saxons heard of it, they highly rejoiced, flattering themselves, that his sickness would facilitate to them the conquest of Britain. While this occurrence was the subject of the people's discourse, one of the Saxons, named Eopa, came to Pascentius, and said, "What reward will you give the man that shall kill Aurelius Ambrosius for you?" To whom Pascentius answered, "O that I could find a man of such resolution! I would give him a thousand pounds of silver, and my friendship for life; and if by good fortune I can but gain the crown, I promise upon oath to make him a centurion." To this Eopa replied, "I have learned the British language, and know the manners of the people, and have skill in physic. If, therefore, you will perform this promise, I will pretend to be a Christian and a Briton, and when, as a physician, I shall be admitted into the king's presence, I will make him a potion that shall despatch him. And to gain the readier access to him, I will put on the appearance of a devout and learned monk." Upon this offer, Pascentius entered into covenant with him, and confirmed what he had promised with an oath. Eopa, therefore, shaved his beard and head, and in the habit of a monk hastened to Winchester, loaded with vessels full of medical preparations. As soon as he arrived there, he offered his service to those that attended about the king, and was graciously received by them; for to them nobody was now more acceptable than a physician. Being introduced into the king's presence, he promised to restore him to his health, if he would but take his potions. Upon which he had his orders forthwith to prepare one of them, into which when he had secretly conveyed a poisonous mixture, he gave it to the king. As soon as Aurelius had drunk it up, the wicked Ambron ordered him presently to cover himself close up, and fall asleep, that the detestable potion might the better operate. The king readily obeyed his prescriptions, and in hopes of his speedy recovery fell asleep. But the poison quickly diffused itself through all the pores and veins of his body, so that the sleep ended in death. In the meantime the wicked traitor, having cunningly withdrawn himself first from one and then from another, was no longer to be found in the court. During these transactions at Winchester, there appeared a star of wonderful magnitude and brightness, darting forth a ray, at the end of which was a globe of fire in form of a dragon, out of whose mouth issued forth two rays; one of which seemed to stretch out itself beyond the extent of Gaul, the other towards the Irish Sea, and ended in seven lesser rays.
At the appearance of this star, a general fear and amazement seized the people; and even Uther, the king's brother, who was then upon his march with his army into Cambria, being not a little terrified at it, was very curious to know of the learned men, what it portended. Among others, he ordered Merlin to be called, who also attended in this expedition to give his advice in the management of the war; and who, now being presented before him, was commanded to discover to him the significance of the star. At this he burst out into tears, and with a loud voice cried out, "O irreparable loss! O distressed people of Britain! Alas! the illustrious prince is departed! The renowned king of the Britons, Aurelius Ambrosius, is dead! whose death will prove fatal to us all, unless God be our helper. Make haste, therefore, most noble Uther, make haste to engage the enemy: the victory will be yours, and you shall be king of all Britain. For the star, and the fiery dragon under it, signifies yourself, and the ray extending towards the Gallic coast, portends that you shall have a most potent son, to whose power all those kingdoms shall be subject over which the ray reaches. But the other ray signifies a daughter, whose sons and grandsons shall successively enjoy the kingdom of Britain."
Uther, though he doubted of the truth of what Merlin had declared, pursued his march against the enemy, for he was now come within half a day's march of Menevia. When Gillomanius, Pascentius, and the Saxons were informed of his approach, they went out to give him battle. As soon as they were come within sight of each other, both armies began to form themselves into several bodies, and then advanced to a close attack, in which both sides suffered a loss of men, as usually happens in such engagements. At last, towards the close of the day, the advantage was on Uther's side, and the death of Gillomanius and Pascentius made a way for complete victory. So that the barbarians, being put to flight, hastened to their ships, but were slain by their pursuers. Thus, by the favour of Christ, the general had triumphant success, and then with all possible expedition, after so great a fatigue, returned back to Winchester: for he had now been informed, by messengers that arrived, of the king's sad fate, and of his burial by the bishops of the country, near the convent of Ambrius, within the Giant's Dance, which in his lifetime he had commanded to be made. For upon hearing the news of his death, the bishops, abbats, and all the clergy of that province, had met together at Winchester, to solemnize his funeral. And because in his lifetime he had given orders for his being buried in the sepulchre which he had prepared, they therefore carried his corpse thither, and performed his exsequies with royal magnificence.
But Uther his brother, having assembled the clergy of the kingdom, took the crown, and by universal consent was advanced to the kingdom. And remembering the explanation which Merlin had made of the star above-mentioned, he commanded two dragons to be made of gold, in likeness of the dragon which he had seen at the ray of the star. As soon as they were finished, which was done with wonderful nicety of workmanship, he made a present of one to the cathedral church of Winchester, but reserved the other for himself, to be carried along with him to his wars. From this time, therefore, he was called Uther Pendragon, which in the British tongue signifies the dragon's head; the occasion of this appellation being Merlin's predicting, from the appearance of a dragon, that he should be king.
In the meantime Octa the son of Hengist, and his kinsman Eosa, seeing they were no longer bound by the treaty which they had made with Aurelius Ambrosius, began to raise disturbances against the king, and infest his countries. For they were now joining with the Saxons whom Pascentius had brought over, and sending messengers into Germany for the rest. Being therefore attended with a vast army, he invaded the northern provinces, and in an outrageous manner destroyed all the cities and fortified places, from Albania to York. At last, as he was beginning the siege of that city, Uther Pendragon came upon him with the whole power of the kingdom, and gave him battle. The Saxons behaved with great gallantry, and, having sustained the assaults of the Britons, forced them to fly; and upon this advantage pursued them with slaughter to the mountain Damen, which was as long as they could do it with day-light. The mountain was high, and had a hazel-wood upon the top of it, and about the middle broken and cavernous rocks, which were a harbour to wild beasts. The Britons made up to it, and stayed there all night among the rocks and hazel-bushes. But as it began to draw towards day, Uther commanded the consuls and princes to be called together, that he might consult with them in what manner to assault the enemy. Whereupon they forthwith appeared before the king, who commanded them to give their advice; and Gorlois, duke of Cornwall, had orders to deliver his opinion first, out of regard to his years and great experience. "There is no occasion," said he, "for ceremonies or speeches, while we see that it is still night: but there is for boldness and courage, if you desire any longer enjoyment of your life and liberty. The pagans are very numerous, and eager to fight, and we much inferior to them in number; so that if we stay till daybreak, we cannot, in my opinion, attack them to advantage. Come on, therefore, while we have the favour of the night, let us go down in a close body, and surprise them in their camp with a sudden assault. There can be no doubt of success, if with one consent we fall upon them boldly, while they think themselves secure, and have no expectation of our coming in such a manner." The king and all that were present, were pleased with his advice, and pursued it. For as soon as they were armed and placed in their ranks, they made towards the enemies' camp, designing a general assault. But upon approaching to it, they were discovered by the watch, who with sound of trumpet awaked their companions. The enemies being hereupon put into confusion and astonishment, part of them hastened towards the sea, and part ran up and down whithersoever their fear or precipitation drove them. The Britons, finding their coming discovered, hastened their march, and keeping still close together in their ranks, assailed the camp; into which when they had found an entrance, they ran with their drawn swords upon the enemy; who in this sudden surprise made but a faint defence against their vigorous and regular attack; and pursuing this blow with great eagerness they destroyed some thousands of the pagans, took Octa and Eosa prisoners, and entirely dispersed the Saxons.
After this victory Uther repaired to the city of Alclud, where he settled the affairs of that province, and restored peace everywhere. He also made a progress round all the countries of the Scots, and tamed the fierceness of that rebellious people, by such a strict administration of justice, as none of his predecessors had exercised before: so that in his time offenders were everywhere under great terror, since they were sure of being punished without mercy. At last, when he had established peace in the northern provinces, he went to London, and commanded Octa and Eosa to be kept in prison there. The Easter following he ordered all the nobility of the kingdom to meet at that city, in order to celebrate that great festival; in honour of which he designed to wear his crown. The summons was everywhere obeyed, and there was a great concourse from all cities to celebrate the day. So the king observed the festival with great solemnity, as he had designed, and very joyfully entertained his nobility, of whom there was a very great muster, with their wives and daughters, suitably to the magnificence of the banquet prepared for them. And having been received with joy by the king, they also expressed the same in their deportment before him. Among the rest was present Gorlois, duke of Cornwall, with his wife Igerna, the greatest beauty in all Britain. No sooner had the king cast his eyes upon her among the rest of the ladies, than he fell passionately in love with her, and little regarding the rest, made her the subject of all his thoughts. She was the only lady that he continually served with fresh dishes, and to whom he sent golden cups by his confidants; on her he bestowed all his smiles, and to her he addressed all his discourse. The husband, discovering this, fell into a great rage, and retired from the court without taking leave: nor was there any body that could stop him, while he was under fear of losing the chief object of his delight. Uther, therefore, in great wrath commanded him to return back to court, to make him satisfaction for this affront. But Gorlois refused to obey; upon which the king was highly incensed, and swore he would destroy his country, if he did not speedily compound for his offence. Accordingly, without delay, while their anger was hot against each other, the king got together a great army, and marched into Cornwall, the cities and towns whereof he set on fire. But Gorlois durst not engage with him, on account of the inferiority of his numbers; and thought it a wiser course to fortify his towns, till he could get succour from Ireland. And as he was under more concern for his wife than himself, he put her into the town of Tintagel,** upon the sea-shore, which he looked upon as a place of great safety. But he himself entered the castle of Dimilioc, to prevent their being both at once involved in the same danger, if any should happen. The king, informed of this, went to the town where Gorlois was, which he besieged, and shut up all the avenues to it. A whole week was now past, when, retaining in mind his love to Igerna, he said to one of his confidants, named Ulfin de Ricaradoch: "My passion for Igerna is such, that I can neither have ease of mind, nor health of body, till I obtain her: and if you cannot assist me with your advice how to accomplish my desire, the inward torments I endure will kill me."-- "Who can advise you in this matter," said Ulfin, "when no force will enable us to have access to her in the town of Tintagel? For it is situated upon the sea, and on every side surrounded by it; and there is but one entrance into it, and that through a straight rock, which three men shall be able to defend against the whole power of the kingdom. Notwithstanding, if the prophet Merlin would in earnest set about this attempt, I am of opinion, you might with his advice obtain your wishes." The king readily believed what he was so well inclined to, and ordered Merlin, who was also come to the seige, to be called. Merlin, therefore, being introduced into the king's presence, was commanded to give his advice, how the king might accomplish his desire with respect to Igerna. And he, finding the great anguish of the king, was moved by such excessive love, and said, "To accomplish your desire, you must make use of such arts as have not been heard of in your time. I know how, by the force of my medicines, to give you the exact likeness of Gorlois, so that in all respects you shall seem to be no other than himself. If you will therefore obey my prescriptions, I will metamorphose you into the true semblance of Gorlois, and Ulfin into Jordan of Tintagel, his familiar friend; and I myself, being transformed into another shape, will make the third in the adventure; and in this disguise you may go safely to the town where Igerna is, and have admittance to her." The king complied with the proposal, and acted with great caution in this affair; and when he had committed the care of the siege to his intimate friends, underwent the medical applications of Merlin, by whom he was transformed into the likeness of Gorlois; as was Ulfin also into Jordan, and Merlin himself into Bricel; so that nobody could see any remains now of their former likeness. They then set forward on their way to Tintagel, at which they arrived in the evening twilight, and forthwith signified to the porter, that the consul was come; upon which the gates were opened, and the men let in. For what room could there be for suspicion, when Gorlois himself seemed to be there present? The king therefore stayed that night with Igerna, and had the full enjoyment of her, for she was deceived with the false disguise which he had put on, and the artful and amorous discourses wherewhith he entertained her. He told her he had left his own place besieged, purely to provide for the safety of her dear self, and the town she was in; so that believing all that he said, she refused him nothing which he desired. The same night therefore she conceived of the most renowned Arthur, whose heroic and wonderful actions have justly rendered his name famous to posterity.
In the meantime, as soon as the king's absence was discovered at the siege, his army unadvisedly made an assault upon the walls, and provoked the besieged count to a battle; who himself also, acting as inconsiderately as they, sallied forth with his men, thinking with such a small handful to oppose a powerful army; but happened to be killed in the very first brunt of the fight, and had all his men routed. The town also was taken; but all the riches of it were not shared equally among the besiegers, but every one greedily took what he could get, according as fortune or his own strength favoured him. After this bold attempt, came messengers to Igerna, with the news both of the duke's death, and of the event of the siege. But when they saw the king in the likeness of the consul, sitting close by her, they were struck with shame and astonishment at his safe arrival there, whom they had left dead at the siege; for they were wholly ignorant of the miracles which Merlin had wrought with his medicines. The king therefore smiled at the news, and embracing the countess, said to her: "Your own eyes may convince you that I am not dead, but alive. But notwithstanding, the destruction of the town, and the slaughter of my men, is what very much grieves me; so that there is reason to fear the king's coming upon us, and taking us in this place. To prevent which, I will go out to meet him, and make my peace with him, for fear of a worse disaster." Accordingly, as soon as he was out of the town, he went to his army, and having put off the disguise of Gorlois, was now Uther Pendragon again. When he had a full relation made to him how matters had succeeded, he was sorry for the death of Gorlois, but rejoiced that Igerna was now at liberty to marry again. Then he returned to the town of Tintangel, which he took, and in it, what he impatiently wished for, Igerna herself. After this they continued to live together with much affection for each other, and had a son and daughter, whose names were Arthur and Anne.
In the process of time the king was taken ill of a lingering distemper; and meanwhile the keepers of the prison, wherein Octa and Eosa (as we related before) led a weary life, had fled over with them into Germany, and occasioned great fear over the kingdom. For there was a report of their great levies in Germany, and the vast fleet which they had prepared for their return to destroy the island: which the event verified. For they returned in a great fleet, and with a prodigious number of men, and invaded the parts of Albania, where they destroyed both cities and inhabitants with fire and sword. Wherefore, in order to repulse the enemies, the command of the British army was committed to Lot of Londonesia, who was a consul, and a most valiant knight, and grown up to maturity both of years and wisdom. Out of respect to his eminent merits, the king had given him his daughter Anne, and entrusted him with the care of the kingdom, during his illness. In his expedition against the enemies he had various success, being often repulsed by them, and forced to retreat to the cities; but he oftener routed and dispersed them, and compelled them to flee sometimes into the woods, sometimes to their ships. So that in a war attended with so many turns of fortune, it was hard to know which side had the better. The greatest injury to the Britons was their own pride, in disdaining to obey the consul's commands; for which reason all their efforts against the enemy were less vigorous and successful.
The island being by this conduct now almost laid waste, the king, having information of the matter, fell into a greater rage than his weakness could bear, and commanded all his nobility to come before him, that he might reprove them severely for their pride and cowardice. And as soon as they were all entered into his presence, he sharply rebuked them in menacing language, and swore he himself would lead them against the enemy. For this purpose he ordered a horse-litter to be made, in which he designed to be carried, for his infirmity would not suffer him to use any other sort of vehicle; and he charged them to be all ready to march against the enemy on the first opportunity. So, without delay, the horse-litter and all his attendants were got ready, and the day arrived which had been appointed for their march.
The king, therefore, being put into his vehicle, they marched directly to Verulam, where the Saxons were grievously oppressing the people. When Octa and Eosa had intelligence that the Britons were come, and that the king was brought in a horse-litter, they disdained to fight with him, saying, it would be shame for such brave men to fight with one that was half dead. For which reason they retired into the city, and, as it were in contempt of any danger from the enemy, left their gates wide open. But Uther, upon information of this, instantly commanded his men to lay seige to the city, and assault the walls on all sides; which orders they strictly executed; and were just entering the breaches which they had made in the walls, and ready to begin a general assault, when the Saxons, seeing the advantages which the Britons had gained, and being forced to abate somewhat of their haughty pride, condescended so far as to put themselves into a posture of defence. They therefore mounted the walls, from whence they poured down showers of arrows, and repulsed the Britons. On both sides the contest continued till night released them from the fatigue of their arms, which was what many of the Britons desired, though the greater part of them were for having the matter quickly decided with the enemy. The Saxons, on the other hand, finding how prejudicial their own pride had been to them, and that the advantage was on the side of the Britons, resolved to make a sally at break of day, and try their fortune with the enemy in the open field; which accordingly was done. For no sooner was it daylight, than they marched out with this design, all in their proper ranks. The Britons, seeing them, divided their men into several bodies, and advancing towards them, began the attack first, their part being to assault, while the others were only upon the defensive. However, much blood was shed on both sides, and the greatest part of the day spent in the fight, when at last, Octa and Eosa being killed, the Saxons turned their backs, and left the Britons a complete victory. The king at this was in such an ecstasy of joy, that whereas before he could hardly raise up himself without the help of others, he now without any difficulty sat upright in his horse-litter of himself, as if he was on a sudden restored to health; and said with a laughing and merry countenance, "These Ambrons called me the half-dead king, because my sickness obliged me to lie on a horse-litter; and indeed so I was. Yet victory to me half dead, is better than to be safe and sound and vanquished. For to die with honour, is preferable to living with disgrace."
The Saxons, notwithstanding this defeat, persisted still in their malice, and entering the northern provinces, without respite infested the people there. Uther's purpose was to have pursued them; but his princes dissuaded him from it, because his illness had increased since the victory. This gave new courage to the enemy, who left nothing unattempted to make conquest of the kingdom. And now they have recourse to their former treacherous practices, and contrive how to compass the king's death by secret villainy. And because they could have no access to him otherwise, they resolved to take him off by poison; in which they succeeded. For while he was lying ill at Verulam, they sent away some spies in a poor habit, to learn the state of the court; and when they had thoroughly informed themselves of the posture of affairs, they found out an expedient by which they might best accomplish their villainy. For there was near the court a spring of very clear water, which the king used to drink of, when his distemper had made all other liquors nauseous to him. This the detestable conspirators made use of to destroy him, by so poisoning the whole mass of water which sprang up, that the next time the king drank of it, he was seized with sudden death, as were also a hundred other persons after him, till the villainy was discovered, and a heap of earth thrown over the well. As soon as the king's death was divulged, the bishops and clergy of the kingdom assembled, and carried his body to the convent of Ambrius, where they buried it with regal solemnity, close by Aurelius Ambrosius, within the Giant's Dance.
Uther Pendragon being dead, the nobility from several provinces assembled together at Silchester, and proposed to Dubricius, archbishop of Legions, that he should consecrate Arthur, Uther's son, to be their king. For they were now in great straits, because, upon hearing of the king's death, the Saxons had invited over their countrymen from Germany, and, under the command of Colgrin, were attempting to exterminate the whole British race. They had also entirely subdued all that part of the island which extends from the Humber to the sea of Caithness. Dubricius, therefore, grieving for the calamities of his country, in conjunction with the other bishops, set the crown upon Arthur's head. Arthur was then fifteen years old, but a youth of such unparalleled courage and generosity, joined with that sweetness of temper and innate goodness, as gained him universal love. When his coronation was over, he, according to the usual custom, showed his bounty and munificence to the people. And such a number of soldiers flocked to him upon it, that his treasury as not able to answer that vast expense. But such a spirit of generosity, joined with valour, can never long want means to support itself. Arthur, therefore, the better to keep up his munificence, resolved to make use of his courage, and to fall upon the Saxons, that he might enrich his followers with their wealth. To this he was also moved by the justice of the cause, since the entire monarchy of Britain belonged to him by hereditary right. Hereupon assembling the youth under his command, he marched to York, of which, when Colgrin had intelligence, he met him with a very great army, composed of Saxons, Scots, and Picts, by the river Duglas; where a battle happened, with the loss of the greater part of both armies. Notwithstanding, the victory fell to Arthur, who pursued Colgrin to York, and there besieged him. Baldulph, upon the news of his brother's flight, went towards the siege with a body of six thousand men, to his relief; for at the time of the battle he was upon the sea-coast, waiting the arrival of duke Cheldric with succours from Germany. And being now no more than ten miles distant from the city, his purpose was to make a speedy march in the night-time, and fall upon the enemy by way of surprise. But Arthur, having intelligence of his design, sent a detachment of six hundred horse, and three thousand foot, under the command of Cador, duke of Cornwall, to meet him the same night. Cador, therefore, falling into the same road along which the enemy was passing, made a sudden assault upon them, and entirely defeated the Saxons, and put them to flight. Baldulph was excessively grieved at this disappointment in the relief which he intended for his brother, and began to think of some other stratagem to gain access to him; in which if he could but succeed, he thought they might concert measures together for their safety. And since he had no other way for it, he shaved his head and beard, and put on the habit of a jester with a harp, and in this disguise walked up and down in the camp, playing upon his instrument as if he had been a harper. He thus passed unsuspected, and by a little and little went up to the walls of the city, where he was at last discovered by the besieged, who thereupon drew him up with cords, and conducted him to his brother. At this unexpected, though much desired meeting, they spent some time in joyfully embracing each other, and then began to consider various stratagems for their delivery. At last, just as they were considering their case desperate, the ambassadors returned from Germany, and brought with them to Albania a fleet of six hundred sail, laden with brave soldiers, under the command of Cheldric. Upon this news, Arthur was dissuaded by his council from continuing the siege any longer, for fear of hazarding a battle with so powerful and numerous an army.
Arthur complied with their advice, and made his retreat to London, where he called an assembly of all the clergy and nobility of the kingdom, to ask their advice, what course to take against the formidable power of the pagans. After some deliberation, it was agreed that ambassadors should be despatched into Armorica, to king Hoel, to represent to him the calamitous state of Britain. Hoel was the son of Arthur's sister by Dubricius, king of the Armorican Britons; so that, upon advice of the disturbances his uncle was threatened with, he ordered his fleet to be got ready, and, having assembled fifteen thousand men, he arrived with the first fair wind at Hamo's Port, and was received with all suitable honour by Arthur, and most affectionately embraced by him.
After a few days they went to relieve the city Kaerliudcoit, that was besieged by the pagans; which being situated upon a mountain, between two rivers in the province of Lindisia, is called by another name Lindocolinum. As soon as they arrived there with all their forces, they fought with the Saxons, and made a grievous slaughter of them, to the number of six thousand; part of whom were drowned in the rivers, part fell by the hands of the Britons. The rest in a great consternation quitted the siege and fled, but were closely pursued by Arthur, till they came to the wood of Celidon, where they endeavoured to form themselves into a body again, and make a stand. And here they again joined battle with the Britons, and made a brave defence, whilst the trees that were in the place secured them against the enemies' arrows. Arthur, seeing this, commanded the trees that were in that part of the wood to be cut down, and the trunks to be placed quite round them, so as to hinder their getting out; resolving to keep them pent up here till he could reduce them by famine. He then commanded his troops to besiege the wood, and continued three days in that place. The Saxons, having now no provisions to sustain them, and being just ready to starve with hunger, begged for leave to go out; in consideration whereof they offered to leave all their gold and silver behind them, and return back to Germany with nothing but their empty ships. They promised also that they would pay him tribute from Germany, and leave hostages with him. Arthur, after consultation, about it, granted their petition; allowing them only leave to depart, and retaining all their treasures, as also hostages for payment of the tribute. But as they were under sail on their return home, they repented of their bargain, and tacked about again towards Britain, and went on shore at Totness. No sooner were they landed, than they made an utter devastation of the country as far as the Severn sea, and put all the peasants to the sword. From thence they pursued their furious march to the town of Bath, and laid siege to it. When the king had intelligence of it, he was beyond measure surprised at their proceedings, and immediately gave orders for the execution of the hostages. And desisting from an attempt which he had entered upon to reduce the Scots and Picts, he marched with the utmost expedition to raise the siege; but laboured under very great difficulties, because he had left his nephew Hoel sick at Alclud. At length, having entered the province of Somerset, and beheld how the siege was carried on, he addressed himself to his followers in these words: "Since these impious and detestable Saxons have disdained to keep faith with me, I, to keep faith with God, will endeavour to revenge the blood of my countrymen this day upon them. To arms, soldiers, to arms, and courageously fall upon the perfidious wretches, over whom we shall, with Christ assisting us, undoubtedly obtain the victory."
When he had done speaking, St. Dubricius, archbishop of Legions, going to the top of a hill, cried out with a loud voice, "You that have the honour to profess the Christian faith, keep fixed in your minds the love which you owe to your country and fellow subjects, whose sufferings by the treachery of the pagans will be an everlasting reproach to you, if you do not courageously defend them. It is your country which you fight for, and for which you should, when required, voluntarily suffer death; for that itself is victory and the curse of the soul. For he that shall die for his brethren, offers himself a living sacrifice to God, and has Christ for his example, who condescended to lay down his life for his brethren. If therefore any of you shall be killed in this war, that death itself, which is suffered in so glorious a cause, shall be to him for penance and absolution of all his sins." At these words, all of them, encouraged with the benediction of the holy prelate, instantly armed themselves, and prepared to obey his orders. Also Arthur himself, having put on a coat of mail suitable to the grandeur of so powerful a king, placed a golden helmet upon his head, on which was engraven the figure of a dragon; and on his shoulders his shield called Priwen; upon which the picture of the blessed Mary, mother of God, was painted, in order to put him frequently in mind of her. Then girding on his Caliburn, which was an excellent sword made in the isle of Avallon, he graced his right hand with his lance, named Ron, which was hard, broad, and fit for slaughter. After this, having placed his men in order, he boldly attacked the Saxons, who were drawn out in the shape of a wedge, as their manner was. And they, notwithstanding that the Britons fought with great eagerness, made a noble defence all that day; but at length, towards sunsetting, climbed up the next mountain, which served them for a camp: for they desired no larger extent of ground, since they confided very much in their numbers. The next morning Arthur, with his army, went up the mountain, but lost many of his men in the ascent, by the advantage which the Saxons had in their station on the top, from whence they could pour down upon him with much greater speed, than he was able to advance against them. Notwithstanding, after a very hard struggle, the Britons gained the summit of the hill, and quickly came to a close engagement with the enemy, who again gave them a warm reception, and made a vigorous defence. In this manner was a great part of that day also spent; whereupon Arthur, provoked to see the little advantage he had yet gained, and that victory still continued in suspense, drew out his Caliburn, and, calling upon the name of the blessed Virgin, rushed forward with great fury into the thickest of the enemy's ranks; of whom (such was the merit of his prayers) not one escaped alive that felt the fury of his sword; neither did he give over the fury of his assault until he had, with his Caliburn alone, killed four hundred and seventy men. The Britons, seeing this, followed their leader in great multitudes, and made slaughter on all sides; so that Colgrin, and Baldulph his brother, and many thousands more, fell before them. But Cheldric, in this imminent danger of his men, betook himself to flight.
The victory being thus gained, the king commanded Cador, duke of Cornwall, to pursue them, while he himself should hasten his march into Albania: from whence he had advice that the Scots and Picts were besieging Alclud, in which, as we said before, Hoel lay sick. Therefore he hastened to his assistance, for fear he might fall into the hands of the barbarians. In the meantime the duke of Cornwall, who had the command of ten thousand men, would not as yet pursue the Saxons in their flight, but speedily made himself master of their ships, to hinder their getting on board, and manned them with his best soldiers, who were to beat back the pagans in case they should flee thither: after this he hastily pursued the enemy, according to Arthur's command, and allowed no quarter to those he could overtake. So that they whose behaviour before was so cruel and insolent, now with timorous hearts fled for shelter, sometimes to the coverts of the woods, sometimes to mountains and caves, to prolong a wretched life. At last, when none of these places could afford them a safe retreat, they entered the Isle of Thanet with their broken forces; but neither did they there get free from the duke of Cornwall's pursuit, for he still continued slaughtering them, and gave them no respite till he had killed Cheldric, and taken hostage for the surrender of the rest.
Having therefore settled peace here, he directed his march to Alclud, which Arthur had relieved from the oppression of barbarians, and from thence conducted his army to Mureif, where the Scots and Picts were besieged; after three several battles with the king and his nephew, they had fled as far as this province, and entering upon the lake Lumond, sought for refuge in the islands that are upon it. This lake contains sixty islands, and receives sixty rivers into it, which empty themselves into the sea by no more than one mouth. There is also an equal number of rocks in these islands, as also of eagles' nests in those rocks, which flocked together there every year, and, by the loud and general noise which they now made, foreboded some remarkable event that should happen to the kingdom. To these islands, therefore, had the enemy fled, thinking the lake would serve them instead of a fortification; but it proved of little advantage to them. For Arthur, having got together a fleet, sailed round the rivers, and besieged the enemy fifteen days together, by which they were so straitened with hunger, that they died by thousands. While he was harassing them in this manner Guillamurius, king of Ireland, came up in a fleet with a very great army of barbarians, in order to relieve the besieged. This obliged Arthur to raise the siege, and turn his arms against the Irish, whom he slew without mercy, and compelled the rest to return back to their country. After this victory, he proceeded in his first attempt, which was to extirpate the whole race of the Scots and Picts, and treated them with an unparalleled severity. And as he allowed quarter to none, the bishops of that miserable country, with all the inferior clergy, met together, and bearing the reliques of the saints and other consecrated things of the church before them, barefooted, came to implore the king's mercy for their people. As soon as they were admitted into his presence, they fell down upon their knees, and humbly besought him to have pity on their distressed country, since the sufferings which he had already made it undergo, were sufficient; nor was there any necessity to cut off the small remainder to a man; and that he would allow them the enjoyment of a small part of the country, since they were willing to bear the yoke which he should impose upon them. The king was moved at the manner of their delivering this petition, and could not forebear expressing his clemency to them with tears; and at the request of those holy men, granted them pardon.
This affair being concluded, Hoel had the curiosity to view the situation of the lake, and wondered to find the number of the rivers, islands, rocks, and eagles' nests, so exactly correspond: and while he was reflecting upon it as something that appeared miraculous, Arthur came to him, and told him of another pond in the same province, which was yet more wonderful. For not far from thence was one whose length and breadth were each twenty feet, and depth five feet. But whether its square figure was natural or artificial, the wonder of it was, there were four different sorts of fishes in the four several corners of it, none of which were ever found in any other part of the pond but their own. He told him likewise of another pond in Wales, near the Severn, called by the country people Linligwan, into which when the sea flows, it receives it in the manner of a gulf, but so as to swallow up the tide, and never be filled, or have its banks covered by it. But at the ebbing of the sea, it throws out the waters which it had swallowed, as high as a mountain, and at last dashes and covers the banks with them. In the meantime, if all the people of that country should stand near with their faces towards it, and happened to have their clothes sprinkled with the dashing of the waves, they would hardly, if at all, escape being swallowed up by the pond. But with their backs towards it, they need not fear being dashed, though they stood upon the very banks.
The king, after his general pardon granted to the Scots, went to York to celebrate the feast of Christ's nativity, which was now at hand. On entering the city, he beheld with grief the desolation of the churches; for upon the expulsion of the holy Archbishop Sanxo, and of all the clergy there, the temples which were half burned down, had no longer divine service performed in them: so much had the impious rage of the pagans prevailed. After this, in an assembly of the clergy and people, he appointed Pyramus his chaplain metropolitan of that see. The churches that lay level with the ground, be rebuilt, and (which was their chief ornament) saw them filled with assemblies of devout persons of both sexes. Also the nobility that were driven out by the disturbances of the Saxons, he restored to their country.
There were there three brothers of royal blood, viz. Lot, Urian, and Augusel, who, before the Saxons had prevailed, held the government of those parts. Being willing therefore to bestow on these, as he did on others, the rights of their ancestors, he restored to Augusel the sovereignty over the Scots; his brother Urian he honoured with the sceptre of Mureif; and Lot, who in time of Aurelius Ambrosius had married his sister, by whom he had two sons, Walgan and Modred, he re-established in the consulship of Londonesia, and the other provinces belonging to him. At length, when the whole country was reduced by him to its ancient state, he took to wife Guanhumara, descended from a noble family of Romans, who was educated under duke Cador, and in beauty surpassed all the women of the island.
The next summer he fitted out a fleet, and made an expedition into Ireland, which he was desirous to reduce. Upon landing there, he was met by king Guillamurius before mentioned, with a vast number of men, who came with a design to fight him; but at the very beginning of the battle, those naked and unarmed people were miserably routed, and fled to such places as lay open to them for shelter. Guillamurius also in a short time was taken prisoner, and forced to submit; as were also all the other princes of the country after the king's example, being under great consternation at what had happened. After an entire conquest of Ireland, he made a voyage with his fleet to Iceland, which he also subdued. And now a rumour spreading over the rest of the islands, that no country was able to withstand him, Doldavius, king of Gothland, and Gunfasius, king of the Orkneys, came voluntarily, and made their submission, on a promise of paying tribute. Then, as soon as winter was over, he returned back to Britain, where having established the kingdom, he resided in it for twelve years together in peace.
After this, having invited over to him all persons whatsoever that were famous for valour in foreign nations, he began to augment the number of his domestics, and introduced such politeness into his court, as people of the remotest countries thought worthy of their imitation. So that there was not a nobleman who thought himself of any consideration, unless his clothes and arms were made in the same fashion as those of Arthur's knights. At length the fame of his munificence and valour spreading over the whole world, he became a terror to the kings of other countries, who grievously feared the loss of their dominions, if he should make any attempt upon them. Being much perplexed with those anxious cares, they repaired their cities and towers, and built towns in convenient places, the better to fortify themselves against any enterprise of Arthur, when occasion should require. Arthur, being informed of what they were doing, was delighted to find how much they stood in awe of him, and formed a design for the conquest of all Europe. Then having prepared his fleet, he first attempted Norway, that he might procure the crown of it for Lot, his sister's husband. This Lot was the nephew of Sichelin, king of the Norwegians, who being then dead, had appointed him his successor in the kingdom. But the Norwegians, disdaining to receive him, had advanced one Riculf to the sovereignty, and having fortified their cities, thought they were able to oppose Arthur. Walgan, the son of Lot, was then a youth twelve years old, and was recommended by his uncle to the service of pope Supplicius, from whom he received arms. But to return to the history: as soon as Arthur arrived on the coast of Norway, king Riculf, attended with the whole power of that kingdom, met him, and gave him battle, in which, after a great loss of blood on both sides, the Britons at length had the advantage, and making a vigorous charge, killed Riculf and many others with him. Having thus defeated them, they set the cities on fire, dispersed the country people, and pursued the victory till they had reduced all Norway, as also Dacia, under the dominion of Arthur. After the conquest of these countries, and establishment of Lot upon the throne of Norway, Arthur made a voyage to Gaul and dividing his army into several bodies, began to lay waste that country on all sides. The province of Gaul was then committed to Flollo, a Roman tribune, who held the government of it under the emperor Leo. Upon intelligence of Arthur's coming, he raised all the forces that were under his command, and made war against him, but without success. For Arthur was attended with the youth of all the islands that he had subdued; for which reason he was reported to have such an army as was thought invincible. And even the greater part of the Gallic army, encouraged by his bounty, came over to his service. Therefore Flollo, seeing the disadvantages he lay under, left his camp, and fled with a small number to Paris. There having recruited his army, he fortified the city, and resolved to stand another engagement with Arthur. But while he was thinking of strengthening himself with auxiliary forces in the neighbouring countries, Arthur came upon him unawares, and besieged him in the city. When a month had passed, Flollo, with grief observing his people perish with hunger, sent a message to Arthur, that they two alone should decide the conquest for the kingdom in a duel: for being a person of great stature, boldness and courage, he gave this challenge in confidence of success. Arthur was extremely pleased at Flollo's proposal, and sent him word back again, that he would give him the meeting which he desired. A treaty, therefore, being on both sides agreed to, they met together in the island without the city, where the people waited to see the event. They were both gracefully armed, and mounted on admirably swift horses; and it was hard to tell which gave greater hopes of victory. When they had presented themselves against each other with their lances aloft, they put spurs to their horses, and began a fierce encounter. But Arthur, who handled his lance more warily, struck it into the upper part of Flollo's breast, and avoiding his enemy's weapon, laid him prostrate upon the ground, and was just going to despatch him with his drawn sword, when Flollo, starting up on a sudden, met him with his lance couched, wherewith he mortally stabbed the breast of Arthur's horse, and caused both him and his rider to fall. The Britons, when they saw their king lying on the ground, fearing he was killed, could hardly be restrained from breach of covenant, and falling with one consent upon the Gauls. But just as they were upon rushing into the lists, Arthur hastily got up, and guarding himself with his shield, advanced with speed against Flollo. And now they renewed the assault with great rage, eagerly bent upon one another's destruction. At length, Flollo, watching his advantage, gave Arthur a blow upon the forehead, which might have proved mortal, had he not blunted the edge of his weapon against the helmet. When Arthur saw his coat of mail and shield red with blood, he was inflamed with still greater rage, and lifting up his Caliburn with his utmost strength struck it through the helmet into Flollo's head, and made a terrible gash. With this wound Flollo fell down, tearing the ground with his spurs, and expired. As soon as this news was spread through the army, the citizens ran together, and opening the gates, surrendered the city to Arthur. After the victory, he divided his army into two parts; one of which he committed to the conduct of Hoel, whom he ordered to march against Guitard, commander of the Pictavians; while he with the other part should endeavour to reduce the other provinces. Hoel upon this entered Aquitaine, possessed himself of the cities of that country, and after distressing Guitard in several battles, forced him to surrender. He also destroyed Gascony with fire and sword, and subdued the princes of it. At the end of nine years, in which time all the parts of Gaul were entirely reduced, Arthur returned back to Paris, where he kept his court, and calling an assembly of the clergy and people, established peace and the just administration of the laws in that kingdom. Then he bestowed Neustria, now called Normandy, upon Bedver, his butler; the province of Andegavia upon Caius, his sewer; and several other provinces upon his great men that attended him. Thus having settled the peace of the cities and countries, there he returned back in the beginning of spring to Britain.
Upon the approach of the feast of Pentecost, Arthur, the better to demonstrate his joy after such triumphant success, and for the more solemn observation of that festival, and reconciling the minds of the princes that were now subject to him, resolved, during that season, to hold a magnificent court, to place the crown upon his head, and to invite all the kings and dukes under his subjection, to the solemnity. And when he had communicated his design to his familiar friends, he pitched upon the City of Legions as a proper place for his purpose. For besides its great wealth above the other cities, its situation, which was in Glamorganshire upon the river Uske, near the Severn sea, was most pleasant, and fit for so great a solemnity. For on one side it was washed by that noble river, so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up to it. On the other side, the beauty of the meadows and groves, and magnificence of the royal palaces with lofty gilded roofs that adorned it, made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was also famous for two churches; whereof one was build in honour of the martyr Julius, and adorned with a choir of virgins, who had devoted themselves wholly to the service of God; but the other, which was founded in memory of St. Aaron, his companion, and maintained a convent of canons, was the third metropolitan church of Britain. Besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, who, being learned in astronomy and the other arts, were diligent in observing the courses of the stars, and gave Arthur true predictions of the events that would happen at that time. In this place, therefore, which afforded such delights, were preparations made for the ensuing festival. Ambassadors were then sent into several kingdoms, to invite to court the princes both of Gaul and all the adjacent islands. Accordingly there came Augusel, king of Albania, now Scotland; Urian, king of Mureif; Cadwallo Lewirh, king of the Venedotians, now called the North Wales men; Sater, king of the Demetians, or South Wales men; Cador, king of Cornwall; also the archbishops of the three metropolitan sees, London, York, and Dubricius of the City of Legions. This prelate, who was primate of Britain, and legate of the apostolical see, was so eminent for his piety, that he could cure any sick person by his prayers. There came also the consuls of the principal cities, viz. Morvid, consul of Gloucester; Mauron, of Worcester; Anaraut, of Salisbury; Arthgal, of Cargueit or Warguit; Jugein of Legecester; Cursalen, of Kaicester; Kinmare, duke of Dorobernia; Galluc, of Salisbury; Urgennius, of Bath; Jonathal, of Dorchester; Boso, of Ridoc, that is, Oxford. Besides the consuls, came the following worthies of no less dignity: Danaut, Map papo; Cheneus, Map coil; Peredur, Mab eridur; Guiful, Map Nogoit, Regin, Map claut; Eddelein, Map cledauc; Kincar, Mab bagan; Kimmare; Gorboroniam, Map goit; Clofaut, Rupmaneton; Kimbelim, Map trunat; Cathleus, Map catel; Kinlich, Map neton; and many others too tedious to enumerate. From the adjacent islands came Guillamurius, king of Ireland; Malvasius, king of Iceland; Doldavius, king of Gothland; Gunfasius, king of the Orkneys; Lot, king of Norway, Aschillius, king of the Dacians. From the parts beyond the seas, came Holdin, king of Ruteni; Leodegarius, consul of Bolonia; Bedver, the butler, duke of Normandy; Borellus, of Cenomania; Caius, the sewer, duke of Andegavia; Guitard, of Pictavia; also the twelve peers of Gaul, whom Guerinus Carnotensis brought along with him: Hoel, duke of the Armorican Britons, and his nobility, who came with such a train of mules, horses, and rich furniture, as it is difficult to describe. Besides these, there remained no prince of any consideration on this side of Spain, who came not upon this invitation. And no wonder, when Arthur's munificence, which was celebrated over the whole world, made him beloved by all people.
When all were assembled together in the city, upon the day of the solemnity, the archbishops were conducted to the palace, in order to place the crown upon the king's head. Therefore Dubricius, inasmuch as the court was kept in his diocese, made himself ready to celebrate the office, and undertook the ordering of whatever related to it. As soon as the king was invested with his royal habiliments, he was conducted in great pomp to the metropolitan church, supported on each side by two archbishops, and having four kings, viz. of Albania, Cornwall, Demetia, and Venedotia, whose right it was, bearing four golden swords before him. He was also attended with a concert of all sorts of music, which made most excellent harmony. On another part was the queen, dressed out in her richest ornaments, conducted by the archbishops and bishops to the Temple of Virgins; the four queens also of the kings last mentioned, bearing before her four white doves according to ancient custom; and after her there followed a retinue of women, making all imaginable demonstrations of joy. When the whole procession was ended, so transporting was the harmony of the musical instruments and voices, whereof there was a vast variety in both churches, that the knights who attended were in doubt which to prefer, and therefore crowded from the one to the other by turns, and were far from being tired with the solemnity, though the whole day had been spent in it. At last, when divine service was over at both churches, the king and queen put off their crowns, and putting on their lighter ornaments, went to the banquet; he to one palace with the men, and she to another with the women. For the Britons still observed the ancient custom of Troy, by which the men and women used to celebrate their festivals apart. When they had alltaken their seats according to precedence, Caius the sewer, in rich robes of ermine, with a thousand young noblemen, all in like manner clothed with ermine, served up the dishes. From another part, Bedver the butler was followed with the same number of attendants, in various habits, who waited with all kinds of cups and drinking vessels. In the queen's palace were innumerable waiters, dressed with variety of ornaments, all performing their respective offices; which if I should describe particularly, I should draw out the history to a tedious length. For at that time Britain had arrived at such a pitch of grandeur, that in abundance of riches, luxury of ornaments, and politeness of inhabitants, it far surpassed all other kingdoms. The knights in it that were famous for feats of chivalry, wore their clothes and arms all of the same colour and fashion: and the women also no less celebrated for their wit, wore all the same kind of apparel; and esteemed none worthy of their love, but such as had given a proof of their valour in three several battles. Thus was the valour of the men an encouragement for the women's chastity, and the love of the women a spur to the soldier's bravery.
As soon as the banquets were over, they went into the fields without the city, to divert themselves with various sports. The military men composed a kind of diversion in imitation of a fight on horseback; and the ladies, placed on the top of the walls as spectators, in a sportive manner darted their amorous glances at the courtiers, the more to encourage them. Others spent the remainder of the day in other diversions, such as shooting with bows and arrows, tossing the pike, casting of heavy stones and rocks, playing at dice and the like, and all these inoffensively and without quarreling. Whoever gained the victory in any of these sports, was rewarded with a rich prize by Arthur. In this manner were the first three days spent; and on the fourth, all who, upon account of their titles, bore any kind of office at this solemnity, were called together to receive honours and preferments in reward of their services, and to fill up the vacancies in the governments of cities and castles, archbishoprics, bishoprics, abbeys, and other posts of honour.
But St. Dubricius, from a pious desire of leading a hermit's life, made a voluntary resignation of his archiepiscopal dignity; and in his room was consecrated David, the king's uncle, whose life was a perfect example of that goodness which by his doctrine he taught. In place of St. Samson, archbishop of Dole, was appointed, with the consent of Hoel, king of the Armorican Britons, Chelianus [Kilian] a priest of Llandaff, a person highly recommended for his good life and character. The Bishopric of Silchester was conferred upon Mauganius, that of Winchester upon Diwanius, and that of Alclud upon Eledanius. While he was disposing of these preferments upon them, it happened that twelve men of an advanced age, and venerable aspect, and bearing olive branches in their right hands, for a token that they were come upon an embassy, appeared before the king, moving towards him with a slow pace, and speaking with a soft voice; and after their compliments paid, presented him with a letter from Lucius Tiberius, in these words:--
"Lucius, procurator of the commonwealth, to Arthur, king of Britain, according to his desert. The insolence of your tyranny is what fills me with the highest admiration, and the injuries you have done to Rome still increase my wonder. But it is provoking to reflect, that you are grown so much above yourself, as wilfully to avoid seeing this: nor do you consider what it is to have offended by unjust deeds a senate, to whom you cannot be ignorant the whole world owes vassalage. For the tribute of Britain, which the senate had enjoined you to pay, and which used to be paid to the Roman emperors successively from the time of Julius Caesar, you have had the presumption to withhold, in contempt of their imperial authority. You have seized upon the province of the Allobroges, and all the islands of the ocean, whose kings, while the Roman power prevailed in those parts, paid tribute to our ancestors. And because the senate have decreed to demand justice of you for such repeated injuries, I command you to appear at Rome before the middle of August the next year, there to make satisfaction to your masters, and undergo such sentence as they shall in justice pass upon you. Which if you refuse to do, I shall come to you, and endeavour to recover with my sword, what you in your madness have robbed us of."
As soon as the letter was read in the presence of the kings and consuls, Arthur withdrew with them into the Giant's Tower, which was at the entrance of the palace, to think what answer was fit to be returned to such an insolent message. As they were going up the stairs, Cador, duke of Cornwall, who was a man of a merry disposition, said to the king in a jocose manner: "I have been till now under fear, lest the easy life which the Britons lead, by enjoying a long peace, might make them cowards, and extinguish the fame of their gallantry, by which they have raised their name above all other nations. For where the exercise of arms is wanting, and the pleasures of women, dice, and other diversions take place, no doubt, what remains of virtue, honour, courage, and thirst of praise, will be tainted with the rust of idleness. For now almost five years have passed, since we have been abandoned to these delights, and have had no exercise of war. Therefore, to deliver us from sloth, God has stirred up this spirit of the Romans, to restore our military virtues to their ancient state." In this manner did he entertain them with discourse, till they were come to their seats, on which when they were all placed, Arthur spoke to them after this manner.
"My companions both in good and bad fortune, whose abilities both in counsel and war I have hitherto experienced; the present exigence of affairs, after the message which we have received, requires your careful deliberation and prudent resolutions; for whatever is wisely concerted, is easily executed. Therefore we shall be the better able to bear the annoyance which Lucius threatens to give us, if we unanimously apply ourselves to consider how to overcome it. In my opinion we have no great reason to fear him, when we reflect upon the unjust pretence on which he demands tribute of us. He says he has a right to it, because it was paid to Julius Caesar, and his successors, who invaded Britain with an army at the invitation of the ancient Britons, when they were quarrelling among themselves, and by force reduced the country under their power, when weakened by civil dissension. And because they gained it in this manner, they had the injustice to take tribute of it. For that can never be possessed justly, which is gained by force and violence. So that he has no reasonable grounds to pretend we are of right his tributaries. But since he has the presumption to make an unjust demand of us, we have certainly as good reason to demand of him tribute from Rome; let the longer sword therefore determine the right between us. For if Rome has decreed that tribute ought to be paid to it from Britain, on account of its having been formerly under the yoke of Julius Caesar, and other Roman emperors; I for the same reason now decree, that Rome ought to pay tribute to me, because my predecessors formerly held the government of it. For Belinus, that glorious king of the Britons, with the assistance of his brother Brennus, duke of the Allobroges, after they had hanged up twenty noble Romans in the middle of the market-place, took their city, and kept possession of it a long time. Likewise, Constantine, the son of Helena, and Maximian [Maximus], who were both my kinsmen, and both wore the crown of Britain, gained the imperial throne of Rome. Do not you, therefore, think that we ought to demand tribute of the Romans? As for Gaul and the adjacent islands of the ocean, we have no occasion to return them any answer, since they did not defend them, when we attempted to free them from their power." As soon as he had done speaking to this effect, Hoel, king of the Armorican Britons, who had the precedence of the rest, made answer in these words.
"After the most profound deliberation that any of us shall be able to make, I think better advice cannot be given, than what your majesty in your great wisdom and policy now offers. Your speech, which is no less wise than eloquent, has superseded all consultation on our part; and nothing remains for us to do, but to admire and gratefully acknowledge your majesty's firmness of mind, and depth of policy, to which we owe such excellent advice. For if upon this motive you are pleased to make an expedition to Rome, I doubt not but it will be crowned with glorious success; since it will be undertaken for the defence of our liberties, and to demand justly of our enemies, what they have unjustly demanded of us. For that person who would rob another, deserves to lose his own by him against whom the attempt is made. And, therefore, since the Romans threatened us with this injury, it will undoubtedly turn to their own loss, if we can have but an opportunity of engaging with them. This is what the Britons universally desire; this is what we have promised us in the Sibylline prophecies, which expressly declare, that the Roman empire shall be obtained by three persons, natives of Britain. The oracle is fulfilled in two of them, since it is manifest (as your majesty observed) that those two celebrated princes, Belinus and Constantine, governed the Roman empire: and now you are the third to whom this supreme dignity is promised. Make haste, therefore, to receive what God makes no delay to give you; to subdue those who are ready to receive your yoke; and to advance us all, who for your advancement will spare neither limbs nor life. And that you may accomplish this, I myself will attend you in person with ten thousand men."
When Hoel concluded his speech, Augusel, king of Albania, declared his good affection to the cause after this manner. "I am not able to express the joy that has transported me, since my lord has declared to us his designs. For we seem to have done nothing by all our past wars with so many and potent princes, if the Romans and Germans be suffered to enjoy peace, and we do not severely revenge on them the grievous oppressions which they formerly brought upon this country. But now, since we are at liberty to encounter them, I am overwhelmed with joy and eagerness of desire, to see a battle with them, when the blood of those cruel oppressors will be no less acceptable to me than a spring of water is to one who is parched with thirst. If I shall but live to see that day, how sweet will be the wounds which I shall then either receive or give? Nay, how sweet will be even death itself, when suffered in revenging the injuries done to our ancestors, in defending our liberties, and in promoting the glory of our king! Let us then begin with these poltroons, and spoil them of all their trophies, by making an entire conquest of them. And I for my share will add to the army two thousand horse, besides foot."
To the same effect spoke all the rest, and promised each of them their full quota of forces; so that besides those promised by the duke of Armorica, the number of men from the island of Britain alone was sixty thousand, all completely armed. But the kings of the other islands, as they had not been accustomed to any cavalry, promised their quota of infantry; and, from the six provincial islands, viz. Ireland, Iceland, Gothland, the Orkneys, Norway, and Dacia, were reckoned a hundred and twenty thousand. From the duchies of Gaul, that is, of the Ruteni, the Portunians, the Estrusians, the Cenomanni, the Andegavians, and Pictavians, were eighty thousand. From the twelve consulships of those who came along with Guerinus Carnotensis, twelve hundred. All together made up a hundred and eighty-three thousand two hundred, besides foot which did not easily fall under number.
King Arthur, seeing all unanimously ready for his service, ordered them to return back to their countries with speed, and get ready the forces which they had promised, and to hasten to the general rendezvous upon the kalends of August, at the mouth of the river Barba, that from thence they might advance with them to the borders of the Allobroges, to meet the Romans. Then he sent word to the emperors by their ambassadors; that as to paying them tribute, he would in no wise obey their commands; and that the journey he was about to make to Rome, was not to stand the award of their sentence, but to demand of them what they had judicially decreed to demand of him. With this answer the ambassadors departed; and at the same time also departed all the kings and noblemen, to perform with all expedition the orders that had been given them.
Lucius Tiberius, on receiving this answer, by order of the senate published a decree, for the eastern kings to come with their forces, and assist in the conquest of Britain. In obedience to which there came in a very short time, Epistrophius, king of the Grecians; Mustensar, king of the Africans; Alifantinam, king of Spain; Hirtacius, king of the Parthians; Boccus, of the Medes; Sertorius, of Libya; Teucer, king of Phrygia; Serses, king of the Itureans; Pandrasus, king of Egypt; Micipsa, king of Babylon; Polytetes, duke of Bithynia; Teucer, duke of Phrygia; Evander, of Syria; æthion, of Boeotia; Hippolytus, of Crete, with the generals and nobility under them. Of the senatorian order also came, Lucius Catellus, Marius Lepidus, Caius Metellus Cotta, Quintus Milvius Catulus, Quintas Carutius, and as many others as made up the number of forty thousand one hundred and sixty.
After the necessary dispositions were made, upon the kalends of August, they began their march towards Britain, which when Arthur had intelligence of, he committed the government of the kingdom to his nephew Modred, and queen Guanhumara, and marched with his army to Hamo's Port, where the wind stood fair for him. But while he, surrounded with all his numerous fleet, was sailing joyfully with a brisk gale, it happened that about midnight he fell into a very sound sleep, and in a dream saw a bear flying in the air, at the noise of which all the shores trembled; also a terrible dragon flying from the west, which enlightened the country with the brightness of its eyes. When these two met, they began a dreadful fight; but the dragon with its fiery breath burned the bear which often assaulted him, and threw him down scorched to the ground. Arthur upon this awaking, related his dream to those that stood about him, who took upon them to interpret it, and told him that the dragon signified himself, but the bear, some giant that should encounter with him; and that the fight portended the duel that would be between them, and the dragon's victory the same that would happen to himself. But Arthur conjectured it portended something else, and that the vision was applicable to himself and the emperor. As soon as the morning after this night's sail appeared, they found themselves arrived at the mouth of the river Barba. And there they pitched their tents, to wait the arrival of the kings of the islands and the generals of the other provinces.
In the meantime Arthur had news brought him, that a giant of monstrous size was come from the shores of Spain, and had forcibly taken away Helena, the niece of duke Hoel, from her guard, and fled with her to the top of that which is now called Michael's Mount; and that the soldiers of the country who pursued him were able to do nothing against him. For whether they attacked him by sea or land, he either overturned their ships with vast rocks, or killed them with several sorts of darts, besides many of them that he took and devoured half alive. The next night, therefore, at the second hour, Arthur, taking along with him Caius the sewer, and Bedver the butler, went out privately from the camp, and hastened towards the mountain. For being a man of undaunted courage, he did not care to lead his army against such monsters; both because he could in this manner animate his men by his own example, and also because he was alone sufficient to deal with them. As soon as they came near the mountain, they saw a fire burning upon the top of it, and another on a lesser mountain, that was not far from it. And being in doubt upon which of them the giant dwelt, they sent away Bedver to know the certainty of the matter. So he, finding a boat, sailed over in it first to the lesser mountain, to which he could in no other way have access, because it was situated in the sea. When he had begun to climb up to the top of it, he was at first frightened with a dismal howling cry of a woman from above, and imagined the monster to be there: but quickly rousing up his courage, he drew his sword, and having reached the top, found nothing but the fire which he had before seen at a distance. He discovered also a grave newly made, and an old woman weeping and howling by it, who at the sight of him instantly cried out in words interrupted with sighs, "O, unhappy man, what misfortune brings you to this place? O the inexpressible tortures of death that you must suffer! I pity you, I pity you, because the detestable monster will this night destroy the flower of your youth. For that most wicked and odious giant, who brought the duke's niece, whom I have just now buried here, and me, her nurse, along with her into this mountain, will come and immediately murder you in a most cruel manner. O deplorable fate! This most illustrious princess, sinking under the fear her tender heart conceived, while the foul monster would have embraced her, fainted away and expired. And when he could not satiate his brutish lust upon her, who was the very soul, joy, and happiness of my life, being enraged at the disappointment of his bestial desire, he forcibly committed a rape upon me, who (let God and my old age witness) abhorred his embraces. Fly, dear sir, fly, for fear he may come, as he usually does, to lie with me, and finding you here most barbarously butcher you." Bedver, moved at what she said, as much as it is possible for human nature to be, endeavoured with kind words to assuage her grief, and to comfort her with the promise of speedy help: and then returned back to Arthur, and gave him an account of what he had met with. Arthur very much lamented the damsel's sad fate, and ordered his companions to leave him to deal with him alone; unless there was an absolute necessity, and then they were to come in boldly to his assistance. From hence they went directly to the next mountain, leaving their horses with their armour-bearers, and ascended to the top, Arthur leading the way. The deformed savage was then by the fire, with his face besmeared with the clotted blood of swine, part of which he already devoured, and was roasting the remainder upon spits by the fire. But at the sight of them, whose appearance was a surprise to him, he hastened to his club, which two strong men could hardly lift from the ground. Upon this the king drew his sword, and guarding himself with his shield, ran with all his speed to prevent his getting it. But the other, who was not ignorant of his design, had by this time snatched it up, and gave the king such a terrible blow upon his shield, that he made the shores ring with the noise, and perfectly stunned the king's ears with it. Arthur, fired with rage at this, lifted up his sword, and gave him a wound in the forehead, which was not indeed mortal, but yet such as made the blood gush out over his face and eyes, and so blinded him; for he had partly warded off the stroke from his forehead with his club, and prevented its being fatal. However, his loss of sight, by reason of the blood flowing over his eyes, made him exert himself with greater fury, and like an enraged boar against a hunting-spear, so did he rush in against Arthur's sword, and grasping him about the waist, forced him down upon his knees. But Arthur, nothing daunted, slipped out of his hands, and so exerted himself with his sword, that he gave the giant no respite till he had struck it up to the very back through his skull. At this the hideous monster raised a dreadful roar, and like an oak torn up from the roots by the winds, so did he make the ground resound with his fall. Arthur, bursting out into a fit of laughter at the sight, commanded Bedver to cut off his head, and give it to one of the armour-bearers, who was to carry it to the camp, and there expose it to public view, but with orders for the spectators of this combat to keep silence. He told them he had found none of so strength, since he killed the giant Ritho, who had challenged him to fight, upon the mountain Aravius. This giant had made himself furs of the beards of kings he had killed, and had sent word to Arthur carefully to cut off his beard and send it to him; and then, out of respect to his pre-eminence over other kings, his beard should have the honour of the principal place. But if he refused to do it, he challenged him to a duel, with this offer, that the conqueror should have the furs, and also the beard of the vanquished for a trophy of his victory. In his conflict, therefore, Arthur proved victorious, and took the beard and spoils of the giant: and, as he said before, had met with none that could be compared to him for strength, till his last engagement. After this victory, they returned at the second watch of the night to the camp with the head; to see which there was a great concourse of people, all extolling this wonderful exploit of Arthur, by which he had freed the country from a most destructive and voracious monster. But Hoel, in great grief for the loss of his niece, commanded a mausoleum to be built over her body in the mountain where she was buried, which, taking the damsel's name, is called Helena's Tomb to this day.
As soon as all the forces were arrived which Arthur expected, he marched from thence to Augustodunum, where he supposed the general was. But when he came to the river Alba, he had intelligence brought him of his having encamped not far off, and that he was come with so vast an army, that he would not be able to withstand it. However, this did not deter him from pursuing his enterprise; but he pitched his camp upon the bank of the river, to facilitate the bringing up of his forces, and to secure his retreat, if there should be occasion; and sent Boso the consul of Oxford, and Guerinus Carnotensis, with his nephew Walgan, to Lucius Tiberius, requiring him either to retire from the coasts of Gaul, or come the next day, that they might try their right to that country with their swords. The retinue of young courtiers that attended Walgan, highly rejoicing at this opportunity, were urgent with him to find some occasion for a quarrel in the commander's camp, that so they might engage the Romans. Accordingly they went to Lucius, and commanded him to retire out of Gaul, or hazard a battle the next day. But while he was answering them, that he was not come to retire, but to govern the country, there was present Caius Quintilianus, his nephew, who said, "That the Britons were better at boasting and threatening, than they were at fighting." Walgan immediately took fire at this, and ran upon him with his drawn sword, wherewith he cut off his head, and then retreated speedily with his companions to their horses. The Romans, both horse and foot, pursued to revenge the loss of their countryman upon the ambassadors, who fled with great precipitation. But Guerinus Carnotensis, just as one of them was come up to him, rallied on a sudden, and with his lance struck at once through his armour and the very middle of his body, and laid him prostrate on the ground. The sight of this noble exploit raised the emulation of Boso of Oxford, who, wheeling about his horse, struck his lance into the throat of the first man he met with, and dismounted him mortally wounded. In the meantime, Marcellus Mutius, with great eagerness to revenge Quintilian's death, was just upon the back of Walgan, and laid hold of him; which the other quickly obliged him to quit, by cleaving both his helmet and head to the breast with his sword. He also bade him, when he arrived at the infernal regions, tell the man he had killed in the camp, "That in this manner the Britons showed their boasting and threatening." Then having reassembled his men, he encouraged them to despatch every one his pursuer in the same manner as he had done; which accordingly they did not fail to accomplish. Notwithstanding, the Romans continued their pursuit with lances and swords, wherewith they annoyed the others, though without slaughter or taking any prisoners. But as they came near a certain wood, a party of six thousand Britons, who seeing the flight of the consuls, had hid themselves, to be in readiness for their assistance, sallied forth, and putting spurs to their horses, rent the air with their loud shouts, and being well fenced with their shields, assaulted the Romans suddenly, and forced them to fly. And now it was the Britons' turn to pursue, which they did with better success, for they dismounted, killed, or took several of the enemy. Petreius, the senator, upon this news, hastened to the assistance of his countrymen with ten thousand men, and compelled the Britons to retreat to the wood from whence they had sallied forth; though not without loss of his own men. For the Britons, being well acquainted with the ground, in their flight killed a great number of their pursuers. The Britons thus giving ground, Hider, with another reinforcement of five thousand men, advanced with speed to sustain them; so that they again faced those, upon whom they had turned their backs, and renewed the assault with great vigour. The Romans also stood their ground, and continued the fight with various success. The great fault of the Britons was, that though they had been very eager to begin the fight, yet when begun they were less careful of the hazard they ran. Whereas the Romans were under better discipline, and had the advantage of a prudent commander, Petreius Cotta, to tell them where to advance, and where to give ground, and by these means did great injury to the enemy. When Boso observed this, he drew off from the rest a large party of those whom he knew to be the stoutest men, and spoke to them after this manner: "Since we have begun this fight without Arthur's knowledge, we must take care that we be not defeated in the enterprise. For, if we should, we shall both very much endanger our men, and incur the king's high displeasure. Rouse up your courage, and follow me through the Roman squadrons, that with the favour of good fortune we may either kill or take Petreius prisoner." With this they put spurs to their horses, and piercing through the enemies' thickest ranks, reached the place where Petreius was giving his commands. Boso hastily ran in upon him, and grasping him about the neck, fell with him to the ground, as he had intended. The Romans hereupon ran to his delivery, as did the Britons to Boso's assistance; which occasioned on both sides great slaughter, noise, and confusion, while one party strove to rescue their leader, and the other to keep him prisoner. So that this proved the sharpest part of the whole fight, and wherein their spears, swords, and arrows had the fullest employment. At length, the Britons, joining in a close body, and sustaining patiently the assaults of the Romans, retired to the main body of their army with Petreius: which they had no sooner done, than they again attacked them, being now deprived of their leader, very much weakened, dispirited, and just beginning to flee. They, therefore, eagerly pursued, beat down, and killed several of them, and as soon as they had plundered them, pursued the rest: but they took the greatest number of them prisoners, being desirous to present them to the king. When they had at last sufficiently harassed them, they returned with their plunder and prisoners to the camp; where they gave an account of what had happened, and presented Petreius Cotta with the other prisoners before Arthur, with great joy for the victory. Arthur congratulated them upon it, and promised them advancement to greater honours, for behaving themselves so gallantly when he was absent from them. Then he gave his command to some of his men, to conduct the prisoners the next day to Paris, and deliver them to be kept in custody there till further orders. The party that were to undertake this charge, he ordered to be conducted by Cador, Bedver, and the two consuls, Borellus and Richerius, with their servants, till they should be out of all fear of disturbance from the Romans.
But the Romans, happening to get intelligence of their design, at the command of their general chose out fifteen thousand men, who that night were to get before the others in their march, and rescue their fellow soldiers out of their hands. They were to be commanded by Vulteius Catellus and Quintus Carutius, senators, as also Evander, king of Syria, and Sertorius, king of Libya. Accordingly they began their march that very night, and possessed themselves of a place convenient for lying in ambuscade, through which they supposed the others would pass. In the morning the Britons set forward along the same road with their prisoners, and were now approaching the place in perfect ignorance of the cunning stratagem of the enemy. No sooner had they entered it, that the Romans, to their great surprise, sprang forth and fell furiously upon them. Notwithstanding, the Britons, at length recovering from their consternation, assembled together, and prepared for a bold opposition, by appointing a party to guard the prisoners, and drawing out the rest in order of battle against the enemy. Richerius and Bedver had the command of the party that were set over the prisoners; but Cador, duke of Cornwall, and Borellus headed the others. But all the Romans had made their sally without being placed in any order, and cared not to form themselves, that they might lose no time in the slaughter of the Britons, whom they saw busied in marshalling their troops, and preparing only for their defence. By this conduct the Britons were extremely weakened, and would have shamefully lost their prisoners, had not good fortune rendered them assistance. For Guitard, commander of the Pictavians, happened to get information of the designed stratagem, and was come up with three thousand men, by the help of which they at last got the advantage, and paid back the slaughter upon their insolent assailants. Nevertheless, the loss which they sustained at the beginning of this action was very considerable. For they lost Borellus, the famous consul of the Cenomanni, in an encounter with Evander, king of Syria, who stuck his lance into his throat; besides four noblemen, viz. Hirelgas Deperirus, Mauricius Cadorcanesis, Aliduc of Tintagel, and Hider his son, than whom braver men were hardly to be found. But yet neither did this loss dispirit the Britons, but rather made them more resolute to keep the prisoners, and kill the enemy. The Romans, now finding themselves unable to maintain the fight any longer, suddenly quitted the field, and made towards their camp; but were pursued with slaughter by the Britons, who also took many of them, and allowed them no respite till they had killed Vulteius Catellus and Evander, king of Syria, and wholly dispersed the rest. After which they sent away their former prisoners to Paris, whither they were to conduct them, and returned back with those newly taken to the king; to whom they gave great hopes of a complete conquest of their enemies, since very few of the great number that came against them had met with any success.
These repeated disasters wrought no small disturbance in the mind of Lucius Tiberius, and made him hesitate whether to bring it to a general battle with Arthur, or to retire into Augustodunum, and stay till the emperor Leo with his forces could come to his assistance. At length, giving way to his fears, he entered Lengriæ with his army, intending to reach the other city the night following. Arthur, finding this, and being desirous to get before him in his march, left the city on the left hand, and the same night entered a certain valley called Suesia, through which Lucius was to pass. There he divided his men into several bodies, commanding one legion, over which Morvid, consul of Gloucester, was appointed general, to wait close by, that he might retreat to them if there should be occasion, and from thence rally his broken forces for a second battle. The rest he divided into seven parts, in each of which he placed five thousand five hundred and fifty-five men, all completely armed. He also appointed different stations to his horse and foot, and gave command that just as the foot should advance to the attack, the horse, keeping close together in their ranks, should at the same moment march up obliquely, and endeavour to put the enemy into disorder. The companies of foot were, after the British manner, drawn out into a square, with a right and left wing, under the command of Augusel, king of Albania, and Cador, duke of Cornwall; the one presiding over the right wing, the other over the left. Over another party were placed the two famous consuls, Guerinus of Chartres and Boso of Richiden, called in the Saxon tongue Oxineford; over a third were Aschillius, king of the Dacians, and Lot, king of the Norwegians; the fourth being commanded by Hoel, duke of the Armoricans, and Walgan, the king's nephew. After these were four other parties placed in the rear; the first commanded by Caius the sewer, and Bedver the butler; the second by Holdin, duke of the Ruteni, and Guitard of the Pictavians; the third by Vigenis of Legecester, Jonathal of Dorchester, and Cursalem of Caicester; the fourth by Urbgennius of Bath. Behind all these, Arthur, for himself and the legion that was to attend near him, made choice of a place, where he set up a golden dragon for a standard, whither the wounded or fatigued might in case of necessity retreat, as into their camp. The legion that was with him consisted of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six men.
After he had thus placed them all in their stations, he made the following speech to his soldiers:-- "My brave countrymen, who have made Britain the mistress of thirty kingdoms, I congratulate you upon your late noble exploit, which to me is a proof that your valour is so far from being impaired, that it is rather increased. Though you have been five years without exercise, wherein the softening pleasures of an easy life had a greater share of your time than the use of arms; yet all this has not made you degenerate from your natural bravery, which you have shown in forcing the Romans to flee. The pride of their leaders has animated them to attempt the invasion of your liberties. They have tried you in battle, with numbers superior to yours, and have not been able to stand before you; but have basely withdrawn themselves into that city, from which they are now ready to march out, and to pass through this valley in their way to Augustodunum; so that you may have an opportunity of falling upon them unawares like a flock of sheep. Certainly they expected to find in you the cowardice of the Eastern nations, when they thought to make your country tributary, and you their slaves. What, have they never heard of your wars, with the Dacians, Norwegians, and princes of the Gauls, whom you reduced under my power, and freed from their shameful yoke? We, then, that have had success in a greater war, need not doubt of it in a less, if we do but endeavour with the same spirit to vanquish these poltroons. You shall want no rewards of honour, if as faithful soldiers you do but strictly obey my commands. For as soon as we have routed them, we will march straight to Rome, and take it; and then all the gold, silver, palaces, towers, towns, cities, and other riches of the vanquished shall be yours." He had hardly done speaking before they all with one voice declared, that they were ready to suffer death, rather than quit the field while he had life.
But Lucius Tiberius, discovering the designs that were formed against him, would not flee, as he had at first intended, but taking new courage, resolved to march to the same valley against them; and calling together his principal commanders, spoke to them in these words:-- "Venerable fathers, to whose empire both the Eastern and Western kingdoms owe obedience, remember the virtues of your ancestors, who were not afraid to shed their blood, when the vanquishing of the enemies of the commonwealth required it; but to leave an example of their courage and military virtues to their posterity, behaved themselves in all battles with that contempt of death, as if God had given them some security against it. By this conduct they often triumphed, and by triumphing escaped death. Such was the reward of their virtue from Divine Providence, which overrules all events. The increase of the commonwealth, and of their own valour was owing to this; and all those virtues that usually adorn the great, as integrity, honour, and munificence, flourishing a long time in them, raised them and their posterity to the empire of the whole world. Let their noble examples animate you; rouse up the spirit of the ancient Romans, and be not afraid to march out against our enemies that are lying in ambush before us in the valley, but boldly with your swords demand of them your just rights. Do not think that I retired into this city for fear of engaging with them; but I thought that, as their pursuit of us was rash and foolish, so we might hence on a sudden intercept them in it, and by dividing their main body make a great slaughter of them. But now, since they have altered the measures which we supposed they had taken, let us also alter ours. Let us go in quest of them and bravely fall upon them; or if they shall happen to have the advantage in the beginning of the battle, let us only stand our ground during the fury of their first assault, and the victory will undoubtedly be ours; for in many battles this manner of conduct has been attended with victory." As soon as he had made an end of speaking these and other things, they all declared their assent, promised with an oath to stand by him, and hastened to arm themselves. Which when they had done, they marched out of Lengriæ to the valley where Arthur had drawn out his forces in order of battle. Then they also began to marshal their army, which they divided into twelve companies, and according to the Roman manner of battle, drew out each company into the form of a wedge, consisting of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six men. Each company also had its respective leaders, who were to give direction when to advance, or when to be put upon the defensive. One of them was headed by Lucius Catellus the senator, and Alifantinam, king of Spain; another by Hirtacius, king of Parthians, and Marius Lepidus, a senator; a third by Boccus, king of the Medes, and Caius Metellus, a senator; a fourth by Sertorius, king of Libya, and Quintus Milvius, a senator. These four companies were placed in the front of the army. In the rear of these were four others, whereof one was commanded by Serses, king of the Itureans; another by Pandrasus, king of Egypt; a third by Polytetes, duke of Bithynia; a fourth by Teucer, duke of Phrygia. And again behind all these four others, whereof the commanders were Quintus Carucius, a senator, Lælius Ostiensis, Sulpitius Subuculus, and Mauricius Sylvanus. As for the general himself, he was sometimes in one place, sometimes another, to encourage and direct as there should be occasion. For a standard he ordered a golden eagle to be firmly set up in the centre, for his men to repair to whenever they should happen to be separated from their company.
And now the Britons and the Romans stood presenting their arms at one another; when forthwith at the sound of the trumpets, the company that was headed by the king of Spain and Lucius Catellus, boldly rushed forward against that which the king of Scotland and duke of Cornwall led, but were not able to make the least breach in their firm ranks. So that while these stood their ground, up came Guerinus and Boso with a body of horse upon their full speed, broke through the party that began the assault, and met with another which the king of the Parthians was leading up against Aschillius, king of Dacia. After this first onset, there followed a general engagement of both armies with great violence, and several breaches were made on each side. The shouts, the slaughter, the quantity of blood spilled, and the agonies of the dying, made a dreadful scene of horror. At first, the Britons sustained a great loss, by having Bedver the butler killed, and Caius the sewer mortally wounded. For, as Bedver met Boccus, king of the Medes, he fell dead by a stab of his lance amidst the enemies' troops. And Caius, in endeavouring to revenge his death, was surrounded by the Median troops, and there received a mortal wound; yet as a brave soldier he opened himself a way with the wing which he led, killed and dispersed the Medes, and would have made a safe retreat with all his men, had he not met the king of Libya with the forces under him, who put his whole company into disorder; yet not so great, but that he was still able to get off with a few, and flee with Bedver's corps to the golden dragon. The Neustrians grievously lamented at the sight of their leader's mangled body; and so did the Andegavians, when they beheld their consul wounded. But there was now no room for complaints, for the furious and bloody shocks of both armies made it necessary to provide for their own defence. Therefore Hirelgas, the nephew of Bedver, being extremely enraged at his death, called up to him three hundred men, and like a wild boar amongst a pack of dogs, broke through the enemies' ranks with his horse, making towards the place where he had seen the standard of the king of the Medes; little regarding what might befall him, if he could but revenge the loss of his uncle. At length he reached the place, killed the king, brought off his body to his companions, and laid it by that of his uncle, where he mangled it in the same manner. Then calling with a loud voice to his countrymen, he animated their troops, and vehemently pressed them to exert themselves to the utmost, now that their spirits were raised, and the enemy disheartened; and especially as they had the advantage of them in being placed in better order, and so might the more grievously annoy them. Encouraged with this exhortation, they began a general assault upon the enemy, which was attended with a terrible slaughter on both sides. For on the part of the Romans, besides many others, fell Alifantinam, king of Spain, Micipsa of Babylon, as also Quintus Milvius and Marius Lepidus, senators. On the part of the Britons, Holdin, king of the Ruteni, Leodegarius of Bolonia, and three consuls of Britain, Cursalem of Caicester, Galluc of Salisbury, and Urbgennius of Bath. So that the troops which they commanded, being extremely weakened, retreated till they came to the army of the Armorican Britons, commanded by Hoel and Walgan. But these, being inflamed at the retreat of their friends, encouraged them to stand their ground, and caused them with the help of their own forces to put their pursuers to flight. While they continued this pursuit, they beat down and killed several of them, and gave them no respite, till they came to the general's troop; who, seeing the distress of his companions, hastened to their assistance.
And now in this latter encounter the Britons were worsted, with the loss of Kimarcoc, consul of Trigeria, and two thousand with him; besides three famous noblemen, Richomarcus, Bloccovius, and Jagivius of Bodloan, who, had they but enjoyed the dignity of princes, would have been celebrated for their valour through all succeeding ages. For, during this assault which they made in conjunction with Hoel and Walgan, there was not an enemy within their reach that could escape the fury of their sword or lance. But upon their falling in among Lucius's party, they were surrounded by them, and suffered the same fate with the consul and the other men. The loss of these men made those matchless heroes, Hoel and Walgan, much more eager to assault the general's ranks, and to try on all sides where to make the greatest impression. But Walgan, whose valour was never to be foiled, endeavoured to gain access to Lucius himself, that he might encounter him, and with this view beat down and killed all that stood in his way. And Hoel, not inferior to him, did no less service in another part, by spiriting up his men, and giving and receiving blows among the enemy with the same undaunted courage. It was hard to determine, which of them was the stoutest soldier.
But Walgan, by forcing his way through the enemy's troops, as we said before, found at last (what he had wished for) access to the general, and immediately encountered him. Lucius, being then in the flower of his youth, and a person of great courage and vigour, desired nothing more than to engage with such a one as might put his strength to its full trial. Putting himself, therefore, into a posture of defence, he received Walgan with joy, and was not a little proud to try his courage with one of whom he had heard such great things. The fight continued between them a long time, with great force of blows, and no less dexterity in warding them off, each being resolved upon the other's destruction. During this sharp conflict between them, the Romans, on a sudden, recovering their courage, made an assault upon the Armoricans, and having relieved their general, repulsed Hoel and Walgan, with their troops, till they found themselves unawares met by Arthur and the forces under him. For he, hearing of the slaughter that was a little before made of his men, had speedily advanced with his legion, and drawing out his Caliburn, spoke to them, with a loud voice, after this manner: "What are you doing soldiers? Will you suffer these effeminate wretches to escape? Let not one of them get off alive. Remember the force of your arms, that have reduced thirty kingdoms under my subjection. Remember your ancestors, whom the Romans, when at the height of their power, made tributary. Remember your liberties, which these pitiful fellows, that are much your inferiors, attempt to deprive you of. Let none of them escape alive. What are you doing?" With these expostulations, he rushed upon the enemy, made terrible havoc among them, and not a man did he meet but at one blow he laid either him or his horse dead upon the ground. They, therefore, in astonishment fled from him, as a flock of sheep from a fierce lion, whom raging hunger provokes to devour whatever happens to come near him. Their arms were no manner of protection to them against the force with which this valiant prince wielded his Caliburn. Two kings, Sertorius of Libya, and Polytetes of Bithynia, unfortunately felt its fury, and had their heads cut off by it. The Britons, when they saw the king performing such wonders, took courage again. With one consent they assaulted the Romans, kept close together in their ranks, and while they assailed the foot in one part, endeavoured to beat down and pierce through the horse in another. Notwithstanding, the Romans made a brave defence, and at the instigation of Lucius laboured to pay back their slaughter upon the Britons. The eagerness and force that were now shown on both sides were as great as if it was the beginning of the battle. Arthur continued to do great execution with his own hand, and encouraged the Britons to maintain the fight; as Lucius Tiberius did the Romans, and made them perform many memorable exploits. He himself, in the meantime, was very active in going from place to place, and suffered none to escape with life that happened to come within the reach of his sword or lance. The slaughter that was now made on both sides was very dreadful, and the turns of fortune various, sometimes the Britons prevailing, sometimes the Romans. At last, while this sharp dispute continued, Morvid, consul of Gloucester, with his legion, which, as we said before, was placed between the hills, came up with speed upon the rear of the enemy, and to their great surprise assaulted, broke through, and dispersed them with great slaughter. This last and decisive blow proved fatal to many thousands of Romans, and even to the general Lucius himself, who was killed among the crowds with a lance by an unknown hand. But the Britons, by long maintaining the fight, at last with great difficulty gained the victory.
The Romans, being now, therefore, dispersed, betook themselves through fear, some to the by-ways and woods, some to the cities and towns, and all other places, where they could be most safe; but were either killed or taken and plundered by the Britons who pursued: so that great part of them voluntarily and shamefully held forth their hands, to receive their chains, in order to prolong for a while a wretched life. In all which the justice of Divine Providence was very visible; considering how unjustly the ancestors of the Britons were formerly invaded and harassed by those of the Romans; and that these stood only in defence of that liberty, which the others would have deprived them of; and refused the tribute, which the others had no right to demand.
Arthur, after he had completed his victory, gave orders for separating the bodies of his nobility from those of the enemy, and preparing a pompous funeral for them; and that, when ready, they should be carried to the abbeys of their repective countries, there to be honourably buried. But Bedver the butler was, with great lamentation of the Neustrians, carried to his own city Bajocæ, which Bedver the first, his great grandfather, had built. There he was, with great solemnity, laid close by the wall, in a burying-place on the south side of the city. But Cheudo was carried, grievously wounded to Camus, a town which he had himself built, where in a short time he died of his wounds, and was buried, as became a duke of Andegavia, in a convent of hermits, which was in a wood not far from the town. Also Holdin, duke of Ruteni, was carried to Flanders, and buried in his own city Terivana. The other consuls and noblemen were conveyed to the neighboring abbeys, according to Arthur's orders. Out of his great clemency, also, he ordered the country people to take care of the burial of the enemy, and to carry the body of Lucius to the senate, and tell them, that was the only tribute which Britain ought to pay them. After this he stayed in those parts till the next winter was over, and employed his time in reducing the cities of the Allobroges. But at the beginning of the following summer, as he was on his march towards Rome, and was beginning to pass the Alps, he had news brought him that his nephew Modred, to whose care he had entrusted Britain, had by tyrannical and treasonable practices set the crown upon his own head; and that queen Guanhumara, in violation of her first marriage, had wickedly married him.
Of the matter now to be treated of, most noble consul, Geoffrey of Monmouth shall be silent; but will, nevertheless, though in a mean style, briefly relate what he found in the British book above mentioned, and heard from that most learned historian, Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, concerning the wars which this renowned king, upon his return to Britain after this victory, waged against his nephew. As soon, therefore, as the report, of this flagrant wickedness reached him, he immediately desisted from his enterprise against Leo, king of the Romans; and having sent away Hoel, duke of the Armoricans, with the army of Gaul, to restore peace in those parts, returned back with speed to Britain, attended only by the kings of the islands, and their armies. But the wicked traitor, Modred, had sent Cheldric, the Saxon leader, into Germany, there to raise all the forces he could find, and return with all speed: and in consideration of this service, had promised him all that part of the island, which reaches from the Humber to Scotland, and whatever Hengist and Horsa had possessed of Kent in the time of Vortigern. So that he, in obedience to his commands, had arrived with eight hundred ships filled with pagan soldiers, and had entered into covenant to obey the traitor as his sovereign; who had also drawn to his assistance the Scots, Picts, Irish, and all others whom he knew to be enemies to his uncle. His whole army, taking pagans and Christians together, amounted to eighty thousand men; with the help of whom he met Arthur just after his landing at the port of Rutupi, and joining battle with him, made a very great slaughter of his men. For the same day fell Augusel, king of Albania, and Walgan, the king's nephew, with innumerable others. Augusel was succeeded in his kingdom by Eventus, his brother Urian's son, who afterwards performed many famous exploits in those wars. After they had at last, with much difficulty, got ashore, they paid back the slaughter, and put Modred and his army to flight. For, by long practice in war, they had learned an excellent way of ordering their forces; which was so managed, that while their foot were employed either in an assault or upon the defensive, the horse would come in at full speed obliquely, break through the enemy's ranks, and so force them to flee. Nevertheless, this perjured usurper got his forces together again, and the night following entered Winchester. As soon as queen Guanhumara heard this, she immediately, despairing of success, fled from York to the City of Legions, where she resolved to lead a chaste life among the nuns in the church of Julius the Martyr, and entered herself one of their order.
But Arthur, whose anger was now much more inflamed, upon the loss of so many hundreds of his fellow soldiers, after he had buried his slain, went on the third day to the city, and there besieged the traitor, who, notwithstanding, was unwilling to desist from his enterprise, but used all methods to encourage his adherents, and marching out with his troops prepared to fight his uncle. In the battle that followed hereupon, great numbers lost their lives on both sides; but at last Modred's army suffered most, so that he was forced to quit the field shamefully. From hence he made a precipitate flight, and, without taking any care for the burial of his slain, marched in haste towards Cornwall. Arthur, being inwardly grieved that he should so often escape, forthwith pursued him into that country as far as the river Cambula, where the other was expecting his coming. And Modred, as he was the boldest of men, and always the quickest at making an attack, immediately placed his troops in order, resolving either to conquer or to die, rather than continue his flight any longer. He had yet remaining with him sixty thousand men, out of whom he composed three bodies, which contained each of them six thousand six hundred and sixty-six men: but all the rest he joined in one body; and having assigned to each of the other parties their leaders, he took the command of this upon himself. After he had made this disposition of his forces, he endeavoured to animate them, and promised them the estates of their enemies if they came off with victory. Arthur, on the other side, also marshalled his army, which he divided into nine square companies, with a right and left wing; and having appointed to each of them their commanders, exhorted them to make a total rout of those robbers and perjured villains, who, being brought over into the island from foreign countries at the instance of the arch-traitor, were attempting to rob them of all their honours. He likewise told them that a mixed army composed of barbarous people of so many different countries, and who were all raw soldiers and inexperienced in war, would never be able to stand against such brave veteran troops as they were, provided they did their duty. After this encouragement given by each general to his fellow soldiers, the battle on a sudden began with great fury; wherein it would be both grievous and tedious to relate the slaughter, the cruel havoc, and the excess of fury that was to be seen on both sides. In this manner they spent a good part of the day, till Arthur at last made a push with his company, consisting of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six men, against that in which he knew Modred was; and having opened a way with their swords, they pierced quite through it, and made a grievous slaughter. For in this assault fell the wicked traitor himself, and many thousands with him. But notwithstanding the loss of him, the rest did not flee, but running together from all parts of the field maintained their ground with undaunted courage. The fight now grew more furious than ever, and proved fatal to almost all the commanders and their forces. For on Modred's side fell Cheldric, Elasius, Egbrict, and Bunignus, Saxons; Gillapatric, Gillamor, Gistafel, and Gillarius, Irish; also the Scots and Picts, with almost all their leaders: on Arthur's side Olbrict, king of Norway; Aschillus, king of Dacia; Cador Limenic Cassibellaun, with many thousands of others, as well Britons as foreigners, that he had brought with him. And even the renowned king Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord's incarnation.
Upon Constantine's advancement to the throne, the Saxons, with the two sons of Modred, made insurrection against him, though without success; for after many battles they fled, one to London, the other to Winchester, and possessed themselves of those places. Then died Saint Daniel, the pious prelate of the church of Bangor; and Theon, bishop of Gloucester, was elected archbishop of London. At the same time also died David, the pious archbishop of Legions, at the city of Menevia, in his own abbey; which he loved above all the other monasteries of his diocese, because Saint Patrick, who had prophetically foretold his birth, was the founder of it. For during his residence there among his friars, he was taken with a sudden illness, of which he died, and, at the command of Malgo, king of the Venedotians, was buried in that church. He was succeeded in the metropolitan see by Cynoc, bishop of the church of Llan-Patern, who was thus promoted to a higher dignity.
But Constantine pursued the Saxons, and reduced them under his yoke. He also took the two sons of Modred; and one of them, who had fled for sanctuary to the church of St. Amphibalus, in Winchester, he murdered before the altar. The other had hidden himself in a convent of friars at London, but at last was found out by him, brought before the altar, and there put to death. Three years after this, he himself, by the vengeance of God pursuing him, was killed by Conan, and buried close by Uther Pendragon within the structure of stones, which was set up with wonderful art not far from Salisbury, and called in the English tongue, Stonehenge.
After him succeeded Aurelius Conan, his nephew, a youth of wonderful valour; who, as he gained the monarchy of the whole island, would have been worthy the crown of it, had he not delighted in civil war. He raised disturbances against his uncle, who ought to have reigned after Constantine, and cast him into prison; and then killing his two sons, obtained the kingdom, but died in the second year of his reign.
After Conan succeeded Wortiporius, against whom the Saxons made insurrection, and brought over their countrymen from Germany in a very great fleet. But he gave them battle and came off with victory, so that he obtained the monarchy of the whole kingdom, and governed the people carefully and peacefully four years.
After him succeeded Malgo, one of the handsomest of men in Britain, a great scourge of tyrants, and a man of great strength, extraordinary munificence, and matchless valour, but addicted very much to the detestable vice of sodomy, by which he made himself abominable to God. He also possessed the whole island, to which, after a cruel war, he added the six provincial islands, viz. Ireland, Iceland, Gothland, the Orkneys, Norway, and Dacia.
After Malgo succeeded Careticus, a lover of civil war, and hateful to God and to the Britons. The Saxons, discovering his fickle disposition, went to Ireland for Gormund, king of the Africans, who had arrived there with a very great fleet, and had subdued that country. From thence, at their traitorous instigation, he sailed over into Britain, which the perfidious Saxons in one part, in another the Britons by their continual wars among themselves were wholly laying waste. Entering therefore into alliance with the Saxons, he made war upon king Careticus, and after several battles fought, drove him from city to city, till at length he forced him to Cirecester, and there besieged him. Here Isembard, the nephew of Lewis, king of the Franks, came and made a league of amity with him, and out of respect to him renounced the Christian faith, on condition that he would assist him to gain the kingdom of Gaul from his uncle, by whom, he said, he was forcibly and unjustly expelled out of it. At last, after taking and burning the city, he had another fight with Careticus, and made him flee beyond the Severn into Wales. He then made an utter devastation of the country, set fire to the adjacent cities, and continued these outrages until he had almost burned up the whole surface of the island from the one sea to the other; so that the tillage was everywhere destroyed, and a general destruction made of the husbandmen and clergy, with fire and sword. This terrible calamity caused the rest to flee withersoever they had any hopes of safety.
"Why foolish nation! oppressed with the weight of your abominable wickedness, why did you, in your insatiable thirst after civil wars, so weaken yourself by domestic confusions, that whereas formerly you brought distant kingdoms under your yoke, now, like a good vineyard degenerated and turned to bitterness, you cannot defend your country, your wives, and children, against your enemies? Go on, go on in your civil dissensions, little understanding the saying in the Gospel, 'Every kingdom divided against itself shall be brought to desolation, and a house divided against itself shall fall.' Since then your kingdom was divided against itself; since the rage of civil discord, and the fumes of envy, have darkened your minds, since your pride would not suffer you to pay obedience to one king; you see, therefore, your country made desolate by impious pagans, and your houses falling one upon another; which shall be the cause of lasting sorrow to your posterity. For the barbarous lionesses shall see their whelps enjoying the towns, cities, and other possessions of your children; from which they shall be miserably expelled, and hardly if ever recover their former flourishing state."
But to return to the history; when the inhuman tyrant, with many thousands of his Africans, had made a devastation almost over the whole island, he yielded up the greater part of it, called Loegria, to the Saxons, whose villainy had been the occasion of his arrival. Therefore the remainder of the Britons retired into the western parts of the kingdom, that is, Cornwall and Wales; from whence they continually made frequent and fierce irruptions upon the enemy. The three archbishops, viz. the archbishop of Legions, Theon of London, and Thadiocus of York, when they beheld all the churches in their jurisdiction lying level with the ground, fled with all the clergy that remained after so great a destruction, to the coverts of the woods in Wales, carrying with them the relics of the saints, for fear the sacred bones of so many holy men of old might be destroyed by the barbarians, if they should leave them in that imminent danger, and themselves instantly suffer martyrdom. Many more went over in a great fleet into Armorican Britain; so that the whole church of the two provinces, Loegria and Northumberland, had its convents destroyed. But these things I shall relate elsewhere, when I translate the book concerning their banishment.
For a long time after this the Britons were dispossessed of the crown of the kingdom, and the monarchy of the island, and made no endeavours to recover their ancient dignity; but even that part of the country which yet remained to them, being subject not to one king, but three tyrants, was often wasted by civil wars. But neither did the Saxons yet obtain the crown, but were also subject to three kings, who harassed sometimes one another, sometimes the Britons.
In the meantime Augustine was sent by pope Saint Gregory into Britain, to preach the word of God to the Angles, who, being blinded with pagan superstition, had entirely extinguished Christianity in that part of the island which they possessed. But among the Britons, the Christian faith still flourished, and never failed among them from the time of pope Eleutherius, when it was first planted here. But when Augustine came, he found in their province seven bishoprics and an archbishopric, all filled with the most devout prelates, and a great number of abbeys; by which the flock of Christ was still kept in good order. Among the rest, there was in the city of Bangor a most noble church, in which it is reported there was so great a number of monks, that when the monastery was divided into seven parts, having each their priors over them, not one of them had less than three hundred monks, who all lived by the labour of their own hands. The name of their abbat was Dinooth, a man admirably skilled in the liberal arts; who, when Augustine required the subjection of the British bishops, and would have persuaded them to undertake the work of the gospel with him among the Angles, answered him with him several arguments, that they owed no subjection to him, neither would they preach to their enemies; since they had their own archbishop, and because the Saxon nation persisted in depriving them of their country. For this reason they esteemed them their mortal enemies, reckoned their faith and religion as nothing, and would no more communicate with the Angles than with dogs.
Therefore Ethelbert, king of Kent, when he saw that the Britons disdained subjection to Augustine, and despised his preaching, was highly provoked, and stirred up Ethelfrid, king of the Northumbrians, and the other petty kings of the Saxons, to raise a great army, and march to the city of Bangor, to destroy the abbat Dinooth, and the rest of the clergy who held them in contempt. At his instigation, therefore, they assembled a prodigious army, and in their march to the province of the Britons, came to Legecester, where Brocmail, consul of the city, was awaiting their coming. To the same city were come innumerable monks and hermits from several provinces of the Britons, but especially from the city of Bangor, to pray for the safety of their people. Whereupon Ethelfrid, king of the Northumbrians, collecting all his forces, joined battle with Brocmail, who, having a less army to withstand him, at last quitted the city and fled, though not without having made a great slaughter of the enemy. But Ethelfrid, when he had taken the city, and understood upon what occasion the monks were come thither, commanded his men to turn their arms first against them; and so two hundred of them were honoured with the crown of martyrdom, and admitted into the kingdom of heaven that same day. From thence this Saxon tyrant proceeded on his march to Bangor; but upon the news of his outrageous madness, the leaders of the Britons, viz. Blederic, duke of Cornwall, Margaduc, king of the Demetians, and Cadwan, of the Venedotians, came from all parts to meet him, and joining battle with him, wounded him, and forced him to flee; and killed of his army to the number of ten thousand and sixty-six men. On the Briton's side fell Blederic, duke of Cornwall, who was their commander in those wars.
PALOMYDES' QUEST
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
About the middle of the month of June
Sir Palomydes rode upon his quest,
Twixt sunrise and the setting of the moon:
Beast Glatysaunt did give him little rest
At midday, and at midnight must he sleep,
And still the beast trailed on unceasingly
Waking strange echoes in the forest deep,
Leaving strange scales on many a bush or tree.
So the days went and no lovesickness came
O'er the knight's heart to weaken it or bow
His head; he rode on with the same
Set purpose still in his unwrinkled brow.
Until one day when that he rode thinking
Whether the beast as they met face to face
Would turn to fight him with a sudden spring,
Or creep away and whine in some dark place
Until he bound his jaws and led him out--
And then he thought until his heart grew hot
Of how the folk would laugh and sing and shout
And he should lead the beast through Camelot,
The heralds crying, "Ho good people, see!
For this is Palomydes the good knight
Who hath achieved his quest most gloriously
And won the Questing Beast in open fight!"
Thereat in sooth he almost seemed to be
There in the streets with all the bells ringing
And all the folk at window him to see,
Damsels and minstrels ready for to sing.
Almost he heard the praises of the King
And Launcelot saying "Now beyond all doubt
Is Palomydes the best knight living
Though Lamorak and Tristram are most stout."
Abroad from thence the bruit shall go of me,
And many a lord shall say, "Hold we high feast;
Tomorrow an uncouth sight shall we see:
Here cometh Palomydes and his beast."
And so to Cornwall shall I come at last --
But saying this he sighed, for well he thought:
When all this noble fame has been compassed
Shall Iseult's love be nearer to me brought?
Now at that time the forest thinner grew
On the left hand, and all between the trees
The light of the green fields began to show,
And ever fresher blew the western breeze,
On either side of him the thrushes sang
And as he drew his rein it seemed to him
That from some far-off tower the bells rang.
So he passed on to that great forest's rim
And then beneath him by the meadows fair
With their broad acres of the good green wheat
Starred with the blood-red poppies burning clear,
There sat he, and the smell of hay came sweet
Upon the wind and therewithal the chimes
Uncertain as the kisses of a maid
Sang out their tale in sweet outlandish rymes
Hard to remember. Therefore down he laid
His bridle, and he cried, How fair, how fair,
You walk within the summer gardens [ ]
O bright Iseult!--having but little care
For Palomydes, as I full well know.
A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
SIR GUY being in the court of a Pagan castle .
This castle where I dwell, it stands
A long way off from Christian lands,
A long way off my lady's hands,
A long way off the aspen trees,
And murmur of the lime-tree bees.
But down the Valley of the Rose
My lady often hawking goes,
Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,
Leaning towards the western wind,
Because it bringeth to her mind
Sad whisperings of happy times,
The face of him who sings these rhymes.
King Guilbert rides beside her there,
Bends low and calls her very fair,
And strives, by pulling down his hair,
To hide from my dear lady's ken
The grisly gash I gave him, when
I cut him down at Camelot;
However he strives, he hides it not,
That tourney will not be forgot,
Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,
Whatever he says she answers not.
Now tell me, you that are in love,
From the king's son to the wood-dove,
Which is the better, he or I?
For this king means that I should die
In this lone Pagan castle, where
The flowers droop in the bad air
On the September evening.
Look, now I take mine ease and sing,
Counting as but a little thing
The foolish spite of a bad king.
For these vile things that hem me in,
These Pagan beasts who live in sin,
The sickly flowers pale and wan,
The grim blue-bearded castellan,
The stanchions half worn-out with rust,
Whereto their banner vile they trust--
Why, all these things I hold them just
Like dragons in a missal book,
Wherein, whenever we may look,
We see no horror, yea, delight
We have, the colours are so bright;
Likewise we note the specks of white,
And the great plates of burnish'd gold.
Just so this Pagan castle old,
And everything I can see there,
Sick-pining in the marshland air,
I note: I will go over now,
Like one who paints with knitted brow,
The flowers and all things one by one,
From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.
Four great walls, and a little one
That leads down to the barbican,
Which walls with many spears they man,
When news comes to the castellan
Of Launcelot being in the land.
And as I sit here, close at hand
Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand,
The castellan with a long wand
Cuts down their leaves as he goes by,
Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,
And fingers twisted in his beard--
Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?
I have a hope makes me afeard:
It cannot be, but if some dream
Just for a minute made me deem
I saw among the flowers there
My lady's face with long red hair,
Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,
As I was wont to see her some
Fading September afternoon,
And kiss me, saying nothing, soon
To leave me by myself again;
Could I get this by longing: vain!
The castellan is gone: I see
On one broad yellow flower a bee
Drunk with much honey--
Christ! again,
Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,
I thought I had forgot to feel,
I never heard the blissful steel
These ten years past; year after year,
Through all my hopeless sojourn here,
No Christian pennon has been near;
Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on
Over the marshes, battle won,
Knights' shouts, and axes hammering,
Yea, quicker now the dint and ring
Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan,
When they come back, count man for man,
Say whom you miss.
THE PAGANS from the battlements .
Mahound to aid!
Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?
THE PAGANS from without .
Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot,
Who follows quick upon us, hot
And shouting with his men-at-arms.
SIR GUY
Also the Pagans raise alarms,
And ring the bells for fear; at last
My prison walls will be well past.
SIR LAUNCELOT from outside .
Ho! in the name of the Trinity,
Let down the drawbridge quick to me,
And open doors, that I may see
Guy the good knight.
THE PAGANS from the battlements .
Nay, Launcelot,
With mere big words ye win us not.
SIR LAUNCELOT
Bid Miles bring up la perriere,
And archers clear the vile walls there,
Bring back the notches to the ear,
Shoot well together! God to aid!
These miscreants will be well paid.
Hurrah! all goes together; Miles
Is good to win my lady's smiles
For his good shooting -- Launcelot!
On knights a-pace! this game is hot!
SIR GUY sayeth afterwards .
I said, I go to meet her now,
And saying so, I felt a blow
From some clench'd hand across my brow,
And fell down on the sunflowers
Just as a hammering smote my ears,
After which this I felt in sooth;
My bare hands throttling without ruth
The hairy-throated castellan;
Then a grim fight with those that ran
To slay me, while I shouted: "God
For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod
That evening in my own red blood;
Nevertheless so stiff I stood,
That when the knights burst the old wood
Of the castle-doors, I was not dead.
I kiss the Lady Mary's head,
Her lips and her hair golden red,
Because to-day we have been wed.
KING ARTHUR'S TOMB
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
Hot August noon: already on that day
Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad
Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way;
Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance
That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight
Of all who since the world was, have borne lance,
Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right.
Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where
The Glastonbury gilded towers shine,
A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere;
This he knew also; that some fingers twine,
Not only in a man's hair, even his heart,
(Making him good or bad I mean,) but in his life,
Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has part,
Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife,
(Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so
Was Launcelot most glad when the moon rose,
Because it brought new memories of her. "Lo,
Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows
"Not loud, but as a cow begins to low,
Wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear:
The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago,
In the old garden life, my Guenevere
"Loved to sit still among the flowers, till night
Had quite come on, hair loosen'd, for she said,
Smiling like heaven, that its fairness might
Draw up the wind sooner to cool her head.
"Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small,
As it did then: I tell myself a tale
That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall,
Thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale,
"Keep this till after: How Sir Gareth ran
A good course that day under my Queen's eyes,
And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan.
No. Back again, the other thoughts will rise,
"And yet I think so fast 'twill end right soon:
Verily then I think, that Guenevere,
Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon,
Did love me more than ever, was more dear
"To me than ever, she would let me lie
And kiss her feet, or, if I sat behind,
Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly,
And touch my mouth. And she would let me wind
"Her hair around my neck, so that it fell
Upon my red robe, strange in the twilight
With many unnamed colours, till the bell
Of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight
"Through all my ways of being; like the stroke
Wherewith God threw all men upon the face
When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke
With a changed body in the happy place.
"Once, I remember, as I sat beside,
She turn'd a little, and laid back her head,
And slept upon my breast; I almost died
In those night-watches with my love and dread.
"There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept,
And I breathed low, and did not dare to move,
But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept,
And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love.
"The stars shone out above the doubtful green
Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead;
Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween,
Because the moon shone like a star she shed
"When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago,
And ruled all things but God: the night went on,
The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low,
One hand had fallen down, and now lay on
"My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then
For near an hour, and I fell asleep
In spite of all my striving, even when
I held her whose name-letters make me leap.
"I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep
I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun
Had only just arisen from the deep
Still land of colours, when before me one
"Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch,
She seemed to have changed so in the night;
Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such
As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light
"Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk
Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn,
Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk
Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.
"Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high,
We went, and in a cool green room all day
I gazed upon the arras giddily,
Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.
"I could not hold her hand, or see her face;
For which may God forgive me! but I think,
Howsoever, that she was not in that place."
These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;
And when these fell, some paces past the wall,
There rose yet others, but they wearied more,
And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall
So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore
In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone,
A longing followed; if he might but touch
That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone
Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,
In steady nodding over the grey road:
Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart
Of any stories; what a dismal load
Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part,
And let the sun flame over all, still there
The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that,
And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare
Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,
Quite wearied out with all the wretched night,
Until about the dustiest of the day,
On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight
Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.
And he was now quite giddy as before,
When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair
Was mingled with the rushes on the floor,
And he, being tired too, was scarce aware
Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed,
A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath
Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed,
As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.
This for a moment only, presently
He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd
A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree
Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached.
Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb,
Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight
One of her maidens told her, "He is come,"
And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight
Had settled on her, all her robes were black,
With a long white veil only; she went slow,
As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack
Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow
Had left her face and hands; this was because
As she lay last night on her purple bed,
Wishing for morning, grudging every pause
Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head
Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair
Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear,
In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare
Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.
At first she said no word, but lay quite still,
Only her mouth was open, and her eyes
Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill;
As though she asked, not with so much surprise
As tired disgust, what made them stand up there
So cold and grey. After, a spasm took
Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair,
All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,
And rose till she was sitting in the bed,
Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd
As though she would have torn it from her head,
Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd
It matter'd not whatever she might do:
O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face!
Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue
Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;
Because at last she rose up from her bed,
And put her raiment on, and knelt before
The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said,
Muttering the words against the marble floor:
"Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord,
But go to hell? and there see day by day
Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word,
For ever and ever, such as on the way
"To Camelot I heard once from a churl,
That curled me up upon my jennet's neck
With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl
For ages and for ages? dost thou reck
"That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you
And your dear mother? why did I forget
You were so beautiful, and good, and true,
That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet
"If even I go to hell, I cannot choose
But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep
From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose
My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep,
"Yet am I very sorry for my sin;
Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell,
I am most fain to love you, and to win
A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:
"Speak to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet;
Ah! now I weep!" The maid said, "By the tomb
He waiteth for you, lady," coming fleet,
Not knowing what woe filled up all the room.
So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there,
He did not hear her coming, as he lay
On Arthur's head, till some of her long hair
Brush'd on the new-cut stone: "Well done! to pray
"For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king
That ever lived." "Guenevere! Guenevere!
Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling
Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear
"You are not Guenevere, but some other thing."
"Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot!
I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling,
God's curses, unto such as I am; not
"Ever again shall we twine arms and lips."
"Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord,
Is very tight about her now, and grips
Her poor heart, so that no right word
"Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now,
That she not knowing what she does, being mad,
Kills me in this way: Guenevere, bend low
And kiss me once! for God's love kiss me! sad
"Though your face is, you look much kinder now;
Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die."
"Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow,
Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily,
"Across my husband's head, fair Launcelot!
Fair serpent mark'd with V upon the head!
This thing we did while yet he was alive,
Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead?
"Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can
Remember anything for agony,
Pray you remember how when the wind ran
One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree,
"And elm and oak about the palace there
The king came back from battle, and I stood
To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair,
My face made beautiful with my young blood."
"Will she lie now, Lord God?" "Remember too,
Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came
A royal bier, hung round with green and blue,
About it shone great tapers with sick flame.
"And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor,
Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead,
Not able to hold sword or sceptre more,
But not quite grim; because his cloven head
"Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword,
Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up;
So still it seem'd the face of a great lord,
Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.
"Also the heralds sung rejoicingly
To their long trumpets; 'Fallen under shield,
Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy,
Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.'
"Thereat the people shouted: 'Launcelot!'
And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh,
You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not,
But rather Arthur, God would not let die,
"I hoped, these many years; he should grow great,
And in his great arms still encircle me,
Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat
Of king's love for the queen I used to be.
"Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand,
When he had kissed me in his kingly way?
Saying: 'This is the knight whom all the land
Calls Arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day;
"'Cherish him, love.' Why did your long lips cleave
In such strange way unto my fingers then?
So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave
When you rose up? Why among helmed men
"Could I always tell you by your long strong arms,
And sway like an angel's in your saddle there?
Why sicken'd I so often with alarms
Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair
"Than aspens in the autumn at their best?
Why did you fill all lands with your great fame,
So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest
At turning of the way your shield should flame?
"Was it nought then, my agony and strife?
When as day passed by day, year after year,
I found I could not live a righteous life!
Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear?
"O, but your lips say: 'Yea, but she was cold
Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring;
When I was sad she would be overbold,
Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring,
"'The back-toll'd bells of noisy Camelot.'"
"Now, Lord God, listen! listen, Guenevere,
Though I am weak just now, I think there's not
A man who dares to say: 'You hated her,
"'And left her moaning while you fought your fill
In the daisied meadows!' lo you her thin hand,
That on the carven stone can not keep still,
Because she loves me against God's command,
"Has often been quite wet with tear on tear,
Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not
In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where
He will not be these ages." "Launcelot!
"Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang,
The noisy back-toll'd bells of Camelot,
There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang
In the lonely gardens where my love was not,
"Where I was almost weeping; I dared not
Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say,
In tittering whispers: 'Where is Launcelot
To wipe with some kerchief those tears away?'
"Another answer sharply with brows knit,
And warning hand up, scarcely lower though:
'You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it,
This tigress fair has claws, as I well know,
"'As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day!
Why met he not with Iseult from the West,
Or better still, Iseult of Brittany?
Perchance indeed quite ladyless were best.'
"Alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch
Queen Guenevere, uncertain as sunshine
In March; forgive me! for my sin being such,
About my whole life, all my deeds did twine,
"Made me quite wicked; as I found out then,
I think; in the lonely palace where each morn
We went, my maids and I, to say prayers when
They sang mass in the chapel on the lawn.
"And every morn I scarce could pray at all,
For Launcelot's red-golden hair would play,
Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall,
Mingled with dreams of what the priest did say;
"Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul;
Judging of strange sins in Leviticus;
Another sort of writing on the wall,
Scored deep across the painted heads of us.
"Christ sitting with the woman at the well,
And Mary Magdalen repenting there,
Her dimmed eyes scorch'd and red at sight of hell
So hardly 'scaped, no gold light on her hair.
"And if the priest said anything that seemed
To touch upon the sin they said we did,
(This in their teeth) they looked as if they deem'd
That I was spying what thoughts might be hid
"Under green-cover'd bosoms, heaving quick
Beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame,
And gazed down at their feet: while I felt sick,
And almost shriek'd if one should call my name.
"The thrushes sang in the lone garden there:
But where you were the birds were scared I trow:
Clanging of arms about pavilions fair,
Mixed with the knights' laughs; there, as I well know,
"Rode Launcelot, the king of all the band,
And scowling Gauwaine, like the night in day,
And handsome Gareth, with his great white hand
Curl'd round the helm-crest, ere he join'd the fray;
"And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face,
All true knights loved to see; and in the fight
Great Tristram, and though helmed you could trace
In all his bearing the frank noble knight;
"And by him Palomydes, helmet off,
He fought, his face brush'd by his hair,
Red heavy swinging hair; he fear'd a scoff
So overmuch, though what true knight would dare
"To mock that face, fretted with useless care,
And bitter useless striving after love?
O Palomydes, with much honour bear
Beast Glatysaunt upon your shield, above
"Your helm that hides the swinging of your hair,
And think of Iseult, as your sword drives through
Much mail and plate: O God, let me be there
A little time, as I was long ago!
"Because stout Gareth lets his spear fall low,
Gauwaine and Launcelot, and Dinadan
Are helm'd and waiting; let the trumpets go!
Bend over, ladies, to see all you can!
"Clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for Gareth's spear
Throws Kay from out his saddle, like a stone
From a castle-window when the foe draws near:
'Iseult!' Sir Dinadan rolleth overthrown.
"'Iseult!' again: the pieces of each spear
Fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel;
'Tristram for Iseult!' 'Iseult!' and 'Guenevere!'
The ladies' names bite verily like steel.
"They bite: bite me, Lord God! I shall go mad,
Or else die kissing him, he is so pale,
He thinks me mad already, O bad! bad!
Let me lie down a little while and wail."
"No longer so, rise up, I pray you, love,
And slay me really, then we shall be heal'd,
Perchance, in the aftertime by God above."
"Banner of Arthur, with black-bended shield
"Sinister-wise across the fair gold ground!
Here let me tell you what a knight you are,
O sword and shield of Arthur! you are found
A crooked sword, I think, that leaves a scar
"On the bearer's arm, so be he thinks it straight,
Twisted Malay's crease beautiful blue-grey,
Poison'd with sweet fruit; as he found too late,
My husband Arthur, on some bitter day!
"O sickle cutting hemlock the day long!
That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs,
And, going homeward about evensong,
Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!
"Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die,
Lest you meet Arthur in the other world,
And, knowing who you are, he pass you by,
Taking short turns that he may watch you curl'd,
"Body and face and limbs in agony,
Lest he weep presently and go away,
Saying: 'I loved him once,' with a sad sigh,
Now I have slain him, Lord, let me go too, I pray.
[Launcelot falls.
"Alas! alas! I know not what to do,
If I run fast it is perchance that I
May fall and stun myself, much better so,
Never, never again! not even when I die."
LAUNCELOT, on awaking.
"I stretch'd my hands towards her and fell down,
How long I lay in swoon I cannot tell:
My head and hands were bleeding from the stone,
When I rose up, also I heard a bell."
NEAR AVALON
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.
The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.
A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.
The tatter'd scarlet banners there
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
Those six knights sorrowfully bear
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.
SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
It is the longest night in all the year,
Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born;
Six hours ago I came and sat down here,
And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn.
The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door,
Sang out a moody tune, that went right well
With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor,
Between my feet, until I heard a bell
Sound a long way off through the forest deep,
And toll on steadily; a drowsiness
Came on me, so that I fell half asleep,
As I sat there not moving: less and less
I saw the melted snow that hung in beads
Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw
Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds:
Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe
Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground,
I thought: O Galahad! the days go by,
Stop and cast up now that which you have found,
So sorely you have wrought and painfully.
Night after night your horse treads down alone
The sere damp fern, night after night you sit
Holding the bridle like a man of stone,
Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it?
And what if Palomydes also ride,
And over many a mountain and bare heath
Follow the questing beast with none beside?
Is he not able still to hold his breath
With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale
With weary striving, to seem best of all
To her, "as she is best," he saith? to fail
Is nothing to him, he can never fall.
For unto such a man love-sorrow is
So dear a thing unto his constant heart,
That even if he never win one kiss,
Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.
And he will never know her to be worse
Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is:
Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse
In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.
Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out,
Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round
Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout
Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?
And when he lists can often see her face,
And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week,
And still you think of me": therefore the place
Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.
But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find
Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow,
When all unkindly with the shifting wind,
The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know
Indeed that they will say: "This Galahad
If he had lived had been a right good knight;
Ah! poor chaste body!" but they will be glad,
Not most alone, but all, when in their sight
That very evening in their scarlet sleeves
The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk
Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,
Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,
East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard
To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!
Before the trees by autumn were well bared,
I saw a damozel with gentle play,
Within that very walk say last farewell
To her dear knight, just riding out to find
(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,
And their last kisses sunk into my mind,
Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast,
Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,
That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd
Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd
By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind,
Till Mador de la porte a-going by,
And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined,
And parted like a dream. In this way I,
With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor,
Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly
A sharp bell rang from close beside the door,
And I leapt up when something pass'd me by,
Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind
I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe
At every step kept gathering on my mind,
Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw
One sitting on the altar as a throne,
Whose face no man could say he did not know,
And though the bell still rang, he sat alone,
With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.
Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,
Not as one kneels in church when mass is said,
But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt
The first time what a thing was perfect dread.
But mightily the gentle voice came down:
"Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,
Good knight of God, for you will see no frown
Upon my face; I come to make you glad.
"For that you say that you are all alone,
I will be with you always, and fear not
You are uncared for, though no maiden moan
Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot,
"He in good time shall be my servant too,
Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight,
And who has loved him alway, yea, and who
Still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight,
"He is just what you know, O Galahad,
This love is happy even as you say,
But would you for a little time be glad,
To make ME sorry long, day after day?
"Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME,
The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,
Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally
Will Launcelot at one time hang his head;
"Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love.
Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!
Not always is he able, son, to move
His love, and do it honour: needs must roll
"The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust,
And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside
Seem better than he is, so that his trust
Is always on what chances may betide;
"And so he wears away, my servant, too,
When all these things are gone, and wretchedly
He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who
Is no care now to Palomydes: see,
"O good son, Galahad, upon this day,
Now even, all these things are on your side,
But these you fight not for; look up, I say,
And see how I can love you, for no pride
"Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down.
See now you have ME always; following
That holy vision, Galahad, go on,
Until at last you come to ME to sing
"In Heaven always, and to walk around
The garden where I am." He ceased, my face
And wretched body fell upon the ground;
And when I look'd again, the holy place
Was empty; but right so the bell again
Came to the chapel-door, there entered
Two angels first, in white, without a stain,
And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed
Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath
The very altar-step, and while for fear
I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath,
Those holy ladies gently came a-near,
And quite unarm'd me, saying: "Galahad,
Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought
Of any other thing than being glad;
Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,
"Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here."
Right so they went away, and I, being weary,
Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near,
I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!
Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, Four Ladies in gowns of red and green; also an Angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white, with a red cross.
O servant of the high God, Galahad!
Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forth
Through the great forest, and you must be had
Unto the sea that lieth on the north:
There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein
The spindles of King Solomon are laid,
And the sword that no man draweth without sin,
But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd,
Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet
In some short space upon that ship: first, though,
Will come here presently that lady sweet,
Sister of Percival, whom you well know,
And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,
These ladies will to arm you.
FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberk
Galahad,
That I may stand so close beneath your brow,
Margaret of Antioch, am glad.
SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword .
That I may stand and touch you with my hand,
O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.
THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs .
That I may kneel while up above you stand,
And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,
I, Lucy, am most glad.
FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet .
O gentle knight,
That you bow down to us in reverence,
We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight
Must needs fall trembling.
ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat .
Galahad, we go hence,
For here, amid the straying of the snow,
Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival.
[The Four Ladies carry out the bed,
and all go but Galahad.
How still and quiet everything seems now:
They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.
Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival and his Sister.
Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!
A many marvels have been here to-night;
Tell me what news of Launcelot you have,
And has God's body ever been in sight?
Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,
As we were riding slowly side by side,
An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing,
And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,
With many-colour'd raiment, but far off;
And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good;
Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff
Kept us all merry, in a little wood
Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel
And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest,
Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well
Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest
Went out to seek him, but was almost slain,
Perhaps is dead now; everywhere
The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain;
In vain they struggle for the vision fair.
THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
SIR OZANA.
All day long and every day,
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,
And no man came a-near.
Naked to the waist was I,
And deep within my breast did lie,
Though no man any blood could spy,
The truncheon of a spear.
No meat did ever pass my lips
Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips
From off the gilded parclose, dips,
And night comes on apace.
My arms lay back behind my head;
Over my raised-up knees was spread
A samite cloth of white and red;
A rose lay on my face.
Many a time I tried to shout;
But as in dream of battle-rout,
My frozen speech would not well out;
I could not even weep.
With inward sigh I see the sun
Fade off the pillars one by one,
My heart faints when the day is done,
Because I cannot sleep.
Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head;
Not like a tomb is this my bed,
Yet oft I think that I am dead;
That round my tomb is writ,
"Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, of your part;
A true knight he was found."
Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [ He sleeps .
All day long and every day,
Till his madness pass'd away,
I watch'd Ozana as he lay
Within the gilded screen.
All my singing moved him not;
As I sung my heart grew hot,
With the thought of Launcelot
Far away, I ween.
So I went a little space
From out the chapel, bathed my face
In the stream that runs apace
By the churchyard wall.
There I pluck'd a faint wild rose,
Hard by where the linden grows,
Sighing over silver rows
Of the lilies tall.
I laid the flower across his mouth;
The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth;
He smiled, turn'd round towards the south,
Held up a golden tress.
The light smote on it from the west;
He drew the covering from his breast,
Against his heart that hair he prest;
Death him soon will bless.
I enter'd by the western door;
I saw a knight's helm lying there:
I raised my eyes from off the floor,
And caught the gleaming of his hair.
I stept full softly up to him;
I laid my chin upon his head;
I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,
I was so glad he was not dead.
I heard Ozana murmur low,
"There comes no sleep nor any love."
But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow:
He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.
There comes no sleep nor any love;
Ah me! I shiver with delight.
I am so weak I cannot move;
God move me to thee, dear, to-night!
Christ help! I have but little wit:
My life went wrong; I see it writ,
"Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, on your part;
A good knight he was found."
Now I begin to fathom it. [ He dies .
Galahad sits dreamily;
What strange things may his eyes see,
Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?
On his soul, Lord, have mercy.
Ozana, shall I pray for thee?
Her cheek is laid to thine;
No long time hence, also I see
Thy wasted fingers twine
Within the tresses of her hair
That shineth gloriously,
Thinly outspread in the clear air
Against the jasper sea.
THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
But, knowing now that they would have her speak,
She threw her wet hair backward from her brow,
Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek,
As though she had had there a shameful blow,
And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame
All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so,
She must a little touch it; like one lame
She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head
Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame
The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said:
"O knights and lords, it seems but little skill
To talk of well-known things past now and dead.
"God wot I ought to say, I have done ill,
And pray you all forgiveness heartily!
Because you must be right, such great lords; still
"Listen, suppose your time were come to die,
And you were quite alone and very weak;
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily
"The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak
Of river through your broad lands running well:
Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak:
"'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell,
Now choose one cloth for ever; which they be,
I will not tell you, you must somehow tell
"'Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!'
Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes,
At foot of your familiar bed to see
"A great God's angel standing, with such dyes,
Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands,
Held out two ways, light from the inner skies
"Showing him well, and making his commands
Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too,
Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;
"And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue,
Wavy and long, and one cut short and red;
No man could tell the better of the two.
"After a shivering half-hour you said:
'God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.'
Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed,
"And cry to all good men that loved you well,
'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;'
Launcelot went away, then I could tell,
"Like wisest man how all things would be, moan,
And roll and hurt myself, and long to die,
And yet fear much to die for what was sown.
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happened through these years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie."
Her voice was low at first, being full of tears,
But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill,
Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears,
A ringing in their startled brains, until
She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk,
And her great eyes began again to fill,
Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk,
But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair!
Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk,
She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair,
Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame,
With passionate twisting of her body there:
"It chanced upon a day that Launcelot came
To dwell at Arthur's court: at Christmas-time
This happened; when the heralds sung his name,
"Son of King Ban of Benwick, seemed to chime
Along with all the bells that rang that day,
O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme.
"Christmas and whitened winter passed away,
And over me the April sunshine came,
Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea
"And in the Summer I grew white with flame,
And bowed my head down: Autumn, and the sick
Sure knowledge things would never be the same,
"However often Spring might be most thick
Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew
Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,
"To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through
My eager body; while I laughed out loud,
And let my lips curl up at false or true,
"Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud.
Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought;
While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd,
"Belonging to the time ere I was bought
By Arthur's great name and his little love;
Must I give up for ever then, I thought,
"That which I deemed would ever round me move
Glorifying all things; for a little word,
Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove
"Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord
Will that all folks should be quite happy and good?
I love God now a little, if this cord
"Were broken, once for all what striving could
Make me love anything in earth or heaven?
So day by day it grew, as if one should
"Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,
Down to a cool sea on a summer day;
Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
"Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way,
Until one surely reached the sea at last,
And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
"Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past
Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips,
Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast,
"In the lone sea, far off from any ships!
Do I not know now of a day in Spring?
No minute of the wild day ever slips
"From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing,
And wheresoever I may be, straightway
Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting:
"I was half mad with beauty on that day,
And went without my ladies all alone,
In a quiet garden walled round every way;
"I was right joyful of that wall of stone,
That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky,
And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,
"Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy
With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad;
Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,
"A little thing just then had made me mad;
I dared not think, as I was wont to do,
Sometimes, upon my beauty; if I had
"Held out my long hand up against the blue,
And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers,
Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,
"There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers,
Round by the edges; what should I have done,
If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,
"And startling green drawn upward by the sun?
But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair,
And trancedly stood watching the west wind run
"With faintest half-heard breathing sound: why there
I lose my head e'en now in doing this;
But shortly listen: In that garden fair
"Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss
Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day,
I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,
"When both our mouths went wandering in one way,
And aching sorely, met among the leaves;
Our hands being left behind strained far away.
"Never within a yard of my bright sleeves
Had Launcelot come before: and now so nigh!
After that day why is it Guenevere grieves?
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever happened on through all those years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
"Being such a lady could I weep these tears
If this were true? A great queen such as I
Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears;
"And afterwards she liveth hatefully,
Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps:
Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly.
"Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps
All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth?
Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,
"Buried in some place far down in the south,
Men are forgetting as I speak to you;
By her head sever'd in that awful drouth
"Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow,
I pray you pity! let me not scream out
For ever after, when the shrill winds blow
"Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout
For ever after in the winter night
When you ride out alone! in battle-rout
"Let not my rusting tears make your sword light!
Ah! God of mercy, how he turns away!
So, ever must I dress me to the fight,
"So: let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say,
See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know
Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day,
"One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so
All good knights held it after, saw:
Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though
"You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw,
This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed:
Whose blood then pray you? is there any law
"To make a queen say why some spots of red
Lie on her coverlet? or will you say:
'Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed,
"'Where did you bleed?' and must I stammer out, 'Nay,
I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend
My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay
"'A knife-point last night': so must I defend
The honour of the Lady Guenevere?
Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end
"This very day, and you were judges here
Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce
When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear
"Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance,
His side sink in? as my knight cried and said:
'Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance!
"'Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head,
By God I am so glad to fight with you,
Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead
"'For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do,
For all my wounds are moving in my breast,
And I am getting mad with waiting so.'
"He struck his hands together o'er the beast,
Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet,
And groan'd at being slain so young: 'At least,'
"My knight said, 'rise you, sir, who are so fleet
At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight,
My left side all uncovered!' then I weet,
"Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight
Upon his knave's face; not until just then
Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight
"Along the lists look to my stake and pen
With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh
From agony beneath my waist-chain, when
"The fight began, and to me they drew nigh;
Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right,
And traversed warily, and ever high
"And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight
Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand,
Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight,
"Except a spout of blood on the hot land;
For it was hottest summer; and I know
I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand,
"And burn, against the heat, would quiver so,
Yards above my head; thus these matters went;
Which things were only warnings of the woe
"That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent,
For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord;
Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent
"With all this wickedness; say no rash word
Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes,
Wept all away to grey, may bring some sword
"To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise,
Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand;
And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise,
"Yea also at my full heart's strong command,
See through my long throat how the words go up
In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand
"The shadow lies like wine within a cup
Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now
This little wind is rising, look you up,
"And wonder how the light is falling so
Within my moving tresses: will you dare,
When you have looked a little on my brow,
"To say this thing is vile? or will you care
For any plausible lies of cunning woof,
When you can see my face with no lie there
"For ever? am I not a gracious proof:
'But in your chamber Launcelot was found':
Is there a good knight then would stand aloof,
"When a queen says with gentle queenly sound:
'O true as steel come now and talk with me,
I love to see your step upon the ground
"'Unwavering, also well I love to see
That gracious smile light up your face, and hear
Your wonderful words, that all mean verily
"'The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear
To me in everything, come here to-night,
Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear;
"'If you come not, I fear this time I might
Get thinking over much of times gone by,
When I was young, and green hope was in sight:
"'For no man cares now to know why I sigh;
And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs,
Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie
"'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs
To see you, Launcelot; that we may be
Like children once again, free from all wrongs
"'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me?
What thing could keep true Launcelot away
If I said, 'Come'? there was one less than three
"In my quiet room that night, and we were gay;
Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick,
Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea
"I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak,
For he looked helpless too, for a little while;
Then I remember how I tried to shriek,
"And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile
The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head
And made me dizzier; till within a while
"My maids were all about me, and my head
On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away
From its white chattering, until Launcelot said:
"By God! I will not tell you more to-day,
Judge any way you will: what matters it?
You know quite well the story of that fray,
"How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit
That caught up Gauwaine: all, all, verily,
But just that which would save me; these things flit.
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happen'd these long years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!
"All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears."
She would not speak another word, but stood
Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears
His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood
Of his foes' lances. She lean'd eagerly,
And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could
At last hear something really; joyfully
Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed
Of the roan charger drew all men to see,
The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.
IN ARTHUR'S HOUSE
by
WILLIAM MORRIS
In Arthur's house whileome was I
When happily the time went by
In midmost glory of his days.
He held his court then in a place
Whereof ye shall not find the name
In any story of his fame:
Caerliel good sooth men called it not,
Nor London Town, nor Camelot;
Yet therein had we bliss enow.
--Ah, far off was the overthrow
Of all that Britain praised and loved;
And though among us lightly moved
A love that could but lead to death,
Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,
A fear to sting a lady's lip,
No ruin of goodly fellowship,
No shame and death of all things good.
Forgive the old carle's babbling mood;
As here I sit grey-haired and old,
My life gone as a story told,
Ye bid me tell a story too;
And then the evil days and few,
That yet were overlong for me
Rise up so clear I may not see
The pictures of my minstrel lore.
Well hearken! on a day of yore
From prime of morn the court did ride
Amidmost of the summertide
To search the dwellings of the deer
Until the heat of noon was near;
Then slackening speed awhile they went
Adown a ragged thorn-bushed bent
At whose feet grew a tangled wood
Of oak and holly nowise good:
But therethrough with some pain indeed
And rending of the ladies' weed
They won at last, and after found
A space of green-sward grown around
By oak and holly set full close;
And in the midst of it arose
Two goodly sycamores that made
A wide and little sun-pierced shade
About their high boles straight and green:
A fount was new-born there-between,
And running on as clear as glass,
Flowed winding on amid the grass
Until the thick wood swallowed it.
A place for happy folk to sit
While the hot day grew hotter still
Till eve began to work his will.
--So might those happy people think
Who grudged to see the red sun sink
And end another day of bliss
Although no joy tomorn should miss --
They laughed for joy as they drew nigh
The shade and fount: but lo, thereby
A man beside the fountain laid
The while his horse 'twixt sun and shade
Cropped the sweet grass: but little care
Had these of guile or giant's lair,
And scarce a foot before the Queen
Rode Gawain o'er the daisied green
To see what man his pleasure took;
Who rose up in meanwhile and shook
His tangled hair aback, as one
Who e'en but now his sleep hath done.
Rough-head and yellow-haired was he
Great-eyed, as folk have told to me,
And big and stout enow of limb:
As one who thinks no harm he smiled,
And cried out: "Well met in the wild,
Fair King and Queen; and ye withal
Sweet dames and damsels! Well befal
This day, whereon I see thee nigh,
O Lancelot, before I die!
And surely shall my heart rejoice
Sir Gawain, when I hear thy voice!"
Then Lancelot laughed: "Thou knowest us then
Full well among a many men?"
"As quoth the lion to the mouse,"
The man said; "in King Arthur's House
Men are not names of men alone,
But coffers rather of deeds done."
The Queen smiled blithe of heart, and spake:
"Hast thou done deeds for ladies' sake?"
"Nay Dame," he said, "I am but young;
A little have I lived and sung
And seen thy face this happy noon."
The King said: "May we hearken soon
Some merry tale of thee? for I
Am skilled to know men low and high
And deem thee neither churl nor fool."
Said he, "My fathers went to school
Where folk are taught a many things,
But not by bliss: men called them kings
In days when kings were near to seek;
But as a long thread waxeth weak,
So is it with our house; and now
I wend me home from oaken bough
Unto a stead where roof and wall
Shall not have over far to fall
When their last day comes."
As he spake
He reddened: "Nathless for their sake,
Whom the world loved once, mock not me
O King, if thence I bring to thee
A morsel and a draught of wine,
Though nothing king-like here thou dine."
Of some kind word King Arthur thought,
But ere he spake the woodman caught
His forest-nag and leapt thereon,
And through the tangled brake was gone.
Then leapt the King down, glad at heart,
Thinking, This day shall not depart
Without some voice from days that were;
And lightly leapt down Guenevere,
And man and maid lay presently
Neath the bee-laden branches high,
And sweet the scent of trodden grass
Amid the blossoms' perfume was.
There long they lay, and little spake,
As folk right loth the calm to break;
Till lo upon the forest-breeze
A noise of folk, and from the trees
They came: the first-seen forester,
A grizzled carle in such-like gear,
And then two maidens poorly clad
Though each a silver chaplet had
And round her neck a golden chain:
And last two varlets led a wain
Drawn by white oxen well bedight
With oaken boughs and lilies white;
Therein there lay a cask of wine
And baskets piled with bread full fine,
And flesh of hart and roe and hare;
And in the midst upon a chair
Done over with a cloth of gold
There sat a man exceeding old
With long white locks: and clad was he
No other than his company
Save that a golden crown he bore
Full fairly fashioned as of yore,
And with a sword was girt about
Such as few folk will see I doubt.
Right great it was: the scabbard thin
Was fashioned of a serpent's skin,
In every scale a stone of worth;
Of tooth of sea-lion of the north
The cross was, and the blood-boot stone
That heals the hurt the blade hath done
Hung down therefrom in silken purse:
The ruddy kin of Niblung's curse
O'er tresses of a sea-wife's hair
Was wrapped about the handle fair;
And last a marvellous sapphire stone
Amidst of the great pommel shone,
A blue flame in the forest green.
And Arthur deemed he ne'er had seen
So fair a sword: nay not when he
The wonder of the land-locked sea
Drew from the stone that Christmas-tide.
Now forth the forest youth did ride,
Leapt down beside the King, and spake:
"King Arthur for thy greatness' sake
My grandsire comes to look on thee;
My father standeth here by me;
These maidens are my sisters twain;
My brethren draw out from the wain
Somewhat thy woodland cheer to mend."
Thereat his sire the knee did bend
Before the King, who o'er the brown
Rough sleeve of the man's homespun gown
Beheld a goodly golden ring:
And fell to greater marvelling
When he beheld how fine and fair
The woodman's kneeling sisters were.
And all folk thereby deemed in sooth
That (save indeed the first seen youth)
These folk were nobler e'en than those
Of Arthur's wonder of a house.
But now the elder drew anigh,
By half a head was he more high
Than Arthur or than Lancelot,
Nor had eld bent him: he kneeled not
Before the King, but smiling took
His hands in hands that nowise shook;
And the King joyed as he who sees
One of his fathers' images
Stand glad before him in a dream.
Then down beside the bubbling stream
They sat together, and the King
Was loth to fall a questioning;
So first the elder spake and said:
"It joys me of thy goodlihead
O great king of our land; and though
Our blood within thee doth not flow,
And I who was a king of yore
May scarcely kneel thy feet before,
Yet do I deem thy right the best
Of all the kings who rule the West.
I love thy name and fame: behold,
King Arthur, I am grown so old
In guilelessness, the Gods have sent,
Be I content or uncontent,
This gift unto my latter days
That I may see as through a haze
The lives and deeds of days to come:
I laugh for some, I weep for some --
I neither laugh nor weep for thee,
But trembling through the clouds I see
Thy life and glory to the end;
And how the sweet and bitter blend
Within the cup that thou must drink.
Good is it that thou shalt not shrink
From either: that the afterdays
Shall still win glory from thy praise
And scarce believe thee laid asleep
When o'er thy deeds the days lie deep."
He ceased but his old lips moved still,
As though they would the tale fulfil
His heart kept secret: Arthur's eyes
Gleamed with the pride that needs would rise
Up from his heart, and low he said:
"I know the living by the dead
I know the future by the past."
Wise eyes and kind the elder cast
Upon him; while a nameless fear
Smote to the heart of Guenevere,
And, fainting there, was turned to love:
And thence a nameless pain did move
The noble heart of Lancelot,
The store of longing unforgot.
-- And west a little moved the sun
And noon began, and noon was done.
But as the elder's grey eyes turned
On Guenevere's, her sweet face burned
With sweet shame; as though she knew
He read her story through and through.
Kindly he looked on her and said:
"O Queen, the chief of goodlihead,
Be blithe and glad this day at least
When in my fathers' house ye feast:
For surely in their ancient hall
Ye sit now: look, there went the wall
Where yon turf ridge runs west-away:
Time was I heard my grand-dame say
She saw this stream run bubbling down
The hall-floor shut in trench of stone;
Therein she washed her father's cup
That last eve e'er the fire went up
O'er ridge and rafter and she passed
Betwixt the foeman's spears the last
Of all the women, wrapping round
This sword the gift of Odin's ground."
He shook the weapon o'er his knee,
Thereon gazed Arthur eagerly.
"Draw it, my lord," quoth Guenevere,
"Of such things have we little fear
In Arthur's house." And Lancelot rose
To look upon the treasure close.
But grimly smiled the ancient man:
"E'en as the sun arising wan
In the black sky when Heimdall's horn
Screams out and the last day is born,
This blade to eyes of men shall be
On that dread day I shall not see --"
Fierce was his old face for a while:
But once again he 'gan to smile
And took the Queen's slim lily hand
And set it on the deadly brand
Then laughed and said: "Hold this, O Queen,
Thine hand is where God's hands have been,
For this is Tyrfing: who knows when
His blade was forged? Belike ere men
Had dwelling on the middle-earth.
At least a man's life is it worth
To draw it out once: so behold
These peace-strings wrought of pearl and gold
The scabbard to the cross that bind
Lest a rash hand and heart made blind
Should draw it forth unwittingly."
Blithe laughed King Arthur: "Sir," said he,
"We well may deem in days by gone
This sword, the blade of such an one
As thou hast been, would seldom slide
Back to its sheath unsatisfied.
Lo now how fair a feast thy kin
Have dight for us and might we win
Some tale of thee in Tyrfing's praise,
Some deed he wrought in greener days,
This were a blithesome hour indeed."
"Sir," said the elder, "little need
To pray me hereof. Please ye dine
And drink a cup of woodman's wine,
Surely meantime some tale shall stir
Within my heart of days that were."
Then to their meat they gat and there
Feasted amid the woodland fair
The fairest folk of all the land.
Ah me when first the Queen's fair hand
Drew near the kneeling forest youth
New-wrought the whole world seemed in sooth
And nothing left therein of ill.
So at the last the Queen did fill
A cup of wine, and drank and said:
"In memory of thy fathers dead
I drink, fair lord, drink now with me
And then bethink thee presently
Of deeds that once won prize and praise
The glory of thy fathers' days."
He drank and laughed and said," Nay, nay,
Keep we the peace-strings whole today.
This draught from where thy lips have been
Within mine old heart maketh green
The memory of a love full true,
The first recorded deed that drew
My fathers' house from dark to light.
If thus my grandame told aright,
A rougher place our land was then,
Quoth she, than with us living men,
And other trees were in the wood
And folk of somewhat other blood
Than ours: then were the small-eyed bears
More plenty in the woodland lairs
Than badgers now: no holiday
It was to chase the wolves away,
Yea there were folk who had to tell
Of lyngworms lying on the fell,
And fearful things by lake and fen,
And manlike shapes that were not men.
Then fay-folk roamed the woods at noon,
And on the grave-mound in the moon
Faint gleamed the flickering treasure-flame.
Days of the world that won no fame,
Yet now, quoth she, folk looking back
Across the tumult and the wrack
And swelling up of windy lies
And dull fool-fashioned cruelties,
Deem that in those days God abode
On earth and shared ill times and good
And right and wrong with that same folk
Their hands had fashioned for the yoke.
Quoth she, of such nought tells my tale,
Yet saith that such as should prevail
In those days o'er the fears of earth
Must needs have been some deal of worth,
And saith that had ye seen a kin
Who dwelt these very woods within
Them at the least ye would have told
For cousins of the Gods of old.
Amongst all these it tells of one,
The goodman's last-begotten son,
Some twenty summers old: as fair
As any flower that blossomed there
In sun and rain, and strong therewith
And lissom as a willow withe.
Now through these woods amidst of June
This youngling went until at noon
From out of the thicket his fair face
Peered forth upon this very place;
For he had been a-hunting nigh
And wearied thought a while to lie
Beside the freshness of the stream.
But lo as in a morning dream
The place was changed, for there was dight
A fair pavilion blue and white
E'en where we play, and all around
Was talk of men and diverse sound,
Tinkling of bit and neigh of steed
Clashing of arms and iron weed.
For round about the painted tent
Armed folk a many came or went,
Or on the fresh grass lay about.
Surely our youth at first had doubt
If 'twere not better to be gone
Than meet these stranger folk alone --
But wot ye well such things as these
Were new to him born mid the trees
And wild things: and he thought, Maybe
The household of the Gods I see:
Who for as many tales as I
Have heard of them, I ne'er saw nigh.
If they be men, I wotted not
That such fair raiment men had got;
They will be glad to show them then.
For one thing taught these woodland men
Whatever wisdom they let fall
Men since have won Fear nought at all.
So from the holly brake he strode
Shouldering the while his hunter's load,
A new slain roe; but there arose
To meet him half a score of those
Whom in fair words he greeted well.
Now was he clad in a sheep's fell
And at his back his quiver hung,
His woodknife on his thigh: unstrung
His bow he held in a staff's stead.
An oaken wreath was round his head
From whence his crispy locks of brown
Well nigh unto his belt hung down,
And howso frank his eyes might be
A half-frown soothly might you see
As these men handled sword or spear
And cried out, "Hold, what dost thou here?"
"Ah," said he, "then no Gods ye are.
Fear not, I shall not make you war."
Therewith his hunting-knife he drew
And the long blade before them he threw.
Then loud they laughed; one sheathed his sword:
"Thanks, army-leader, for that word!
We are not Gods e'en as thou say'st,
Nor thou a devil of the waste
But e'en a devil's a friend belike."
Something [of] hate hereat did strike
Unto the woodsman's unused heart,
Yet he spake softly for his part:
"What men are ye and where dwell ye?
What is the wondrous house I see?"
"In the fair southland is our home
Yet from the north as now we come,"
Said one: then with a mocking smile,
"And in our house there dwells awhile
A very Goddess of the north.
But lo you, take a thing of worth
For that thy quarry, and begone."
But as he spake another one
Spake softly in his ear: and so
The word from this to that did go,
With laughing that seemed nowise good
Unto the dweller of the wood,
Who saying nought moved toward the tent.
But they came round him as he went
And said: "Nay, pagan, stay thy feet;
Thou art not one our dame to greet
[The poem ends at this point.]
MERLIN AND VIVIAN: A LYRIC DRAMA
poem by
ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD
MORGAN-LE-FAY, enchantress, queen of Avalon; soprano
VIVIAN, sorceress; mezzo-soprano
KING ARTHUR, tenor
MERLIN, the enchanter, Arthur's councilor; tenor
ADRIHIM, the Spirit of the architect of King Sueliman; bass
ARIEL, the Spirit of music and light; soprano
A HERALD, tenor
At King Arthur's court; of PART III, at Castle Joyousguard.
A fairy isle, Avalon, which floats at the will of Morgan-le-Fay, its queen, the enemy of Merlin and King Arthur. In the distance rises the palace, where dwell Vivian, the sorceress, and the ladies of the court; terraces descend to the sea, where are marble quays, and the anchorage of the Ship of Dreams.
CHORUS
O Isle of Dreams, O Avalon,
Thy shores are strewn with pearl and gold,
Across thy lakes the rainbows gleam,
Around thy hills the sea-mists fold;
All that is fair, all that is fell,
Is in thy form of fairy mold.
Across the drowsy purple seas
Thou floatest as a thing of light.
No tempests vex thy golden days,
No bitter winds assail thy night,
O charmèd Isle by magic raised,
O dear rose-garden of Delight!
Enchanted Island, Avalon,
Morgan-le-Fay is owned thy Queen,
She of the veiled, mysterious eyes,
She of the cold and courtly mien,
She of the skilled and subtle hand
That feeds the ring-doves as they preen.
Upon thy marble terraces
The Queen sits in her regal state,
Upon her hand the witchcraft ring
That gleams with evil eyes of Fate,
Within her heart an evil wish,
Within her soul the soul of Hate.
MORGAN-LE-FAY
Now who shall slay mine enemy?
And who shall dupe Merlin the wise?
Destroy the power of his hands,
And close his all unsleeping eyes?
Lo! all my wisdom fails and dies,
My blackest arts are shorn of span;
I may not reach his soul unstained,
I may not place him 'neath my ban.
By love alone may he be led:
Send me the Lady Vivian!
CHORUS
Across the lawns with daisies pied
She comes, the Lady Vivian!
Her eyes are bright as sparkling jet,
She moves as only fairies can;
Her hair is gold, and bound with gems,
She bears a jewelled peacock fan.
VIVIAN
Within my chamber, rose-bedight,
Subtle and sure I felt thy call;
My one desire thou long hast known:
Of magic power I must know all!
I felt thy wish, and thy will of me,
Draw as the tides draw in the sea;
And I am come, my Queen, to thee,
From Bower and Hall.
Lo! I am fair as the gods were fair,
Fair as the nymphs that haunt the sea,
And I shall learn, ere I do thy will,
The magic power of witchery.
I will seek the court where Merlin dwells,
I will win his love by magic spells,
I will damn his soul to a thousand hells
With his own sorcery!
I shall be wise as thou art wise,
And in my hand he shall be as clay;
I will lure his heart as the fowler lures,
Who calls the bird but to maim and slay.
Give me the ring of Love and Hate;
My hand shall be as the hand of Fate;
He shall find Death when he seeks a mate,
Morgan-le-Fay!
for the incantation.
CHORUS
See, they have brought the golden lamps,
And magic oils of strange perfume.
And lo! they sing the ancient songs,
They chant the long-forgotten rune.
The magic ship draws close amain,
Across the sapphire seas of June.
MORGAN-LE-FAY AND VIVIAN
Come, I command thee,
Ship of enchantment,
Rune of the waters
Sing I to thee;
Come from thy harbor,
The far, golden haven,
Where lost ships foregather
Mysteriously.
Come, come!
Come, come!
Cordage of silver,
Silken of sail;
Come through the calms,
The foam from thee flying,
Swift as though borne
On the wings of the gale.
Charms of Phoenicia,
Runes of the Northland,
All the sea's magic,
To thee I sing.
Hither, O hither,
Ship of enchantment!
Come, I command thee, come!
CHORUS
She comes, she comes, the ship of dreams
Across the far, mysterious sea;
Red as blood are her sails of samite,
Her banners golden 'broidery,
With seamaids floating by her side,
She comes, the ship of Sorcery!
Vivian departing for the Court of King Arthur.
MORGAN-LE-FAY
Farewell, farewell, my Vivian!
CHORUS
Oh, Fair and Fell,
Farewell, farewell!
MORGAN-LE-FAY AND CHORUS
Now all the demons down in hell
Shall guard thee, Lady Vivian!
VIVIAN
For life or death, for weal or woe,
Morgan-le-Fay, I go, I go!
CHORUS
Oh, Fair and Fell,
Farewell, farewell!
MORGAN-LE-FAY AND CHORUS
Now all the hosts of blackest hell
Guard thee, O Lady Vivian!
VIVIAN AND CHORUS
Farewell, farewell!
Hall of the Knights of the Round Table: King Arthur presiding, with Merlin, his chief councilor, at his right hand. The knights are assembled and the feast is in progress when Vivian craves admission as the bearer of a peace-token from Morgan-le-Fay, kinswoman and enemy to King Arthur.
CHORUS OF MEN
Hail to Arthur!
Hail to the lord!
King and Host
Of the Knightly board!
Hail, all hail!
Let the hall resound
To the ringing mirth
Of the Table Round!
Hail! hail! hail!
With a roar of right good cheer
We drink the health in ruby wine
Of fair Queen Guenevere.
To Guenevere and her gentle King
Love and loyalty here we bring.
What ho! squires and pages fair!
Wine! wine! in goblets rich and rare!
For the pledge is the Table Round,
And with mirth let the halls resound.
Hail, all hail!
Let the hall resound
To the ringing mirth
Of the Table Round!
KING ARTHUR
Good men and true, I give ye royal greeting,
And quaff with joy your pledge of fealty;
May love preside at this, our joyful meeting,
And love prevail 'twixt all the world and me!
HERALD
My Lord, without the hall doth stand
The Princess of Northumberland.
CHORUS
Across the floors vermilion-tiled
She comes, my Lady Vivian!
Her eyes are bright as sparkling jet,
She moves as only fairies can;
Her hair is gold, and bound with gems,
She bears a jewelled peacock fan.
VIVIAN
I sing a land
Most radiant and serene;
With roses dight,
And silver paths;
The emerald lawns between,
There clad in white,
Fair ladies move,
As fair as lilies of
The beauteous night;
And one most fair,
Our radiant queen,
Hath sent me here
To bear her token,
And sweetest greeting,
Her faith unbroken,
Her pledge this ring:
"Upon his hand,"
She smiling saith,
"Who shall be provèd
Wisest and best,
This ring to him is given,
This ring for love;
And it shall know,
Upon no other finger go
In all the land,
Of all the rest!"
CHORUS
Lo, she hath paced about the hall,
To each in turn she bears the ring;
It grows, it shrinks, it changes shape,
It sets the knights to marveling;
Sir Launcelot, Sir Bores have failed,
It will not fit the knightly King.
Now to Merlin she slowly kneels,
Upon his finger slips the band:
The magic gold holds fast and strong!
He may not tear it from his hand!
About his heart and through his soul
Rush the dark spells of Fairyland.
Because of the magic of the ring, Merlin is con-
sumed with passion for Lady Vivian.
MERLIN
Belovèd, O Belovèd!
O gaze on me,
Eyes of immortal splendor,
And let me lay my hand on thy bright hair;
Thy lips are scarlet
And thy voice is tender,
Thy cheek is like the rose of Persia.
Listen, O Belovèd!
Lo! all my power
I hold alone for thee!
Give me thy heart,
Thy love for an hour,
And thou shalt have dominion
O'er all the sea and earth;
Joyance and mirth
Shall fill thy days,
For thee I'll rear another Fairyland!
MERLIN, VIVIAN (feigning love that she may
acquire Merlin's learning and then destroy him)
At last, 't is thou for whom my soul hath cried!
At last, 't is thou! What matter aught beside?
O royal love, I know that thou art mine!
And all my joy, to know that I am thine!
Beyond all goals for which the world hath
striven,
E'en to the stars our loyal fate is riven!
Ah! this is life! that thou at last art near!
Ah! this is life! that thou hast found me dear!
Joy of the world, in one mad moment given,
Joy of the world, and glorious ecstasy of heaven!
Lo! I am thine, for ever thine,
Through life and in death!
KING ARTHUR
Ah, heed her not!
I fear for thee!
Merlin, beware,
'T is sorcery!
CHORUS
O, heed her not!
We fear for thee!
Merlin, beware,
'T is sorcery!
Behold, her hair
Is rusted gold,
Her face is young,
Her eyes are old,
Her cheeks are pale,
She bringeth dole;
Her glance doth show
A forfeit soul!
VIVIAN
O heed them not!
O come with me!
Have faith, my lord,
I love but thee!
MERLIN
Behold, thy hair
Is shining gold,
Thy beauty young,
Thy wisdom old;
Thy face is pale
For love's sweet dole,
But, O, my love,
Thou art my soul!
CHORUS
Now fare they forth across the world
To find the fairyland of joy,
Where dwell the Ladies of the Lake
'Mid pleasures that can never cloy.
And now they pause within a wood,
The haunted forest of Arroy.
The fabled forest-haunt of the fairies-a glade sur-
rounded by giant trees, in the centre of which rises
a hill whereon, at the bidding of Merlin, the Spirits
will build the Palace of Joyousguard.
MERLIN (calling upon the Spirits)
Out of the womb of earth,
Out of the caverned air,
From seawaves green and gold,
From fires' burning lair,
Spirits of flame and wind,
Ye who must serve the Tryne,
The Star of the Mystic Inde,
Come to my magic call!
Come, I command ye!
ARIEL (the Spirit of music and light)
We come, we are here,
We kiss thy hand.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
We come, we are near!
ADRIHIM (Spirit of the architect of Sueliman's
Temple)
Salaam to thee!
May the Wise One live a thousand years!
For I am thy servant Adrihim,
Adrihim, who builded
The Palace of King Sueliman.
MERLIN
Rear me there a glorious dwelling,
Gold and azure cramoisie,
Rear its beauty past all telling,
Fill it sweet with minstrelsy;
Set its gardens fair and spacious,
Fairest ever made for man,
Fashion all things bright and gracious
Fit for Lady Vivian!
ARIEL
We obey, obey!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Thy will is law!
ADRIHIM
I hear, and obey!
CHORUS
So: Joyousguard is builded fair,
Formed from azure of the air,
Warmed bright with sunset golden glows,
Capped with shining argent snows;
Throughout its courts perfumed with Spring
Sweet young voices softly sing.
ADRIHIM, ARIEL
Master, thy slaves have built aright.
Enter the Palace of Delight!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Enter the Palace of Delight!
The banquet-hall of Joyousguard, decked for a feast and garlanded with flowers. Invisible attendants pass to and fro to strains of mysterious music. Vivian has decided upon the destruction of Merlin.
CHORUS
A year hath passed, and Vivian
Hath all of Merlin's magic learned.
Alas! her heart of adamant
Hath all his love and dolor spurned.
Yet hath she smiled as lovers smile,
While in her soul an hatred burned.
Vivian prepares a feast in honor of Merlin, where-
at she will rid herself for ever of his presence.
VIVIAN
To me, Spirits all!
List to my magic call!
Rouse ye! appear!
Heed my command!
Behold, a year
Hath passed away,
And I would feast my lord, Merlin;
So I will brew a cup of Sleep,
A draught of Silence, deep on deep;
Into a tomb of carven stone
He shall descend to dream alone;
By his own thoughts companionèd,
Living, to lie among the dead.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS (terrified and angered)
Alas! alas! Pity! pity! O Vivian!
We obey not thy behest!
Woe! woe!
Guile, in the robe of Beauty drest!
Now, by the souls with God at rest,
We do defy thy will unblest!
Vivian compels the Spirits by the greater force
of her evil magic.
VIVIAN
Obey! obey!
Heed my will!
Your souls are mine,
Good or ill!
On ye all
I lay the spell:
Heaven's thrall,
Strength of Hell!
Come, then, minions,
I forbid ye:
Warn not my lord
Of the fate that awaits him!
Lo! he comes.
CHORUS
All heedless now the master comes,
By his great love made wholly blind,
Save to the festive garlands hung,
And the fair music of the wind,
And to the glance of Vivian,
Who smiles upon him fair and kind.
Merlin, though able to read the future for others,
Was blinded to his own doom.
MERLIN
Wherefore these garlands, Lady mine!
Wherefore this music in the air?
These fragrant jewelled robes of thine,
And thy sage eyes grown debonnaire?
VIVIAN
Master, it is for thee;
A year ago this day
From Arthur's court we came away.
MERLIN AND VIVIAN
A year of love, a year of joy,
A year of gold without alloy!
Wisdom and youth together blent,
With every sense in full content.
VIVIAN
This feast for thee, my Lord, my Love!
MERLIN
I drink to thee, O Lady mine!
Bring me the rarest perfumed wine
Wherein to pledge my love and thine.
VIVIAN (tendering the cup of death)
Take thou this cup: with mine own hand
I poured the wine; drink deep, my Lord!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS (seeking to warn Merlin)
Woe! woe! Master, beware!
Have mercy, Vivian!
MERLIN
Now what befalls?-My senses reel-
Help! Vivian! I feel
My being ebb-thou art not nigh-
Kiss me, my Lady, before I die!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Woe! woe! woe! woe!
She bends above him, laughs aloud,
Unbinds her hair of rusted gold;
See, from her quick and cunning hands
A shroud of golden hair unfold
Like a huge spiderweb of Hate,
That wraps him in its meshes cold.
VIVIAN
From my hair a shroud I spin,
Wrought of magic and of sin;
Merlin, all I learned of thee,
Yet know naught to set thee free!
Here in stupor shalt thou lie,
Till a thousand years go by,
But one thought for company:
Thou liest here for love of me,
Love of Lady Vivian.
CHORUS
She signs, and waves her peacock fan:
Behold, a yawning cavern tomb!
And now the Spirits at her word
Bear Merlin's corpse across the room,
'Mid lighted tapers, row on row,
And voices wailing through the gloom.
MERLIN
Vivian! Vivian! Vivian!
VIVIAN
Farewell, then! Lie thou there in state,
Canopied by mine own Hate.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Curses on thee, Vivian!
Every Spirit gives thee hate;
Thou hast no need of book or bell
To condemn thy soul to hell!
MERLIN
I forgive thee, Vivian!
MORDRED, A TRAGEDY
by
An Arthurian Miscellany, part 2 of 3. . Hermetic Cloud, https://hermeticcloud.com/library/an-arthurian-miscellany-part-2/. Public-domain text reproduced in full; markup only.
An Arthurian Miscellany at sacred-texts.com