Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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    Biographical information

  1. A Farewell
  2. After-Thought
  3. All Things Will Die
  4. Amphion
  5. And Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?
  6. Ask Me No More
  7. Audley Court
  8. Balin And Balan
  9. Battle Of Brunanburgh
  10. Beautiful City
  11. Blow, Bugle, Blow
  12. Boadicea
  13. Break, Break, Break
  14. By An Evolutionist
  15. Charge Of The Light Brigade
  16. Claribel
  17. Closer Is he than Breathing, and Nearer than Hands and Feet
  18. Come down, O Maid
  19. Come Into The Garden, Maud
  20. Come Not When I Am Dead
  21. Cradle Song
  22. Crossing The Bar
  23. Dedication
  24. Demeter And Persephone
  25. Duet
  26. Enoch Arden
  27. Fatima
  28. Gareth And Lynette
  29. Geraint And Enid
  30. Guinevere
  31. Hendecasyllabics
  32. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
  33. How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate?
  34. Idylls Of The King: Song From The Marriage Of Geraint
  35. Idylls Of The King: The Last Tournament
  36. Idylls Of The King: The Passing Of Arthur
  37. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
  38. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 3. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship
  39. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5. Sometimes I Hold it half a sin
  40. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 6. One writes, that 'Other Friends Remain'
  41. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 7. Dark house, by which once more I stand
  42. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 11. Calm is the morn without a sound
  43. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 15. To-night the winds begin to rise
  44. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 16. I Envy not in any moods
  45. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 22. The path by which we twain did go
  46. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 39. Old warder of these buried bones
  47. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 44. How fares it with the happy dead?
  48. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 45. The baby new to earth and sky
  49. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, yet we Trust that somehow good
  50. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 55. The wish, that of the living whole
  51. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no
  52. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 67. When on my bed the moonlight falls
  53. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 72. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again
  54. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 78. Again at Christmas did we weave
  55. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 82. I wage not any feud with death
  56. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 83. Dip down upon the northern shore
  57. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 95. By night we linger'd on the lawn
  58. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 99. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again
  59. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 105. To-night ungather'd let us leave
  60. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 118. Contemplate all this work of Time
  61. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 121. Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun
  62. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 126. Love is and was my Lord and King
  63. In Memoriam A. H. H.: 131. O living will that shalt endure
  64. In Memoriam A. H. H.: The Prelude
  65. In The Valley Of Cauteretz
  66. Lady Clare
  67. Late, Late, So Late
  68. Lilian
  69. Locksley Hall
  70. Lucretius
  71. Mariana




    Biographical information

      Name: Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson
      Place and date of birth: Somersby, Lincolnshire (England); August 6, 1809
      Place and date of death: Haslemere, Surrey (England); October 6, 1892 (aged 83)

    Up

      A Farewell

        Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
        Thy tribute wave deliver:
        No more by thee my steps shall be,
        For ever and for ever.

        Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
        A rivulet then a river:
        Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
        For ever and for ever.

        But here will sigh thine alder tree
        And here thine aspen shiver;
        And here by thee will hum the bee,
        For ever and for ever.

        A thousand suns will stream on thee,
        A thousand moons will quiver;
        But not by thee my steps shall be,
        For ever and for ever.

      Up

      After-Thought

        I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
        As being past away. -Vain sympathies!
        For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
        I see what was, and is, and will abide;
        Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide;
        The Form remains, the Function never dies;
        While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
        We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
        The elements, must vanish; -be it so!
        Enough, if something from our hands have power
        To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
        And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
        Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
        We feel that we are greater than we know.

      Up

      All Things Will Die

        Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

        Under my eye;
        Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

        Over the sky.
        One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
        Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating

        Full merrily;
        Yet all things must die.
        The stream will cease to flow;
        The wind will cease to blow;
        The clouds will cease to fleet;
        The heart will cease to beat;
        For all things must die.
        All things must die.
        Spring will come never more.
        O, vanity!
        Death waits at the door.
        See! our friends are all forsaking
        The wine and the merrymaking.
        We are call'd—we must go.
        Laid low, very low,
        In the dark we must lie.
        The merry glees are still;
        The voice of the bird
        Shall no more be heard,
        Nor the wind on the hill.
        O, misery!
        Hark! death is calling
        While I speak to ye,
        The jaw is falling,
        The red cheek paling,
        The strong limbs failing;
        Ice with the warm blood mixing;
        The eyeballs fixing.
        Nine times goes the passing bell:
        Ye merry souls, farewell.
        The old earth
        Had a birth,
        As all men know,
        Long ago.
        And the old earth must die.
        So let the warm winds range,
        And the blue wave beat the shore;
        For even and morn
        Ye will never see
        Thro' eternity.
        All things were born.
        Ye will come never more,
        For all things must die.

      Up

      Amphion

        My father left a park to me,
        But it is wild and barren,
        A garden too with scarce a tree,
        And waster than a warren:
        Yet say the neighbours when they call,
        It is not bad but good land,
        And in it is the germ of all
        That grows within the woodland.

        O had I lived when song was great
        In days of old Amphion,
        And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
        Nor cared for seed or scion!
        And had I lived when song was great,
        And legs of trees were limber,
        And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
        And fiddled in the timber!

        'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
        Such happy intonation,
        Wherever he sat down and sung
        He left a small plantation;
        Wherever in a lonely grove
        He set up his forlorn pipes,
        The gouty oak began to move,
        And flounder into hornpipes.

        The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown,
        And, as tradition teaches,
        Young ashes pirouetted down
        Coquetting with young beeches;
        And briony-vine and ivy-wreath
        Ran forward to his rhyming,
        And from the valleys underneath
        Came little copses climbing.

        The linden broke her ranks and rent
        The woodbine wreaths that bind her,
        And down the middle, buzz! she went
        With all her bees behind her:
        The poplars, in long order due,
        With cypress promenaded,
        The shock-head willows two and two
        By rivers gallopaded.

        Came wet-shod alder from the wave,
        Came yews, a dismal coterie;
        Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave,
        Poussetting with a sloe-tree:
        Old elms came breaking from the vine,
        The vine stream'd out to follow,
        And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine
        From many a cloudy hollow.

        And wasn't it a sight to see,
        When, ere his song was ended,
        Like some great landslip, tree by tree,
        The country-side descended;
        And shepherds from the mountain-eaves
        Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd,
        As dash'd about the drunken leaves
        The random sunshine lighten'd!

        Oh, nature first was fresh to men,
        And wanton without measure;
        So youthful and so flexile then,
        You moved her at your pleasure.
        Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs'
        And make her dance attendance;
        Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs,
        And scirrhous roots and tendons.

        'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age
        I could not move a thistle;
        The very sparrows in the hedge
        Scarce answer to my whistle;
        'Or at the most, when three-parts-sick
        With strumming and with scraping,
        A jackass heehaws from the rick,
        The passive oxen gaping.

        But what is that I hear ? a sound
        Like sleepy counsel pleading;
        O Lord !--'tis in my neighbour's ground,
        The modern Muses reading.
        They read Botanic Treatises,
        And Works on Gardening thro' there,
        And Methods of transplanting trees
        To look as if they grew there.

        The wither'd Misses! how they prose
        O'er books of travell'd seamen,
        And show you slips of all that grows
        From England to Van Diemen.
        They read in arbours clipt and cut,
        And alleys, faded places,
        By squares of tropic summer shut
        And warm'd in crystal cases.

        But these, tho' fed with careful dirt,
        Are neither green nor sappy;
        Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,
        The spindlings look unhappy.
        Better to me the meanest weed
        That blows upon its mountain,
        The vilest herb that runs to seed
        Beside its native fountain.

        And I must work thro' months of toil,
        And years of cultivation,
        Upon my proper patch of soil
        To grow my own plantation.
        I'll take the showers as they fall,
        I will not vex my bosom:
        Enough if at the end of all
        A little garden blossom.

      Up

      And Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?

        'Te somnia nostra reducunt'.
        OVID.

        And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
        Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
        I had a dream–a lovely dream,
        Of her that in the grave is sleeping.

        I saw her as 'twas yesterday,
        The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
        And round her play’d a golden ray,
        And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.

        With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
        A garland red with roses bound it;
        Its strings were wreath'd with lambent fire
        And amaranth was woven round it.

        I saw her mid the realms of light,
        In everlasting radiance gleaming;
        Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
        Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.

        I strove to reach her, when, behold,
        Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
        And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
        Faded in air–a lovely vision!

        And I awoke, but oh! to me
        That waking hour was doubly weary;
        And yet I could not envy thee,
        Although so blest, and I so dreary.

      Up

      Ask Me No More

        Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
        The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
        With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
        But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
        Ask me no more.

        Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
        I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
        Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
        Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
        Ask me no more.

        Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
        I strove against the stream and all in vain:
        Let the great river take me to the main:
        No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
        Ask me no more.

      Up

      Audley Court

        'The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room
        For love or money. Let us picnic there
        At Audley Court'.

        I spoke, while Audley feast

        Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay,
        To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
        To Francis just alighted from the boat,
        And breathing of the sea. ‘With all my heart,'
        Said Francis. Then we shoulder’d thro’ the swarm,
        And rounded by the stillness of the beach
        To where the bay runs up its latest horn.

        We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd
        The flat red granite; so by many a sweep
        Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd
        The griffin-guarded gates, and pass’d thro’ all
        The pillar’d dusk of sounding sycamores,
        And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge,
        With all its casements bedded, and its walls
        And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.


        There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
        A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,
        Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,
        And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made,
        Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,
        Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks
        Imbedded and injellied; last, with these,
        A flask of cider from his father’s vats,
        Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat
        And talk’d old matters over; who was dead,
        Who married, who was like to be, and how
        The races went, and who would rent the hall:
        Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was
        This season; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm,
        The four-field system, and the price of grain;
        And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,
        And came again together on the king
        With heated faces; till he laugh’d aloud;
        And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung
        To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang–


        ‘Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch,
        Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field,
        And shovell’d up into some bloody trench
        Where no one knows? but let me live my life.
        ‘Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk,
        Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool,
        Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints
        Are full of chalk? but let me live my life.
        ‘Who’d serve the state? for if I carved my name
        Upon the cliffs that guard my native land,
        I might as well have traced it in the sands;
        The sea wastes all: but let me live my life.
        ‘Oh! who would love? I woo’d a woman once,
        But she was sharper than an eastern wind,
        And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn
        Turns from the sea; but let me live my life.’


        He sang his song, and I replied with mine:
        I found it in a volume, all of songs,
        Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride,
        His books–the more the pity, so I said–
        Came to the hammer here in March–and this–
        I set the words, and added names I knew.


        ‘Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me:
        Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm,
        And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.
        ‘Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm;
        Emilia, fairer than all else but thou,
        For thou art fairer than all else that is.
        ‘Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast:
        Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip:
        I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.
        ‘I go, but I return: I would I were
        The pilot of the darkness and the dream.
        Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.’


        So sang we each to either, Francis Hale,
        The farmer’s son, who lived across the bay,
        My friend; and I, that having wherewithal,
        And in the fallow leisure of my life
        A rolling stone of here and everywhere,
        Did what I would; but ere the night we rose
        And saunter’d home beneath a moon, that, just
        In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf
        Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d
        The limit of the hills; and as we sank
        From rock to rock upon the glooming quay,
        The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down
        The bay was oily calm; the harbour-buoy,
        Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm,
        With one green sparkle ever and anon
        Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.

      Up

      Balin And Balan

        Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot
        In that first war, and had his realm restored
        But rendered tributary, failed of late
        To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called
        His treasurer, one of many years, and spake,
        'Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,
        Lest we should set one truer on his throne.
        Man's word is God in man.'
        His Baron said
        'We go but harken: there be two strange knights

        Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side,
        A mile beneath the forest, challenging
        And overthrowing every knight who comes.
        Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass,
        And send them to thee?'
        Arthur laughed upon him.
        'Old friend, too old to be so young, depart,
        Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,
        Until they find a lustier than themselves.'

        So these departed. Early, one fair dawn,
        The light-winged spirit of his youth returned
        On Arthur's heart; he armed himself and went,
        So coming to the fountain-side beheld
        Balin and Balan sitting statuelike,
        Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,
        From underneath a plume of lady-fern,
        Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it.
        And on the right of Balin Balin's horse
        Was fast beside an alder, on the left
        Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree.
        'Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?'
        Balin and Balan answered 'For the sake
        Of glory; we be mightier men than all
        In Arthur's court; that also have we proved;
        For whatsoever knight against us came
        Or I or he have easily overthrown.'
        'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's hall,
        But rather proven in his Paynim wars
        Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not,
        Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.'
        And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down,
        And lightly so returned, and no man knew.

        Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside
        The carolling water set themselves again,
        And spake no word until the shadow turned;
        When from the fringe of coppice round them burst
        A spangled pursuivant, and crying 'Sirs,
        Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,'
        They followed; whom when Arthur seeing asked
        'Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?'
        Balin the stillness of a minute broke
        Saying 'An unmelodious name to thee,
        Balin, "the Savage"--that addition thine--
        My brother and my better, this man here,
        Balan. I smote upon the naked skull
        A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand
        Was gauntleted, half slew him; for I heard
        He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath
        Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes.
        I have not lived my life delightsomely:
        For I that did that violence to thy thrall,
        Had often wrought some fury on myself,
        Saving for Balan: those three kingless years
        Have past--were wormwood-bitter to me. King,
        Methought that if we sat beside the well,
        And hurled to ground what knight soever spurred
        Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back,
        And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine
        Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said.
        Not so--not all. A man of thine today
        Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?'
        Said Arthur 'Thou hast ever spoken truth;
        Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie.
        Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou
        Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move
        To music with thine Order and the King.
        Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands
        Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!'

        Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall,
        The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven
        With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth
        Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers,
        Along the walls and down the board; they sat,
        And cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang,
        Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon
        Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made
        Those banners of twelve battles overhead
        Stir, as they stirred of old, when Arthur's host
        Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won.

        Then Balan added to their Order lived
        A wealthier life than heretofore with these
        And Balin, till their embassage returned.

        'Sir King' they brought report 'we hardly found,
        So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall
        Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once
        A Christless foe of thine as ever dashed
        Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm
        Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King
        Took, as in rival heat, to holy things;
        And finds himself descended from the Saint
        Arimathan Joseph; him who first
        Brought the great faith to Britain over seas;
        He boasts his life as purer than thine own;
        Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat;
        Hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets
        Or dame or damsel enter at his gates
        Lest he should be polluted. This gray King
        Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders--yea--
        Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,
        Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,
        And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought
        By holy Joseph thither, that same spear
        Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.
        He much amazed us; after, when we sought
        The tribute, answered "I have quite foregone
        All matters of this world: Garlon, mine heir,
        Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave
        With much ado, railing at thine and thee.

        'But when we left, in those deep woods we found
        A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind,
        Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us
        Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there
        Reported of some demon in the woods
        Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues
        From all his fellows, lived alone, and came
        To learn black magic, and to hate his kind
        With such a hate, that when he died, his soul
        Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life
        Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence,
        Strikes from behind. This woodman showed the cave
        From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt.
        We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.'

        Then Arthur, 'Let who goes before me, see
        He do not fall behind me: foully slain
        And villainously! who will hunt for me
        This demon of the woods?' Said Balan, 'I'!
        So claimed the quest and rode away, but first,
        Embracing Balin, 'Good my brother, hear!
        Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone
        Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends,
        Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside,
        Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream
        That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself.
        Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they
        To speak no evil. Truly save for fears,
        My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship
        Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them,
        Be one indeed: consider them, and all
        Their bearing in their common bond of love,
        No more of hatred than in Heaven itself,
        No more of jealousy than in Paradise.'

        So Balan warned, and went; Balin remained:
        Who--for but three brief moons had glanced away
        From being knighted till he smote the thrall,
        And faded from the presence into years
        Of exile--now would strictlier set himself
        To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy,
        Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round
        Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile
        In passing, and a transitory word
        Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem
        From being smiled at happier in themselves--
        Sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height,
        That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak
        Sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star;
        For one from out his village lately climed
        And brought report of azure lands and fair,
        Far seen to left and right; and he himself
        Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet
        Up from the base: so Balin marvelling oft
        How far beyond him Lancelot seemed to move,
        Groaned, and at times would mutter, 'These be gifts,
        Born with the blood, not learnable, divine,
        Beyond MY reach. Well had I foughten--well--
        In those fierce wars, struck hard--and had I crowned
        With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew--
        So--better!--But this worship of the Queen,
        That honour too wherein she holds him--this,
        This was the sunshine that hath given the man
        A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest,
        And strength against all odds, and what the King
        So prizes--overprizes--gentleness.
        Her likewise would I worship an I might.
        I never can be close with her, as he
        That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King
        To let me bear some token of his Queen
        Whereon to gaze, remembering her--forget
        My heats and violences? live afresh?
        What, if the Queen disdained to grant it! nay
        Being so stately-gentle, would she make
        My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace
        She greeted my return! Bold will I be--
        Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere,
        In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield,
        Langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.'

        And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said
        'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was bold, and asked
        To bear her own crown-royal upon shield,
        Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King,
        Who answered 'Thou shalt put the crown to use.
        The crown is but the shadow of the King,
        And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it,
        So this will help him of his violences!'
        'No shadow' said Sir Balin 'O my Queen,
        But light to me! no shadow, O my King,
        But golden earnest of a gentler life!'

        So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights
        Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world
        Made music, and he felt his being move
        In music with his Order, and the King.

        The nightingale, full-toned in middle May,
        Hath ever and anon a note so thin
        It seems another voice in other groves;
        Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath,
        The music in him seemed to change, and grow
        Faint and far-off.
        And once he saw the thrall
        His passion half had gauntleted to death,
        That causer of his banishment and shame,
        Smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously:
        His arm half rose to strike again, but fell:
        The memory of that cognizance on shield
        Weighted it down, but in himself he moaned:

        'Too high this mount of Camelot for me:
        These high-set courtesies are not for me.
        Shall I not rather prove the worse for these?
        Fierier and stormier from restraining, break
        Into some madness even before the Queen?'

        Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home,
        And glancing on the window, when the gloom
        Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame
        That rages in the woodland far below,
        So when his moods were darkened, court and King
        And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall
        Shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove
        To learn the graces of their Table, fought
        Hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace.

        Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat
        Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall.
        A walk of roses ran from door to door;
        A walk of lilies crost it to the bower:
        And down that range of roses the great Queen
        Came with slow steps, the morning on her face;
        And all in shadow from the counter door
        Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once,
        As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced
        The long white walk of lilies toward the bower.
        Followed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her 'Prince,
        Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen,
        As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?'
        To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth,
        'Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.'
        'Yea so' she said 'but so to pass me by--
        So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself,
        Whom all men rate the king of courtesy.
        Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.'

        Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers
        'Yea--for a dream. Last night methought I saw
        That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand
        In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark,
        And all the light upon her silver face
        Flowed from the spiritual lily that she held.
        Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away:
        For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush
        As hardly tints the blossom of the quince
        Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.'

        'Sweeter to me' she said 'this garden rose
        Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still
        The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May.
        Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers
        In those fair days--not all as cool as these,
        Though season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick?
        Our noble King will send thee his own leech--
        Sick? or for any matter angered at me?'

        Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt
        Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue
        Changed at his gaze: so turning side by side
        They past, and Balin started from his bower.

        'Queen? subject? but I see not what I see.
        Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear.
        My father hath begotten me in his wrath.
        I suffer from the things before me, know,
        Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight;
        A churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom
        Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield,
        Nor stayed to crave permission of the King,
        But, mad for strange adventure, dashed away.

        He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw
        The fountain where they sat together, sighed
        'Was I not better there with him?' and rode
        The skyless woods, but under open blue
        Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough
        Wearily hewing. 'Churl, thine axe!' he cried,
        Descended, and disjointed it at a blow:
        To whom the woodman uttered wonderingly
        'Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods
        If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried
        'Him, or the viler devil who plays his part,
        To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.'
        'Nay' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth,
        I saw the flash of him but yestereven.
        And some DO say that our Sir Garlon too
        Hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen.
        Look to the cave.' But Balin answered him
        'Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl,
        Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him,
        Now with slack rein and careless of himself,
        Now with dug spur and raving at himself,
        Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode;
        So marked not on his right a cavern-chasm
        Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within,
        The whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks
        Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor,
        Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night
        Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell.
        He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all
        Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within,
        Past eastward from the falling sun. At once
        He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud
        And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear,
        Shot from behind him, ran along the ground.
        Sideways he started from the path, and saw,
        With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape,
        A light of armour by him flash, and pass
        And vanish in the woods; and followed this,
        But all so blind in rage that unawares
        He burst his lance against a forest bough,
        Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled
        Far, till the castle of a King, the hall
        Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped
        With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong;
        The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss,
        The battlement overtopt with ivytods,
        A home of bats, in every tower an owl.
        Then spake the men of Pellam crying 'Lord,
        Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?'
        Said Balin 'For the fairest and the best
        Of ladies living gave me this to bear.'
        So stalled his horse, and strode across the court,
        But found the greetings both of knight and King
        Faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves
        Laid their green faces flat against the panes,
        Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without
        Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within,
        Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise asked
        'Why wear ye that crown-royal?' Balin said
        'The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all,
        As fairest, best and purest, granted me
        To bear it!' Such a sound (for Arthur's knights
        Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes
        The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears
        A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds,
        Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled.
        'Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best,
        Best, purest? THOU from Arthur's hall, and yet
        So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these
        So far besotted that they fail to see
        This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame?
        Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.'

        A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed
        With holy Joseph's legend, on his right
        Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea
        And ship and sail and angels blowing on it:
        And one was rough with wattling, and the walls
        Of that low church he built at Glastonbury.
        This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl,
        Through memory of that token on the shield
        Relaxed his hold: 'I will be gentle' he thought
        'And passing gentle' caught his hand away,
        Then fiercely to Sir Garlon 'Eyes have I
        That saw today the shadow of a spear,
        Shot from behind me, run along the ground;
        Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws
        From homage to the best and purest, might,
        Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine,
        Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure
        To mouth so huge a foulness--to thy guest,
        Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk!
        Let be! no more!'
        But not the less by night
        The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest,
        Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves
        Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs
        Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met
        The scorner in the castle court, and fain,
        For hate and loathing, would have past him by;
        But when Sir Garlon uttered mocking-wise;
        'What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?'
        His countenance blackened, and his forehead veins
        Bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath
        The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery 'Ha!
        So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,'
        Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew
        Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones.
        Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell,
        And Balin by the banneret of his helm
        Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry
        Sounded across the court, and--men-at-arms,
        A score with pointed lances, making at him--
        He dashed the pummel at the foremost face,
        Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet
        Wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked
        The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide
        And inward to the wall; he stept behind;
        Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves
        Howling; but while he stared about the shrine,
        In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints,
        Beheld before a golden altar lie
        The longest lance his eyes had ever seen,
        Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon
        Pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it,
        Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth;
        Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side
        The blindfold rummage buried in the walls
        Might echo, ran the counter path, and found
        His charger, mounted on him and away.
        An arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left,
        One overhead; and Pellam's feeble cry
        'Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things
        With earthly uses'--made him quickly dive
        Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile
        Of dense and open, till his goodly horse,
        Arising wearily at a fallen oak,
        Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground.

        Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad,
        Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed,
        Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck,
        Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought
        'I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me,
        Thee will I bear no more,' high on a branch
        Hung it, and turned aside into the woods,
        And there in gloom cast himself all along,
        Moaning 'My violences, my violences!'

        But now the wholesome music of the wood
        Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark,
        A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode
        The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire.

        'The fire of Heaven has killed the barren cold,
        And kindled all the plain and all the wold.
        The new leaf ever pushes off the old.
        The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

        'Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire--
        Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire,
        Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire!
        The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

        'The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways.
        The wayside blossoms open to the blaze.
        The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.
        The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell.

        'The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good,
        And starve not thou this fire within thy blood,
        But follow Vivien through the fiery flood!
        The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!'

        Then turning to her Squire 'This fire of Heaven,
        This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again,
        And beat the cross to earth, and break the King
        And all his Table.'
        Then they reached a glade,
        Where under one long lane of cloudless air
        Before another wood, the royal crown
        Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm
        Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire;
        Amazed were these; 'Lo there' she cried--'a crown--
        Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall,
        And there a horse! the rider? where is he?
        See, yonder lies one dead within the wood.
        Not dead; he stirs!--but sleeping. I will speak.
        Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest,
        Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds.
        But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall,
        To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame,
        A lustful King, who sought to win my love
        Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode,
        Hath suffered misadventure, and my squire
        Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince,
        Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King,
        Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid,
        To get me shelter for my maidenhood.
        I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield,
        And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence.'

        And Balin rose, 'Thither no more! nor Prince
        Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed
        The cognizance she gave me: here I dwell
        Savage among the savage woods, here die--
        Die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre
        Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord.
        O me, that such a name as Guinevere's,
        Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up,
        And been thereby uplifted, should through me,
        My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.'

        Thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon
        Sighed all as suddenly. Said Balin to her
        'Is this thy courtesy--to mock me, ha?
        Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again she sighed
        'Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh
        When sick at heart, when rather we should weep.
        I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest,
        And now full loth am I to break thy dream,
        But thou art man, and canst abide a truth,
        Though bitter. Hither, boy--and mark me well.
        Dost thou remember at Caerleon once--
        A year ago--nay, then I love thee not--
        Ay, thou rememberest well--one summer dawn--
        By the great tower--Caerleon upon Usk--
        Nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord,
        The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt
        In amorous homage--knelt--what else?--O ay
        Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair
        And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress
        Had wandered from her own King's golden head,
        And lost itself in darkness, till she cried--
        I thought the great tower would crash down on both--
        "Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips,
        Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word
        Is mere white truth in simple nakedness,
        Saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak,
        So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints,
        The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven,
        Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me!
        Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would'st,
        Do these more shame than these have done themselves.'

        She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he,
        Remembering that dark bower at Camelot,
        Breathed in a dismal whisper 'It is truth.'

        Sunnily she smiled 'And even in this lone wood,
        Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this.
        Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues,
        As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me,
        And we will speak at first exceeding low.
        Meet is it the good King be not deceived.
        See now, I set thee high on vantage ground,
        From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like
        Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.'

        She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,
        He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell,
        Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield,
        Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown,
        Stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him
        Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,
        The told-of, and the teller.
        That weird yell,
        Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast,
        Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurking there
        (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought
        'The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!'
        Then nearing 'Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,
        And tramples on the goodly shield to show
        His loathing of our Order and the Queen.
        My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man
        Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake not word,
        But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire,
        And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed
        In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear,
        Reputed to be red with sinless blood,
        Redded at once with sinful, for the point
        Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked
        The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin's horse
        Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed,
        Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man
        Inward, and either fell, and swooned away.

        Then to her Squire muttered the damsel 'Fools!
        This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen:
        Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved
        And thus foamed over at a rival name:
        But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,
        Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down--
        Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk--
        And yet hast often pleaded for my love--
        See what I see, be thou where I have been,
        Or else Sir Chick--dismount and loose their casques
        I fain would know what manner of men they be.'
        And when the Squire had loosed them, 'Goodly!--look!
        They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,
        And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,
        Dead for one heifer!
        Then the gentle Squire
        'I hold them happy, so they died for love:
        And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog,
        I too could die, as now I live, for thee.'

        'Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. 'I better prize
        The living dog than the dead lion: away!
        I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.'
        Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak,
        And bounding forward 'Leave them to the wolves.'

        But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,
        Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,
        Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan,
        Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay,
        And on his dying brother cast himself
        Dying; and HE lifted faint eyes; he felt
        One near him; all at once they found the world,
        Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail
        And drawing down the dim disastrous brow
        That o'er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake;

        'O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died
        To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.
        Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why
        Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?'

        Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,
        All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again.

        'Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall:
        This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not.
        And one said "Eat in peace! a liar is he,
        And hates thee for the tribute!" this good knight
        Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,
        And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,
        Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.
        I well believe this damsel, and the one
        Who stood beside thee even now, the same.
        "She dwells among the woods" he said "and meets
        And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell."
        Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.
        Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen."

        'O brother' answered Balin 'woe is me!
        My madness all thy life has been thy doom,
        Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now
        The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.

        Goodnight! for we shall never bid again
        Goodmorrow--Dark my doom was here, and dark
        It will be there. I see thee now no more.
        I would not mine again should darken thine,
        Goodnight, true brother.
        Balan answered low
        'Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there!
        We two were born together, and we die
        Together by one doom:' and while he spoke
        Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep
        With Balin, either locked in either's arm.

      Up

      Battle Of Brunanburgh

        Athelstan King,
        Lord among Earls,
        Bracelet-bestower and
        Baron of Barons,
        He with his brother,
        Edmund Atheling,
        Gaining a lifelong
        Glory in battle,
        Slew with the sword-edge
        There by Brunanburh,
        Brake the shield-wall,
        Hew'd the lindenwood,
        Hack'd the battleshield,
        Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands.

        Theirs was a greatness
        Got from their Grandsires--
        Theirs that so often in
        Strife with their enemies
        Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes.

        Bow'd the spoiler,
        Bent the Scotsman,
        Fell the shipcrews
        Doom'd to the death.
        All the field with blood of the fighters
        Flow'd, from when first the great
        Sun-star of morningtide,
        Lamp of the Lord God
        Lord everlasting,
        Glode over earth till the glorious creature
        Sank to his setting.
        There lay many a man
        Marr'd by the javelin,
        Men of the Northland
        Shot over shield.
        There was the Scotsman
        Weary of war.

        We the West-Saxons,
        Long as the daylight
        Lasted, in companies
        Troubled the track of the host that we hated;
        Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone
        Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us.

        Mighty the Mercian,
        Hard was his hand-play,
        Sparing not any of
        Those that with Anlaf,
        Warriors over the
        Weltering waters
        Borne in the bark's-bosom,
        Drew to this island:
        Doom'd to the death.

        Five young kings put asleep by the sword-stroke,
        Seven strong earls of the army of Anlaf
        Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers,
        Shipmen and Scotsmen.

        Then the Norse leader,
        Dire was his need of it,
        Few were his following,
        Fled to his warship;
        Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it,
        Saving his life on the fallow flood.

        Also the crafty one,
        Constantinus,
        Crept to his north again,
        Hoar-headed hero!

        Slender warrant had
        He to be proud of
        The welcome of war-knives--
        He that was reft of his
        Folk and his friends that had
        Fallen in conflict,
        Leaving his son too
        Lost in the carnage,
        Mangled to morsels,
        A youngster in war!

        Slender reason had
        He to be glad of
        The clash of the war-glaive--
        Traitor and trickster
        And spurner of treaties--
        He nor had Anlaf
        With armies so broken
        A reason for bragging
        That they had the better
        In perils of battle
        On places of slaughter--
        The struggle of standards,
        The rush of the javelins,
        The crash of the charges,
        The wielding of weapons--
        The play that they play'd with
        The children of Edward.

        Then with their nail'd prows
        Parted the Norsemen, a
        Blood-redden'd relic of
        Javelins over
        The jarring breaker, the deep-sea billow,
        Shaping their way toward Dyflen again,
        Shamed in their souls.

        Also the brethren,
        King and Atheling,
        Each in his glory,
        Went to his own in his own West-Saxonland,
        Glad of the war.

        Many a carcase they left to be carrion,
        Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin--
        Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and
        Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and
        Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and
        That gray beast, the wolf of the weald.

        Never had huger
        Slaughter of heroes
        Slain by the sword-edge--
        Such as old writers
        Have writ of in histories--
        Hapt in this isle, since
        Up from the East hither
        Saxon and Angle from
        Over the broad billow
        Broke into Britain with
        Haughty war-workers who
        Harried the Welshman, when
        Earls that were lured by the
        Hunger of glory gat
        Hold of the land.

      Up

      Beautiful City

        Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,
        O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal
        humanity,
        How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution
        Roll’d again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity!

      Up

      Blow, Bugle, Blow

        The splendour falls on castle walls
        And snowy summits old in story:
        The long light shakes across the lakes,
        And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
        Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
        Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
        And thinner, clearer, farther going!
        O sweet and far from cliff and scar
        The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
        Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
        Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

        O love, they die in yon rich sky,
        They faint on hill or field or river:
        Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
        And grow for ever and for ever.
        Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
        And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

      Up

      Boadicea

        While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries
        Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess,
        Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted,
        Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility,
        Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune,
        Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy.

        `They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces,
        Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating?
        Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I brook to be supplicated?
        Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant!
        Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us?
        Tear the noble hear of Britain, leave it gorily quivering?
        Bark an answer, Britain's raven! bark and blacken innumerable,
        Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton,
        Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it,
        Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated.
        Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, Camulodune!
        There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary.
        There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot.
        Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun!

        `Hear it, Gods! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian!
        Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant.
        These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances,
        Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially,
        Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred,
        Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies.
        Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men;
        Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary;
        Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering--
        There was one who watch'd and told me--down their statue of Victory fell.
        Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune,
        Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful?
        Shall we deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously?

        `Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant!
        While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating,
        There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony,
        Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses.
        "Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets!
        Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee,
        Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet!
        Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated,
        Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable,
        Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises,
        Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God."
        So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier?
        So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now.

        Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant!
        Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty,
        Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated,
        Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators!
        See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy!
        Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated.
        Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune!
        There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory,
        Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness--
        Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable.
        Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant,
        Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously
        Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd.
        Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline!
        There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay,
        Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy.
        There they dwelt and there they rioted; there--there--they dwell no more.
        Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary,
        Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable,
        Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness,
        Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated,
        Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out,
        Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.'

        So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted,
        Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like,
        Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility.
        Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated,
        Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments,
        Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January,
        Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices,
        Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory.
        So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries
        Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand,
        Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice,
        Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously,
        Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away.
        Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds.
        Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies.
        Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary.
        Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune.

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      Break, Break, Break

        Break, break, break,
        On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
        And I would that my tongue could utter
        The thoughts that arise in me.

        O, well for the fisherman's boy,
        That he shouts with his sister at play!
        O, well for the sailor lad,
        That he sings in his boat on the bay!

        And the stately ships go on
        To their haven under the hill;
        But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
        And the sound of a voice that is still!

        Break, break, break
        At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
        But the tender grace of a day that is dead
        Will never come back to me.

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      By An Evolutionist

        The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
        And the man said, ‘Am I your debtor?’
        And the Lord–‘Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,
        And then I will let you a better.’

        I

        If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable,
        Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,
        I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,
        Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?

        II

        What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?
        Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!

        OLD AGE

        Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.
        Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a star.

        I

        If my body come from brutes, tho’ somewhat finer than their own,
        I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute?
        No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne,
        Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy province of the brute.

        II

        I have climb’d to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past.
        Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire,
        But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last,
        As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher.

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      Charge Of The Light Brigade

        Half a league, half a league,
        Half a league onward,
        All in the valley of Death
        Rode the six hundred.
        `Forward, the Light Brigade!
        Charge for the guns!' he said:
        Into the valley of Death
        Rode the six hundred.II.
        `Forward, the Light Brigade!'
        Was there a man dismay'd?
        Not tho' the soldier knew
        Some one had blunder'd:
        Their's not to make reply,
        Their's not to reason why,
        Their's but to do and die:
        Into the valley of Death
        Rode the six hundred.III

        Cannon to right of them,
        Cannon to left of them,
        Cannon in front of them
        Volley'd and thunder'd;
        Storm'd at with shot and shell,
        Boldly they rode and well,
        Into the jaws of Death,
        Into the mouth of Hell
        Rode the six hundred.IV

        Flash'd all their sabres bare,
        Flash'd as they turn'd in air
        Sabring the gunners there,
        Charging an army, while
        All the world wonder'd:
        Plunged in the battery-smoke
        Right thro' the line they broke;
        Cossack and Russian
        Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
        Shatter'd and sunder'd.
        Then they rode back, but not
        Not the six hundred.V

        Cannon to right of them,
        Cannon to left of them,
        Cannon behind them
        Volley'd and thunder'd;
        Storm'd at with shot and shell,
        While horse and hero fell,
        They that had fought so well
        Came thro' the jaws of Death,
        Back from the mouth of Hell,
        All that was left of them,
        Left of six hundred.VI

        When can their glory fade?
        O the wild charge they made!
        All the world wonder'd.
        Honour the charge they made!
        Honour the Light Brigade,
        Noble six hundred!

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      Claribel

        Where Claribel low-lieth
        The breezes pause and die,
        Letting the rose-leaves fall:
        But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
        Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
        With an ancient melody
        Of an inward agony,
        Where Claribel low-lieth.

        At eve the beetle boometh
        Athwart the thicket lone:
        At noon the wild bee hummeth
        About the moss'd headstone:
        At midnight the moon cometh,
        And looketh down alone.
        Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
        The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
        The callow throstle lispeth,
        The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
        The babbling runnel crispeth,
        The hollow grot replieth
        Where Claribel low-lieth.

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      Closer Is he than Breathing, and Nearer than Hands and Feet

        The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains
        Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?
        Is not the Vision He? Tho' He be not that which he seems?
        Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
        Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,
        Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him?
        Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why;
        For is He not all but that which has power to feel 'I am I'?
        Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom
        Making him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom.
        Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet
        Closer is he than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
        God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice,
        For if he is thunder by law the thunder is yet his voice.

        Flower in the crannied wall,
        I pluck you out of the crannies,
        I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
        Little flower -but if I could understand
        What you are, root and all, and all in all,
        I should know what God and man is.

        Hallowed be thy name -Halleluiah!-
        Infinite ideality!
        Immeasurable Reality!
        Infinite Personality!
        Hallowed be thy name -Halleluiah!
        We feel we are nothing -for all is Thou and in Thee;
        We feel we are something -that also has come from thee;
        We know we are nothing -but Thou wilt help us to be.
        Hallowed be thy name -Halleluiah!

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      Come down, O Maid

        Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
        What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
        In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
        But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
        To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
        To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
        And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
        For Love is of the valley, come thou down
        And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
        Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
        Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
        Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
        With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
        Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
        Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
        That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
        To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
        But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
        To find him in the valley; let the wild
        Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
        The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
        Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
        That like a broken purpose waste in air:
        So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
        Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
        Arise to thee; the children call, and I
        Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
        Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
        Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
        The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
        And murmuring of innumerable bees.

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      Come Into The Garden, Maud

        Come into the garden, Maud,
        For the black bat, Night, has flown,
        Come into the garden, Maud,
        I am here at the gate alone;
        And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
        And the musk of the roses blown.

        For a breeze of morning moves,
        And the planet of Love is on high,
        Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
        On a bed of daffodil sky,
        To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
        To faint in his light, and to die.

        All night have the roses heard
        The flute, violin, bassoon;
        All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
        To the dancers dancing in tune:
        Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
        And a hush with the setting moon.

        I said to the lily, "There is but one
        With whom she has heart to be gay.
        When will the dancers leave her alone?
        She is weary of dance and play."
        Now half to the setting moon are gone,
        And half to the rising day;
        Low on the sand and loud on the stone
        The last wheel echoes away.

        I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
        In babble and revel and wine.
        O young lordlover, what sighs are those
        For one that will never be thine?
        But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
        "For ever and ever, mine."

        And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
        As the music clash'd in the hall;
        And long by the garden lake I stood,
        For I heard your rivulet fall
        From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
        Our wood, that is dearer than all;

        From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
        That whenever a March-wind sighs
        He sets the jewelprint of your feet
        In violets blue as your eyes,
        To the woody hollows in which we meet
        And the valleys of Paradise.

        The slender acacia would not shake
        One long milk-bloom on the tree;
        The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
        As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
        But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
        Knowing your promise to me;
        The lilies and roses were all awake,
        They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

        Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
        Come hither, the dances are done,
        In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
        Queen lily and rose in one;
        Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
        To the flowers, and be their sun.

        There has fallen a splendid tear
        From the passion-flower at the gate.
        She is coming, my dove, my dear;
        She is coming, my life, my fate;
        The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
        And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
        The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
        And the lily whispers, "I wait."

        She is coming, my own, my sweet;
        Were it ever so airy a tread,
        My heart would hear her and beat,
        Were it earth in an earthy bed;
        My dust would hear her and beat,
        Had I lain for a century dead;
        Would start and tremble under her feet,
        And blossom in purple and red.

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      Come Not When I Am Dead

        Come not, when I am dead,
        To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
        To trample round my fallen head,
        And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
        There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
        But thou, go by.

        Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
        I care no longer, being all unblest:
        Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
        And I desire to rest.
        Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie:
        Go by, go by.

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      Cradle Song

        What does little birdie say
        In her nest at peep of day?
        Let me fly, says little birdie,
        Mother, let me fly away.
        Birdie, rest a little longer,
        Till thy little wings are stronger.
        So she rests a little longer,
        Then she flies away.

        What does little baby say,
        In her bed at peep of day?
        Baby says, like little birdie,
        Let me rise and fly away.
        Baby, sleep a little longer,
        Till thy little limbs are stronger.
        If she sleeps a little longer,
        Baby too shall fly away.

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      Crossing The Bar

        Sunset and evening star,
        And one clear call for me!
        And may there be no moaning of the bar,
        When I put out to sea,

        But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
        Too full for sound and foam,
        When that which drew from out the boundless deep
        Turns again home.

        Twilight and evening bell,
        And after that the dark!
        And may there be no sadness of farewell,
        When I embark;

        For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
        The flood may bear me far,
        I hope to see my Pilot face to face
        When I have crost the bar.

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      Dedication

        These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
        Perchance as finding there unconsciously
        Some image of himself--I dedicate,
        I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
        These Idylls.

        And indeed He seems to me
        Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
        `Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
        Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
        Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
        Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
        Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
        Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
        The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
        Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
        We know him now: all narrow jealousies
        Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
        How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
        With what sublime repression of himself,
        And in what limits, and how tenderly;
        Not swaying to this faction or to that;
        Not making his high place the lawless perch
        Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
        For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
        Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
        Before a thousand peering littlenesses,
        In that fierce light which beats upon a throne,
        And blackens every blot: for where is he,
        Who dares foreshadow for an only son
        A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his?
        Or how should England dreaming of HIS sons
        Hope more for these than some inheritance
        Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
        Thou noble Father of her Kings to be,
        Laborious for her people and her poor--
        Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day--
        Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste
        To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace--
        Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam
        Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art,
        Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
        Beyond all titles, and a household name,
        Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.

        Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure;
        Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure,
        Remembering all the beauty of that star
        Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made
        One light together, but has past and leaves
        The Crown a lonely splendour.

        May all love,
        His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,
        The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,
        The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,
        The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
        Till God's love set Thee at his side again!

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      Demeter And Persephone

        Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies
        All night across the darkness, and at dawn
        Falls on the threshold of her native land,
        And can no more, thou camest, O my child,
        Led upward by the God of ghosts and dreams,
        Who laid thee at Eleusis, dazed and dumb,
        With passing thro' at once from state to state,
        Until I brought thee hither, that the day,
        When here thy hands let fall the gather'd flower,
        Might break thro' clouded memories once again
        On thy lost self. A sudden nightingale
        Saw thee, and flash'd into a frolic of song
        And welcome; and a gleam as of the moon,
        When first she peers along the tremulous deep,
        Fled wavering o'er thy face, and chased away
        That shadow of a likeness to the king
        Of shadows, thy dark mate. Persephone!
        Queen of the dead no more -- my child! Thine eyes
        Again were human-godlike, and the Sun
        Burst from a swimming fleece of winter gray,
        And robed thee in his day from head to feet --
        "Mother!" and I was folded in thine arms.

        Child, those imperial, disimpassion'd eyes
        Awed even me at first, thy mother -- eyes
        That oft had seen the serpent-wanded power
        Draw downward into Hades with his drift
        Of fickering spectres, lighted from below
        By the red race of fiery Phlegethon;
        But when before have Gods or men beheld
        The Life that had descended re-arise,
        And lighted from above him by the Sun?
        So mighty was the mother's childless cry,
        A cry that ran thro' Hades, Earth, and Heaven!

        So in this pleasant vale we stand again,
        The field of Enna, now once more ablaze
        With flowers that brighten as thy footstep falls,
        All flowers -- but for one black blur of earth
        Left by that closing chasm, thro' which the car
        Of dark Aidoneus rising rapt thee hence.
        And here, my child, tho' folded in thine arms,
        I feel the deathless heart of motherhood
        Within me shudder, lest the naked glebe
        Should yawn once more into the gulf, and thence
        The shrilly whinnyings of the team of Hell,
        Ascending, pierce the glad and songful air,
        And all at once their arch'd necks, midnight-maned,
        Jet upward thro' the mid-day blossom. No!
        For, see, thy foot has touch'd it; all the space
        Of blank earth-baldness clothes itself afresh,
        And breaks into the crocus-purple hour
        That saw thee vanish.

        Child, when thou wert gone,
        I envied human wives, and nested birds,
        Yea, the cubb'd lioness; went in search of thee
        Thro' many a palace, many a cot, and gave
        Thy breast to ailing infants in the night,
        And set the mother waking in amaze
        To find her sick one whole; and forth again
        Among the wail of midnight winds, and cried,
        "Where is my loved one? Wherefore do ye wail?"
        And out from all the night an answer shrill'd,
        "We know not, and we know not why we wail."
        I climb'd on all the cliffs of all the seas,
        And ask'd the waves that moan about the world
        "Where? do ye make your moaning for my child?"
        And round from all the world the voices came
        "We know not, and we know not why we moan."
        "Where?" and I stared from every eagle-peak,
        I thridded the black heart of all the woods,
        I peer'd thro' tomb and cave, and in the storms
        Of Autumn swept across the city, and heard
        The murmur of their temples chanting me,
        Me, me, the desolate Mother! "Where"? -- and turn'd,
        And fled by many a waste, forlorn of man,
        And grieved for man thro' all my grief for thee, --
        The jungle rooted in his shatter'd hearth,
        The serpent coil'd about his broken shaft,
        The scorpion crawling over naked skulls; --
        I saw the tiger in the ruin'd fane
        Spring from his fallen God, but trace of thee
        I saw not; and far on, and, following out
        A league of labyrinthine darkness, came
        On three gray heads beneath a gleaming rift.
        "Where"? and I heard one voice from all the three
        "We know not, for we spin the lives of men,
        And not of Gods, and know not why we spin!
        There is a Fate beyond us." Nothing knew.

        Last as the likeness of a dying man,
        Without his knowledge, from him flits to warn
        A far-off friendship that he comes no more,
        So he, the God of dreams, who heard my cry,
        Drew from thyself the likeness of thyself
        Without thy knowledge, and thy shadow past
        Before me, crying "The Bright one in the highest
        Is brother of the Dark one in the lowest,
        And Bright and Dark have sworn that I, the child
        Of thee, the great Earth-Mother, thee, the Power
        That lifts her buried life from loom to bloom,
        Should be for ever and for evermore
        The Bride of Darkness."

        So the Shadow wail'd.
        Then I, Earth-Goddess, cursed the Gods of Heaven.
        I would not mingle with their feasts; to me
        Their nectar smack'd of hemlock on the lips,
        Their rich ambrosia tasted aconite.
        The man, that only lives and loves an hour,
        Seem'd nobler than their hard Eternities.
        My quick tears kill'd the flower, my ravings hush'd
        The bird, and lost in utter grief I fail'd
        To send my life thro' olive-yard and vine
        And golden grain, my gift to helpless man.
        Rain-rotten died the wheat, the barley-spears
        Were hollow-husk'd, the leaf fell, and the sun,
        Pale at my grief, drew down before his time
        Sickening, and Aetna kept her winter snow.
        Then He, the brother of this Darkness, He
        Who still is highest, glancing from his height
        On earth a fruitless fallow, when he miss'd
        The wonted steam of sacrifice, the praise
        And prayer of men, decreed that thou should'st dwell
        For nine white moons of each whole year with me,
        Three dark ones in the shadow with thy King.

        Once more the reaper in the gleam of dawn
        Will see me by the landmark far away,
        Blessing his field, or seated in the dusk
        Of even, by the lonely threshing-floor,
        Rejoicing in the harvest and the grange.
        Yet I, Earth-Goddess, am but ill-content
        With them, who still are highest. Those gray heads,
        What meant they by their "Fate beyond the Fates"
        But younger kindlier Gods to bear us down,
        As we bore down the Gods before us? Gods,
        To quench, not hurl the thunderbolt, to stay,
        Not spread the plague, the famine; Gods indeed,
        To send the noon into the night and break
        The sunless halls of Hades into Heaven?
        Till thy dark lord accept and love the Sun,
        And all the Shadow die into the Light,
        When thou shalt dwell the whole bright year with me,
        And souls of men, who grew beyond their race,
        And made themselves as Gods against the fear
        Of Death and Hell; and thou that hast from men,
        As Queen of Death, that worship which is Fear,
        Henceforth, as having risen from out the dead,
        Shalt ever send thy life along with mine
        From buried grain thro' springing blade, and bless
        Their garner'd Autumn also, reap with me,
        Earth-mother, in the harvest hymns of Earth
        The worship which is Love, and see no more
        The Stone, the Wheel, the dimly-glimmering lawns
        Of that Elysium, all the hateful fires
        Of torment, and the shadowy warrior glide
        Along the silent field of Asphodel.

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      Duet

        1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear
        in the pine overhead?
        2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows
        the cliffs of the land.
        1. Is there a voice coming up with the
        voice of the deep from the strand,
        Once coming up with a Song in the
        flush of the glimmering red?
        2. Love that is born of the deep coming
        up with the sun from the sea.
        1. Love that can shape or can shatter a
        life till the life shall have fled?
        2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that
        can lift up a life from the dead.
        1. Keep him away from the lone little isle.
        Let us be, let us be.
        2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him
        reign in it - he, it is he,
        Love that is born of the deep coming
        up with the sun from the sea.

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      Enoch Arden

        Enoch Arden by Lord Alfred Tennyson
        Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
        And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
        Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
        In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
        A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
        And high in heaven behind it a gray down
        With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
        By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
        Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

        Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
        Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
        The prettiest little damsel in the port,
        And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
        And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
        Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
        Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
        Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
        Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
        And built their castles of dissolving sand
        To watch them overflow'd, or following up
        And flying the white breaker, daily left
        The little footprint daily wash'd away.

        A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
        In this the children play'd at keeping house.
        Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
        While Annie still was mistress; but at times
        Enoch would hold possession for a week:
        `This is my house and this my little wife.'
        `Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
        When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
        Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
        All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
        Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
        The little wife would weep for company,
        And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
        And say she would be little wife to both.

        But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
        And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
        Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
        On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
        But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
        Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
        But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
        And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
        A purpose evermore before his eyes,
        To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
        To purchase his own boat, and make a home
        For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last
        A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
        A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
        For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
        Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year
        On board a merchantman, and made himself
        Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life
        From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:
        And all me look'd upon him favorably:
        And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May
        He purchased his own boat, and made a home
        For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up
        The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.

        Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
        The younger people making holiday,
        With bag and sack and basket, great and small,
        Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd
        (His father lying sick and needing him)
        An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,
        Just where the prone edge of the wood began
        To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
        Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
        His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
        All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,
        That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd,
        And in their eyes and faces read his doom;
        Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd,
        And slipt aside, and like a wounded life
        Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
        There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,
        Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
        Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

        So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
        And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,
        Seven happy years of health and competence,
        And mutual love and honorable toil;
        With children; first a daughter. In him woke,
        With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish
        To save all earnings to the uttermost,
        And give his child a better bringing-up
        Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,
        When two years after came a boy to be
        The rosy idol of her solitudes,
        While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
        Or often journeying landward; for in truth
        Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil
        In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
        Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,
        Not only to the market-cross were known,
        But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
        Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
        And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,
        Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.

        Then came a change, as all things human change.
        Ten miles to northward of the narrow port
        Open'd a larger haven: thither used
        Enoch at times to go by land or sea;
        And once when there, and clambering on a mast
        In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:
        A limb was broken when they lifted him;
        And while he lay recovering there, his wife
        Bore him another son, a sickly one:
        Another hand crept too across his trade
        Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,
        Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,
        Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
        He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,
        To see his children leading evermore
        Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
        And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd
        `Save them from this, whatever comes to me.'
        And while he pray'd, the master of that ship
        Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,
        Came, for he knew the man and valued him,
        Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
        And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?
        There yet were many weeks before she sail'd,
        Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place?
        And Enoch all at once assented to it,
        Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

        So now that the shadow of mischance appear'd
        No graver than as when some little cloud
        Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,
        And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife--
        When he was gone--the children--what to do?
        Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;
        To sell the boat--and yet he loved her well--
        How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her!
        He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse--
        And yet to sell her--then with what she brought
        Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade
        With all that seamen needed or their wives--
        So might she keep the house while he was gone.
        Should he not trade himself out yonder? go
        This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice--
        As oft as needed--last, returning rich,
        Become the master of a larger craft,
        With fuller profits lead an easier life,
        Have all his pretty young ones educated,
        And pass his days in peace among his own.

        Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
        Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
        Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.
        Forward she started with a happy cry,
        And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
        Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,
        Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike,
        But had no heart to break his purposes
        To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.

        Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt
        Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
        Yet not with brawling opposition she,
        But manifold entreaties, many a tear,
        Many a sad kiss by day and night renew'd
        (Sure that all evil would come out of it)
        Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
        For here or his dear children, not to go.
        He not for his own self caring but her,
        Her and her children, let her plead in vain;
        So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'.

        For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,
        Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand
        To fit their little streetward sitting-room
        With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.
        So all day long till Enoch's last at home,
        Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,
        Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear
        Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang,
        Till this was ended, and his careful hand,--
        The space was narrow,--having order'd all
        Almost as neat and close as Nature packs
        Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,
        Who needs would work for Annie to the last,
        Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

        And Enoch faced this morning of farewell
        Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,
        Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.
        Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man
        Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery
        Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,
        Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes
        Whatever came to him: and then he said
        `Annie, this voyage by the grace of God
        Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.
        Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,
        For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.'
        Then lightly rocking baby's cradle `and he,
        This pretty, puny, weakly little one,--
        Nay--for I love him all the better for it--
        God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees
        And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,
        And make him merry, when I come home again.
        Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.'

        Him running on thus hopefully she heard,
        And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd
        The current of his talk to graver things
        In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
        On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,
        Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,
        Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,
        Musing on him that used to fill it for her,
        Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

        At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
        And yet for all your wisdom well know I
        That I shall look upon your face no more.'

        `Well then,' said Enoch, `I shall look on yours.
        Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
        (He named the day) get you a seaman's glass,
        Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.'

        But when the last of those last moments came,
        `Annie my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
        Look to the babes, and till I come again,
        Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.
        And fear no more for me; or if you fear
        Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
        Is He not yonder in those uttermost
        Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
        Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,
        The sea is His: He made it.'

        Enoch rose,
        Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
        And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
        But for the third, sickly one, who slept
        After a night of feverous wakefulness,
        When Annie would have raised him Enoch said
        `Wake him not; let him sleep; how should this child
        Remember this?' and kiss'ed him in his cot.
        But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt
        A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
        Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught
        His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.

        She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came,
        Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps
        She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
        Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
        She saw him not: and while he stood on deck
        Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

        Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail
        She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;
        Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave,
        Set her sad will no less to chime with his,
        But throve not in her trade, not being bred
        To barter, nor compensating the want
        By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
        Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
        And still foreboding `what would Enoch say?'
        For more than once, in days of difficulty
        And pressure, had she sold her wares for less
        Than what she gave in buying what she sold:
        She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,
        Expectant of that news that never came,
        Gain'd for here own a scanty sustenance,
        And lived a life of silent melancholy.

        Now the third child was sickly-born and grew
        Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it
        With all a mother's care: nevertheless,
        Whether her business often call'd her from it,
        Or thro' the want of what it needed most,
        Or means to pay the voice who best could tell
        What most it needed--howsoe'er it was,
        After a lingering,--ere she was aware,--
        Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
        The little innocent soul flitted away.

        In that same week when Annie buried it,
        Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace
        (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her),
        Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
        `Surely' said Philip `I may see her now,
        May be some little comfort;' therefore went,
        Past thro' the solitary room in front,
        Paused for a moment at an inner door,
        Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,
        Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief,
        Fresh from the burial of her little one,
        Cared not to look on any human face,
        But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.
        Then Philip standing up said falteringly
        `Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.'

        He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply
        `Favor from one so sad and so forlorn
        As I am!' half abash'd him; yet unask'd,
        His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
        He set himself beside her, saying to her:

        `I came to speak to you of what he wish'd,
        Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
        You chose the best among us--a strong man:
        For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
        To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'.
        And wherefore did he go this weary way,
        And leave you lonely? not to see the world--
        For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal
        To give his babes a better bringing-up
        Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
        And if he come again, vext will he be
        To find the precious morning hours were lost.
        And it would vex him even in his grave,
        If he could know his babes were running wild
        Like colts about the waste. So Annie, now--
        Have we not known each other all our lives?
        I do beseech you by the love you bear
        Him and his children not to say me nay--
        For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
        Why then he shall repay me--if you will,
        Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do.
        Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
        This is the favor that I came to ask.'

        Then Annie with her brows against the wall
        Answer'd `I cannot look you in the face;
        I seem so foolish and so broken down.
        When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
        And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
        But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
        He will repay you: money can be repaid;
        Not kindness such as yours.'

        And Philip ask'd
        `Then you will let me, Annie?'

        There she turn'd,
        She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
        And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,
        Then calling down a blessing on his head
        Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately,
        And past into the little garth beyond.
        So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

        Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
        And bought them needful books, and everyway,
        Like one who does his duty by his own,
        Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,
        Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
        He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
        And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
        Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
        The late and early roses from his wall,
        Or conies from the down, and now and then,
        With some pretext of fineness in the meal
        To save the offence of charitable, flour
        From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

        But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:
        Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
        Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
        Light on a broken word to thank him with.
        But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
        From distant corners of the street they ran
        To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
        Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
        Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
        Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him
        And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd
        As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
        Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
        Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
        Down at the far end of an avenue,
        Going we know not where: and so ten years,
        Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
        Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

        It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd
        To go with others, nutting to the wood,
        And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd
        For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:
        Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,
        Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him
        `Come with us Father Philip' he denied;
        But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
        He laugh'd, and yielding readily to their wish,
        For was not Annie with them? and they went.

        But after scaling half the weary down,
        Just where the prone edge of the wood began
        To feather toward the hollow, all her force
        Fail'd her; and sighing `let me rest' she said.
        So Philip rested with her well-content;
        While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
        Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
        Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
        To the bottom, and dispersed, and beat or broke
        The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
        Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
        And calling, here and there, about the wood.

        But Philip sitting at her side forgot
        Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour
        Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
        He crept into the shadow: at last he said
        Lifting his honest forehead `Listen, Annie,
        How merry they are down yonder in the wood.'
        `Tired, Annie?' for she did not speak a word.
        `Tired?' but her face had fall'n upon her hands;
        At which, as with a kind anger in him,
        `The ship was lost' he said `the ship was lost!
        No more of that! why should you kill yourself
        And make them orphans quite?' And Annie said
        `I thought not of it: but--I known not why--
        Their voices make me feel so solitary.'

        Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
        `Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
        And it has been upon my mind so long,
        That tho' I know not when it first came there,
        I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
        It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
        That he who left you ten long years ago
        Should still be living; well then--let me speak:
        I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
        I cannot help you as I wish to do
        Unless--they say that women are so quick--
        Perhaps you know what I would have you know--
        I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove
        A father to your children: I do think
        They love me as a father: I am sure
        That I love them as if they were mine own;
        And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
        That after all these sad uncertain years,
        We might be still as happy as God grants
        To any of His creatures. Think upon it:
        For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care,
        No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
        And we have known each other all our lives,
        And I have loved you longer than you know.'

        Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:
        `You have been as God's good angel in our house.
        God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
        Philip, with something happier than myself.
        Can one live twice? can you be ever loved
        As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?'
        `I am content' he answer'd `to be loved
        A little after Enoch.' `O' she cried
        Scared as it were `dear Philip, wait a while:
        If Enoch comes--but Enoch will not come--
        Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
        Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
        O wait a little!' Philip sadly said
        `Annie, as I have waited all my life
        I well may wait a little.' `Nay' she cried
        `I am bound: you have my promise--in a year:
        Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?'
        And Philip answer'd `I will bide my year.'

        Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
        Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
        Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
        Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,
        And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.
        Up came the children laden with their spoil;
        Then all descended to the port, and there
        At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,
        Saying gently `Annie, when I spoke to you,
        That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.
        I am always bound to you, but you are free.'
        Then Annie weeping answer'd `I am bound.'

        She spoke; and in one moment as it were,
        While yet she went about her household ways,
        Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,
        That he had loved her longer than she knew,
        That autumn into autumn flash'd again,
        And there he stood once more before her face,
        Claiming her promise. `Is it a year?' she ask'd.
        `Yes, if the nuts' he said `be ripe again:
        Come out and see.' But she--she put him off--
        So much to look to--such a change--a month--
        Give her a month--she knew that she was bound--
        A month--no more. Then Philip with his eyes
        Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice
        Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand,
        `Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.'
        And Annie could have wept for pity of him;
        And yet she held him on delayingly
        With many a scarce-believable excuse,
        Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,
        Till half-another year had slipt away.

        By this the lazy gossips of the port,
        Abhorrent of a calculation crost,
        Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
        Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her;
        Some that she but held off to draw him on;
        And others laugh'd at her and Philip too,
        As simple folks that knew not their own minds;
        And one, in whom all evil fancies clung
        Like serpent eggs together, laughingly
        Would hint a worse in either. Her own son
        Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;
        But evermore the daughter prest upon her
        To wed the man so dear to all of them
        And lift the household out of poverty;
        And Philip's rosy face contracting grew
        Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her
        Sharp as reproach.

        At last one night it chanced
        That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly
        Pray'd for a sign `my Enoch is he gone?'
        Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night
        Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,
        Started from bed, and struck herself a light,
        Then desperately seized the holy Book,
        Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,
        Suddenly put her finger on the text,
        `Under a palmtree.' That was nothing to her:
        No meaning there: she closed the book and slept:
        When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,
        Under a palmtree, over him the Sun:
        `He is gone' she thought `he is happy, he is singing
        Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines
        The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
        Whereof the happy people strowing cried
        "Hosanna in the highest!"' Here she woke,
        Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him
        `There is no reason why we should not wed.'
        `Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, `both our sakes,
        So you will wed me, let it be at once.'

        So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,
        Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
        But never merrily beat Annie's heart.
        A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,
        She knew not whence; a whisper in her ear,
        She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
        Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.
        What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often
        Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
        Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:
        Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
        Being with child: but when her child was born,
        Then her new child was as herself renew'd,
        Then the new mother came about her heart,
        Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
        And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

        And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd
        The ship `Good Fortune,' tho' at setting forth
        The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
        And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext
        She slipt across the summer of the world,
        Then after a long tumble about the Cape
        And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
        She passing thro' the summer world again,
        The breath of heaven came continually
        And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
        Till silent in her oriental haven.

        There Enoch traded for himself, and bought
        Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
        A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.

        Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed
        Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
        Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head
        Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:
        Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable,
        Then baffling, a long course of them; and last
        Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens
        Till hard upon the cry of `breakers' came
        The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
        But Enoch and two others. Half the night,
        Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars,
        These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
        Rich, but loneliest in a lonely sea.

        No want was there of human sustenance,
        Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;
        Nor save for pity was it hard to take
        The helpless life so wild that it was tame.
        There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge
        They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,
        Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,
        Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,
        Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.

        For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,
        Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,
        Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life.
        They could not leave him. After he was gone,
        The two remaining found a fallen stem;
        And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself,
        Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell
        Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.
        In those two deaths he read God's warning `wait.'

        The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns
        And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,
        The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,
        The lightning flash of insect and of bird,
        The lustre of the long convolvuluses
        That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran
        Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows
        And glories of the broad belt of the world,
        All these he saw; but what he fain had seen
        He could not see, the kindly human face,
        Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
        The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
        The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
        The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd
        And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep
        Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
        As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
        Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
        A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:
        No sail from day to day, but every day
        The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
        Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
        The blaze upon the waters to the east;
        The blaze upon his island overhead;
        The blaze upon the waters to the west;
        Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,
        The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
        The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail.

        There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch,
        So still, the golden lizard on him paused,
        A phantom made of many phantoms moved
        Before him haunting him, or he himself
        Moved haunting people, things and places, known
        Far in a darker isle beyond the line;
        The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
        The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
        The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
        The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
        November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,
        The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
        And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.

        Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
        Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away--
        He heard the pealing of his parish bells;
        Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up
        Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
        Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart
        Spoken with That, which being everywhere
        Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone,
        Surely the man had died of solitude.

        Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head
        The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
        Year after year. His hopes to see his own,
        And pace the sacred old familiar fields,
        Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom
        Came suddenly to an end. Another ship
        (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,
        Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,
        Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:
        For since the mate had seen at early dawn
        Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle
        The silent water slipping from the hills,
        They sent a crew that landing burst away
        In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores
        With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge
        Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary,
        Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,
        Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd,
        With inarticulate rage, and making signs
        They knew not what: and yet he led the way
        To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;
        And ever as he mingled with the crew,
        And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue
        Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;
        Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard:
        And there the tale he utter'd brokenly,
        Scarce credited at first but more and more,
        Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it:
        And clothes they gave him and free passage home;
        But oft he work'd among the rest and shook
        His isolation from him. None of these
        Came from his county, or could answer him,
        If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.
        And dull the voyage was with long delays,
        The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore
        His fancy fled before the lazy wind
        Returning, till beneath a clouded moon
        He like a lover down thro' all his blood
        Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath
        Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:
        And that same morning officers and men
        Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,
        Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:
        Then moving up the coast they landed him,
        Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before.

        There Enoch spoke no word to anyone,
        But homeward--home--what home? had he a home?
        His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,
        Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,
        Where either haven open'd on the deeps,
        Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray;
        Cut off the length of highway on before,
        And left but narrow breadth to left and right
        Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage.
        On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped
        Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze
        The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down.
        Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
        Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light
        Flared on him, and he came upon the place.

        Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
        His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
        His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home
        Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes
        In those far-off seven happy years were born;
        But finding neither light nor murmur there
        (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept
        Still downward thinking `dead or dead to me!'

        Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went,
        Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
        A front of timber-crost antiquity,
        So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
        He thought it must have gone; but he was gone
        Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,
        With daily-dwindling profits held the house;
        A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now
        Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.
        There Enoch rested silently many days.

        But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,
        Nor let him be, but often breaking in,
        Told him, with other annals of the port,
        Not knowing--Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,
        So broken--all the story of his house.
        His baby's death, her growing poverty,
        How Philip put her little ones to school,
        And kept them in it, his long wooing her,
        Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth
        Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance
        No shadow past, nor motion: anyone,
        Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale
        Less than the teller: only when she closed
        `Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost'
        He, shaking his gray head pathetically,
        Repeated muttering `cast away and lost;'
        Again in deeper inward whispers `lost!'

        But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again;
        `If I might look on her sweet face gain
        And know that she is happy.' So the thought
        Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,
        At evening when the dull November day
        Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
        There he sat down gazing on all below;
        There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
        Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
        The ruddy square of comfortable light,
        Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
        Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
        The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
        Against it, and beats out his weary life.

        For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
        The latest house to landward; but behind,
        With one small gate that open'd on the waste,
        Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:
        And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
        A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk
        Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
        But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole
        Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
        That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs
        Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

        For cups and silver on the burnish'd board
        Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
        And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
        Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
        Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
        And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
        A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
        Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand
        Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
        To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms,
        Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd:
        And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
        The mother glancing often toward her babe,
        But turning now and then to speak with him,
        Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
        And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

        Now when the dead man come to life beheld
        His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
        Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
        And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
        And his own children tall and beautiful,
        And him, that other, reigning in his place,
        Lord of his rights and of his children's love,--
        Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,
        Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
        Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd
        To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
        Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
        Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

        He therefore turning softly like a thief,
        Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
        And feeling all along the garden-wall,
        Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
        Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed,
        As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,
        Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

        And there he would have knelt, but that his knees
        Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
        His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

        `Too hard to bear! why did they take me hence?
        O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
        That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
        Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
        A little longer! aid me, give me strength
        Not to tell her, never to let her know.
        Help me no to break in upon her peace.
        My children too! must I not speak to these?
        They know me not. I should betray myself.
        Never: not father's kiss for me--the girl
        So like her mother, and the boy, my son.'

        There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little,
        And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced
        Back toward his solitary home again,
        All down the long and narrow street he went
        Beating it in upon his weary brain,
        As tho' it were the burthen of a song,
        `Not to tell her, never to let her know.'

        He was not all unhappy. His resolve
        Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore
        Prayer from a living source within the will,
        And beating up thro' all the bitter world,
        Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,
        Kept him a living soul. `This miller's wife'
        He said to Miriam `that you told me of,
        Has she no fear that her first husband lives?'
        `Ay ay, poor soul' said Miriam, `fear enow!
        If you could tell her you had seen him dead,
        Why, that would be her comfort;' and he thought
        `After the Lord has call'd me she shall know,
        I wait His time' and Enoch set himself,
        Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.
        Almost to all things could he turn his hand.
        Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought
        To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd
        At lading and unlading the tall barks,
        That brought the stinted commerce of those days;
        Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself:
        Yet since he did but labor for himself,
        Work without hope, there was not life in it
        Whereby the man could live; and as the year
        Roll'd itself round again to meet the day
        When Enoch had return'd, a languor came
        Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually
        Weakening the man, till he could do no more,
        But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed.
        And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.
        For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck
        See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall
        The boat that bears the hope of life approach
        To save the life despair'd of, than he saw
        Death dawning on him, and the close of all.

        For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope
        On Enoch thinking `after I am gone,
        Then may she learn I loved her to the last.'
        He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said
        `Woman, I have a secret--only swear,
        Before I tell you--swear upon the book
        Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.'
        `Dead' clamor'd the good woman `hear him talk!
        I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.'
        `Swear' add Enoch sternly `on the book.'
        And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
        Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
        `Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?'
        `Know him?' she said `I knew him far away.
        Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
        Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.'
        Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her;
        `His head is low, and no man cares for him.
        I think I have not three days more to live;
        I am the man.' At which the woman gave
        A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.
        `You Arden, you! nay,--sure he was a foot
        Higher than you be.' Enoch said again
        `My God has bow'd me down to what I am;
        My grief and solitude have broken me;
        Nevertheless, know that I am he
        Who married--but that name has twice been changed--
        I married her who married Philip Ray.
        Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage,
        His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
        His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
        And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
        Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,
        While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly
        To rush abroad all round the little haven,
        Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;
        But awed and promise-bounded she forbore,
        Saying only `See your bairns before you go!
        Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose
        Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
        A moment on her words, but then replied.

        `Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
        But let me hold my purpose till I die.
        Sit down again; mark me and understand,
        While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
        When you shall see her, tell her that I died
        Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
        Save for the bar between us, loving her
        As when she laid her head beside my own.
        And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
        So like her mother, that my latest breath
        Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
        And tell my son that I died blessing him.
        And say to Philip that I blest him too;
        He never meant us any thing but good.
        But if my children care to see me dead,
        Who hardly saw me living, let them come,
        I am their father; but she must not come,
        For my dead face would vex her after-life.
        And now there is but one of all my blood,
        Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
        This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,
        And I have borne it with me all these years,
        And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
        But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
        My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone,
        Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
        It will moreover be a token to her,
        That I am he.'

        He ceased; and Miriam Lane
        Made such a voluble answer promising all,
        That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her
        Repeating all he wish'd, and once again
        She promised.

        Then the third night after this,
        While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale,
        And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals,
        There came so loud a calling of the sea,
        That all the houses in the haven rang.
        He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad
        Crying with a loud voice `a sail! a sail!
        I am saved'; and so fell back and spoke no more.

        So past the strong heroic soul away.
        And when they buried him the little port
        Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

      Up

      Fatima

        O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
        O sun, that from thy noonday height
        Shudderest when I strain my sight,
        Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
        Lo, falling from my constant mind,
        Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
        I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

        Last night I wasted hateful hours
        Below the city's eastern towers:
        I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
        I roll'd among the tender flowers:
        I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth;
        I look'd athwart the burning drouth
        Of that long desert to the south.

        Last night, when some one spoke his name,
        >From my swift blood that went and came
        A thousand little shafts of flame
        Were shiver'd in my narrow frame.
        O Love, O fire! once he drew
        With one long kiss my whole soul thro'
        My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

        Before he mounts the hill, I know
        He cometh quickly: from below
        Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
        Before him, striking on my brow.
        In my dry brain my spirit soon,
        Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
        Faints like a daled morning moon.

        The wind sounds like a silver wire,
        And from beyond the noon a fire
        Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
        The skies stoop down in their desire;
        And, isled in sudden seas of light,
        My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
        Bursts into blossom in his sight.

        My whole soul waiting silently,
        All naked in a sultry sky,
        Droops blinded with his shining eye:
        I will possess him or will die.
        I will grow round him in his place,
        Grow, live, die looking on his face,
        Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.

      Up

      Gareth And Lynette

        The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
        And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
        Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
        Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
        'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
        Or evil king before my lance if lance
        Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
        Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
        And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
        And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
        The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
        Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
        Linger with vacillating obedience,
        Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
        Since the good mother holds me still a child!
        Good mother is bad mother unto me!
        A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
        Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
        To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
        Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
        In ever-highering eagle-circles up
        To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
        Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
        A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
        To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
        With Modred hither in the summertime,
        Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
        Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
        Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
        "Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
        Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
        For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

        And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
        Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
        Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
        'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
        'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
        'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
        Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
        An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

        And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
        'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
        Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
        For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
        Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
        As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
        And there was ever haunting round the palm
        A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw
        The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought
        "An I could climb and lay my hand upon it,
        Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings."
        But ever when he reached a hand to climb,
        One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught
        And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck,
        I charge thee by my love," and so the boy,
        Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck,
        But brake his very heart in pining for it,
        And past away.'

        To whom the mother said,
        'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
        And handed down the golden treasure to him.'

        And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
        'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she,
        Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world
        Had ventured--HAD the thing I spake of been
        Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel,
        Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur,
        And lightnings played about it in the storm,
        And all the little fowl were flurried at it,
        And there were cries and clashings in the nest,
        That sent him from his senses: let me go.'

        Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said,
        'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness?
        Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth
        Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out!
        For ever since when traitor to the King
        He fought against him in the Barons' war,
        And Arthur gave him back his territory,
        His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there
        A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable,
        No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows.
        And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall,
        Albeit neither loved with that full love
        I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love:
        Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird,
        And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars,
        Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang
        Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance
        In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls,
        Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer
        By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;
        So make thy manhood mightier day by day;
        Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out
        Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace
        Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year,
        Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness
        I know not thee, myself, nor anything.
        Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.'

        Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child,
        Hear yet once more the story of the child.
        For, mother, there was once a King, like ours.
        The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable,
        Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King
        Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed--
        But to be won by force--and many men
        Desired her; one good lack, no man desired.
        And these were the conditions of the King:
        That save he won the first by force, he needs
        Must wed that other, whom no man desired,
        A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile,
        That evermore she longed to hide herself,
        Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye--
        Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her.
        And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother,
        How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame.
        Man am I grown, a man's work must I do.
        Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King,
        Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King--
        Else, wherefore born?'

        To whom the mother said
        'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not,
        Or will not deem him, wholly proven King--
        Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King,
        When I was frequent with him in my youth,
        And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him
        No more than he, himself; but felt him mine,
        Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave
        Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all,
        Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King?
        Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth
        Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.'

        And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour,
        So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire,
        Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go.
        Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome
        From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed
        The Idolaters, and made the people free?
        Who should be King save him who makes us free?'

        So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain
        To break him from the intent to which he grew,
        Found her son's will unwaveringly one,
        She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire?
        Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke.
        Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof,
        Before thou ask the King to make thee knight,
        Of thine obedience and thy love to me,
        Thy mother,--I demand.

        And Gareth cried,
        'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go.
        Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!'

        But slowly spake the mother looking at him,
        'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall,
        And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks
        Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves,
        And those that hand the dish across the bar.
        Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone.
        And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.'

        For so the Queen believed that when her son
        Beheld his only way to glory lead
        Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage,
        Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud
        To pass thereby; so should he rest with her,
        Closed in her castle from the sound of arms.

        Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied,
        'The thrall in person may be free in soul,
        And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I,
        And since thou art my mother, must obey.
        I therefore yield me freely to thy will;
        For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself
        To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves;
        Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.'

        Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye
        Full of the wistful fear that he would go,
        And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned,
        Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour,
        When wakened by the wind which with full voice
        Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn,
        He rose, and out of slumber calling two
        That still had tended on him from his birth,
        Before the wakeful mother heard him, went.

        The three were clad like tillers of the soil.
        Southward they set their faces. The birds made
        Melody on branch, and melody in mid air.
        The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green,
        And the live green had kindled into flowers,
        For it was past the time of Easterday.

        So, when their feet were planted on the plain
        That broadened toward the base of Camelot,
        Far off they saw the silver-misty morn
        Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount,
        That rose between the forest and the field.
        At times the summit of the high city flashed;
        At times the spires and turrets half-way down
        Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone
        Only, that opened on the field below:
        Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared.

        Then those who went with Gareth were amazed,
        One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord.
        Here is a city of Enchanters, built
        By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him,
        'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home
        To Northward, that this King is not the King,
        But only changeling out of Fairyland,
        Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery
        And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again,
        'Lord, there is no such city anywhere,
        But all a vision.'

        Gareth answered them
        With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow
        In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes,
        To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea;
        So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate.
        And there was no gate like it under heaven.
        For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined
        And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave,
        The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress
        Wept from her sides as water flowing away;
        But like the cross her great and goodly arms
        Stretched under the cornice and upheld:
        And drops of water fell from either hand;
        And down from one a sword was hung, from one
        A censer, either worn with wind and storm;
        And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish;
        And in the space to left of her, and right,
        Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done,
        New things and old co-twisted, as if Time
        Were nothing, so inveterately, that men
        Were giddy gazing there; and over all
        High on the top were those three Queens, the friends
        Of Arthur, who should help him at his need.

        Then those with Gareth for so long a space
        Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed
        The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings
        Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called
        To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.'

        And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes
        So long, that even to him they seemed to move.
        Out of the city a blast of music pealed.
        Back from the gate started the three, to whom
        From out thereunder came an ancient man,
        Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?'

        Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,
        Who leaving share in furrow come to see
        The glories of our King: but these, my men,
        (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)
        Doubt if the King be King at all, or come
        From Fairyland; and whether this be built
        By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;
        Or whether there be any city at all,
        Or all a vision: and this music now
        Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.'

        Then that old Seer made answer playing on him
        And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail
        Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,
        And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:
        And here is truth; but an it please thee not,
        Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.
        For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King
        And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;
        They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
        Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,
        And built it to the music of their harps.
        And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,
        For there is nothing in it as it seems
        Saving the King; though some there be that hold
        The King a shadow, and the city real:
        Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass
        Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become
        A thrall to his enchantments, for the King
        Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame
        A man should not be bound by, yet the which
        No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,
        Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide
        Without, among the cattle of the field.
        For an ye heard a music, like enow
        They are building still, seeing the city is built
        To music, therefore never built at all,
        And therefore built for ever.'

        Gareth spake
        Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard
        That looks as white as utter truth, and seems
        Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall!
        Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been
        To thee fair-spoken?'

        But the Seer replied,
        'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards?
        "Confusion, and illusion, and relation,
        Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"?
        I mock thee not but as thou mockest me,
        And all that see thee, for thou art not who
        Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art.
        And now thou goest up to mock the King,
        Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.'

        Unmockingly the mocker ending here
        Turned to the right, and past along the plain;
        Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men,
        Our one white lie sits like a little ghost
        Here on the threshold of our enterprise.
        Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I:
        Well, we will make amends.'

        With all good cheer
        He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain
        Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces
        And stately, rich in emblem and the work
        Of ancient kings who did their days in stone;
        Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court,
        Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere
        At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak
        And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven.
        And ever and anon a knight would pass
        Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms
        Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear.
        And out of bower and casement shyly glanced
        Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love;
        And all about a healthful people stept
        As in the presence of a gracious king.

        Then into hall Gareth ascending heard
        A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld
        Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall
        The splendour of the presence of the King
        Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more--
        But felt his young heart hammering in his ears,
        And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie
        The truthful King will doom me when I speak.'
        Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find
        Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one
        Nor other, but in all the listening eyes
        Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne,
        Clear honour shining like the dewy star
        Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure
        Affection, and the light of victory,
        And glory gained, and evermore to gain.
        Then came a widow crying to the King,
        'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft
        From my dead lord a field with violence:
        For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold,
        Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes,
        We yielded not; and then he reft us of it
        Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.'

        Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?'
        To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord,
        The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.'

        And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again,
        And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof,
        According to the years. No boon is here,
        But justice, so thy say be proven true.
        Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did
        Would shape himself a right!'

        And while she past,
        Came yet another widow crying to him,
        'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I.
        With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord,
        A knight of Uther in the Barons' war,
        When Lot and many another rose and fought
        Against thee, saying thou wert basely born.
        I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught.
        Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son
        Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead;
        And standeth seized of that inheritance
        Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son.
        So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate,
        Grant me some knight to do the battle for me,
        Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.'

        Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him,
        'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I.
        Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.'

        Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried,
        'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none,
        This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall--
        None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.'

        But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged
        Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord.
        Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates!
        The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames,
        Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead,
        And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence--
        Lest that rough humour of the kings of old
        Return upon me! Thou that art her kin,
        Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not,
        But bring him here, that I may judge the right,
        According to the justice of the King:
        Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King
        Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.'

        Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,
        A name of evil savour in the land,
        The Cornish king. In either hand he bore
        What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines
        A field of charlock in the sudden sun
        Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,
        Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,
        Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,
        Was even upon his way to Camelot;
        For having heard that Arthur of his grace
        Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,
        And, for himself was of the greater state,
        Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord
        Would yield him this large honour all the more;
        So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold,
        In token of true heart and felty.

        Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend
        In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.
        An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight!
        What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?'
        For, midway down the side of that long hall
        A stately pile,--whereof along the front,
        Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank,
        There ran a treble range of stony shields,--
        Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth.
        And under every shield a knight was named:
        For this was Arthur's custom in his hall;
        When some good knight had done one noble deed,
        His arms were carven only; but if twain
        His arms were blazoned also; but if none,
        The shield was blank and bare without a sign
        Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw
        The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright,
        And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried
        To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.

        'More like are we to reave him of his crown
        Than make him knight because men call him king.
        The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands
        From war among themselves, but left them kings;
        Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,
        Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled
        Among us, and they sit within our hall.
        But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king,
        As Mark would sully the low state of churl:
        And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,
        Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,
        Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,
        Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots,
        Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings--
        No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal
        Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied--
        Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!'

        And many another suppliant crying came
        With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,
        And evermore a knight would ride away.

        Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily
        Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,
        Approached between them toward the King, and asked,
        'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),
        For see ye not how weak and hungerworn
        I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve
        For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves
        A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.
        Hereafter I will fight.'

        To him the King,
        'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon!
        But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay,
        The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.'

        He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien
        Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself
        Root-bitten by white lichen,

        'Lo ye now!
        This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where,
        God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow,
        However that might chance! but an he work,
        Like any pigeon will I cram his crop,
        And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.'

        Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal,
        Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds;
        A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know:
        Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,
        High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands
        Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery--
        But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy
        Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace,
        Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.'

        Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery?
        Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish?
        Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery!
        Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked
        For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth!
        Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it
        That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day
        Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.'

        So Gareth all for glory underwent
        The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage;
        Ate with young lads his portion by the door,
        And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves.
        And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly,
        But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not,
        Would hustle and harry him, and labour him
        Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set
        To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood,
        Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself
        With all obedience to the King, and wrought
        All kind of service with a noble ease
        That graced the lowliest act in doing it.
        And when the thralls had talk among themselves,
        And one would praise the love that linkt the King
        And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life
        In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's--
        For Lancelot was the first in Tournament,
        But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field--
        Gareth was glad. Or if some other told,
        How once the wandering forester at dawn,
        Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas,
        On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King,
        A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake,
        'He passes to the Isle Avilion,
        He passes and is healed and cannot die'--
        Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul,
        Then would he whistle rapid as any lark,
        Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud
        That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him.
        Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale
        Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way
        Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held
        All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates
        Lying or sitting round him, idle hands,
        Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come
        Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind
        Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart.
        Or when the thralls had sport among themselves,
        So there were any trial of mastery,
        He, by two yards in casting bar or stone
        Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust,
        So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go,
        Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights
        Clash like the coming and retiring wave,
        And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy
        Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.

        So for a month he wrought among the thralls;
        But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen,
        Repentant of the word she made him swear,
        And saddening in her childless castle, sent,
        Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon,
        Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.

        This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot
        With whom he used to play at tourney once,
        When both were children, and in lonely haunts
        Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand,
        And each at either dash from either end--
        Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy.
        He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once
        I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee--
        These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's--
        Descend into the city:' whereon he sought
        The King alone, and found, and told him all.

        'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt
        For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I.
        Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name
        Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring
        Like flame from ashes.'

        Here the King's calm eye
        Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow
        Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him,
        'Son, the good mother let me know thee here,
        And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine.
        Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows
        Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness,
        And, loving, utter faithfulness in love,
        And uttermost obedience to the King.'

        Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees,
        'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee.
        For uttermost obedience make demand
        Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal,
        No mellow master of the meats and drinks!
        And as for love, God wot, I love not yet,
        But love I shall, God willing.'

        And the King
        'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he,
        Our noblest brother, and our truest man,
        And one with me in all, he needs must know.'

        'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know,
        Thy noblest and thy truest!'

        And the King--
        'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you?
        Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King,
        And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed,
        Than to be noised of.'

        Merrily Gareth asked,
        'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it?
        Let be my name until I make my name!
        My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.'
        So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm
        Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly
        Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him.
        Then, after summoning Lancelot privily,
        'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven.
        Look therefore when he calls for this in hall,
        Thou get to horse and follow him far away.
        Cover the lions on thy shield, and see
        Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.'

        Then that same day there past into the hall
        A damsel of high lineage, and a brow
        May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,
        Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose
        Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower;
        She into hall past with her page and cried,

        'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without,
        See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset
        By bandits, everyone that owns a tower
        The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there?
        Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king,
        Till even the lonest hold were all as free
        From cursd bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth
        From that best blood it is a sin to spill.'

        'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine
        Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore,
        The wastest moorland of our realm shall be
        Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall.
        What is thy name? thy need?'

        'My name?' she said--
        'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight
        To combat for my sister, Lyonors,
        A lady of high lineage, of great lands,
        And comely, yea, and comelier than myself.
        She lives in Castle Perilous: a river
        Runs in three loops about her living-place;
        And o'er it are three passings, and three knights
        Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth
        And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed
        In her own castle, and so besieges her
        To break her will, and make her wed with him:
        And but delays his purport till thou send
        To do the battle with him, thy chief man
        Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow,
        Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed
        Save whom she loveth, or a holy life.
        Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.'

        Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked,
        'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush
        All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four,
        Who be they? What the fashion of the men?'

        'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King,
        The fashion of that old knight-errantry
        Who ride abroad, and do but what they will;
        Courteous or bestial from the moment, such
        As have nor law nor king; and three of these
        Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day,
        Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star,
        Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise
        The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black,
        A huge man-beast of boundless savagery.
        He names himself the Night and oftener Death,
        And wears a helmet mounted with a skull,
        And bears a skeleton figured on his arms,
        To show that who may slay or scape the three,
        Slain by himself, shall enter endless night.
        And all these four be fools, but mighty men,
        And therefore am I come for Lancelot.'

        Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose,
        A head with kindling eyes above the throng,
        'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked
        Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull--
        'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I,
        And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I,
        And I can topple over a hundred such.
        Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him,
        Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden,
        And pardonable, worthy to be knight--
        Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed.

        But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath
        Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm,
        'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight,
        And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.'
        Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned,
        Fled down the lane of access to the King,
        Took horse, descended the slope street, and past
        The weird white gate, and paused without, beside
        The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.'

        Now two great entries opened from the hall,
        At one end one, that gave upon a range
        Of level pavement where the King would pace
        At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood;
        And down from this a lordly stairway sloped
        Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers;
        And out by this main doorway past the King.
        But one was counter to the hearth, and rose
        High that the highest-crested helm could ride
        Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled
        The damsel in her wrath, and on to this
        Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door
        King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town,
        A warhorse of the best, and near it stood
        The two that out of north had followed him:
        This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held
        The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed
        A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel,
        A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down,
        And from it like a fuel-smothered fire,
        That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those
        Dull-coated things, that making slide apart
        Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns
        A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly.
        So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms.
        Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield
        And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain
        Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt
        With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest
        The people, while from out of kitchen came
        The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked
        Lustier than any, and whom they could but love,
        Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried,
        'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!'
        And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode
        Down the slope street, and past without the gate.

        So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur
        Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause
        Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named,
        His owner, but remembers all, and growls
        Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door
        Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used
        To harry and hustle.

        'Bound upon a quest
        With horse and arms--the King hath past his time--
        My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again,
        For an your fire be low ye kindle mine!
        Will there be dawn in West and eve in East?
        Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow
        Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth
        So shook his wits they wander in his prime--
        Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice,
        Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave.
        Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me,
        Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing.
        Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn
        Whether he know me for his master yet.
        Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance
        Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire--
        Thence, if the King awaken from his craze,
        Into the smoke again.'

        But Lancelot said,
        'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King,
        For that did never he whereon ye rail,
        But ever meekly served the King in thee?
        Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great
        And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.'
        'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine
        To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:'
        Then mounted, on through silent faces rode
        Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

        But by the field of tourney lingering yet
        Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King
        Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least
        He might have yielded to me one of those
        Who tilt for lady's love and glory here,
        Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him--
        His kitchen-knave.'

        To whom Sir Gareth drew
        (And there were none but few goodlier than he)
        Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine.
        Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one
        That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt,
        And deems it carrion of some woodland thing,
        Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose
        With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence!
        Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease.
        And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay.
        'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay.
        We lack thee by the hearth.'

        And Gareth to him,
        'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay--
        The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.'
        'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay
        Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again,
        'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled.

        But after sod and shingle ceased to fly
        Behind her, and the heart of her good horse
        Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat,
        Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.

        'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?
        Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more
        Or love thee better, that by some device
        Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,
        Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!--
        Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me
        Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.'

        'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say
        Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say,
        I leave not till I finish this fair quest,
        Or die therefore.'

        'Ay, wilt thou finish it?
        Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!
        The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.
        But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,
        And then by such a one that thou for all
        The kitchen brewis that was ever supt
        Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.'

        'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile
        That maddened her, and away she flashed again
        Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,
        And Gareth following was again beknaved.

        'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way
        Where Arthur's men are set along the wood;
        The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:
        If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,
        Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?
        Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.'

        So till the dusk that followed evensong
        Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;
        Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,
        Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines
        A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink
        To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere,
        Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,
        Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts
        Ascended, and there brake a servingman
        Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,
        'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.'
        Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged,
        But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.'
        And when the damsel spake contemptuously,
        'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again,
        'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines
        He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere,
        And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed,
        Saw six tall men haling a seventh along,
        A stone about his neck to drown him in it.
        Three with good blows he quieted, but three
        Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone
        From off his neck, then in the mere beside
        Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere.
        Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet
        Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend.

        'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues
        Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs
        To hate me, for my wont hath ever been
        To catch my thief, and then like vermin here
        Drown him, and with a stone about his neck;
        And under this wan water many of them
        Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone,
        And rise, and flickering in a grimly light
        Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life
        Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood.
        And fain would I reward thee worshipfully.
        What guerdon will ye?'
        Gareth sharply spake,
        'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed,
        In uttermost obedience to the King.
        But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?'

        Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe
        You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh
        Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth,
        And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!--
        But deem not I accept thee aught the more,
        Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit
        Down on a rout of craven foresters.
        A thresher with his flail had scattered them.
        Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still.
        But an this lord will yield us harbourage,
        Well.'

        So she spake. A league beyond the wood,
        All in a full-fair manor and a rich,
        His towers where that day a feast had been
        Held in high hall, and many a viand left,
        And many a costly cate, received the three.
        And there they placed a peacock in his pride
        Before the damsel, and the Baron set
        Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.

        'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy,
        Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side.
        Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall,
        And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot
        To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night--
        The last a monster unsubduable
        Of any save of him for whom I called--
        Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave,
        "The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I,
        And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I."
        Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies,
        "Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him--
        Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine
        Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong,
        Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.'

        Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord
        Now looked at one and now at other, left
        The damsel by the peacock in his pride,
        And, seating Gareth at another board,
        Sat down beside him, ate and then began.

        'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not,
        Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy,
        And whether she be mad, or else the King,
        Or both or neither, or thyself be mad,
        I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke,
        For strong thou art and goodly therewithal,
        And saver of my life; and therefore now,
        For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh
        Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back
        To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King.
        Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail,
        The saver of my life.'

        And Gareth said,
        'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest,
        Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.'

        So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved
        Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way
        And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake,
        'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied.

        'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour.
        Lion and stout have isled together, knave,
        In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks
        Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool?
        For hard by here is one will overthrow
        And slay thee: then will I to court again,
        And shame the King for only yielding me
        My champion from the ashes of his hearth.'

        To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously,
        'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed.
        Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find
        My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay
        Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.'

        Then to the shore of one of those long loops
        Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came.
        Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream
        Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc
        Took at a leap; and on the further side
        Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold
        In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue,
        Save that the dome was purple, and above,
        Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering.
        And therebefore the lawless warrior paced
        Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he,
        The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall?
        For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said,
        'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn
        Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here
        His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself:
        See that he fall not on thee suddenly,
        And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.'

        Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn,
        And servants of the Morning-Star, approach,
        Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds
        Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls
        In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet
        In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair
        All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem
        Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine.
        These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield
        Blue also, and thereon the morning star.
        And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight,
        Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought,
        Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone
        Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly,
        The gay pavilion and the naked feet,
        His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star.

        Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so?
        Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time:
        Flee down the valley before he get to horse.
        Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.'

        Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight,
        Far liefer had I fight a score of times
        Than hear thee so missay me and revile.
        Fair words were best for him who fights for thee;
        But truly foul are better, for they send
        That strength of anger through mine arms, I know
        That I shall overthrow him.'

        And he that bore
        The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge,
        'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me!
        Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn.
        For this were shame to do him further wrong
        Than set him on his feet, and take his horse
        And arms, and so return him to the King.
        Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave.
        Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave
        To ride with such a lady.'

        'Dog, thou liest.
        I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.'
        He spake; and all at fiery speed the two
        Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear
        Bent but not brake, and either knight at once,
        Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult
        Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge,
        Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew,
        And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand
        He drave his enemy backward down the bridge,
        The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!'
        Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke
        Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground.

        Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.'
        And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me
        Good--I accord it easily as a grace.'
        She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee?
        I bound to thee for any favour asked!'
        'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced
        His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked,
        'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay
        One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge
        Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight,
        Thy life is thine at her command. Arise
        And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say
        His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave
        His pardon for thy breaking of his laws.
        Myself, when I return, will plead for thee.
        Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou,
        Lead, and I follow.'

        And fast away she fled.
        Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought,
        Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge
        The savour of thy kitchen came upon me
        A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed:
        I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang,
        '"O morning star" (not that tall felon there
        Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness
        Or some device, hast foully overthrown),
        "O morning star that smilest in the blue,
        O star, my morning dream hath proven true,
        Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me."

        'But thou begone, take counsel, and away,
        For hard by here is one that guards a ford--
        The second brother in their fool's parable--
        Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot.
        Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.'

        To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly,
        'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave.
        When I was kitchen-knave among the rest
        Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates
        Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat,
        "Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it.
        And such a coat art thou, and thee the King
        Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I,
        To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave--
        The knave that doth thee service as full knight
        Is all as good, meseems, as any knight
        Toward thy sister's freeing.'

        'Ay, Sir Knave!
        Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight,
        Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.'

        'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more,
        That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.'

        'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.'

        So when they touched the second river-loop,
        Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail
        Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun
        Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower,
        That blows a globe of after arrowlets,
        Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield,
        All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots
        Before them when he turned from watching him.
        He from beyond the roaring shallow roared,
        'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?'
        And she athwart the shallow shrilled again,
        'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall
        Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.'
        'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red
        And cipher face of rounded foolishness,
        Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford,
        Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there
        For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck
        With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight
        Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun
        Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth,
        The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream
        Descended, and the Sun was washed away.

        Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford;
        So drew him home; but he that fought no more,
        As being all bone-battered on the rock,
        Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King,
        'Myself when I return will plead for thee.'
        'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led.
        'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?'
        'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here.
        There lies a ridge of slate across the ford;
        His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it.

        '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave,
        Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness),
        "O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain,
        O moon, that layest all to sleep again,
        Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."

        What knowest thou of lovesong or of love?
        Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born,
        Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,--

        '"O dewy flowers that open to the sun,
        O dewy flowers that close when day is done,
        Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."

        'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike,
        To garnish meats with? hath not our good King
        Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom,
        A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round
        The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head?
        Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay.

        '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky,
        O birds that warble as the day goes by,
        Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me."

        'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle,
        Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth
        May-music growing with the growing light,
        Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare
        (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit,
        Larding and basting. See thou have not now
        Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly.
        There stands the third fool of their allegory.'

        For there beyond a bridge of treble bow,
        All in a rose-red from the west, and all
        Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad
        Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight,
        That named himself the Star of Evening, stood.

        And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there
        Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried,
        'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins
        That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave
        His armour off him, these will turn the blade.'

        Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge,
        'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low?
        Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain
        The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried,

        'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven
        With all disaster unto thine and thee!
        For both thy younger brethren have gone down
        Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star;
        Art thou not old?'
        'Old, damsel, old and hard,
        Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.'
        Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag!
        But that same strength which threw the Morning Star
        Can throw the Evening.'

        Then that other blew
        A hard and deadly note upon the horn.
        'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out
        An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained
        Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came,
        And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm
        With but a drying evergreen for crest,
        And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even
        Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone.
        But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow,
        They madly hurled together on the bridge;
        And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew,
        There met him drawn, and overthrew him again,
        But up like fire he started: and as oft
        As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees,
        So many a time he vaulted up again;
        Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart,
        Foredooming all his trouble was in vain,
        Laboured within him, for he seemed as one
        That all in later, sadder age begins
        To war against ill uses of a life,
        But these from all his life arise, and cry,
        'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!'
        He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike
        Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while,
        'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave--
        O knave, as noble as any of all the knights--
        Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied--
        Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round--
        His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin--
        Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.'
        And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,
        And hewed great pieces of his armour off him,
        But lashed in vain against the hardened skin,
        And could not wholly bring him under, more
        Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,
        The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs
        For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand
        Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.
        'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang,
        And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms
        Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,
        Strangled, but straining even his uttermost
        Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge
        Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried,
        'Lead, and I follow.'

        But the damsel said,
        'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;
        Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.

        '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain,
        O rainbow with three colours after rain,
        Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me."

        'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight,
        But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,--
        Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled,
        Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King
        Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend,
        For thou hast ever answered courteously,
        And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal
        As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave,
        Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.'

        'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame,
        Saving that you mistrusted our good King
        Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one
        Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say;
        Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold
        He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet
        To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
        His heart be stirred with any foolish heat
        At any gentle damsel's waywardness.
        Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me:
        And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks
        There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self,
        Hath force to quell me.'
        Nigh upon that hour
        When the lone hern forgets his melancholy,
        Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams
        Of goodly supper in the distant pool,
        Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him,
        And told him of a cavern hard at hand,
        Where bread and baken meats and good red wine
        Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors
        Had sent her coming champion, waited him.

        Anon they past a narrow comb wherein
        Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse
        Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues.
        'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here,
        Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock
        The war of Time against the soul of man.
        And yon four fools have sucked their allegory
        From these damp walls, and taken but the form.
        Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read--
        In letters like to those the vexillary
        Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt--
        'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'--
        'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armd men,
        Slab after slab, their faces forward all,
        And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled
        With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair,
        For help and shelter to the hermit's cave.
        'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look,
        Who comes behind?'

        For one--delayed at first
        Through helping back the dislocated Kay
        To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced,
        The damsel's headlong error through the wood--
        Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops--
        His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew
        Behind the twain, and when he saw the star
        Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried,
        'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.'
        And Gareth crying pricked against the cry;
        But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch
        Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world--
        Went sliding down so easily, and fell,
        That when he found the grass within his hands
        He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette:
        Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown,
        And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave,
        Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?'
        'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son
        Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent,
        And victor of the bridges and the ford,
        And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom
        I know not, all through mere unhappiness--
        Device and sorcery and unhappiness--
        Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince,
        O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness
        Of one who came to help thee, not to harm,
        Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole,
        As on the day when Arthur knighted him.'

        Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand
        That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast
        Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance--
        Had sent thee down before a lesser spear,
        Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!'

        Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot,
        Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now
        Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave,
        Who being still rebuked, would answer still
        Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight,
        The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked,
        And only wondering wherefore played upon:
        And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned.
        Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall,
        In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool,
        I hate thee and for ever.'

        And Lancelot said,
        'Blessd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou
        To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise
        To call him shamed, who is but overthrown?
        Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time.
        Victor from vanquished issues at the last,
        And overthrower from being overthrown.
        With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse
        And thou are weary; yet not less I felt
        Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine.
        Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed,
        And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes,
        And when reviled, hast answered graciously,
        And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight
        Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!'

        And then when turning to Lynette he told
        The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said,
        'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled
        Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave,
        Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks
        And forage for the horse, and flint for fire.
        But all about it flies a honeysuckle.
        Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found,
        Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life
        Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed.
        'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou.
        Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him
        As any mother? Ay, but such a one
        As all day long hath rated at her child,
        And vext his day, but blesses him asleep--
        Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle
        In the hushed night, as if the world were one
        Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness!
        O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands--
        'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave
        Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I,
        Else yon black felon had not let me pass,
        To bring thee back to do the battle with him.
        Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first;
        Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave
        Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.'

        Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name,
        May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will,
        Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh,
        Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well
        As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said,
        'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.'

        And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield;
        'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears
        Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar!
        Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!--
        Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you.
        O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these
        Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame
        Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield.
        Hence: let us go.'

        Silent the silent field
        They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan,
        In counter motion to the clouds, allured
        The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege.
        A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!'
        An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!'
        Suddenly she that rode upon his left
        Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying,
        'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight:
        I curse the tongue that all through yesterday
        Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now
        To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done;
        Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow
        In having flung the three: I see thee maimed,
        Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.'

        'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know.
        You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice,
        Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery
        Appal me from the quest.'

        'Nay, Prince,' she cried,
        'God wot, I never looked upon the face,
        Seeing he never rides abroad by day;
        But watched him have I like a phantom pass
        Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice.
        Always he made his mouthpiece of a page
        Who came and went, and still reported him
        As closing in himself the strength of ten,
        And when his anger tare him, massacring
        Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe!
        Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh,
        Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first,
        The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.'

        Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this,
        Belike he wins it as the better man:
        Thus--and not else!'

        But Lancelot on him urged
        All the devisings of their chivalry
        When one might meet a mightier than himself;
        How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield,
        And so fill up the gap where force might fail
        With skill and fineness. Instant were his words.

        Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one--
        To dash against mine enemy and win.
        Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust,
        And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette.

        Then for a space, and under cloud that grew
        To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode
        In converse till she made her palfrey halt,
        Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.'
        And all the three were silent seeing, pitched
        Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field,
        A huge pavilion like a mountain peak
        Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge,
        Black, with black banner, and a long black horn
        Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt,
        And so, before the two could hinder him,
        Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn.
        Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon
        Came lights and lights, and once again he blew;
        Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down
        And muffled voices heard, and shadows past;
        Till high above him, circled with her maids,
        The Lady Lyonors at a window stood,
        Beautiful among lights, and waving to him
        White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince
        Three times had blown--after long hush--at last--
        The huge pavilion slowly yielded up,
        Through those black foldings, that which housed therein.
        High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms,
        With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death,
        And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps--
        In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced
        The monster, and then paused, and spake no word.

        But Gareth spake and all indignantly,
        'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten,
        Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given,
        But must, to make the terror of thee more,
        Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries
        Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod,
        Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers
        As if for pity?' But he spake no word;
        Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned;
        The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept,
        As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death;
        Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm;
        And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt
        Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast.

        At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed,
        And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him.
        Then those that did not blink the terror, saw
        That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose.
        But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull.
        Half fell to right and half to left and lay.
        Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm
        As throughly as the skull; and out from this
        Issued the bright face of a blooming boy
        Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight,
        Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it,
        To make a horror all about the house,
        And stay the world from Lady Lyonors.
        They never dreamed the passes would be past.'
        Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one
        Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child,
        What madness made thee challenge the chief knight
        Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it.
        They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend,
        They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream,
        They never dreamed the passes could be past.'

        Then sprang the happier day from underground;
        And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance
        And revel and song, made merry over Death,
        As being after all their foolish fears
        And horrors only proven a blooming boy.
        So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest.

        And he that told the tale in older times
        Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors,
        But he, that told it later, says Lynette.

      Up

      Geraint And Enid

        O purblind race of miserable men,
        How many among us at this very hour
        Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,
        By taking true for false, or false for true;
        Here, through the feeble twilight of this world
        Groping, how many, until we pass and reach
        That other, where we see as we are seen!

        So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth
        That morning, when they both had got to horse,
        Perhaps because he loved her passionately,
        And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,
        Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce
        Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:
        'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,
        Ever a good way on before; and this
        I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,
        Whatever happens, not to speak to me,
        No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast;
        And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,
        When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am,
        I will not fight my way with gilded arms,
        All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse,
        Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire.
        So the last sight that Enid had of home
        Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown
        With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire
        Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again,
        'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks
        Through which he bad her lead him on, they past
        The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,
        Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,
        And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:
        Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon:
        A stranger meeting them had surely thought
        They rode so slowly and they looked so pale,
        That each had suffered some exceeding wrong.
        For he was ever saying to himself,
        'O I that wasted time to tend upon her,
        To compass her with sweet observances,
        To dress her beautifully and keep her true'--
        And there he broke the sentence in his heart
        Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue
        May break it, when his passion masters him.
        And she was ever praying the sweet heavens
        To save her dear lord whole from any wound.
        And ever in her mind she cast about
        For that unnoticed failing in herself,
        Which made him look so cloudy and so cold;
        Till the great plover's human whistle amazed
        Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared
        In ever wavering brake an ambuscade.
        Then thought again, 'If there be such in me,
        I might amend it by the grace of Heaven,
        If he would only speak and tell me of it.'

        But when the fourth part of the day was gone,
        Then Enid was aware of three tall knights
        On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock
        In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all;
        And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look,
        Here comes a laggard hanging down his head,
        Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound;
        Come, we will slay him and will have his horse
        And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.'

        Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said:
        'I will go back a little to my lord,
        And I will tell him all their caitiff talk;
        For, be he wroth even to slaying me,
        Far liefer by his dear hand had I die,
        Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.'

        Then she went back some paces of return,
        Met his full frown timidly firm, and said;
        'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock
        Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast
        That they would slay you, and possess your horse
        And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.'

        He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wish
        Your warning or your silence? one command
        I laid upon you, not to speak to me,
        And thus ye keep it! Well then, look--for now,
        Whether ye wish me victory or defeat,
        Long for my life, or hunger for my death,
        Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.'

        Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful,
        And down upon him bare the bandit three.
        And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint
        Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast
        And out beyond; and then against his brace
        Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him
        A lance that splintered like an icicle,
        Swung from his brand a windy buffet out
        Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain
        Or slew them, and dismounting like a man
        That skins the wild beast after slaying him,
        Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born
        The three gay suits of armour which they wore,
        And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits
        Of armour on their horses, each on each,
        And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
        Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
        Before you;' and she drove them through the waste.

        He followed nearer; ruth began to work
        Against his anger in him, while he watched
        The being he loved best in all the world,
        With difficulty in mild obedience
        Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her,
        And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath
        And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within;
        But evermore it seemed an easier thing
        At once without remorse to strike her dead,
        Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face
        Accuse her of the least immodesty:
        And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more
        That she COULD speak whom his own ear had heard
        Call herself false: and suffering thus he made
        Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time
        Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,
        Before he turn to fall seaward again,
        Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold
        In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,
        Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,
        Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed,
        Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord,
        And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize!
        Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,
        And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.'
        'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.'
        The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.'
        The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one?
        Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.'

        And Enid pondered in her heart and said,
        'I will abide the coming of my lord,
        And I will tell him all their villainy.
        My lord is weary with the fight before,
        And they will fall upon him unawares.
        I needs must disobey him for his good;
        How should I dare obey him to his harm?
        Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it,
        I save a life dearer to me than mine.'

        And she abode his coming, and said to him
        With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?'
        He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke.

        'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood,
        And each of them is wholly armed, and one
        Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say
        That they will fall upon you while ye pass.'

        To which he flung a wrathful answer back:
        'And if there were an hundred in the wood,
        And every man were larger-limbed than I,
        And all at once should sally out upon me,
        I swear it would not ruffle me so much
        As you that not obey me. Stand aside,
        And if I fall, cleave to the better man.'

        And Enid stood aside to wait the event,
        Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe
        Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath.
        And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him.
        Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's,
        A little in the late encounter strained,
        Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home,
        And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled,
        And there lay still; as he that tells the tale
        Saw once a great piece of a promontory,
        That had a sapling growing on it, slide
        From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach,
        And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew:
        So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair
        Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince,
        When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood;
        On whom the victor, to confound them more,
        Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one,
        That listens near a torrent mountain-brook,
        All through the crash of the near cataract hears
        The drumming thunder of the huger fall
        At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear
        His voice in battle, and be kindled by it,
        And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned
        Flying, but, overtaken, died the death
        Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

        Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance
        That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves
        Their three gay suits of armour, each from each,
        And bound them on their horses, each on each,
        And tied the bridle-reins of all the three
        Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on
        Before you,' and she drove them through the wood.

        He followed nearer still: the pain she had
        To keep them in the wild ways of the wood,
        Two sets of three laden with jingling arms,
        Together, served a little to disedge
        The sharpness of that pain about her heart:
        And they themselves, like creatures gently born
        But into bad hands fallen, and now so long
        By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt
        Her low firm voice and tender government.

        So through the green gloom of the wood they past,
        And issuing under open heavens beheld
        A little town with towers, upon a rock,
        And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased
        In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it:
        And down a rocky pathway from the place
        There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand
        Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint
        Had ruth again on Enid looking pale:
        Then, moving downward to the meadow ground,
        He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said,
        'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.'
        'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou,
        My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse,
        And only meet for mowers;' then set down
        His basket, and dismounting on the sward
        They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.
        And Enid took a little delicately,
        Less having stomach for it than desire
        To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint
        Ate all the mowers' victual unawares,
        And when he found all empty, was amazed;
        And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take
        A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.'
        He, reddening in extremity of delight,
        'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.'
        'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince.
        'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy,
        'Not guerdon; for myself can easily,
        While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch
        Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl;
        For these are his, and all the field is his,
        And I myself am his; and I will tell him
        How great a man thou art: he loves to know
        When men of mark are in his territory:
        And he will have thee to his palace here,
        And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.'

        Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare:
        I never ate with angrier appetite
        Than when I left your mowers dinnerless.
        And into no Earl's palace will I go.
        I know, God knows, too much of palaces!
        And if he want me, let him come to me.
        But hire us some fair chamber for the night,
        And stalling for the horses, and return
        With victual for these men, and let us know.'

        'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went,
        Held his head high, and thought himself a knight,
        And up the rocky pathway disappeared,
        Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

        But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes
        Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance
        At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom,
        That shadow of mistrust should never cross
        Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed;
        Then with another humorous ruth remarked
        The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless,
        And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe,
        And after nodded sleepily in the heat.
        But she, remembering her old ruined hall,
        And all the windy clamour of the daws
        About her hollow turret, plucked the grass
        There growing longest by the meadow's edge,
        And into many a listless annulet,
        Now over, now beneath her marriage ring,
        Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned
        And told them of a chamber, and they went;
        Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will,
        Call for the woman of the house,' to which
        She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained
        Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute
        As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth,
        Or two wild men supporters of a shield,
        Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance
        The one at other, parted by the shield.

        On a sudden, many a voice along the street,
        And heel against the pavement echoing, burst
        Their drowse; and either started while the door,
        Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall,
        And midmost of a rout of roisterers,
        Femininely fair and dissolutely pale,
        Her suitor in old years before Geraint,
        Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours.
        He moving up with pliant courtliness,
        Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily,
        In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand,
        Found Enid with the corner of his eye,
        And knew her sitting sad and solitary.
        Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer
        To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously
        According to his fashion, bad the host
        Call in what men soever were his friends,
        And feast with these in honour of their Earl;
        'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.'

        And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours
        Drank till he jested with all ease, and told
        Free tales, and took the word and played upon it,
        And made it of two colours; for his talk,
        When wine and free companions kindled him,
        Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem
        Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince
        To laughter and his comrades to applause.
        Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours,
        'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak
        To your good damsel there who sits apart,
        And seems so lonely?' 'My free leave,' he said;
        'Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.'
        Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet,
        Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail,
        Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes,
        Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly:

        'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,
        Enid, my early and my only love,
        Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild--
        What chance is this? how is it I see you here?
        Ye are in my power at last, are in my power.
        Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild,
        But keep a touch of sweet civility
        Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.
        I thought, but that your father came between,
        In former days you saw me favourably.
        And if it were so do not keep it back:
        Make me a little happier: let me know it:
        Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost?
        Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are.
        And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy,
        Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him,
        You come with no attendance, page or maid,
        To serve you--doth he love you as of old?
        For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know
        Though men may bicker with the things they love,
        They would not make them laughable in all eyes,
        Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress,
        A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks
        Your story, that this man loves you no more.
        Your beauty is no beauty to him now:
        A common chance--right well I know it--palled--
        For I know men: nor will ye win him back,
        For the man's love once gone never returns.
        But here is one who loves you as of old;
        With more exceeding passion than of old:
        Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round:
        He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up;
        They understand: nay; I do not mean blood:
        Nor need ye look so scared at what I say:
        My malice is no deeper than a moat,
        No stronger than a wall: there is the keep;
        He shall not cross us more; speak but the word:
        Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me
        The one true lover whom you ever owned,
        I will make use of all the power I have.
        O pardon me! the madness of that hour,
        When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.'

        At this the tender sound of his own voice
        And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it,
        Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes,
        Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast;
        And answered with such craft as women use,
        Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
        That breaks upon them perilously, and said:

        'Earl, if you love me as in former years,
        And do not practise on me, come with morn,
        And snatch me from him as by violence;
        Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.'

        Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume
        Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl,
        And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night.
        He moving homeward babbled to his men,
        How Enid never loved a man but him,
        Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.

        But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint,
        Debating his command of silence given,
        And that she now perforce must violate it,
        Held commune with herself, and while she held
        He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart
        To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased
        To find him yet unwounded after fight,
        And hear him breathing low and equally.
        Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped
        The pieces of his armour in one place,
        All to be there against a sudden need;
        Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled
        By that day's grief and travel, evermore
        Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then
        Went slipping down horrible precipices,
        And strongly striking out her limbs awoke;
        Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door,
        With all his rout of random followers,
        Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her;
        Which was the red cock shouting to the light,
        As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world,
        And glimmered on his armour in the room.
        And once again she rose to look at it,
        But touched it unawares: jangling, the casque
        Fell, and he started up and stared at her.
        Then breaking his command of silence given,
        She told him all that Earl Limours had said,
        Except the passage that he loved her not;
        Nor left untold the craft herself had used;
        But ended with apology so sweet,
        Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed
        So justified by that necessity,
        That though he thought 'was it for him she wept
        In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan,
        Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools
        And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring
        Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out
        Among the heavy breathings of the house,
        And like a household Spirit at the walls
        Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned:
        Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked,
        In silence, did him service as a squire;
        Till issuing armed he found the host and cried,
        'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take
        Five horses and their armours;' and the host
        Suddenly honest, answered in amaze,
        'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!'
        'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince,
        And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today
        I charge you, Enid, more especially,
        What thing soever ye may hear, or see,
        Or fancy (though I count it of small use
        To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.'

        And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know
        Your wish, and would obey; but riding first,
        I hear the violent threats you do not hear,
        I see the danger which you cannot see:
        Then not to give you warning, that seems hard;
        Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.'

        'Yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise;
        Seeing that ye are wedded to a man,
        Not all mismated with a yawning clown,
        But one with arms to guard his head and yours,
        With eyes to find you out however far,
        And ears to hear you even in his dreams.'

        With that he turned and looked as keenly at her
        As careful robins eye the delver's toil;
        And that within her, which a wanton fool,
        Or hasty judger would have called her guilt,
        Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall.
        And Geraint looked and was not satisfied.

        Then forward by a way which, beaten broad,
        Led from the territory of false Limours
        To the waste earldom of another earl,
        Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull,
        Went Enid with her sullen follower on.
        Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride
        More near by many a rood than yestermorn,
        It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint
        Waving an angry hand as who should say
        'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again.
        But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade,
        The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof
        Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw
        Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it.
        Then not to disobey her lord's behest,
        And yet to give him warning, for he rode
        As if he heard not, moving back she held
        Her finger up, and pointed to the dust.
        At which the warrior in his obstinacy,
        Because she kept the letter of his word,
        Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood.
        And in the moment after, wild Limours,
        Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud
        Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm,
        Half ridden off with by the thing he rode,
        And all in passion uttering a dry shriek,
        Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore
        Down by the length of lance and arm beyond
        The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead,
        And overthrew the next that followed him,
        And blindly rushed on all the rout behind.
        But at the flash and motion of the man
        They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal
        Of darting fish, that on a summer morn
        Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot
        Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand,
        But if a man who stands upon the brink
        But lift a shining hand against the sun,
        There is not left the twinkle of a fin
        Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower;
        So, scared but at the motion of the man,
        Fled all the boon companions of the Earl,
        And left him lying in the public way;
        So vanish friendships only made in wine.

        Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint,
        Who saw the chargers of the two that fell
        Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly,
        Mixt with the flyers. 'Horse and man,' he said,
        'All of one mind and all right-honest friends!
        Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now
        Was honest--paid with horses and with arms;
        I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg:
        And so what say ye, shall we strip him there
        Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough
        To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine?
        No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray
        That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm,
        I too would still be honest.' Thus he said:
        And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins,
        And answering not one word, she led the way.

        But as a man to whom a dreadful loss
        Falls in a far land and he knows it not,
        But coming back he learns it, and the loss
        So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;
        So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked
        In combat with the follower of Limours,
        Bled underneath his armour secretly,
        And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife
        What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself,
        Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged;
        And at a sudden swerving of the road,
        Though happily down on a bank of grass,
        The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

        And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,
        Suddenly came, and at his side all pale
        Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,
        Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye
        Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,
        And tearing off her veil of faded silk
        Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,
        And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life.
        Then after all was done that hand could do,
        She rested, and her desolation came
        Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

        And many past, but none regarded her,
        For in that realm of lawless turbulence,
        A woman weeping for her murdered mate
        Was cared as much for as a summer shower:
        One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm,
        Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him:
        Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms,
        Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl;
        Half whistling and half singing a coarse song,
        He drove the dust against her veilless eyes:
        Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm
        Before an ever-fancied arrow, made
        The long way smoke beneath him in his fear;
        At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel,
        And scoured into the coppices and was lost,
        While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.

        But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm,
        Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard,
        Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey,
        Came riding with a hundred lances up;
        But ere he came, like one that hails a ship,
        Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?'
        'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste.
        'Would some of your people take him up,
        And bear him hence out of this cruel sun?
        Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.'

        Then said Earl Doorm: 'Well, if he be not dead,
        Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child.
        And be he dead, I count you for a fool;
        Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not,
        Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears.
        Yet, since the face IS comely--some of you,
        Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall:
        An if he live, we will have him of our band;
        And if he die, why earth has earth enough
        To hide him. See ye take the charger too,
        A noble one.'
        He spake, and past away,
        But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced,
        Each growling like a dog, when his good bone
        Seems to be plucked at by the village boys
        Who love to vex him eating, and he fears
        To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it,
        Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled,
        Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man,
        Their chance of booty from the morning's raid,
        Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier,
        Such as they brought upon their forays out
        For those that might be wounded; laid him on it
        All in the hollow of his shield, and took
        And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm,
        (His gentle charger following him unled)
        And cast him and the bier in which he lay
        Down on an oaken settle in the hall,
        And then departed, hot in haste to join
        Their luckier mates, but growling as before,
        And cursing their lost time, and the dead man,
        And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her.
        They might as well have blest her: she was deaf
        To blessing or to cursing save from one.

        So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,
        There in the naked hall, propping his head,
        And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.
        Till at the last he wakened from his swoon,
        And found his own dear bride propping his head,
        And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;
        And felt the warm tears falling on his face;
        And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:'
        And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead,
        That he might prove her to the uttermost,
        And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.'

        But in the falling afternoon returned
        The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.
        His lusty spearmen followed him with noise:
        Each hurling down a heap of things that rang
        Against his pavement, cast his lance aside,
        And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in,
        Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,
        A tribe of women, dressed in many hues,
        And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm
        Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board,
        And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears.
        And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,
        And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:
        And none spake word, but all sat down at once,
        And ate with tumult in the naked hall,
        Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;
        Till Enid shrank far back into herself,
        To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.
        But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,
        He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found
        A damsel drooping in a corner of it.
        Then he remembered her, and how she wept;
        And out of her there came a power upon him;
        And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat!
        I never yet beheld a thing so pale.
        God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.
        Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,
        For were I dead who is it would weep for me?
        Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath
        Have I beheld a lily like yourself.
        And so there lived some colour in your cheek,
        There is not one among my gentlewomen
        Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.
        But listen to me, and by me be ruled,
        And I will do the thing I have not done,
        For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,
        And we will live like two birds in one nest,
        And I will fetch you forage from all fields,
        For I compel all creatures to my will.'

        He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek
        Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared;
        While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn
        Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf
        And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear
        What shall not be recorded--women they,
        Women, or what had been those gracious things,
        But now desired the humbling of their best,
        Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once
        They hated her, who took no thought of them,
        But answered in low voice, her meek head yet
        Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy,
        He being as he is, to let me be.'

        She spake so low he hardly heard her speak,
        But like a mighty patron, satisfied
        With what himself had done so graciously,
        Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea,
        Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.'

        She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad
        Henceforth in all the world at anything,
        Until my lord arise and look upon me?'

        Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk,
        As all but empty heart and weariness
        And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her,
        And bare her by main violence to the board,
        And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.'

        'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat
        Till yonder man upon the bier arise,
        And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!'
        (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,)
        'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot,
        God's curse, with anger--often I myself,
        Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat:
        Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.'

        'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink
        Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it,
        And drink with me; and if he rise no more,
        I will not look at wine until I die.'

        At this he turned all red and paced his hall,
        Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip,
        And coming up close to her, said at last:
        'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies,
        Take warning: yonder man is surely dead;
        And I compel all creatures to my will.
        Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one,
        Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn
        By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I,
        Beholding how ye butt against my wish,
        That I forbear you thus: cross me no more.
        At least put off to please me this poor gown,
        This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed:
        I love that beauty should go beautifully:
        For see ye not my gentlewomen here,
        How gay, how suited to the house of one
        Who loves that beauty should go beautifully?
        Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.'

        He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen
        Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom,
        Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue
        Played into green, and thicker down the front
        With jewels than the sward with drops of dew,
        When all night long a cloud clings to the hill,
        And with the dawn ascending lets the day
        Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems.

        But Enid answered, harder to be moved
        Than hardest tyrants in their day of power,
        With life-long injuries burning unavenged,
        And now their hour has come; and Enid said:

        'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first,
        And loved me serving in my father's hall:
        In this poor gown I rode with him to court,
        And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun:
        In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself,
        When now we rode upon this fatal quest
        Of honour, where no honour can be gained:
        And this poor gown I will not cast aside
        Until himself arise a living man,
        And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough:
        Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be:
        I never loved, can never love but him:
        Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness,
        He being as he is, to let me be.'

        Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall,
        And took his russet beard between his teeth;
        Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood
        Crying, 'I count it of no more avail,
        Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you;
        Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand,
        However lightly, smote her on the cheek.

        Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,
        And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it,
        Except he surely knew my lord was dead,'
        Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,
        As of a wild thing taken in the trap,
        Which sees the trapper coming through the wood.

        This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,
        (It lay beside him in the hollow shield),
        Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it
        Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball
        The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.
        So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.
        And all the men and women in the hall
        Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled
        Yelling as from a spectre, and the two
        Were left alone together, and he said:

        'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;
        Done you more wrong: we both have undergone
        That trouble which has left me thrice your own:
        Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.
        And here I lay this penance on myself,
        Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn--
        You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,
        I heard you say, that you were no true wife:
        I swear I will not ask your meaning in it:
        I do believe yourself against yourself,
        And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'

        And Enid could not say one tender word,
        She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart:
        She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return
        And slay you; fly, your charger is without,
        My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you ride
        Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.'
        And moving out they found the stately horse,
        Who now no more a vassal to the thief,
        But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight,
        Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped
        With a low whinny toward the pair: and she
        Kissed the white star upon his noble front,
        Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse
        Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot
        She set her own and climbed; he turned his face
        And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms
        About him, and at once they rode away.

        And never yet, since high in Paradise
        O'er the four rivers the first roses blew,
        Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind
        Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour
        Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart,
        And felt him hers again: she did not weep,
        But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist
        Like that which kept the heart of Eden green
        Before the useful trouble of the rain:
        Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes
        As not to see before them on the path,
        Right in the gateway of the bandit hold,
        A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance
        In rest, and made as if to fall upon him.
        Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood,
        She, with her mind all full of what had chanced,
        Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!'
        'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she,
        Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd,
        Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again,
        'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.'
        And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake:
        'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love;
        I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm;
        And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him,
        Who love you, Prince, with something of the love
        Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us.
        For once, when I was up so high in pride
        That I was halfway down the slope to Hell,
        By overthrowing me you threw me higher.
        Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round,
        And since I knew this Earl, when I myself
        Was half a bandit in my lawless hour,
        I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm
        (The King is close behind me) bidding him
        Disband himself, and scatter all his powers,
        Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.'

        'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,'
        Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm
        Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field,
        Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll,
        Were men and women staring and aghast,
        While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told
        How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall.
        But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me,
        Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear
        Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured
        Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed,
        And hung his head, and halted in reply,
        Fearing the mild face of the blameless King,
        And after madness acted question asked:
        Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go
        To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,'
        'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went.
        But Enid in their going had two fears,
        One from the bandit scattered in the field,
        And one from Edyrn. Every now and then,
        When Edyrn reined his charger at her side,
        She shrank a little. In a hollow land,
        From which old fires have broken, men may fear
        Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said:

        'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause
        To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed.
        Yourself were first the blameless cause to make
        My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood
        Break into furious flame; being repulsed
        By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought
        Until I overturned him; then set up
        (With one main purpose ever at my heart)
        My haughty jousts, and took a paramour;
        Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair,
        And, toppling over all antagonism,
        So waxed in pride, that I believed myself
        Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad:
        And, but for my main purpose in these jousts,
        I should have slain your father, seized yourself.
        I lived in hope that sometime you would come
        To these my lists with him whom best you loved;
        And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes
        The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven,
        Behold me overturn and trample on him.
        Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me,
        I should not less have killed him. And so you came,--
        But once you came,--and with your own true eyes
        Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one
        Speaks of a service done him) overthrow
        My proud self, and my purpose three years old,
        And set his foot upon me, and give me life.
        There was I broken down; there was I saved:
        Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life
        He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.
        And all the penance the Queen laid upon me
        Was but to rest awhile within her court;
        Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,
        And waiting to be treated like a wolf,
        Because I knew my deeds were known, I found,
        Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,
        Such fine reserve and noble reticence,
        Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace
        Of tenderest courtesy, that I began
        To glance behind me at my former life,
        And find that it had been the wolf's indeed:
        And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint,
        Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,
        Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,
        Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.
        And you were often there about the Queen,
        But saw me not, or marked not if you saw;
        Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,
        But kept myself aloof till I was changed;
        And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.'

        He spoke, and Enid easily believed,
        Like simple noble natures, credulous
        Of what they long for, good in friend or foe,
        There most in those who most have done them ill.
        And when they reached the camp the King himself
        Advanced to greet them, and beholding her
        Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word,
        But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held
        In converse for a little, and returned,
        And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse,
        And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like,
        And showed an empty tent allotted her,
        And glancing for a minute, till he saw her
        Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said:

        'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave
        To move to your own land, and there defend
        Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof,
        As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be,
        By having looked too much through alien eyes,
        And wrought too long with delegated hands,
        Not used mine own: but now behold me come
        To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,
        With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked
        At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?
        This work of his is great and wonderful.
        His very face with change of heart is changed.
        The world will not believe a man repents:
        And this wise world of ours is mainly right.
        Full seldom doth a man repent, or use
        Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
        Of blood and custom wholly out of him,
        And make all clean, and plant himself afresh.
        Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart
        As I will weed this land before I go.
        I, therefore, made him of our Table Round,
        Not rashly, but have proved him everyway
        One of our noblest, our most valorous,
        Sanest and most obedient: and indeed
        This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself
        After a life of violence, seems to me
        A thousand-fold more great and wonderful
        Than if some knight of mine, risking his life,
        My subject with my subjects under him,
        Should make an onslaught single on a realm
        Of robbers, though he slew them one by one,
        And were himself nigh wounded to the death.'

        So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt
        His work was neither great nor wonderful,
        And past to Enid's tent; and thither came
        The King's own leech to look into his hurt;
        And Enid tended on him there; and there
        Her constant motion round him, and the breath
        Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,
        Filled all the genial courses of his blood
        With deeper and with ever deeper love,
        As the south-west that blowing Bala lake
        Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.

        But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt,
        The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes
        On each of all whom Uther left in charge
        Long since, to guard the justice of the King:
        He looked and found them wanting; and as now
        Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills
        To keep him bright and clean as heretofore,
        He rooted out the slothful officer
        Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong,
        And in their chairs set up a stronger race
        With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men
        To till the wastes, and moving everywhere
        Cleared the dark places and let in the law,
        And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.

        Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past
        With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.
        There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,
        And clothed her in apparel like the day.
        And though Geraint could never take again
        That comfort from their converse which he took
        Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon,
        He rested well content that all was well.
        Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,
        And fifty knights rode with them to the shores
        Of Severn, and they past to their own land.
        And there he kept the justice of the King
        So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts
        Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died:
        And being ever foremost in the chase,
        And victor at the tilt and tournament,
        They called him the great Prince and man of men.
        But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call
        Enid the Fair, a grateful people named
        Enid the Good; and in their halls arose
        The cry of children, Enids and Geraints
        Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more,
        But rested in her falty, till he crowned
        A happy life with a fair death, and fell
        Against the heathen of the Northern Sea
        In battle, fighting for the blameless King.

      Up

      Guinevere

        Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat
        There in the holy house at Almesbury
        Weeping, none with her save a little maid,
        A novice: one low light betwixt them burned
        Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad,
        Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,
        The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,
        Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

        For hither had she fled, her cause of flight
        Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast
        Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,
        Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this
        He chilled the popular praises of the King
        With silent smiles of slow disparagement;
        And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse,
        Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought
        To make disruption in the Table Round
        Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds
        Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims
        Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot.

        For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,
        Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may,
        Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned,
        That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,
        Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall
        To spy some secret scandal if he might,
        And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best
        Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court
        The wiliest and the worst; and more than this
        He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by
        Spied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand
        Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,
        So from the high wall and the flowering grove
        Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel,
        And cast him as a worm upon the way;
        But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust,
        He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man,
        Made such excuses as he might, and these
        Full knightly without scorn; for in those days
        No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn;
        But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him
        By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall,
        Scorn was allowed as part of his defect,
        And he was answered softly by the King
        And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp
        To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice
        Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went:
        But, ever after, the small violence done
        Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart,
        As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long
        A little bitter pool about a stone
        On the bare coast.

        But when Sir Lancelot told
        This matter to the Queen, at first she laughed
        Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall,
        Then shuddered, as the village wife who cries
        `I shudder, some one steps across my grave;'
        Then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed
        She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast,
        Would track her guilt until he found, and hers
        Would be for evermore a name of scorn.
        Henceforward rarely could she front in hall,
        Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face,
        Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye:
        Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul,
        To help it from the death that cannot die,
        And save it even in extremes, began
        To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours,
        Beside the placid breathings of the King,
        In the dead night, grim faces came and went
        Before her, or a vague spiritual fear--
        Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors,
        Heard by the watcher in a haunted house,
        That keeps the rust of murder on the walls--
        Held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed
        An awful dream; for then she seemed to stand
        On some vast plain before a setting sun,
        And from the sun there swiftly made at her
        A ghastly something, and its shadow flew
        Before it, till it touched her, and she turned--
        When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet,
        And blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it
        Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke.
        And all this trouble did not pass but grew;
        Till even the clear face of the guileless King,
        And trustful courtesies of household life,
        Became her bane; and at the last she said,
        `O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land,
        For if thou tarry we shall meet again,
        And if we meet again, some evil chance
        Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze
        Before the people, and our lord the King.'
        And Lancelot ever promised, but remained,
        And still they met and met. Again she said,
        `O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.'
        And then they were agreed upon a night
        (When the good King should not be there) to meet
        And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard.
        She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met
        And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye,
        Low on the border of her couch they sat
        Stammering and staring. It was their last hour,
        A madness of farewells. And Modred brought
        His creatures to the basement of the tower
        For testimony; and crying with full voice
        `Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused
        Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike
        Leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell
        Stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off,
        And all was still: then she, `The end is come,
        And I am shamed for ever;' and he said,
        `Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise,
        And fly to my strong castle overseas:
        There will I hide thee, till my life shall end,
        There hold thee with my life against the world.'
        She answered, `Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so?
        Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells.
        Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself!
        Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou
        Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly,
        For I will draw me into sanctuary,
        And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse,
        Set her thereon, and mounted on his own,
        And then they rode to the divided way,
        There kissed, and parted weeping: for he past,
        Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen,
        Back to his land; but she to Almesbury
        Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald,
        And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald
        Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan:
        And in herself she moaned `Too late, too late!'
        Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn,
        A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high,
        Croaked, and she thought, `He spies a field of death;
        For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea,
        Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court,
        Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.'

        And when she came to Almesbury she spake
        There to the nuns, and said, `Mine enemies
        Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,
        Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask
        Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time
        To tell you:' and her beauty, grace and power,
        Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared
        To ask it.

        So the stately Queen abode
        For many a week, unknown, among the nuns;
        Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought,
        Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift,
        But communed only with the little maid,
        Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness
        Which often lured her from herself; but now,
        This night, a rumour wildly blown about
        Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm,
        And leagued him with the heathen, while the King
        Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought,
        `With what a hate the people and the King
        Must hate me,' and bowed down upon her hands
        Silent, until the little maid, who brooked
        No silence, brake it, uttering, `Late! so late!
        What hour, I wonder, now?' and when she drew
        No answer, by and by began to hum
        An air the nuns had taught her; `Late, so late!'
        Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said,
        `O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing,
        Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.'
        Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.

        `Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
        Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
        Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

        `No light had we: for that we do repent;
        And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
        Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

        `No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
        O let us in, that we may find the light!
        Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.

        `Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
        O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet!
        No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.'

        So sang the novice, while full passionately,
        Her head upon her hands, remembering
        Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen.
        Then said the little novice prattling to her,
        `O pray you, noble lady, weep no more;
        But let my words, the words of one so small,
        Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,
        And if I do not there is penance given--
        Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow
        From evil done; right sure am I of that,
        Who see your tender grace and stateliness.
        But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's,
        And weighing find them less; for gone is he
        To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there,
        Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen;
        And Modred whom he left in charge of all,
        The traitor--Ah sweet lady, the King's grief
        For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm,
        Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours.
        For me, I thank the saints, I am not great.
        For if there ever come a grief to me
        I cry my cry in silence, and have done.
        None knows it, and my tears have brought me good:
        But even were the griefs of little ones
        As great as those of great ones, yet this grief
        Is added to the griefs the great must bear,
        That howsoever much they may desire
        Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud:
        As even here they talk at Almesbury
        About the good King and his wicked Queen,
        And were I such a King with such a Queen,
        Well might I wish to veil her wickedness,
        But were I such a King, it could not be.'

        Then to her own sad heart muttered the Queen,
        `Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?'
        But openly she answered, `Must not I,
        If this false traitor have displaced his lord,
        Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?'

        `Yea,' said the maid, `this is all woman's grief,
        That SHE is woman, whose disloyal life
        Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round
        Which good King Arthur founded, years ago,
        With signs and miracles and wonders, there
        At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.'

        Then thought the Queen within herself again,
        `Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?'
        But openly she spake and said to her,
        `O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls,
        What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round,
        Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs
        And simple miracles of thy nunnery?'

        To whom the little novice garrulously,
        `Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs
        And wonders ere the coming of the Queen.
        So said my father, and himself was knight
        Of the great Table--at the founding of it;
        And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said
        That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain
        After the sunset, down the coast, he heard
        Strange music, and he paused, and turning--there,
        All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse,
        Each with a beacon-star upon his head,
        And with a wild sea-light about his feet,
        He saw them--headland after headland flame
        Far on into the rich heart of the west:
        And in the light the white mermaiden swam,
        And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea,
        And sent a deep sea-voice through all the land,
        To which the little elves of chasm and cleft
        Made answer, sounding like a distant horn.
        So said my father--yea, and furthermore,
        Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods,
        Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy
        Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower,
        That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes
        When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed:
        And still at evenings on before his horse
        The flickering fairy-circle wheeled and broke
        Flying, and linked again, and wheeled and broke
        Flying, for all the land was full of life.
        And when at last he came to Camelot,
        A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand
        Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall;
        And in the hall itself was such a feast
        As never man had dreamed; for every knight
        Had whatsoever meat he longed for served
        By hands unseen; and even as he said
        Down in the cellars merry bloated things
        Shouldered the spigot, straddling on the butts
        While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men
        Before the coming of the sinful Queen.'

        Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly,
        `Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all,
        Spirits and men: could none of them foresee,
        Not even thy wise father with his signs
        And wonders, what has fallen upon the realm?'

        To whom the novice garrulously again,
        `Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said,
        Full many a noble war-song had he sung,
        Even in the presence of an enemy's fleet,
        Between the steep cliff and the coming wave;
        And many a mystic lay of life and death
        Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops,
        When round him bent the spirits of the hills
        With all their dewy hair blown back like flame:
        So said my father--and that night the bard
        Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King
        As wellnigh more than man, and railed at those
        Who called him the false son of Gorlos:
        For there was no man knew from whence he came;
        But after tempest, when the long wave broke
        All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos,
        There came a day as still as heaven, and then
        They found a naked child upon the sands
        Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea;
        And that was Arthur; and they fostered him
        Till he by miracle was approven King:
        And that his grave should be a mystery
        From all men, like his birth; and could he find
        A woman in her womanhood as great
        As he was in his manhood, then, he sang,
        The twain together well might change the world.
        But even in the middle of his song
        He faltered, and his hand fell from the harp,
        And pale he turned, and reeled, and would have fallen,
        But that they stayed him up; nor would he tell
        His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw
        This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?'

        Then thought the Queen, `Lo! they have set her on,
        Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns,
        To play upon me,' and bowed her head nor spake.
        Whereat the novice crying, with clasped hands,
        Shame on her own garrulity garrulously,
        Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue
        Full often, `and, sweet lady, if I seem
        To vex an ear too sad to listen to me,
        Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales
        Which my good father told me, check me too
        Nor let me shame my father's memory, one
        Of noblest manners, though himself would say
        Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died,
        Killed in a tilt, come next, five summers back,
        And left me; but of others who remain,
        And of the two first-famed for courtesy--
        And pray you check me if I ask amiss-
        But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved
        Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?'

        Then the pale Queen looked up and answered her,
        `Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight,
        Was gracious to all ladies, and the same
        In open battle or the tilting-field
        Forbore his own advantage, and the King
        In open battle or the tilting-field
        Forbore his own advantage, and these two
        Were the most nobly-mannered men of all;
        For manners are not idle, but the fruit
        Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.'

        `Yea,' said the maid, `be manners such fair fruit?'
        Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold
        Less noble, being, as all rumour runs,
        The most disloyal friend in all the world.'

        To which a mournful answer made the Queen:
        `O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls,
        What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights
        And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe?
        If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight,
        Were for one hour less noble than himself,
        Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire,
        And weep for her that drew him to his doom.'

        `Yea,' said the little novice, `I pray for both;
        But I should all as soon believe that his,
        Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's,
        As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be
        Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.'

        So she, like many another babbler, hurt
        Whom she would soothe, and harmed where she would heal;
        For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat
        Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried,
        `Such as thou art be never maiden more
        For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague
        And play upon, and harry me, petty spy
        And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake
        From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose,
        White as her veil, and stood before the Queen
        As tremulously as foam upon the beach
        Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly,
        And when the Queen had added `Get thee hence,'
        Fled frighted. Then that other left alone
        Sighed, and began to gather heart again,
        Saying in herself, `The simple, fearful child
        Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt,
        Simpler than any child, betrays itself.
        But help me, heaven, for surely I repent.
        For what is true repentance but in thought--
        Not even in inmost thought to think again
        The sins that made the past so pleasant to us:
        And I have sworn never to see him more,
        To see him more.'

        And even in saying this,
        Her memory from old habit of the mind
        Went slipping back upon the golden days
        In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came,
        Reputed the best knight and goodliest man,
        Ambassador, to lead her to his lord
        Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead
        Of his and her retinue moving, they,
        Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love
        And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time
        Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dreamed,)
        Rode under groves that looked a paradise
        Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth
        That seemed the heavens upbreaking through the earth,
        And on from hill to hill, and every day
        Beheld at noon in some delicious dale
        The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised
        For brief repast or afternoon repose
        By couriers gone before; and on again,
        Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw
        The Dragon of the great Pendragonship,
        That crowned the state pavilion of the King,
        Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well.

        But when the Queen immersed in such a trance,
        And moving through the past unconsciously,
        Came to that point where first she saw the King
        Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find
        Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold,
        High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him,
        `Not like my Lancelot'--while she brooded thus
        And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again,
        There rode an armd warrior to the doors.
        A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran,
        Then on a sudden a cry, `The King.' She sat
        Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armd feet
        Through the long gallery from the outer doors
        Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell,
        And grovelled with her face against the floor:
        There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair
        She made her face a darkness from the King:
        And in the darkness heard his armd feet
        Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice,
        Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's
        Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's:

        `Liest thou here so low, the child of one
        I honoured, happy, dead before thy shame?
        Well is it that no child is born of thee.
        The children born of thee are sword and fire,
        Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,
        The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts
        Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea;
        Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm,
        The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,
        Have everywhere about this land of Christ
        In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.
        And knowest thou now from whence I come--from him
        From waging bitter war with him: and he,
        That did not shun to smite me in worse way,
        Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,
        He spared to lift his hand against the King
        Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain;
        And many more, and all his kith and kin
        Clave to him, and abode in his own land.
        And many more when Modred raised revolt,
        Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave
        To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.
        And of this remnant will I leave a part,
        True men who love me still, for whom I live,
        To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,
        Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed.
        Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death.
        Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies
        Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom.
        Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,
        That I the King should greatly care to live;
        For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.
        Bear with me for the last time while I show,
        Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned.
        For when the Roman left us, and their law
        Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways
        Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed
        Of prowess done redressed a random wrong.
        But I was first of all the kings who drew
        The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
        The realms together under me, their Head,
        In that fair Order of my Table Round,
        A glorious company, the flower of men,
        To serve as model for the mighty world,
        And be the fair beginning of a time.
        I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
        To reverence the King, as if he were
        Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
        To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
        To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
        To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
        To honour his own word as if his God's,
        To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
        To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
        And worship her by years of noble deeds,
        Until they won her; for indeed I knew
        Of no more subtle master under heaven
        Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
        Not only to keep down the base in man,
        But teach high thought, and amiable words
        And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
        And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
        And all this throve before I wedded thee,
        Believing, "lo mine helpmate, one to feel
        My purpose and rejoicing in my joy."
        Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;
        Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt;
        Then others, following these my mightiest knights,
        And drawing foul ensample from fair names,
        Sinned also, till the loathsome opposite
        Of all my heart had destined did obtain,
        And all through thee! so that this life of mine
        I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong,
        Not greatly care to lose; but rather think
        How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,
        To sit once more within his lonely hall,
        And miss the wonted number of my knights,
        And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds
        As in the golden days before thy sin.
        For which of us, who might be left, could speak
        Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?
        And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk
        Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,
        And I should evermore be vext with thee
        In hanging robe or vacant ornament,
        Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.
        For think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord,
        Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee.
        I am not made of so slight elements.
        Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.
        I hold that man the worst of public foes
        Who either for his own or children's sake,
        To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife
        Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house:
        For being through his cowardice allowed
        Her station, taken everywhere for pure,
        She like a new disease, unknown to men,
        Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,
        Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps
        The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse
        With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.
        Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns!
        Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart
        Than thou reseated in thy place of light,
        The mockery of my people, and their bane.'

        He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch
        Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet.
        Far off a solitary trumpet blew.
        Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neighed
        At a friend's voice, and he spake again:

        `Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes,
        I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,
        I, whose vast pity almost makes me die
        To see thee, laying there thy golden head,
        My pride in happier summers, at my feet.
        The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law,
        The doom of treason and the flaming death,
        (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past.
        The pang--which while I weighed thy heart with one
        Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,
        Made my tears burn--is also past--in part.
        And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I,
        Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God
        Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest.
        But how to take last leave of all I loved?
        O golden hair, with which I used to play
        Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form,
        And beauty such as never woman wore,
        Until it became a kingdom's curse with thee--
        I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,
        But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's.
        I cannot take thy hand: that too is flesh,
        And in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh,
        Here looking down on thine polluted, cries
        "I loathe thee:" yet not less, O Guinevere,
        For I was ever virgin save for thee,
        My love through flesh hath wrought into my life
        So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.
        Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
        Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
        And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
        Hereafter in that world where all are pure
        We two may meet before high God, and thou
        Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know
        I am thine husband--not a smaller soul,
        Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,
        I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.
        Through the thick night I hear the trumpet blow:
        They summon me their King to lead mine hosts
        Far down to that great battle in the west,
        Where I must strike against the man they call
        My sister's son--no kin of mine, who leagues
        With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights,
        Traitors--and strike him dead, and meet myself
        Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.
        And thou remaining here wilt learn the event;
        But hither shall I never come again,
        Never lie by thy side; see thee no more--
        Farewell!'

        And while she grovelled at his feet,
        She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck,
        And in the darkness o'er her fallen head,
        Perceived the waving of his hands that blest.

        Then, listening till those armd steps were gone,
        Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found
        The casement: `peradventure,' so she thought,
        `If I might see his face, and not be seen.'
        And lo, he sat on horseback at the door!
        And near him the sad nuns with each a light
        Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen,
        To guard and foster her for evermore.
        And while he spake to these his helm was lowered,
        To which for crest the golden dragon clung
        Of Britain; so she did not see the face,
        Which then was as an angel's, but she saw,
        Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights,
        The Dragon of the great Pendragonship
        Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire.
        And even then he turned; and more and more
        The moony vapour rolling round the King,
        Who seemed the phantom of a Giant in it,
        Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray
        And grayer, till himself became as mist
        Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

        Then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud
        `Oh Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly,
        Then--as a stream that spouting from a cliff
        Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base
        Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale--
        Went on in passionate utterance:

        `Gone--my lord!
        Gone through my sin to slay and to be slain!
        And he forgave me, and I could not speak.
        Farewell? I should have answered his farewell.
        His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King,
        My own true lord! how dare I call him mine?
        The shadow of another cleaves to me,
        And makes me one pollution: he, the King,
        Called me polluted: shall I kill myself?
        What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,
        If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame;
        No, nor by living can I live it down.
        The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months
        The months will add themselves and make the years,
        The years will roll into the centuries,
        And mine will ever be a name of scorn.
        I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.
        Let the world be; that is but of the world.
        What else? what hope? I think there was a hope,
        Except he mocked me when he spake of hope;
        His hope he called it; but he never mocks,
        For mockery is the fume of little hearts.
        And blessd be the King, who hath forgiven
        My wickedness to him, and left me hope
        That in mine own heart I can live down sin
        And be his mate hereafter in the heavens
        Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord,
        Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint
        Among his warring senses, to thy knights--
        To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took
        Full easily all impressions from below,
        Would not look up, or half-despised the height
        To which I would not or I could not climb--
        I thought I could not breathe in that fine air
        That pure severity of perfect light--
        I yearned for warmth and colour which I found
        In Lancelot--now I see thee what thou art,
        Thou art the highest and most human too,
        Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none
        Will tell the King I love him though so late?
        Now--ere he goes to the great Battle? none:
        Myself must tell him in that purer life,
        But now it were too daring. Ah my God,
        What might I not have made of thy fair world,
        Had I but loved thy highest creature here?
        It was my duty to have loved the highest:
        It surely was my profit had I known:
        It would have been my pleasure had I seen.
        We needs must love the highest when we see it,
        Not Lancelot, nor another.'

        Here her hand
        Grasped, made her vail her eyes: she looked and saw
        The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her,
        `Yea, little maid, for am I not forgiven?'
        Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns
        All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed
        Within her, and she wept with these and said,

        `Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke
        The vast design and purpose of the King.
        O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls,
        Meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame."
        I must not scorn myself: he loves me still.
        Let no one dream but that he loves me still.
        So let me, if you do not shudder at me,
        Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;
        Wear black and white, and be a nun like you,
        Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts;
        Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,
        But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites;
        Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines;
        Do each low office of your holy house;
        Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole
        To poor sick people, richer in His eyes
        Who ransomed us, and haler too than I;
        And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;
        And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer
        The sombre close of that voluptuous day,
        Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.'

        She said: they took her to themselves; and she
        Still hoping, fearing `is it yet too late?'
        Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died.
        Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life,
        And for the power of ministration in her,
        And likewise for the high rank she had borne,
        Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived
        For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past
        To where beyond these voices there is peace.

      Up

      Hendecasyllabics

        O you chorus of indolent reviewers,
        Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,
        Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem
        All composed in a metre of Catullus,
        All in quantity, careful of my motion,
        Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,
        Lest I fall unawares before the people,
        Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.
        Should I flounder awhile without a tumble
        Thro' this metrification of Catullus,
        They should speak to me not without a welcome,
        All that chorus of indolent reviewers.
        Hard, hard, hard it is, only not to tumble,
        So fantastical is the dainty meter.
        Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me
        Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers.
        O blatant Magazines, regard me rather -
        Since I blush to belaud myself a moment -
        As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost
        Horticultural art, or half-coquette-like
        Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.

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      Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

        Home they brought her warrior dead:
        She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
        All her maidens, watching, said,
        ‘She must weep or she will die.’

        Then they praised him, soft and low,
        Called him worthy to be loved,
        Truest friend and noblest foe;
        Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

        Stole a maiden from her place,
        Lightly to the warrior stepped,
        Took the face-cloth from the face;
        Yet she neither moved nor wept.

        Rose a nurse of ninety years,
        Set his child upon her knee—
        Like summer tempest came her tears—
        ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

      Up

      How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate?

        How thought you that this thing could captivate?
        What are those graces that could make her dear,
        Who is not worth the notice of a sneer,
        To rouse the vapid devil of her hate?
        A speech conventional, so void of weight,
        That after it has buzzed about one's ear,
        'Twere rich refreshment for a week to hear
        The dentist babble or the barber prate;

        A hand displayed with many a little art;
        An eye that glances on her neighbor's dress;
        A foot too often shown for my regard;
        An angel's form -- a waiting-woman's heart;
        A perfect-featured face, expressionless,
        Insipid, as the Queen upon a card.

      Up

      Idylls Of The King: Song From The Marriage Of Geraint

        Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;
        Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud;
        Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

        Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
        With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
        Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

        Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
        Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
        For man is man and master of his fate.

        Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
        Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
        Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

      Up

      Idylls Of The King: The Last Tournament

        Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
        Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
        At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
        Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
        And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand,
        And from the crown thereof a carcanet
        Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize
        Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,
        Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"

        For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
        Far down beneath a winding wall of rock
        Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead.
        From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,
        Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air
        Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree
        Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind
        Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree
        Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,
        This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
        And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought
        A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,
        Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
        But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms
        Received, and after loved it tenderly,
        And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
        A moment, and her cares; till that young life
        Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold
        Past from her; and in time the carcanet
        Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:
        So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
        "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,
        And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize."

        To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne
        Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
        Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
        Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
        Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
        And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear."

        "Would rather you had let them fall," she cried,
        "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were,
        A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed,
        Not knowing they were lost as soon as given--
        Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
        Above the river--that unhappy child
        Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go
        With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
        Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,
        But the sweet body of a maiden babe.
        Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights
        May win them for the purest of my maids."

        She ended, and the cry of a great jousts
        With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways
        From Camelot in among the faded fields
        To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights
        Arm'd for a day of glory before the King.

        But on the hither side of that loud morn
        Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd
        From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose
        Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off,
        And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame,
        A churl, to whom indignantly the King,

        "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast
        Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend?
        Man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus?"

        Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth,
        Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump
        Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl,

        "He took them and he drave them to his tower--
        Some hold he was a table-knight of thine--
        A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he--
        Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight
        Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower;
        And when I cal'd upon thy name as one
        That doest right by gentle and by churl,
        Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain,
        Save that he aware me to a message, saying,
        'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I
        Have founded my Round Table in the North,
        And whatsoever his own knights have sworn
        My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say
        My tower is full of harlots, like his court,
        But mine are worthier, seeing they profess
        To be none other than themselves--and say
        My knights are all adulterers like his own,
        But mine are truer, seeing they profess
        To be none other; and say his hour is come,
        The heathen are upon him, his long lance
        Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.' "

        Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal,
        "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously
        Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole.
        The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave,
        Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam,
        Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades,
        Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom
        The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,
        Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now
        Make their last head like Satan in the North.
        My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower
        Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds,
        Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved,
        The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore.
        But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place
        Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field;
        For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it
        Only to yield my Queen her own again?
        Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?"


        Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well:
        Yet better if the King abide, and leave
        The leading of his younger knights to me.
        Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well."


        Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him,
        And while they stood without the doors, the King
        Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well?
        Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he
        Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'?
        The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance
        That only seems half-loyal to command,--
        A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence--
        Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights
        Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
        Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd,
        By noble deeds at one with noble vows,
        From flat confusion and brute violence,s
        Reel back into the beast, and be no more?"


        He spoke, and taking all his younger knights,
        Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd
        North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen,
        Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
        Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd.
        Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme
        Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows?
        From the great deep to the great deep he goes."


        But when the morning of a tournament,
        By these in earnest those in mockery call'd
        The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,
        Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,
        Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey,
        The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose,
        And down a streetway hung with folds of pure
        White samite, and by fountains running wine,
        Where children sat in white with cups of gold,
        Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps
        Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair.


        He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
        Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen
        White-robed in honour of the stainless child,
        And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank
        Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
        He look'd but once, and vail'd his eyes again.


        The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream
        To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll
        Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:
        And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf
        And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume
        Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one
        Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,
        When all the goodlier guests are past away,
        Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists.
        He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
        Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down
        Before his throne of arbitration cursed
        The dead babe and the follies of the King;
        And once the laces of a helmet crack'd,
        And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole,
        Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
        The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar
        An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
        But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest,
        And armour'd all in forest green, whereon
        There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
        And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,
        With ever-scattering berries, and on shield
        A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late
        From overseas in Brittany return'd,
        And marriage with a princess of that realm,
        Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods--
        Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain
        His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake
        The burthen off his heart in one full shock
        With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript
        And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
        Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those,
        That ware their ladies' colours on the casque,
        Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
        And there with gibes and flickering mockeries
        Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! O shame!
        What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
        The glory of our Round Table is no more."


        So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems,
        Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won?
        Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand
        Wherewith thou takest this, is red!" to whom
        Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood,
        Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this
        Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?
        Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart
        And might of limb, but mainly use and skill,
        Are winners in this pastime of our King.
        My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it--
        No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
        Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,
        Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
        Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine."


        And Tristram round the gallery made his horse
        Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying,
        "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each
        Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold
        This day my Queen of Beauty is not here."
        And most of these were mute, some anger'd, one
        Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," and one
        "The glory of our Round Table is no more."


        Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
        And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day
        Went glooming down in wet and weariness:
        But under her black brows a swarthy one
        Laugh'd shrilly, crying, "Praise the patient saints,
        Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
        Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
        The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year,
        Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.
        Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's
        And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity
        With all the kindlier colours of the field."


        So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast
        Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
        Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold
        Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
        And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
        Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
        With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;
        So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
        And glowing in all colours, the live grass,
        Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
        About the revels, and with mirth so loud
        Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
        And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
        Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
        Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.


        And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
        High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
        Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
        Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"
        Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
        "Belike for lack of wiser company;
        Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
        Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
        To know myself the wisest knight of all."
        "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry
        To dance without a catch, a roundelay
        To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp,
        And while he twangled little Dagonet stood
        Quiet as any water-sodden log
        Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook;
        But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
        And being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?"
        Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years
        Skip to the broken music of my brains
        Than any broken music thou canst make."
        Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
        "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?"
        And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the King's;
        For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
        Thou makest broken music with thy bride,
        Her daintier namesake down in Brittany--
        And so thou breakest Arthur's music, too."
        "Save for that broken music in thy brains,
        Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head.
        Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er,
        The life had flown, we sware but by the shell--
        I am but a fool to reason with a fool--
        Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down,
        Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears,
        And harken if my music be not true.


        "`Free love--free field--we love but while we may:
        The woods are hush'd, their music is no more:
        The leaf is dead, the yearning past away:
        New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er:
        New life, new love, to suit the newer day:
        New loves are sweet as those that went before:
        Free love--free field--we love but while we may.'


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


        But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
        "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
        Made to run wine?--but this had run itself
        All out like a long life to a sour end--
        And them that round it sat with golden cups
        To hand the wine to whosoever came--
        The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
        In honour of poor Innocence the babe,
        Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
        Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
        Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips
        Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
        'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank,
        Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud."


        And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes?
        Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?--
        Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool--
        'Fear God: honour the King--his one true knight--
        Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they
        Who knew thee swine enow before I came,
        Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King
        Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up
        It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;
        Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,
        A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still,
        For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine."


        And little Dagonet mincing with his feet,
        "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck
        In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch
        Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
        Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world
        Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.
        The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
        Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd--
        I have had my day and my philosophies--
        And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.
        Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese
        Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd
        On such a wire as musically as thou
        Some such fine song--but never a king's fool."


        And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese
        The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard
        Had such a mastery of his mystery
        That he could harp his wife up out of hell."


        Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,
        "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself
        Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,
        That harpest downward! dost thou know the star
        We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?"


        And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King
        Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,
        Glorying in each new glory, set his name
        High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven."


        And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land
        Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself
        To babble about him, all to show your wit--
        And whether he were King by courtesy,
        Or King by right--and so went harping down
        The black king's highway, got so far, and grew
        So witty that we play'd at ducks and drakes
        With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire.
        Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?"


        "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day."
        And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.
        It makes a silent music up in heaven,
        And I, and Arthur and the angels hear,
        And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk
        Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?"
        Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd,
        "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!
        Conceits himself as God that he can make
        Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk
        From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs
        And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!"


        And down the city Dagonet danced away;
        But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues
        And solitary passes of the wood
        Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west.
        Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt
        With ruby-circled neck, but evermore
        Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood
        Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye
        For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, or flew.
        Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,
        Unruffling waters re-collect the shape
        Of one that in them sees himself, return'd;
        But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,
        Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.


        So on for all that day from lawn to lawn
        Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length
        A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs
        Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself
        Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt
        Against a shower, dark in the golden grove
        Appearing, sent his fancy back to where
        She lived a moon in that low lodge with him:
        Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King,
        With six or seven, when Tristram was away,
        And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame
        Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,
        But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.


        And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt
        So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank
        Down on a drift of foliage random-blown;
        But could not rest for musing how to smoothe
        And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.
        Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all
        The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.
        But then what folly had sent him overseas
        After she left him lonely here? a name?
        Was it the name of one in Brittany,
        Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt
        Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name
        Allured him first, and then the maid herself,
        Who served him well with those white hands of hers,
        And loved him well, until himself had thought
        He loved her also, wedded easily,
        But left her all as easily, and return'd.
        The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes
        Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid
        His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.


        He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany
        Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,
        And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both
        Began to struggle for it, till his Queen
        Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red.
        Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red!
        These be no rubies, this is frozen blood,
        And melts within her hand--her hand is hot
        With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look,
        Is all as cool and white as any flower."
        Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then
        A whimpering of the spirit of the child,
        Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet.


        He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears
        Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,
        And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,
        The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh
        Glared on a huge machicolated tower
        That stood with open doors, where out was roll'd
        A roar of riot, as from men secure
        Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease
        Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.
        "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there,
        High on a grim dead tree before the tower,
        A goodly brother of the Table Round
        Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield
        Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,
        And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights
        At that dishonour done the gilded spur,
        Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn.
        But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode.
        Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,
        That sent the face of all the marsh aloft
        An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud
        Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all,
        Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm
        In blood-red armour sallying, howl'd to the King,


        "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!
        Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King
        Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world--
        The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I!
        Slain was the brother of my paramour
        By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine
        And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too,
        Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell,
        And stings itself to everlasting death,
        To hang whatever knight of thine I fought
        And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!"


        He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face
        Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name
        Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.
        And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword,
        But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse
        To strike him, overbalancing his bulk,
        Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp
        Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave,
        Heard in dead night along that table-shore,
        Drops flat, and after the great waters break
        Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves,
        Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,
        From less and less to nothing; thus he fell
        Head-heavy; then the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd
        And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n;
        There trampled out his face from being known,
        And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves:
        Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang
        Thro' open doors, and swording right and left
        Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd
        The tables over and the wines, and slew
        Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,
        And all the pavement stream'd with massacre:
        Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower,
        Which half that autumn night, like the live North,
        Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor,
        Made all above it, and a hundred meres
        About it, as the water Moab saw
        Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd
        The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.


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


        Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream
        Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd,
        Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs.
        He whistled his good warhorse left to graze
        Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him,
        And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,
        Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross,
        Stay'd him. "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man
        Hath left me or is dead"; whereon he thought--
        "What, if she hate me now? I would not this.
        What, if she love me still? I would not that.
        I know not what I would"--but said to her,
        "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return,
        He find thy favour changed and love thee not"--
        Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse
        Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard
        The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds
        Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd
        Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land,
        A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat,
        A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair
        And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.
        And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind
        The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,
        Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there
        Belted his body with her white embrace,
        Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul!
        The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he:
        Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark,
        But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his halls
        Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death.
        My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark
        Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh."
        To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here.
        Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."


        And drawing somewhat backward she replied,
        "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own,
        But save for dread of thee had beaten me,
        Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark?
        What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
        Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus!
        But harken! have ye met him? hence he went
        To-day for three days' hunting--as he said--
        And so returns belike within an hour.
        Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark,
        Because he hates thee even more than fears;
        Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood
        Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush
        Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.
        My God, the measure of my hate for Mark
        Is as the measure of my love for thee.''


        So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love,
        Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake
        To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying,
        "O hunter, and O blower of the horn,
        Harper, and thou hast been a rover too,
        For, ere I mated with my shambling king,
        Ye twain had fallen out about the bride
        Of one--his name is out of me--the prize,
        If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)
        Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks
        To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight,
        What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to last?"


        And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount,
        Here now to my Queen Paramount of love
        And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first
        Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse,
        Sailing from Ireland." Softly laugh'd Isolt;
        "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen
        My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said,
        "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine,
        And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind--
        Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips
        Most gracious; but she, haughty ev'n to him,
        Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow
        To make one doubt if ever the great Queen
        Have yielded him her love."


        To whom Isolt,
        "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou
        Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond,
        Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me
        That Guinevere had sinn'd against the highest,
        And I--misyoked with such a want of man--
        That I could hardly sin against the lowest."


        He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted!
        If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings,
        If here be comfort, and if ours be sin,
        Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin
        That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear
        And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale--
        Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories
        Of Tristram in that year he was away."


        And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt,
        "I had forgotten all in my strong joy
        To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour,
        Here in the never-ended afternoon,
        O sweeter than all memories of thee,
        Deeper than any yearnings after thee
        Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas,
        Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd
        Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
        Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
        Fought in her father's battles? wounded there?
        The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness,
        And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd
        Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress--
        Well--can I wish her any huger wrong
        Than having known thee? her too hast thou left
        To pine and waste in those sweet memories.
        O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men
        Are noble, I should hate thee more than love."


        And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied,
        "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well.
        Did I love her? the name at least I loved.
        Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt!
        The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt!
        The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt?
        Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek,
        Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God."


        And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I?
        Mine is the larger need, who am not meek,
        Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now.
        Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat,
        Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where,
        Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing,
        And once or twice I spake thy name aloud.
        Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood,
        In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend--
        Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark--
        For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said,
        Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers
        So shook to such a roar of all the sky,
        That here in utter dark I swoon'd away,
        And woke again in utter dark, and cried,
        'I will flee hence and give myself to God'--
        And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms."


        Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand,
        "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray,
        And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her.'
        "`May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old,
        And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now.
        For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross
        Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast?
        The greater man, the greater courtesy.
        Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight!
        But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts--
        Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance
        Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself.
        How darest thou, if lover, push me even
        In fancy from thy side, and set me far
        In the gray distance, half a life away,
        Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear!
        Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak,
        Broken with Mark and hate and solitude,
        Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck
        Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe.
        Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel,
        And solemnly as when ye sware to him
        The man of men, our King--My God, the power
        Was once in vows when men believed the King!
        They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows
        The King prevailing made his realm:--I say,
        Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old,
        Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair."


        Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down,
        "Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark
        More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt,
        The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself--
        My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt--
        We run more counter to the soul thereof
        Than had we never sworn. I swear no more.
        I swore to the great King, and am forsworn.
        For once--ev'n to the height--I honour'd him.
        'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first
        I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld
        That victor of the Pagan throned in hall--
        His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow
        Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes,
        The golden beard that clothed his lips with light--
        Moreover, that weird legend of his birth,
        With Merlin's mystic babble about his end
        Amazed me; then his foot was on a stool
        Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man,
        But Michaël trampling Satan; so I sware,
        Being amazed: but this went by--The vows!
        O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour--
        They served their use, their time; for every knight
        Believed himself a greater than himself,
        And every follower eyed him as a God;
        Till he, being lifted up beyond himself,
        Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done,
        And so the realm was made; but then their vows--
        First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen--
        Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence
        Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?
        Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep?
        They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood
        Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord
        To bind them by inviolable vows,
        Which flesh and blood perforce would violate:
        For feel this arm of mine--the tide within
        Red with free chase and heather-scented air,
        Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure
        As any maiden child? lock up my tongue
        From uttering freely what I freely hear?
        Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it.
        And worldling of the world am I, and know
        The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour
        Woos his own end; we are not angels here
        Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods,
        And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale
        Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may;
        And therefore is my love so large for thee,
        Seeing it is not bounded save by love."


        Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said,
        "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee
        To some one thrice as courteous as thyself--
        For courtesy wins woman all as well
        As valour may, but he that closes both
        Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed,
        Rosier and comelier, thou--but say I loved
        This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back
        Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,'
        Well then, what answer?" He that while she spake,
        Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with,
        The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch
        The warm white apple of her throat, replied,
        "Press this a little closer, sweet, until--
        Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat,
        Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death,
        And out beyond into the dream to come."


        So then, when both were brought to full accord,
        She rose, and set before him all he will'd;
        And after these had comforted the blood
        With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts--
        Now talking of their woodland paradise,
        The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns;
        Now mocking at the much ungainliness,
        And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark--
        Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:


        "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier!
        A star in heaven, a star within the mere!
        Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire,
        And one was far apart, and one was near:
        Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass!
        And one was water and one star was fire,
        And one will ever shine and one will pass.
        Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere."


        Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd
        And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried,
        "The collar of some Order, which our King
        Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul,
        For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers."


        "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit
        Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven,
        And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize,
        And hither brought by Tristram for his last
        Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee."


        He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging round her neck,
        Claspt it, and cried "Thine Order, O my Queen!"
        But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd throat,
        Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd,
        Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek--
        "Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain.


        That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd,
        All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,
        The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw
        The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet
        A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it,
        "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet
        Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool,
        And I shall never make thee smile again."

      Up

      Idylls Of The King: The Passing Of Arthur

        That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
        First made and latest left of all the knights,
        Told, when the man was no more than a voice
        In the white winter of his age, to those
        With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
        For on their march to westward, Bedivere,
        Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,
        Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:
        "I found Him in the shining of the stars,
        I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
        But in His ways with men I find Him not.
        I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
        O me! for why is all around us here
        As if some lesser god had made the world,
        But had not force to shape it as he would,
        Till the High God behold it from beyond,
        And enter it, and make it beautiful?
        Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
        But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
        And have not power to see it as it is:
        Perchance, because we see not to the close;--
        For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
        And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
        And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
        Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
        Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
        My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
        Nay--God my Christ--I pass but shall not die."

        Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,
        There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd
        In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
        Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
        Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight!
        Hail, King! to-morrow thou shalt pass away.
        Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
        And I am blown along a wandering wind,
        And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
        And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
        Their season in the night and wail their way
        From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
        Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries
        Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,
        As of some lonely city sack'd by night,
        When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
        Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd,
        "Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,
        Thine, Gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries
        Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
        Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?"

        This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:
        "O me, my King, let pass whatever will,
        Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
        But in their stead thy name and glory cling
        To all high places like a golden cloud
        For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.
        Light was Gawain in life, and light in death
        Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;
        And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise--
        I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
        And with him many of thy people, and knights
        Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
        Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
        Right well in heart they know thee for the King.
        Arise, go forth and conquer as of old."

        Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
        "Far other is this battle in the west
        Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
        And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,
        Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
        And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine
        To war against my people and my knights.
        The king who fights his people fights himself.
        And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
        That strikes them dead is as my death to me.
        Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way
        Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw
        One lying in the dust at Almesbury,
        Hath folded in the passes of the world."

        Then rose the King and moved his host by night,
        And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,
        Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse--
        A land of old upheaven from the abyss
        By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
        Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
        And the long mountains ended in a coast
        Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
        The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
        There the pursuer could pursue no more,
        And he that fled no further fly the King;
        And there, that day when the great light of heaven
        Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,
        On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.
        Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight
        Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
        A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
        Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
        Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
        With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell
        Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.


        For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
        And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
        And some had visions out of golden youth,
        And some beheld the faces of old ghosts
        Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
        Was many a noble deed, many a base,
        And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
        And ever and anon with host to host
        Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,
        Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
        Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks
        After the Christ, of those who falling down
        Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
        And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
        Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
        Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs
        In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
        Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.


        Last, as by some one deathbed after wail
        Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death
        Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,
        Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
        A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
        Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came
        A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
        The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
        Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field
        Of battle: but no man was moving there;
        Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,
        Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
        Brake in among dead faces, to and fro
        Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down
        Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,
        And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,
        And rolling far along the gloomy shores
        The voice of days of old and days to be.


        Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
        And whiter than the mist that all day long
        Had held the field of battle was the King:


        "Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
        And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
        And beats upon the faces of the dead,
        My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?--
        O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n
        Confusion, till I know not what I am,
        Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
        Behold, I seem but King among the dead."


        Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King,
        King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,
        There also will I worship thee as King.
        Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live
        Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
        The heathen back among us, yonder stands,
        Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house."


        Then spake the King: "My house hath been my doom.
        But call not thou this traitor of my house
        Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.
        My house are rather they who sware my vows,
        Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.
        And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,
        When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,
        That quick or dead thou hottest me for King.
        King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
        And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
        Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King
        Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
        Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
        Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
        Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
        Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.


        So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
        Among the mountains by the winter sea;
        Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
        Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,
        King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
        The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
        And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
        A broken chancel with a broken cross,
        That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
        On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
        Lay a great water, and the moon was full.


        Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
        "The sequel of to-day unsolders all
        The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
        Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
        They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
        Shall never more, at any future time,
        Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
        Walking about the gardens and the halls
        Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
        I perish by this people which I made,--
        Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
        To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
        I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
        That without help I cannot last till morn.
        Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
        Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
        In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
        Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
        Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
        Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
        And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
        And, wheresoever I am sung or told
        In aftertime, this also shall be known:
        But now delay not: take Excalibur,
        And fling him far into the middle mere:
        Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word."


        To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
        "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
        Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm--
        A little thing may harm a wounded man;
        Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
        Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."


        So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,
        And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
        Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
        Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
        Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
        By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
        Came on the shining levels of the lake.


        There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
        And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
        Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
        And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
        For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
        Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
        Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
        That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
        This way and that dividing the swift mind,
        In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
        Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
        There in the many-knotted waterflags,
        That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
        So strode he back slow to the wounded King.


        Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
        "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
        What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"


        And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
        "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
        And the wild water lapping on the crag."


        To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
        "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
        Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
        Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
        For surer sign had follow'd, either hand
        Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
        This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
        Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,
        As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
        I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."


        Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
        Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
        Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
        But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
        How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
        His palms together, and he cried aloud:


        "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
        Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
        Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
        Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
        What good should follow this, if this were done?
        What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
        Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
        Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
        An act unprofitable, against himself?
        The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
        What record, or what relic of my lord
        Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
        And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
        Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
        Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
        Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
        Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
        Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
        Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
        So might some old man speak in the aftertime
        To all the people, winning reverence.
        But now much honour and much fame were lost."


        So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
        And hid Excalibur the second time,
        And so strode back slow to the wounded King.


        Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
        "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'


        And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
        "I heard the water lapping on the crag,
        And the long ripple washing in the reeds."


        To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
        "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
        Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
        Authority forgets a dying king,
        Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
        That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
        For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
        In whom should meet the offices of all,
        Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
        Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
        Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
        Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
        And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
        But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
        I will arise and slay thee with my hands."


        Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
        And, leaping down the ridges, lightly, plunged
        Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,
        And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
        Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
        And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
        Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
        Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
        By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
        So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
        But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
        Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful,
        And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
        Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
        And lightly went the other to the King.


        Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
        "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
        Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"


        And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
        "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
        Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
        Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
        Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
        So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
        Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
        But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
        Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
        That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
        Three times, and drew him under in the mere."


        And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
        "My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
        Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
        And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
        My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."


        So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
        Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
        And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
        As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
        Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
        And would have spoken, but he found not words;
        Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
        O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
        And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.


        But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
        Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
        When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
        Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
        I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
        But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
        Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
        Larger than human on the frozen hills.
        He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
        Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
        Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
        And barren chasms, and all to left and right
        The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
        His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
        Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
        And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
        And the long glories of the winter moon.


        Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
        Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
        Beneath them; and descending they were ware
        That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
        Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
        Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
        A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
        And, as it were one voice, an agony
        Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
        All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
        Or hath come, since the making of the world.


        Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."
        So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
        Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
        But she, that rose the tallest of them all
        And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
        And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
        And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
        And dropping bitter tears against a brow
        Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
        And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
        Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
        And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
        Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
        That made his forehead like a rising sun
        High from the daïs-throne--were parch'd with dust
        Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
        Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
        So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
        Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
        From spur to plume a star of tournament,
        Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
        Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.


        Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
        "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
        Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
        For now I see the true old times are dead,
        When every morning brought a noble chance,
        And every chance brought out a noble knight.
        Such times have been not since the light that led
        The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
        But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
        Which was an image of the mighty world,
        And I, the last, go forth companionless,
        And the days darken round me, and the years,
        Among new men, strange faces, other minds."


        And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
        "The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
        And God fulfils himself in many ways,
        Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
        Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
        I have lived my life, and that which I have done
        May He within himself make pure! but thou,
        If thou shouldst never see my face again,
        Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
        Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
        Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
        For what are men better than sheep or goats
        That nourish a blind life within the brain,
        If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
        Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
        For so the whole round earth is every way
        Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
        But now farewell. I am going a long way
        With these thou seëst--if indeed I go
        (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
        To the island-valley of Avilion;
        Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
        Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
        Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
        And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
        Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."


        So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
        Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
        That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
        Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
        With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
        Revolving many memories, till the hull
        Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
        And on the mere the wailing died away.


        But when that moan had past for evermore,
        The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
        Amazed him, and he groan'd, ``The King is gone.''
        And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
        "From the great deep to the great deep he goes."


        Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb
        The last hard footstep of that iron crag;
        Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,
        "He passes to be King among the dead,
        And after healing of his grievous wound
        He comes again; but--if he come no more--
        O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,
        Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed
        On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
        They stood before his throne in silence, friends
        Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?"


        Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
        As from beyond the limit of the world,
        Like the last echo born of a great cry,
        Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
        Around a king returning from his wars.


        Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
        Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,
        Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
        Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
        Down that long water opening on the deep
        Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
        From less to less and vanish into light.
        And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the stones

        Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
        That name the under-lying dead,
        Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
        Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
        The seasons bring the flower again,
        And bring the firstling to the flock;
        And in the dusk of thee, the clock
        Beats out the little lives of men.
        O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
        Who changest not in any gale,
        Nor branding summer suns avail
        To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

        And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
        Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
        I seem to fail from out my blood
        And grow incorporate into thee.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 3. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship

        O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
        O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
        O sweet and bitter in a breath,
        What whispers from thy lying lip?

        "The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;
        A web is wov'n across the sky;
        From out waste places comes a cry,
        And murmurs from the dying sun:

        "And all the phantom, Nature, stands--
        With all the music in her tone,
        A hollow echo of my own,--
        A hollow form with empty hands."

        And shall I take a thing so blind,
        Embrace her as my natural good;
        Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
        Upon the threshold of the mind?

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5. Sometimes I Hold it half a sin

        I sometimes hold it half a sin
        To put in words the grief I feel;
        For words, like Nature, half reveal
        And half conceal the Soul within.
        But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
        A use in measured language lies;
        The sad mechanic exercise,
        Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
        In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
        Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
        But that large grief which these enfold
        Is given in outline and no more.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 6. One writes, that 'Other Friends Remain'

        One writes, that "Other friends remain,"
        That "Loss is common to the race"--
        And common is the commonplace,
        And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
        That loss is common would not make
        My own less bitter, rather more.
        Too common! Never morning wore
        To evening, but some heart did break.
        O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
        Who pledgest now thy gallant son,
        A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
        Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.

        O mother, praying God will save
        Thy sailor,--while thy head is bow'd,
        His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
        Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

        Ye know no more than I who wrought
        At that last hour to please him well;
        Who mused on all I had to tell,
        And something written, something thought;

        Expecting still his advent home;
        And ever met him on his way
        With wishes, thinking, "here to-day,"
        Or "here to-morrow will he come."

        O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
        That sitteth ranging golden hair;
        And glad to find thyself so fair,
        Poor child, that waiteth for thy love!

        For now her father's chimney glows
        In expectation of a guest;
        And thinking "this will please him best,"
        She takes a riband or a rose;

        For he will see them on to-night;
        And with the thought her colour burns;
        And, having left the glass, she turns
        Once more to set a ringlet right;

        And, even when she turn'd, the curse
        Had fallen, and her future Lord
        Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,
        Or kill'd in falling from his horse.

        O what to her shall be the end?
        And what to me remains of good?
        To her, perpetual maidenhood,
        And unto me no second friend.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 7. Dark house, by which once more I stand

        Dark house, by which once more I stand
        Here in the long unlovely street,
        Doors, where my heart was used to beat
        So quickly, waiting for a hand,
        A hand that can be clasp'd no more--
        Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
        And like a guilty thing I creep
        At earliest morning to the door.
        He is not here; but far away
        The noise of life begins again,
        And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
        On the bald street breaks the blank day.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 11. Calm is the morn without a sound

        Calm is the morn without a sound,
        Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
        And only thro' the faded leaf
        The chestnut pattering to the ground:
        Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
        And on these dews that drench the furze.
        And all the silvery gossamers
        That twinkle into green and gold:
        Calm and still light on yon great plain
        That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
        And crowded farms and lessening towers,
        To mingle with the bounding main:

        Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
        These leaves that redden to the fall;
        And in my heart, if calm at all,
        If any calm, a calm despair:

        Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
        And waves that sway themselves in rest,
        And dead calm in that noble breast
        Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 15. To-night the winds begin to rise

        To-night the winds begin to rise
        And roar from yonder dropping day:
        The last red leaf is whirl'd away,
        The rooks are blown about the skies;
        The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,
        The cattle huddled on the lea;
        And wildly dash'd on tower and tree
        The sunbeam strikes along the world:
        And but for fancies, which aver
        That all thy motions gently pass
        Athwart a plane of molten glass,
        I scarce could brook the strain and stir

        That makes the barren branches loud;
        And but for fear it is not so,
        The wild unrest that lives in woe
        Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

        That rises upward always higher,
        And onward drags a labouring breast,
        And topples round the dreary west,
        A looming bastion fringed with fire.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 16. I Envy not in any moods

        I envy not in any moods
        The captive void of noble rage,
        The linnet born within the cage,
        That never knew the summer woods:
        I envy not the beast that takes
        His license in the field of time,
        Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
        To whom a conscience never wakes;
        Nor, what may count itself as blest,
        The heart that never plighted troth
        But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
        Nor any want-begotten rest.

        I hold it true, whate'er befall;
        I feel it, when I sorrow most;
        'Tis better to have loved and lost
        Than never to have loved at all.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 22. The path by which we twain did go

        The path by which we twain did go,
        Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
        Thro' four sweet years arose and fell,
        From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
        And we with singing cheer'd the way,
        And, crown'd with all the season lent,
        From April on to April went,
        And glad at heart from May to May:
        But where the path we walk'd began
        To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
        As we descended following Hope,
        There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;

        Who broke our fair companionship,
        And spread his mantle dark and cold,
        And wrapt thee formless in the fold,
        And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,

        And bore thee where I could not see
        Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste,
        And think, that somewhere in the waste
        The Shadow sits and waits for me.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 39. Old warder of these buried bones

        Old warder of these buried bones,
        And answering now my random stroke
        With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
        Dark yew, that graspest at the stones
        And dippest toward the dreamless head,
        To thee too comes the golden hour
        When flower is feeling after flower;
        But Sorrow--fixt upon the dead,
        And darkening the dark graves of men,--
        What whisper'd from her lying lips?
        Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
        And passes into gloom again.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 44. How fares it with the happy dead?

        How fares it with the happy dead?
        For here the man is more and more;
        But he forgets the days before
        God shut the doorways of his head.
        The days have vanish'd, tone and tint,
        And yet perhaps the hoarding sense
        Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
        A little flash, a mystic hint;
        And in the long harmonious years
        (If Death so taste Lethean springs),
        May some dim touch of earthly things
        Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

        If such a dreamy touch should fall,
        O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;
        My guardian angel will speak out
        In that high place, and tell thee all.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 45. The baby new to earth and sky

        The baby new to earth and sky,
        What time his tender palm is prest
        Against the circle of the breast,
        Has never thought that "this is I":
        But as he grows he gathers much,
        And learns the use of "I," and "me,"
        And finds "I am not what I see,
        And other than the things I touch."
        So rounds he to a separate mind
        From whence clear memory may begin,
        As thro' the frame that binds him in
        His isolation grows defined.

        This use may lie in blood and breath
        Which else were fruitless of their due,
        Had man to learn himself anew
        Beyond the second birth of Death.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, yet we Trust that somehow good

        Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
        Will be the final end of ill,
        To pangs of nature, sins of will,
        Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
        That nothing walks with aimless feet;
        That not one life shall be destroy'd,
        Or cast as rubbish to the void,
        When God hath made the pile complete;
        That not a worm is cloven in vain;
        That not a moth with vain desire
        I shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
        Or but subserves another's gain.

        Behold, we know not anything;
        I can but trust that good shall fall
        At last--far off--at last, to all,
        And every winter change to spring.

        So runs my dream: but what am I?
        An infant crying in the night:
        An infant crying for the light:
        And with no language but a cry.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 55. The wish, that of the living whole

        The wish, that of the living whole
        No life may fail beyond the grave,
        Derives it not from what we have
        The likest God within the soul?
        Are God and Nature then at strife,
        That Nature lends such evil dreams?
        So careful of the type she seems,
        So careless of the single life;
        That I, considering everywhere
        Her secret meaning in her deeds,
        And finding that of fifty seeds
        She often brings but one to bear,

        I falter where I firmly trod,
        And falling with my weight of cares
        Upon the great world's altar-stairs
        That slope thro' darkness up to God,

        I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
        And gather dust and chaff, and call
        To what I feel is Lord of all,
        And faintly trust the larger hope.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no

        "So careful of the type?" but no.
        From scarped cliff and quarried stone
        She cries, "A thousand types are gone:
        I care for nothing, all shall go.
        "Thou makest thine appeal to me:
        I bring to life, I bring to death:
        The spirit does but mean the breath:
        I know no more." And he, shall he,
        Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,
        Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
        Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,
        Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

        Who trusted God was love indeed
        And love Creation's final law--
        Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
        With ravine, shriek'd against his creed--

        Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
        Who battled for the True, the Just,
        Be blown about the desert dust,
        Or seal'd within the iron hills?

        No more? A monster then, a dream,
        A discord. Dragons of the prime,
        That tare each other in their slime,
        Were mellow music match'd with him.

        O life as futile, then, as frail!
        O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
        What hope of answer, or redress?
        Behind the veil, behind the veil.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 67. When on my bed the moonlight falls

        When on my bed the moonlight falls,
        I know that in thy place of rest
        By that broad water of the west,
        There comes a glory on the walls:
        Thy marble bright in dark appears,
        As slowly steals a silver flame
        Along the letters of thy name,
        And o'er the number of thy years.
        The mystic glory swims away;
        From off my bed the moonlight dies;
        And closing eaves of wearied eyes
        I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray:

        And then I know the mist is drawn
        A lucid veil from coast to coast,
        And in the dark church like a ghost
        Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 72. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again

        Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
        And howlest, issuing out of night,
        With blasts that blow the poplar white,
        And lash with storm the streaming pane?
        Day, when my crown'd estate begun
        To pine in that reverse of doom,
        Which sicken'd every living bloom,
        And blurr'd the splendour of the sun;
        Who usherest in the dolorous hour
        With thy quick tears that make the rose
        Pull sideways, and the daisy close
        Her crimson fringes to the shower;

        Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
        Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
        A chequer-work of beam and shade
        Along the hills, yet look'd the same.

        As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
        Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime,
        When the dark hand struck down thro' time,
        And cancell'd nature's best: but thou,

        Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows
        Thro' clouds that drench the morning star,
        And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,
        And sow the sky with flying boughs,

        And up thy vault with roaring sound
        Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
        Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
        And hide thy shame beneath the ground.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 78. Again at Christmas did we weave

        Again at Christmas did we weave
        The holly round the Christmas hearth;
        The silent snow possess'd the earth,
        And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:

        The yule-log sparkled keen with frost,
        No wing of wind the region swept,
        But over all things brooding slept
        The quiet sense of something lost.

        As in the winters left behind,
        Again our ancient games had place,
        The mimic picture's breathing grace,
        And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

        Who show'd a token of distress?
        No single tear, no mark of pain:
        O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
        O grief, can grief be changed to less?

        O last regret, regret can die!
        No--mixt with all this mystic frame,
        Her deep relations are the same,
        But with long use her tears are dry.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 82. I wage not any feud with death

        I wage not any feud with Death
        For changes wrought on form and face;
        No lower life that earth's embrace
        May breed with him, can fright my faith.
        Eternal process moving on,
        From state to state the spirit walks;
        And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
        Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
        Nor blame I Death, because he bare
        The use of virtue out of earth:
        I know transplanted human worth
        Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.

        For this alone on Death I wreak
        The wrath that garners in my heart;
        He put our lives so far apart
        We cannot hear each other speak.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 83. Dip down upon the northern shore

        Dip down upon the northern shore
        O sweet new-year delaying long;
        Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
        Delaying long, delay no more.
        What stays thee from the clouded noons,
        Thy sweetness from its proper place?
        Can trouble live with April days,
        Or sadness in the summer moons?
        Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
        The little speed well's darling blue,
        Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,
        Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

        O thou new-year, delaying long,
        Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
        That longs to burst a frozen bud
        And flood a fresher throat with song.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 95. By night we linger'd on the lawn

        By night we linger'd on the lawn,
        For underfoot the herb was dry;
        And genial warmth; and o'er the sky
        The silvery haze of summer drawn;
        And calm that let the tapers burn
        Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd:
        The brook alone far-off was heard,
        And on the board the fluttering urn:
        And bats went round in fragrant skies,
        And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes
        That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes
        And woolly breasts and beaded eyes;

        While now we sang old songs that peal'd
        From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease,
        The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees
        Laid their dark arms about the field.

        But when those others, one by one,
        Withdrew themselves from me and night,
        And in the house light after light
        Went out, and I was all alone,

        A hunger seized my heart; I read
        Of that glad year which once had been,
        In those fall'n leaves which kept their green,
        The noble letters of the dead:

        And strangely on the silence broke
        The silent-speaking words, and strange
        Was love's dumb cry defying change
        To test his worth; and strangely spoke

        The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell
        On doubts that drive the coward back,
        And keen thro' wordy snares to track
        Suggestion to her inmost cell.

        So word by word, and line by line,
        The dead man touch'd me from the past,
        And all at once it seem'd at last
        The living soul was flash'd on mine,

        And mine in this was wound, and whirl'd
        About empyreal heights of thought,
        And came on that which is, and caught
        The deep pulsations of the world,

        Æonian music measuring out
        The steps of Time--the shocks of Chance--
        The blows of Death. At length my trance
        Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.

        Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame
        In matter-moulded forms of speech,
        Or ev'n for intellect to reach
        Thro' memory that which I became:

        Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd
        The knolls once more where, couch'd at ease,
        The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees
        Laid their dark arms about the field:

        And suck'd from out the distant gloom
        A breeze began to tremble o'er
        The large leaves of the sycamore,
        And fluctuate all the still perfume,

        And gathering freshlier overhead,
        Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung
        The heavy-folded rose, and flung
        The lilies to and fro, and said

        "The dawn, the dawn," and died away;
        And East and West, without a breath,
        Mixt their dim lights, like life and death,
        To broaden into boundless day.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 99. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again

        Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
        So loud with voices of the birds,
        So thick with lowings of the herds,
        Day, when I lost the flower of men;
        Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red
        On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
        By meadows breathing of the past,
        And woodlands holy to the dead;
        Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
        A song that slights the coming care,
        And Autumn laying here and there
        A fiery finger on the leaves;

        Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
        To myriads on the genial earth,
        Memories of bridal, or of birth,
        And unto myriads more, of death.

        O wheresoever those may be,
        Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
        To-day they count as kindred souls;
        They know me not, but mourn with me.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 105. To-night ungather'd let us leave

        To-night ungather'd let us leave
        This laurel, let this holly stand:
        We live within the stranger's land,
        And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.
        Our father's dust is left alone
        And silent under other snows:
        There in due time the woodbine blows,
        The violet comes, but we are gone.
        No more shall wayward grief abuse
        The genial hour with mask and mime;
        For change of place, like growth of time,
        Has broke the bond of dying use.

        Let cares that petty shadows cast,
        By which our lives are chiefly proved,
        A little spare the night I loved,
        And hold it solemn to the past.

        But let no footstep beat the floor,
        Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
        For who would keep an ancient form
        Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

        Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;
        Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
        No dance, no motion, save alone
        What lightens in the lucid east

        Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
        Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
        Run out your measured arcs, and lead
        The closing cycle rich in good.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 118. Contemplate all this work of Time

        Contemplate all this work of Time,
        The giant labouring in his youth;
        Nor dream of human love and truth,
        As dying Nature's earth and lime;
        But trust that those we call the dead
        Are breathers of an ampler day
        For ever nobler ends. They say,
        The solid earth whereon we tread
        In tracts of fluent heat began,
        And grew to seeming-random forms,
        The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
        Till at the last arose the man;

        Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,
        The herald of a higher race,
        And of himself in higher place,
        If so he type this work of time

        Within himself, from more to more;
        Or, crown'd with attributes of woe
        Like glories, move his course, and show
        That life is not as idle ore,

        But iron dug from central gloom,
        And heated hot with burning fears,
        And dipt in baths of hissing tears,
        And batter'd with the shocks of doom

        To shape and use. Arise and fly
        The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
        Move upward, working out the beast,
        And let the ape and tiger die.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 121. Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun

        Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun
        And ready, thou, to die with him,
        Thou watchest all things ever dim
        And dimmer, and a glory done:
        The team is loosen'd from the wain,
        The boat is drawn upon the shore;
        Thou listenest to the closing door,
        And life is darken'd in the brain.
        Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,
        By thee the world's great work is heard
        Beginning, and the wakeful bird;
        Behind thee comes the greater light:

        The market boat is on the stream,
        And voices hail it from the brink;
        Thou hear'st the village hammer clink,
        And see'st the moving of the team.

        Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name
        For what is one, the first, the last,
        Thou, like my present and my past,
        Thy place is changed; thou art the same.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 126. Love is and was my Lord and King

        Love is and was my Lord and King,
        And in his presence I attend
        To hear the tidings of my friend,
        Which every hour his couriers bring.
        Love is and was my King and Lord,
        And will be, tho' as yet I keep
        Within his court on earth, and sleep
        Encompass'd by his faithful guard,
        And hear at times a sentinel
        Who moves about from place to place,
        And whispers to the worlds of space,
        In the deep night, that all is well.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: 131. O living will that shalt endure

        O living will that shalt endure
        When all that seems shall suffer shock,
        Rise in the spiritual rock,
        Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,
        That we may lift from out of dust
        A voice as unto him that hears,
        A cry above the conquer'd years
        To one that with us works, and trust,
        With faith that comes of self-control,
        The truths that never can be proved
        Until we close with all we loved,
        And all we flow from, soul in soul.------

        O true and tried, so well and long,
        Demand not thou a marriage lay;
        In that it is thy marriage day
        Is music more than any song.

        Nor have I felt so much of bliss
        Since first he told me that he loved
        A daughter of our house; nor proved
        Since that dark day a day like this;

        Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
        Some thrice three years: they went and came,
        Remade the blood and changed the frame,
        And yet is love not less, but more;

        No longer caring to embalm
        In dying songs a dead regret,
        But like a statue solid-set,
        And moulded in colossal calm.

        Regret is dead, but love is more
        Than in the summers that are flown,
        For I myself with these have grown
        To something greater than before;

        Which makes appear the songs I made
        As echoes out of weaker times,
        As half but idle brawling rhymes,
        The sport of random sun and shade.

        But where is she, the bridal flower,
        That must be made a wife ere noon?
        She enters, glowing like the moon
        Of Eden on its bridal bower:

        On me she bends her blissful eyes
        And then on thee; they meet thy look
        And brighten like the star that shook
        Betwixt the palms of paradise.

        O when her life was yet in bud,
        He too foretold the perfect rose.
        For thee she grew, for thee she grows
        For ever, and as fair as good.

        And thou art worthy; full of power;
        As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
        Consistent; wearing all that weight
        Of learning lightly like a flower.

        But now set out: the noon is near,
        And I must give away the bride;
        She fears not, or with thee beside
        And me behind her, will not fear.

        For I that danced her on my knee,
        That watch'd her on her nurse's arm,
        That shielded all her life from harm
        At last must part with her to thee;

        Now waiting to be made a wife,
        Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
        Their pensive tablets round her head,
        And the most living words of life

        Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
        The "wilt thou" answer'd, and again
        The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain
        Her sweet "I will" has made you one.

        Now sign your names, which shall be read,
        Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
        By village eyes as yet unborn;
        The names are sign'd, and overhead

        Begins the clash and clang that tells
        The joy to every wandering breeze;
        The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
        The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

        O happy hour, and happier hours
        Await them. Many a merry face
        Salutes them--maidens of the place,
        That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

        O happy hour, behold the bride
        With him to whom her hand I gave.
        They leave the porch, they pass the grave
        That has to-day its sunny side.

        To-day the grave is bright for me,
        For them the light of life increased,
        Who stay to share the morning feast,
        Who rest to-night beside the sea.

        Let all my genial spirits advance
        To meet and greet a whiter sun;
        My drooping memory will not shun
        The foaming grape of eastern France.

        It circles round, and fancy plays,
        And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,
        As drinking health to bride and groom
        We wish them store of happy days.

        Nor count me all to blame if I
        Conjecture of a stiller guest,
        Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
        And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

        But they must go, the time draws on,
        And those white-favour'd horses wait;
        They rise, but linger; it is late;
        Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

        A shade falls on us like the dark
        From little cloudlets on the grass,
        But sweeps away as out we pass
        To range the woods, to roam the park,

        Discussing how their courtship grew,
        And talk of others that are wed,
        And how she look'd, and what he said,
        And back we come at fall of dew.

        Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
        The shade of passing thought, the wealth
        Of words and wit, the double health,
        The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

        And last the dance,--till I retire:
        Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
        And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
        And on the downs a rising fire:

        And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
        Till over down and over dale
        All night the shining vapour sail
        And pass the silent-lighted town,

        The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
        And catch at every mountain head,
        And o'er the friths that branch and spread
        Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;

        And touch with shade the bridal doors,
        With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
        And breaking let the splendour fall
        To spangle all the happy shores

        By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
        And, star and system rolling past,
        A soul shall draw from out the vast
        And strike his being into bounds,

        And, moved thro' life of lower phase,
        Result in man, be born and think,
        And act and love, a closer link
        Betwixt us and the crowning race

        Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
        On knowledge; under whose command
        Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
        Is Nature like an open book;

        No longer half-akin to brute,
        For all we thought and loved and did,
        And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed
        Of what in them is flower and fruit;

        Whereof the man, that with me trod
        This planet, was a noble type
        Appearing ere the times were ripe,
        That friend of mine who lives in God,

        That God, which ever lives and loves,
        One God, one law, one element,
        And one far-off divine event,
        To which the whole creation moves.

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      In Memoriam A. H. H.: The Prelude

        Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
        Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
        By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
        Believing where we cannot prove;
        Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
        Thou madest Life in man and brute;
        Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
        Is on the skull which thou hast made.
        Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
        Thou madest man, he knows not why,
        He thinks he was not made to die;
        And thou hast made him: thou art just.

        Thou seemest human and divine,
        The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
        Our wills are ours, we know not how,
        Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

        Our little systems have their day;
        They have their day and cease to be:
        They are but broken lights of thee,
        And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

        We have but faith: we cannot know;
        For knowledge is of things we see;
        And yet we trust it comes from thee,
        A beam in darkness: let it grow.

        Let knowledge grow from more to more,
        But more of reverence in us dwell;
        That mind and soul, according well,
        May make one music as before,

        But vaster. We are fools and slight;
        We mock thee when we do not fear:
        But help thy foolish ones to bear;
        Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

        Forgive what seem'd my sin in me,
        What seem'd my worth since I began;
        For merit lives from man to man,
        And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

        Forgive my grief for one removed,
        Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
        I trust he lives in thee, and there
        I find him worthier to be loved.

        Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
        Confusions of a wasted youth;
        Forgive them where they fail in truth,
        And in thy wisdom make me wise.

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      In The Valley Of Cauteretz

        All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
        Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
        All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
        I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
        All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,
        The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
        For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,
        Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
        And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
        The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

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      Lady Clare

        It was the time when lilies blow,
        And clouds are highest up in air,
        Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
        To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

        I trow they did not part in scorn-
        Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
        They too will wed the morrow morn:
        God's blessing on the day !

        'He does not love me for my birth,
        Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
        He loves me for my own true worth,
        And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

        In there came old Alice the nurse,
        Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'
        'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare,
        'To-morrow he weds vith me.'

        'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,
        ' That all comes round so just and fair:
        Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
        And you are not the Lady Clare.'

        'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'
        Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'
        'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,
        ' I speak the truth: you are my child.

        'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
        I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
        I buried her like my own sweet child,
        And put my child in her stead.'

        'Falsely, falsely have ye done,
        O mother,' she said, ' if this be true,
        To keep the best man under the sun
        So many years from his due.'

        'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
        'But keep the secret for your life,
        And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
        When you are man and wife.'

        ' If I'm a beggar born,' she said,
        'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
        Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
        And fling the diamond necklace by.'

        'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
        'But keep the secret all ye can.'
        She said, ' Not so: but I will know
        If there be any faith in man.'

        'Nay now, what faith ?' said Alice the nurse,
        'The man will cleave unto his right.'
        'And he shall have it,' the lady replied,
        'Tho' I should die to-night.'

        'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear !
        Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.'
        'O mother, mother, mother,' she said,
        'So strange it seems to me.

        'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
        My mother dear, if this be so,
        And lay your hand upon my head,
        And bless me, mother, ere I go.'

        She clad herself in a russet gown,
        She was no longer Lady Clare:
        She went by dale, and she went by down,
        With a single rose in her hair.

        The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
        Leapt up from where she lay,
        Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
        And follow'd her all the way.

        Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
        'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
        Why come you drest like a village maid,
        That are the flower of the earth?'

        'If I come drest like a village maid,
        I am but as my fortunes are:
        I am a beggar born,' she said,
        'And not the Lady Clare.'

        'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
        'For I am yours in word and in deed.
        Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
        'Your riddle is hard to read.'

        O and proudly stood she up !
        Her heart within her did not fail:
        She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes,
        And told him all her nurse's tale.

        He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:
        He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood:
        'If you are not the heiress born,
        And I,' said he, 'the next in blood--

        'If you are not the heiress born,
        And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir,
        We two will wed to-morrow morn,
        And you shall still be Lady Clare.'

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      Late, Late, So Late

        Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
        Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
        Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
        No light had we: for that we do repent;
        And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
        Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
        No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
        O, let us in, that we may find the light!
        Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.

        Have we not heard the bridgegroom is so sweet?
        O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!
        No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now."

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      Lilian

        I

        Airy, Fairy Lilian,
        Flitting, fairy Lilian,
        When I ask her if she love me,
        Claps her tiny hands above me,
        Laughing all she can;
        She 'll not tell me if she love me,
        Cruel little Lilian.

        II

        When my passion seeks
        Pleasance in love-sighs,
        She, looking thro' and thro' me
        Thoroughly to undo me,
        Smiling, never speaks:
        So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
        From beneath her gathered wimple
        Glancing with black-bearded eyes,
        Till the lightning laughters dimple
        The baby-roses in her cheeks;
        Then away she flies.

        III

        Prythee weep, May Lilian!
        Gaiety without eclipse
        Whearieth me, May Lilian;
        Thro' my every heart it thrilleth
        When from crimson-threaded lips
        Silver-treble laughter trilleth:
        Prythee weep, May Lilian!

        IV

        Praying all I can,
        If prayers will not hush thee,
        Airy Lilian,
        Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
        Fairy Lilian.

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      Locksley Hall

        Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn:
        Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.

        'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
        Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

        Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
        And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

        Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,
        Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

        Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade,
        Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

        Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime
        With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

        When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;
        When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

        When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
        Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.--

        In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;
        In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

        In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
        In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

        Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,
        And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung.

        And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me,
        Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

        On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light,
        As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

        And she turn'd--her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs--
        All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes--

        Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong";
        Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long."

        Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;
        Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

        Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
        Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

        Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,
        And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring.

        Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
        And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

        O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!
        O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!

        Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
        Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

        Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me--to decline
        On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

        Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
        What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

        As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,
        And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

        He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
        Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

        What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine.
        Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine.

        It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:
        Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

        He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand--
        Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

        Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
        Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

        Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
        Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

        Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!
        Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

        Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved--
        Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

        Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?
        I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root.

        Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come
        As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.

        Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?
        Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind?

        I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move;
        Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love.

        Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?
        No--she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore.

        Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings,
        That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

        Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,
        In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

        Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,
        Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.

        Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,
        To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep.

        Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years,
        And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears;

        And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.
        Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.

        Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry.
        'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry.

        Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest.
        Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast.

        O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.
        Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two.

        O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
        With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

        "They were dangerous guides the feelings--she herself was not exempt--
        Truly, she herself had suffer'd"--Perish in thy self-contempt!

        Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care?
        I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair.

        What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?
        Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.

        Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.
        I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do?

        I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,
        When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.

        But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels,
        And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels.

        Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.
        Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age!

        Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
        When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;

        Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,
        Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field,

        And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,
        Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;

        And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
        Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men:

        Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:
        That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:

        For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
        Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

        Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
        Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales;

        Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew
        From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

        Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
        With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;

        Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd
        In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

        There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
        And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

        So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry,
        Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

        Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint:
        Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:

        Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,
        Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.

        Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs,
        And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.

        What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
        Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?

        Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore,
        And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

        Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,
        Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.

        Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn,
        They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn:

        Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
        I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing.

        Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain--
        Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain:

        Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine,
        Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine--

        Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat
        Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat;

        Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,--
        I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

        Or to burst all links of habit--there to wander far away,
        On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.

        Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,
        Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.

        Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,
        Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;

        Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree--
        Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.

        There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind,
        In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind.

        There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space;
        I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

        Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run,
        Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun;

        Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,
        Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books--

        Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,
        But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

        I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,
        Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!

        Mated with a squalid savage--what to me were sun or clime?
        I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time--

        I that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
        Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

        Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
        Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

        Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
        Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

        Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun:
        Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun.

        O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set.
        Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet.

        Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!
        Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

        Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
        Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

        Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;
        For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

      Up

      Lucretius

        Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found
        Her master cold; for when the morning flush
        Of passion and the first embrace had died
        Between them, tho' he loved her none the less,
        Yet often when the woman heard his foot
        Return from pacings in the field, and ran
        To greet him with a kiss, the master took
        Small notice, or austerely, for his mind
        Half buried in some weightier argument,
        Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise
        And long roll of the hexameter -- he past
        To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls
        Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine.
        She brook'd it not, but wrathful, petulant
        Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch
        Who brew'd the philtre which had power, they said
        To lead an errant passion home again.
        And this, at times, she mingled with his drink,
        And this destroy'd him; for the wicked broth
        Confused the chemic labor of the blood,
        And tickling the brute brain within the man's
        Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd
        His power to shape. He loathed himself, and once
        After a tempest woke upon a morn
        That mock'd him with returning calm, and cried:

        "Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain
        Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt --
        Methought I never saw so fierce a fork --
        Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd
        A riotous confluence of watercourses
        Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it,
        Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry.

        "Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams!
        For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance
        We do but recollect the dreams that come
        Just ere the waking. Terrible: for it seem'd
        A void was made in Nature, all her bonds
        Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams
        And torrents of her myriad universe,
        Ruining along the illimitable inane,
        Fly on to clash together again, and make
        Another and another frame of things
        For ever. That was mine, my dream, I knew it --
        Of and belonging to me, as the dog
        With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies
        His function of the woodland; but the next!
        I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed
        Came driving rainlike down again on earth,
        And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang
        No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth,
        For these I thought my dream would show to me,
        But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art,
        Hired animalisms, vile as those that made
        The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse
        Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods.
        And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove
        In narrowing circles till I yell'd again
        Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw --
        Was it the first beam of my latest day?

        "Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the
        The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword
        Now over and now under, now direct,
        Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed
        At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire,
        The fire that left a roofless Ilion,
        Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke.

        "Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine,
        Because I would not one of thine own doves,
        Not even a rose, were offered to thee? thine,
        Forgetful how my rich proemion makes
        Thy glory fly along the Italian field,
        In lays that will outlast thy deity?

        "Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue
        Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these
        Angers thee most, or angers thee at all?
        Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof
        From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn,
        Live the great life which all our greatest fain
        Would follow, centred in eternal calm.

        "Nay, if thou canst,
        Goddess, like ourselves
        Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee
        To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms
        Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood
        That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome.

        "Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant riot her
        Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see
        Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt
        The Trojan, while his neatherds were abroad
        Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept
        Her deity false in human-amorous tears;
        Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter
        Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods,
        Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called
        Calliope to grace his golden verse --
        Ay, and this Kypris also -- did I take
        That popular name of thine to shadow forth
        The all-generating powers and genial heat
        Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick blood
        Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad
        Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird
        Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers;
        Which things appear the work of mighty Gods.

        "The Gods! and if I go my work is left
        Unfinish'd -- if I go. The Gods, who haunt
        The lucid interspace of world and world,
        Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind,
        Nor ever falls the least white star of mow
        Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans,
        Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar
        Their sacred everlasting calm! and such,
        Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm
        Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain
        Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Godsl
        If all be atoms, how then should the Gods
        Being atomic not be dissoluble,
        Not follow the great law? My master held
        That Gods there are, for all men so believe.
        I prest my footsteps into his, and meant
        Surely to lead my Memmius in a train
        Of fiowery clauses onward to the proof
        That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant?
        I have forgotten what I meant, my mind
        Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed.

        "Look where another of our Gods, the Sun
        Apollo, Delius, or of older use
        All-seeing Hyperion -- what you will --
        Has mounted yonder; since he never sware,
        Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched man,
        That he would only shine among the dead
        Hereafter -- tales! for never yet on earth
        Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox
        Moan round the spit -- nor knows he what he sees;
        King of the East altho' he seem, and girt
        With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts
        His golden feet on those empurpled stairs
        That climb into the windy halls of heaven
        And here he glances on an eye new-born,
        And gets for greeting but a wail of pain;
        And here he stays upon a freezing orb
        That fain would gaze upon him to the last;
        And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen
        And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain,
        Not thankful that his troubles are no more.
        And me, altho' his fire is on my face
        Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell
        Whether I mean this day to end myself.
        Or lend an ear to Plato where he says,
        That men like soldiers may not quit the post
        Allotted by the Gods. But he that holds
        The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care
        Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once,
        Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink
        Past earthquake -- ay, and gout and stone, that break
        Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life,
        And wretched age -- and worst disease of all,
        These prodigies of myriad nakednesses,
        And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable,
        Abominable, strangers at my hearth
        Not welcome, harpies miring every dish,
        The phantom husks of something foully done,
        And fleeting thro' the boundless universe,
        And blasting the long quiet of my breast
        With animal heat and dire insanity?

        "How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp
        These idols to herself? or do they fly
        Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes
        In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce
        Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour
        Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear
        The keepers down, and throng, their rags and the
        The basest, far into that council-hall
        Where sit the best and stateliest of the land?

        ³Can I not fling this horror off me again,
        Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile
        Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm,
        At random ravage? and how easily
        The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough,
        Now towering o'er him in serenest air,
        A mountain o'er a mountain, -- ay, and within
        All hollow as the hopes and fears of men?

        "But who was he that in the garden snared
        Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale
        To laugh at -- more to laugh at in myself --
        For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus
        Totters; a noiseless riot underneath
        Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering -- ;
        The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun,
        And here an Oread -- how the sun delights
        To glance and shift about her slippery sides,
        And rosy knees and supple roundedness,
        And budded bosom-peaks -- who this way runs
        Before the rest! -- a satyr, a satyr, see,
        Follows; but him I proved impossible
        Twy-natured is no nature. Yet he draws
        Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now
        Beastlier than any phantom of his kind
        That ever butted his rough brother-brute
        For lust or lusty blood or provender.
        I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she
        Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel,
        Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing,
        Whirls her to me -- ;but will she fling herself
        Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoot! nay,
        Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness,

        And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish --
        What? -- ;that the bush were leafless? or to whelm
        All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods
        I know you careless, yet, behold, to you
        From childly wont and ancient use I call --
        I thought I lived securely as yourselves --
        No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite,
        No madness of ambition, avarice, none;
        No larger feast than under plane or pine
        With neighbors laid along the grass, to take
        Only such cups as left us friendly-warm,
        Affirming each his own philosophy
        Nothing to mar the sober majesties
        Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life.
        But now it seems some unseen monster lays
        His vast and filthy hands upon my will,
        Wrenching it backward into his, and spoils
        My bliss in being; and it was not great,
        For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm,
        Or Heliconian honey in living words,
        To make a truth less harsh, I often grew
        Tired of so much within our little life
        Or of so little in our little life --
        Poor little life that toddles half an hour
        Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end --
        And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade,
        Why should I, beastlike as I find myself,
        Not manlike end myself? -- our privilege -- ;
        What beast has heart to do it? And what man
        What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph thus?
        Not I; not he, who bears one name with her
        Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings,
        When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins,
        She made her blood in sight of Collatine
        And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air,
        Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart.
        And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks
        As I am breaking now!

        "And therefore now
        Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all
        Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart
        Those blind beginnings that have made me man,
        Dash them anew together at her will
        Thro' all her cycles -- into man once more,
        Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower.
        But till this cosmic order everywhere
        Shatter'd into one earthquake m one day
        Cracks all to pieces, -- and that hour perhaps
        Is not so far when momentary man
        Shall seem no more a something to himself,
        But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes
        And even his bones long laid within the grave,
        The very sides of the grave itself shall pass,
        Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void,
        Into the unseen for ever, -- till that hour,
        My golden work in which I told a truth
        That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel,
        And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and plucks
        The mortal soul from out immortal hell
        Shall stand. Ay, surely; then it fails at last
        And perishes as I must, for O Thou
        Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity,
        Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise
        Who fail to find thee, being as thou art
        Without one pleasure and without one pain,
        Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine
        Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus
        I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not
        How roughly men may woo thee so they win -- ;
        Thus -- thus -- the soul flies out and dies in the air

        With that he drove the knife into his side.
        She heard him raging, heard him fall, ran in,
        Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself
        As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd
        That she but meant to win him back, fell on him
        Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd. He answer'd, "Care not thou!
        Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well!"

      Up

      Mariana

        With blackest moss the flower-plots
        Were thickly crusted, one and all:
        The rusted nails fell from the knots
        That held the pear to the gable-wall.
        The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
        Unlifted was the clinking latch;
        Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
        Upon the lonely moated grange.
        She only said, "My life is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        Her tears fell with the dews at even;
        Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
        She could not look on the sweet heaven,
        Either at morn or eventide.
        After the flitting of the bats,
        When thickest dark did trance the sky,
        She drew her casement-curtain by,
        And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
        She only said, "My life is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        Upon the middle of the night,
        Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
        The cock sung out an hour ere light:
        From the dark fen the oxen's low
        Came to her: without hope of change,
        In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
        Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
        About the lonely moated grange.
        She only said, "The day is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        About a stone-cast from the wall
        A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
        And o'er it many, round and small,
        The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
        Hard by a poplar shook alway,
        All silver-green with gnarled bark:
        For leagues no other tree did mark
        The level waste, the rounding gray.
        She only said, "My life is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        And ever when the moon was low,
        And the shrill winds were up and away
        In the white curtain, to and fro,
        She saw the gusty shadow sway.
        But when the moon was very low,
        And wild winds bound within their cell,
        The shadow of the poplar fell
        Upon her bed, across her brow.
        She only said, "The night is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        All day within the dreamy house,
        The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
        The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
        Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
        Or from the crevice peer'd about.
        Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
        Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
        Old voices call'd her from without.
        She only said, "My life is dreary,
        He cometh not," she said;
        She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
        I would that I were dead!"

        The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
        The slow clock ticking, and the sound
        Which to the wooing wind aloof
        The poplar made, did all confound
        Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour
        When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
        Athwart the chambers, and the day
        Was sloping toward his western bower.
        Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
        He will not come," she said;
        She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
        O God, that I were dead!"

      Up

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