The poems of Madison Cawein

As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,
Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;
Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe
As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe
As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,
Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;
Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,
And snag it here and there,—through which the sheen
Of her white skin gleams rosy;—eyes and face,

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Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:
So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,
Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood
Watching the sunset through the solitude.
So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way
Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray
Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,
Along the west, the battlemented gold
Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,
That seemed to open gates of Paradise
On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze
A glory, far within, of chrysoprase,
Towering in topaz through the purple haze.
And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,
To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,
Reclined in revery against the root
Of a great oak, a fragment of the west,
A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,
Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,
A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,
And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came
From Camelot; from his belovéd dame,
Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore

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A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er
With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which
Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.
He, louting to the knight, “Sir knight,” said he,
“Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,
Assures you—ah, unworthy bearer I
Of her good message!—of her constancy.”
Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,
To him he gave them, saying, “From my lord,
King Arthur: even his Excalibur,
The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,
The Ladye of the Lake, who, as you wot,
Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,
Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands
Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,
By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill
With rings of morrice every grassy hill.
Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,
Who begged it of the King with this intent:
That, for her honor, soon would be begun
A desperate battle with a champion,
Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:
And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure
Were she that he against him would endure.

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Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,
Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death.”
He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword
Excalibur and said, “It shall go hard
With him through thee, unconquerable blade,
Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid
Insult or injury! And hours as slow
As palsied hours in Purgatory go
For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!—
Here, page, my purse.—And now, to her who gave,
Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,
To death obedient, I!—In love or war
Her love to make me all the warrior.—
Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay
From him, who dies an hourly death each day
Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,
Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace.”
Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,
The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent
Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light

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Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night
With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife
Sadly of day, and closed his book of life
And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought
Of what this fight was that must soon be fought,
Belting the blade about him, Accolon,
Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.
[OMITTED]
And it befell him thus, the following dawn,
As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,
Glad with the freshness and elastic health
Of sky and earth, that lavished all their wealth
Of heady winds and racy scents,—a knight
And gentle lady met him, gay bedight,
With following of six esquires; and they
Held on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,
And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore
From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore
Hurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:
Who had besought—for much he feared to die—
This knight and his fair lady, as they rode

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To hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,
That they would beg her in all charity
To come to him (for in chirurgery
Of all that land she was the greatest leach),
And her for his recovery beseech.
So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,
And spake their message, for, right over fain
Were they toward their sport,—that he would bear
Petition to that lady. But, not there
Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;
But now a sennight lay at Camelot,
The guest of Guenevere; and with her there
Four other queens of Farther Britain were:
Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,
King Mark's wife,—who right rarely then was seen
At Court for jealousy of Mark, who knew
Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true
Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while
How guilty Guenevere on such could smile:—
She of Northgales and she of Eastland; and
She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,
For sovereignty and love and loveliness,
Was not in any realm to grace and bless.
So Accolon informed them. In distress

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Then quoth that knight: “Ay? see how fortune turns
And varies like an April day, that burns
Now welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,
Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.
For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lain
A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,
Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,
Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,
And sends despatch a courier to my lord,
Sir Ontzlake, with, ‘To-morrow, with the sword,
Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,
Decides the issue of inheritance,
Body to body, or by champion.’—
Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.
Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,
He would arise and save his livelihood.”

Then thought Sir Accolon: “One might suppose,
So soon this follows on her message, those
Same things befall through Morgane's arts—who knows?—
Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,

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This battle I myself will undertake.”
Then said to those, “I know the good Ontzlake.
If he be so conditioned, harried of
Estate and life,—in knighthood and for love
Of justice I his quarrel will assume.
My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groom
Prepare my steed. Right good 'twill be again
To feel him under me.”—Then, of that train,
Asked that one gentleman with him remain,
And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,
When this was granted, mounted with his men
And thence departed. And, ere noontide, they
Came to a lone, dismantled priory
Hard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,
Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,
Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:
A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushed
In wild and woody hills. And then one wound
A hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage sound
The drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, and
Into a paved court rode that little band.
[OMITTED]

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When all the world was morning, gleam and glare
Of autumn glory; and the frost-touched air
Rang with the rooks as rings a silver lyre
Swept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;
Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armed
For battle royally. A black steed warmed
A keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mail
Of foreign make; accoutered head and tail
In costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,
Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.
Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,
Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,
Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deep
With lordly gold and purple; whence did sweep
Two acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:
And at his thigh a falchion, battle-old
And triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, of
Cordovan leather, baldric'd rich above
With new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,
And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,
And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,

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Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.
And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,—
Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolled
A tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;
Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,—
Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.
And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,
Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,
A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zeal
Glittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.—
A squire attended him; a youth, whose head
Waved many a jaunty curl; whereon a red
Cock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keen
As some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:
And parti-colored leather shoes he had
Upon his feet; his legs were silken clad
In hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,
Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,
One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;
And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.

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So with his following, while, bar on bar,
The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,
Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,
Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.
Then to King Arthur, when arrived were these
Where bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,
A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,
Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflame
With sweat and heat of hurry; and, “From her,
Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!
With tender greeting. For you well may need
Its aid in this adventure. So, God speed!”
Said and departed suddenly: nor knew
The King that this was not his weapon true:
A brittle forgery, in likeness of
That blade, of baser metal;—in unlove
And treason made by her, of all his kin
The nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,
Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,
The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.

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Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.
Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,
Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,
A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,
White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:
Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,
Of yellow-dappled, variegated plate
Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state
His surcoat robe of honor,—white and black,
Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,—at his back
The wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,
Excalibur,—a throbbing golden globe
Of vicious jewels,—thrust its splendid hilt;
Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,
An eyelid clasped, black, of the black seahorse,
Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and force
Sat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of rich
Bronze-hammered laton; blazing upon which
A hundred brilliants glittered, thick as on
A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:
Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;

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In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.
A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaid
With azure silver, whereon colors played,
Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

Intense on either side the champions stood,
Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,
In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,
Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.
Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,
Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steels
Spurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,
Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steers
With adverse thunder; and, in middle course,
Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horse
Lashed, madly pawing.—And a hoarse roar rang
From the loud lists, till far the echoes sang
Of hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.

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Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,
Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.
Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,
Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,
And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,
Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scath
Upon their fiery fronts and in the wrath
Of their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stood
A symbol of the heart beneath the hood.—
The lance of Accolon, as on a rock
The storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,
On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;
But him resistless Arthur's,—high from horse
Uplifted,—headlong bore, and crashed him down;
A long sword's length unsaddled. Accolon
For one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drew
The great sword at his hip that shone like dew
Smitten with morn. “Descend!” he grimly said,
“To proof of better weapons, head to head!

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Enough of spears! to swords!”—And from his height
The King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,
His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,
Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,
A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,
As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the death
Of the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends—
A long blade leaps;—and now, a fang that rends,
Another blade, loud as a battle word,
Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,
A shield's fierce face replies: again a sword
Swings for a giant blow, and, balked again,
Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,
Over and over, blade on baleful blade;
Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,
Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,

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The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon
His falchion for a space. But Accolon,
As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—
Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death
Now than when first the fight to death begun,
Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,
His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,
Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood
Leaning upon his sword. Then, “Dost thou tire?”
Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,
“Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!”
And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,
That beat a flying fire from the steel.
Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,
Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,
Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate
Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might,
And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,
And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,—

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And,—as the lightning flames upon an oak,—
Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;
Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,
With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,
The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:
Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,
That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass
Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,
It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.
Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew
This sword was not Excalibur: too true
And perfect tempered, runed and mystical,
That weapon of old wars! and then withal,
Looking upon his foe, who still with stress
Fought on, untiring, and with no distress
Of wounds or heat, he thought, “I am betrayed!”
Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,
He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,
The true Excalibur, that high in hand
Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon
In madness urged th' unequal battle on
His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross

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Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss
Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,
Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,
Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits
Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits
Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering
Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King
Crawled still defiant. And, devising still
How to secure his sword and by what skill,
Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:
In that close chase they came where, shattered late,
Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,
Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance
He wielded with effect. Against the fist
Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,
That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;
Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe
Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,
Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased

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Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;
And clasping in both arms of wiry war
His foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seen
A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,
And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,
Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse
And wrath of tempest,—so King Arthur shook
And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,
Tearing away, that scabbard from his side
And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide
Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,
He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both
Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down
On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn
That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.
Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense
A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.
And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,
The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,

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The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:
“Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!
What king, what court is thine? And from what part
Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!—for, methinks,
I have beheld thee—where? Some memory links
Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes . . . thou art—
Who art thou?—speak!”—

He answered, slow, then short,
With labored breathing: “I?—one, Accolon,—
Of Gaul—a knight of Arthur's court—anon—
But to what end—yea, tell me—am I slain?”—
Then bent King Arthur nearer and again
Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:
“One of my Table!”—Then asked softly, “Say,
Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way

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Thou cam'st by it?”—But, wandering, that knight
Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight
The question asked; and answered, “Woe!—the sword!—
Woe worth the sword!—Lean down!—Canst hear my word?—
From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made
Me king of all this kingdom, so she said—
Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,
To make our schemes miscarry!—Wait! nay, wait!—
A king! dost hear?—a gold and blood-crowned king,
I!—Arthur's sister, queen!—No bird can wing
Higher than her ambition! that resolved
Her brother's death was needed, and evolved
Plots that should ripen with the ripening year,
And here be reaped, perhaps—nay, nay! not here!—
Farewell, my Morgane!—Yea, 'twas she who schemed
While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
Gone some six months.—There nothing gave us care.

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Each morning was a liberal almoner
Prodigal of silver to the earth and air:
Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,
Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;
On such an eve it was, that, redolent,
She sat by me and said,—‘My message sent,
Some night—within the forest—thou, my knight!
Thou and the king!—my men—the forest fight!—
Murder perhaps.—But, well?—who is to blame?’ . . .
So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.
To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,
And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;
With harlot lips, from which my being first
Drank hell and heaven. She, who was in sooth
My heaven and hell.—But now, behind her youth
She shrivels to a hag!—I see the truth!—
Harlot!—nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!—
Wanton!—nay, witch! sweet witch!—what wouldst thou more?—

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Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieve
That death so ruins it?—Thou dost perceive
How I still love thee! witness bear this field,
This field and he to whom I would not yield!—
Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!”—

Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye
Glowed, instant-embered, as one oft may see
A star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be.
Slow from his visage he his visor raised,
And on the dying knight a moment gazed;
Then grimly said, “Look on me, Accolon!
I am thy King!” He, with an awful groan,
Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;
Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drew
Up full his armored height and hoarsely cried,
“The King!” and at his mailed feet crashed and died.

Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed
About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,
Bespake that multitude: “While breath and power

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Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour
Hath given to Damas all this rich estate:
So it is his; allotted his by fate
And force of arms. So let it be to him.
For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim
But that it hath this strong conclusiön.
This much by us as errant knight is done.—
Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:
We do command Earl Damas to appear
No more upon our shores, or any isles
Of farthest Britain in its many miles.
One week be his, no more! then will we come,
Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:
If he be not departed overseas,
With all his men and all his outlawries,
From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,
Alive and naked shall he starve and hang
And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.
Thus much for him! . . . But all our favor goes
Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
To take into his knightly following
Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word.
But I am over weary. Take my sword.—
Unharness me, for more and more I tire;

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And all my wounds are so much aching fire.
Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain
To Glastonbury and with me the slain.”
So bore they then the wounded King away,
The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.
[OMITTED]
But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,
The King, remembering the marauder wrong
Which Damas had inflicted on that land,
Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,
To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.
He, riding thither to that robber lair,
Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,
Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:
And found—a ruin of fire-blackened rock,
Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock
Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents
Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,
Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:
Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,
Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;
Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.

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