The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

The end of spring was now drawn near
And all the leaves were grown full long;
The apple twigs were stiff and strong,
And one by one fell off from song
This thrush and that thrush by daylight,
Though lustily they sing near night.
This time a-maying went the Queen,
But Mellyagraunce across the green
Fresh meadows where the blue dykes were
Stared out and thought of Guenevere.
“If I could get her once,” he said,
“Whatever men say, by God's head
But I would hold her.” Here he glanced
Across his strong courts, for he chanced
To be on a tower-roof that tide,
And his banner-staff up beside
His bended knee. “St. Mary, though,
When I think well, I do not know
Why I should give myself this pain
About the Queen, and be so fain
To have her by me; God to aid,
I have seen many a comely maid—
Ah! and well-born too—if I said:
‘Fair lady, may I bear your glove?’
Would turn round quick and look all love:
While she laughs at me—laughs aloud”...

[THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE.]

[Lines not used in the final version.]

[_]

Discarded fragment of a descriptive opening of “Guenevere”.

That summer morning out in the green fields
Along the Itchen, sat King Arthur's knights
Long robed and solemn, their brave battle shields

Hung in the canopies, to see such sights
As might be seen that morning, and to hear
Such strange grim words fiercer than many fights,

That on that morn 'twixt anger and great fear
Brave lips and beautiful might writhe to say.
High up in wooden galleries anear

That solemn court of judgment dames sat—gay
With many coloured kirtles, yea, but some
Were sick and white with much fear on that day;

For now take notice, Launcelot was not come;
The lordly minstrel Tristram, nigh to death
From King Mark's glaive, sat brooding at his home;

Gareth was riding fearful of men's breath
Since he was Gawaine's brother; through the trees
And over many a mountain and bare heath

The questing beast, wings spread out to the breeze,
Trailed Palomydes, wearied feet and sore,
And ever Lawaine was at Launcelot's knees,

So he was missed too; ever more and more
Grew Gawaine's nets round Guenevere the Queen.
Look round about what knights were there that wore

Sir Launcelot's colours, the great snake of green
That twisted on the quartered white and red—

xxvj

[SIR PETER HARPDON'S END.]

[Lines not used in the final version.]

[_]

A scene fom “Sir Peter Hapondon's End.”

In the Castle on the walls.
JOHN CURZON
And yet their hammering is grown fainter now;
An hour might be something, Sir.

SIR PETER
No fear
But they'll be ready by the daylight, John.
Far better let this matter have its way;
Don't think of it, your heart grows heavy so.

xxvij

JOHN CURZON
Sir, truly? Well, I know not, just as if
I were a builder and knew what would strain
And yet not break, or perhaps might not break.
Just so, you see, Sir, do I hold this; as for death
It makes my heart jump when I say the word,
But otherwise my thoughts keep off from it
Without much driving.

SIR PETER
John, where were you born?
You never told me yet, whose son were you.

JOHN CURZON
At Goring by the Thames, a pleasant place:
So many sluices on from lock to lock,
All manner of slim trees—'tis now ten years
Since I was there, and I was young that time,
For I look older than I am, fair Sir.
My father holds a little manor there,
He's alive still: I mind once—pardon me,
I trouble you.

SIR PETER
No, Curzon, on my word.

JOHN CURZON
I mind once when my sister Anne was wed—
And she has children now: Why, what's to-day?
Tenth of November—we shall mind it long
Hereafter when we sit at home in peace—
The tenth to-day then, or to-morrow—which is it?
I never could keep these things in my mind—
Is poor Anne's birthday—hope it is to-day,
I shouldn't like them to be holding feast
While—God, Sir Peter, those men are in shot.
I'll fetch some archers, hold you still the while

xxviij

The Green Tower men will be the least tired out
And John of Waltham draws the stronger bow.
No noise, Sir, I'll be back soon.

He goes.
SIR PETER

That man now,
His thoughts go back in such a simple way,
Without much pain, I think, while mine—I feel
As if I were shut up in [a] close room
Steaming and stifling with no hope to reach
The free air outside—O if I had lived
To think of all the many happy days
I should have had, the pleasant quiet things,
Counted as little then, but each one now
Like lost salvation—Say I see her head
Turned round to smile at cheery word of mine;
I see her in the dance her gown held up
To free her feet, going to take my hand,
I see her in some crowded place bend down,
She is so tall, lay her hand flat upon
My breast beneath my chin as who should say,
Come here and talk apart: I see her pale,
Her mouth half open, looking on in fear
As the great tilt-yard fills; I see her, say,
Beside me on the dais; by my hearth
And in my bed who should have been my wife;
Day after day I see the French draw on;
Hold after hold falls as this one will fall,
Knight after knight hangs gibbeted like me,
Pennon on pennon do they drain us out
And I not there to let them. Lambert too,
I know what things he'll say—ah well, God grant
That he gets slain by these same arrows here
That come up now.

Enter John Curzon.

So, Curzon; little noise,
Wind the big perriere that they call Torte Bouche.
I think we shall just reach them there: see now,

xxix

You mark their beffroi by the loose ox-skins
If you strain hard your eyes; now aim well up
To the wind ward and you'll hit the midmost.

Set the staff—So, another inch this way of it,
Hands to the winch all ready. Now, Long Wat,
Stand with your six well on the right side
And aim about the little red bombard,
I mark them gathering there; you'll see them too
Within a little, when your eyelashes
Are well freed, so no hurry. By the Lord!
Here John of Waltham on [the] left, see here!
About the chestnut perriere I saw
The fellow with the red Montauban hat
Who did so well the first day—bend this way,
Lend me your arrow, there by the eightbarb
He's stooping.

LONG WAT
Yea, fair Sir, I see right well.

SIR PETER
Curzon, all's over; they're quite ready now—
Are going to assault, I think, at once,
Here in the dark. (Aloud.)
Yea, draw the catch when I
Cry out aloud whatever cry comes first.
Lads, draw to the barb points for the King's sake.
—St. Edward for Lord Richard of Bordeaux!
Broad arrows for the King!—Shout, boys, hurrah!
The beffroy's down.

JOHN CURZON
The Red Montauban hat
Hath got a token not a lady's, Sir.

SIR PETER
By God they're moving though, their cries, Curzon—
“Our Lady for the Constable of France,”

xxx

“Sanxere, Sanxere,” “the Marshal for King Charles,”
“St. Ives for Clisson—” Curzon, did you hear?

JOHN CURZON
Yea, Sir, and felt; a good round ton, I doubt,
Has fallen from the wall. I'm ready.

SIR PETER

Again
Among the men then, by Lord Clisson's tent.

St. George Guienne! Long Wat and all you
Shoot all you may.

JOHN CURZON
St. George! Why again there,
It comes away like dried mud; at this rate
They will not need the beffroi. By daybreak
May God have mercy on our souls, fair Sir!
They have made a breach—hark there, they know it too.

[A BALLAD.]

[A fragment of a ballad of about the same period as the poem “Sir Peter Harpondon's End”.]

Lo, Sirs, a desolate Damozel
In all highways I made my moan
With words on parchment written well
To help me to get back mine own;

And at the crossways that lead down
To either sea and the waste land,
The forest and the golden town,
I got a pursuivant to stand

Beside a cross of white and red,
And each day many knights passed by
Some bravely were apparellèd
And had most things that gold can buy,

xxxj

And some came poorly from the wars,
With broken arms and visages
Scarred by the Saracen scimitars—
And unto each and all of these

My pursuivant cried loud and well
The words upon the parchment writ
By me the desolate Damozel:
“Fair Knights, I do you all to wit

“My lady a most noble dame
A recreant traitor hath appealed,
And surely, Sirs, it were great blame
Such a fair noble dame to yield

“Unto the fire...”[OMITTED]