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POST-LAUREATE IDYLLS
(SECOND SERIES)
83
THE PLEADING OF DAGONET
ARGUMENT
The King of Spades,He kiss'd the maids,
Which vex'd the Queen full sore.
The Queen of Spades,
She beat those maids,
And turn'd them out of door.
The Knave of Spades
Grieved for those jades,
And did for them implore.
The Queen so gent,
She did relent,
And vow'd she'd ne'er strike more.
The time had come when slowly-dying Rome,
Feeling the death-chill creeping near her heart,
Call'd all the legions home from far-off lands
That haply they might save the life of her
Who once was nam'd the mistress of the world.
So they, home summon'd, swarm'd from over seas,
Climb'd Alps or cross'd the drifting sands that stretch'd
Between them and the much-lov'd mother land,
And left their hard-won conquests to their fate,
An easy prey to lustful heathen hosts.
And bitter was the lot of Britain's isle,
Deserted by the legions seeking Rome,
Till Arthur came and drave the heathen back
That swept from out the North, and made secure
A realm of peace and reign'd there as its king.
Feeling the death-chill creeping near her heart,
Call'd all the legions home from far-off lands
That haply they might save the life of her
Who once was nam'd the mistress of the world.
So they, home summon'd, swarm'd from over seas,
Climb'd Alps or cross'd the drifting sands that stretch'd
Between them and the much-lov'd mother land,
And left their hard-won conquests to their fate,
An easy prey to lustful heathen hosts.
And bitter was the lot of Britain's isle,
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Till Arthur came and drave the heathen back
That swept from out the North, and made secure
A realm of peace and reign'd there as its king.
But ere such happy ending had been reach'd,
The land was torn with battle, and the streams
Ran blood, and all the fertile fields were waste,
For none were had to till, and all the isle
Seem'd likelier to be the home of beasts
Than quiet kingdom of a peaceful king.
And once eleven fierce and wolfish kings
'Gainst Arthur join'd their strengths and prest him sore
And gave his arméd men no rest by night
Or day, and truly, as it seem'd, the light
Of Christ had been extinguish'd in the isle,
Had Arthur sent not out a cry for help
That rang across the straits and echo found
In wave-beat Brittany and and distant Gaul.
King Ban of Benwick—counted bravest knight
In all the world, had not his brother king
And brother in the flesh, Bors, King of Gaul,
Been reckon'd equal in men's sight—first heard
The cry, and sent a messenger to Bors
To bid him arm his hosts and speed with him
To aid the king of Britain in his need.
So these twain, Ban of Benwick, Bors of Gaul,
Past o'er the straits and sprang to Arthur's help,
And all the might of the eleven kings
Was broken, and themselves were slain, and none
Were left who own'd not Arthur for their lord.
The land was torn with battle, and the streams
Ran blood, and all the fertile fields were waste,
For none were had to till, and all the isle
Seem'd likelier to be the home of beasts
Than quiet kingdom of a peaceful king.
And once eleven fierce and wolfish kings
'Gainst Arthur join'd their strengths and prest him sore
And gave his arméd men no rest by night
Or day, and truly, as it seem'd, the light
Of Christ had been extinguish'd in the isle,
Had Arthur sent not out a cry for help
That rang across the straits and echo found
In wave-beat Brittany and and distant Gaul.
King Ban of Benwick—counted bravest knight
In all the world, had not his brother king
And brother in the flesh, Bors, King of Gaul,
Been reckon'd equal in men's sight—first heard
The cry, and sent a messenger to Bors
To bid him arm his hosts and speed with him
To aid the king of Britain in his need.
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Past o'er the straits and sprang to Arthur's help,
And all the might of the eleven kings
Was broken, and themselves were slain, and none
Were left who own'd not Arthur for their lord.
Now when the powers of the eleven kings
Were scatter'd, and the noise of battle ceas'd
King Ban of Benwick, with his brother Bors,
Laden with Arthur's many grateful gifts,
Again past over straits each to his realm.
A wifeless palace was the home of Bors,
But Ban was wedded unto Margaret,
A peasant's daughter who her first estate
Had long ere this forgot, and fair was she
As many women are, yet not so fair
But there were those with whom her face compar'd
As canker in the hedge to garden rose,
Or moonlight unto dazzling ray of sun;
And this she knew, and rag'd for jealousy
Within when women fairer than herself
Caught even a passing glance from Ban, her lord.
Were scatter'd, and the noise of battle ceas'd
King Ban of Benwick, with his brother Bors,
Laden with Arthur's many grateful gifts,
Again past over straits each to his realm.
A wifeless palace was the home of Bors,
But Ban was wedded unto Margaret,
A peasant's daughter who her first estate
Had long ere this forgot, and fair was she
As many women are, yet not so fair
But there were those with whom her face compar'd
As canker in the hedge to garden rose,
Or moonlight unto dazzling ray of sun;
And this she knew, and rag'd for jealousy
Within when women fairer than herself
Caught even a passing glance from Ban, her lord.
Now when King Ban return'd from Britain's isle,
His dark face darker yet from sun and wind
Than when he left his realm at Arthur's need,
It chanc'd that in the tale of those who serv'd
Within the palace were two lately come,
Sisters in blood, in age the same, and fair
To look upon as sunlight on gold waves
Of crinkling wheat. Not yet Queen Margaret
Was 'ware that they were of her retinue,
And therefore was it that Ban saw them first.
The time was summer, and a morn of June
Made music in the veins, the scent of flowers
Past down the breeze; the birds for very joy
Stopt in their songs to circle in mid air,
Began once more and once more broke the strain
For gladness' sake, so full their happy hearts,
While joy and summer reign'd o'er all the world.
It was the morning of a royal hunt,
And Ban the King, array'd as for the chase,
Was passing hastily to palace hall,
To join his knights and squires who stay'd him there,
When sudden music checkt his kingly haste,
And leaning from a window that o'erlookt
The palace court, he saw the sisters twain
At work and singing, like the birds, for joy.
No man but might not at that sight have felt
His heart beat quicker, were he old or young;
And all forgetting those his waiting knights,
Ban, being human, stay'd to gaze and list.
It was a simple song they sang, of joy
And dole, and ever as one sister paus'd,
The other caught the music's flying thread
And answer'd her, and these the words they sang:—
His dark face darker yet from sun and wind
Than when he left his realm at Arthur's need,
It chanc'd that in the tale of those who serv'd
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Sisters in blood, in age the same, and fair
To look upon as sunlight on gold waves
Of crinkling wheat. Not yet Queen Margaret
Was 'ware that they were of her retinue,
And therefore was it that Ban saw them first.
The time was summer, and a morn of June
Made music in the veins, the scent of flowers
Past down the breeze; the birds for very joy
Stopt in their songs to circle in mid air,
Began once more and once more broke the strain
For gladness' sake, so full their happy hearts,
While joy and summer reign'd o'er all the world.
It was the morning of a royal hunt,
And Ban the King, array'd as for the chase,
Was passing hastily to palace hall,
To join his knights and squires who stay'd him there,
When sudden music checkt his kingly haste,
And leaning from a window that o'erlookt
The palace court, he saw the sisters twain
At work and singing, like the birds, for joy.
No man but might not at that sight have felt
His heart beat quicker, were he old or young;
And all forgetting those his waiting knights,
Ban, being human, stay'd to gaze and list.
It was a simple song they sang, of joy
And dole, and ever as one sister paus'd,
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And answer'd her, and these the words they sang:—
“In life and love, if love in life be ours,
Smiling and weeping ne'er were equal powers;
Yet smiles thro' tears are sweetest smiles of all.
Smiling and weeping ne'er were equal powers;
Yet smiles thro' tears are sweetest smiles of all.
“It is the little tear that smiles confute,
That soon or late makes lovers' voices mute,
Yet ever gathering surely saddens all.
That soon or late makes lovers' voices mute,
Yet ever gathering surely saddens all.
“It is the little tear no smiles refute,
Or fleeting smiles of joy all destitute,
That in the heart's life surely saddens all.
Or fleeting smiles of joy all destitute,
That in the heart's life surely saddens all.
“Love is not worth your weeping: let it go.
Ah, is it? Tell me, dearest, is it so?
Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
Ah, is it? Tell me, dearest, is it so?
Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
Sweet were the voices of the sisters fair,
And he who listen'd might not say which voice
Had most of music in it, more than might
One hark'ning to two nightingales that sing
Out of their full hearts in a moonlit night,
All blossom-scented, of the waning May.
So, with the music ringing in his ears,
King Ban past down the stairway to the court;
But ere he came within the sisters' sight,
One of the twain had taken up the song
Again, and intermingling with the words,
And like a buttress to some lofty wall,
There ran along beside the singer's notes
Her sister's murmurous monotones of song,
And he who listen'd might not say which voice
Had most of music in it, more than might
One hark'ning to two nightingales that sing
Out of their full hearts in a moonlit night,
All blossom-scented, of the waning May.
So, with the music ringing in his ears,
King Ban past down the stairway to the court;
But ere he came within the sisters' sight,
One of the twain had taken up the song
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And like a buttress to some lofty wall,
There ran along beside the singer's notes
Her sister's murmurous monotones of song,
“My life, once mine, now thine, is surelier mine,
For love, if love be thine, such love were mine,
And death, if death be thine, that death were mine,
Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
For love, if love be thine, such love were mine,
And death, if death be thine, that death were mine,
Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
The song was ended and the maids arose,
And rising turn'd, and turning saw the King.
Then on the cheek of either flusht the white
To red that slowly pal'd again to white,
And flee they might not, rooted there by fear.
Then he, who saw their fear and sought to calm,
Said gently:—
“Maids, I pray you, be of cheer,
Such songs as yours are sweet unto mine ears,
And therefore make I payment in such wise
As best beseems a king when maids are fair.”
So saying, Ban of Benwick stoopt and kiss'd
The rounded cheeks that seem'd for kisses made,
So like the peach-bloom in their tenderness,
Then lightly turn'd away to join his knights,
His lips still playing with the song's refrain,
“Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
And rising turn'd, and turning saw the King.
Then on the cheek of either flusht the white
To red that slowly pal'd again to white,
And flee they might not, rooted there by fear.
Then he, who saw their fear and sought to calm,
Said gently:—
“Maids, I pray you, be of cheer,
Such songs as yours are sweet unto mine ears,
And therefore make I payment in such wise
As best beseems a king when maids are fair.”
So saying, Ban of Benwick stoopt and kiss'd
The rounded cheeks that seem'd for kisses made,
So like the peach-bloom in their tenderness,
Then lightly turn'd away to join his knights,
His lips still playing with the song's refrain,
“Dear love is richest when 'tis all in all.”
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Scarce had the echo of his footsteps died,
And still the wonder linger'd in the eyes
Of these King Ban had kiss'd, when Margaret,
The Queen, swept down upon the sisters twain;
For she from out her bower had seen the King
Salute the maids, and like an angry sea
Her rising tide of temper swell'd and surg'd,
To break in fury on the heads of these.
No word spake Margaret, but with a hand
Made hard by anger smote the maids on arm
And shoulder, and full harshly drave them forth
From palace doors, and all in dole they went.
And still the wonder linger'd in the eyes
Of these King Ban had kiss'd, when Margaret,
The Queen, swept down upon the sisters twain;
For she from out her bower had seen the King
Salute the maids, and like an angry sea
Her rising tide of temper swell'd and surg'd,
To break in fury on the heads of these.
No word spake Margaret, but with a hand
Made hard by anger smote the maids on arm
And shoulder, and full harshly drave them forth
From palace doors, and all in dole they went.
Now in the palace of King Ban was there
A bitter-tongued yet not unkindly dwarf,
Dark-haired and swart of hue, one Dagonet,
Who oft at royal banquets flasht his wit
Like nimble lightnings thro' the heavy clouds
Of dullness that opprest the wine-soakt brains
And chase-worn limbs of stalwart squires and knights,
And he returning from some trifling quest
Beheld the weeping damsels driven forth,
And in a moment's space had guess'd the cause,
While all his heart was mov'd and pitiful.
But these on whom the anger of the Queen
Had fallen heavily beheld him not
Thro' mists of tears till he full kindly spoke
And question'd of their grief, and so drew forth
In fragments, marr'd with many sobs and tears,
Their woful tale. This heard, Sir Dagonet,
Eying them tenderly as mothers eye
A child heart-broken for some pleasure lost,
Shook merrily his cap and bells, and made
Some jest that brought the laughter to their lips,
And gave thereafter counsel they should bide
Nigh to the palace till the queen had ruth.
Then Dagonet made haste and sought and found
The Queen, and shaking gleefully his bells
Broke into sudden laughter. Then the Queen:
“Why laugh you now, Sir Fool?”
And quickly came
The answer back, “I laugh, good mistress fool,
To think a queen should be a woman too.”
Then Margaret, starting quick aside as one
Who finds a stinging insect on his arm
And would be freed from it, said scornfully,
“Why call me ‘fool’? I am no kin of thine.”
“Thou art my sister fool,” quoth Dagonet,
“For Queens are gracious unto all that live,
But baser women know no note but hate
To sound in presence of their waiting maids
Who win a fleeting favour from their lord.
And therefore do I call thee sister fool,
And therefore is it that I laugh so loud.”
A bitter-tongued yet not unkindly dwarf,
Dark-haired and swart of hue, one Dagonet,
Who oft at royal banquets flasht his wit
Like nimble lightnings thro' the heavy clouds
Of dullness that opprest the wine-soakt brains
And chase-worn limbs of stalwart squires and knights,
And he returning from some trifling quest
Beheld the weeping damsels driven forth,
And in a moment's space had guess'd the cause,
While all his heart was mov'd and pitiful.
But these on whom the anger of the Queen
Had fallen heavily beheld him not
Thro' mists of tears till he full kindly spoke
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In fragments, marr'd with many sobs and tears,
Their woful tale. This heard, Sir Dagonet,
Eying them tenderly as mothers eye
A child heart-broken for some pleasure lost,
Shook merrily his cap and bells, and made
Some jest that brought the laughter to their lips,
And gave thereafter counsel they should bide
Nigh to the palace till the queen had ruth.
Then Dagonet made haste and sought and found
The Queen, and shaking gleefully his bells
Broke into sudden laughter. Then the Queen:
“Why laugh you now, Sir Fool?”
And quickly came
The answer back, “I laugh, good mistress fool,
To think a queen should be a woman too.”
Then Margaret, starting quick aside as one
Who finds a stinging insect on his arm
And would be freed from it, said scornfully,
“Why call me ‘fool’? I am no kin of thine.”
“Thou art my sister fool,” quoth Dagonet,
“For Queens are gracious unto all that live,
But baser women know no note but hate
To sound in presence of their waiting maids
Who win a fleeting favour from their lord.
And therefore do I call thee sister fool,
And therefore is it that I laugh so loud.”
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When Dagonet had ceas'd, a silence came
Upon the jester and the jealous Queen,
And either fear'd to speak: the one for shame
That she, a Queen, had so her state forgot
And beaten cruelly two harmless maids
For no fault greater than a simple song,
The other doubtful if his words were wise.
But ere the shadow of the dial mov'd
A hair's-breadth onward toward the close of day,
The dwarf found voice again and begg'd the Queen
To pity those her wrath had driven forth;
And mov'd by pleadings of the sharp tongued dwarf,
Or by repentant working of her soul,
The Queen melted to pity and the maids
Forgave, and in the rush of feeling vow'd
Her hand should ne'er strike more. Thus Dagonet
O'ercame the wrath of Margaret and saw
The maids restor'd, and in the next year went
As sign of friendly bonds between the kings
To dwell at Arthur's court in Camelot.
Upon the jester and the jealous Queen,
And either fear'd to speak: the one for shame
That she, a Queen, had so her state forgot
And beaten cruelly two harmless maids
For no fault greater than a simple song,
The other doubtful if his words were wise.
But ere the shadow of the dial mov'd
A hair's-breadth onward toward the close of day,
The dwarf found voice again and begg'd the Queen
To pity those her wrath had driven forth;
And mov'd by pleadings of the sharp tongued dwarf,
Or by repentant working of her soul,
The Queen melted to pity and the maids
Forgave, and in the rush of feeling vow'd
Her hand should ne'er strike more. Thus Dagonet
O'ercame the wrath of Margaret and saw
The maids restor'd, and in the next year went
As sign of friendly bonds between the kings
To dwell at Arthur's court in Camelot.
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THE VISION OF SIR LIONEL
ARGUMENT
“There were three sisters in a hall,There came a knight among them them all;
‘Good-morrow, aunt,’ to the one,
‘Good-morrow, aunt,’ to the other,
‘Good-morrow, gentlewoman,’ to the third.
‘If you were my aunt
As the other two be,
I would say good-morrow
Then, aunts all three.’”
Sir Launcelot had fled the sight of men,
And past in dolour to a mournful wood
Where seldom rang the voice of knights from chase
Returning, but instead the dismal cry
Of owl in deepest shadows hid, or beast
That prey'd upon his brother beast, like man
On man, and there, a hermit, lived the space
Of three long years, and there, a hermit, died.
Now at this time Sir Ector and Sir Bors,
With others of the broken Table Round,
Coming to crave a blessing at his hands,
Found when they gain'd the cave beneath the rocks
That fring'd the gloomy base of a low hill,
That he, the holy man they sought, had died
An hour before, and like a summer storm
Their grief, and like a torrent flow'd their tears.
Then he, Sir Ector, standing at the feet
Of Launcelot, and lifting up a voice
That shook with anguish, cried aloud, “Thou wert,
Sir Launcelot, head of all the Christian knights!”
And hiding in his scarf a face all marr'd
With weeping, wept again.
And past in dolour to a mournful wood
Where seldom rang the voice of knights from chase
Returning, but instead the dismal cry
Of owl in deepest shadows hid, or beast
That prey'd upon his brother beast, like man
On man, and there, a hermit, lived the space
Of three long years, and there, a hermit, died.
Now at this time Sir Ector and Sir Bors,
With others of the broken Table Round,
Coming to crave a blessing at his hands,
Found when they gain'd the cave beneath the rocks
That fring'd the gloomy base of a low hill,
That he, the holy man they sought, had died
An hour before, and like a summer storm
Their grief, and like a torrent flow'd their tears.
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Of Launcelot, and lifting up a voice
That shook with anguish, cried aloud, “Thou wert,
Sir Launcelot, head of all the Christian knights!”
And hiding in his scarf a face all marr'd
With weeping, wept again.
There came a hush
Upon them, broken not until Sir Bors
DeGanis, nephew of the dead, cried out:—
“Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, and I dare
To say that thou wert never matcht of none
Among all earthly knighrs, and that thou wert
The courtliest knight that ever bare a shield,
And to thy lover truest friend of all
That ever rode an horse, and that thou wert
The truest lover of a sinful man
That ever woman loved, and tenderest man
Wert thou that ever struck with sword, and thou
The goodliest person among press of knights,
And thou the gentlest and the meekest man
That ever among ladies ate in hall,
And to thy mortal foe the sternest knight
That ever put spear in the rest.”
Upon them, broken not until Sir Bors
DeGanis, nephew of the dead, cried out:—
“Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, and I dare
To say that thou wert never matcht of none
Among all earthly knighrs, and that thou wert
The courtliest knight that ever bare a shield,
And to thy lover truest friend of all
That ever rode an horse, and that thou wert
The truest lover of a sinful man
That ever woman loved, and tenderest man
Wert thou that ever struck with sword, and thou
The goodliest person among press of knights,
And thou the gentlest and the meekest man
That ever among ladies ate in hall,
And to thy mortal foe the sternest knight
That ever put spear in the rest.”
Then rose
A sharp and bitter cry from those who stood
Beside, and stooping down they rais'd the dead
And reverently bare him forth, the flower
Of knighthood, dead before his time.
And one,
His brother Lionel, a knight who seem'd
In the mid-strength and flourish of his youth,
Walk'd last of all with downdropt eyes until
They reach'd the castle of the Joyous Guard,
There he abode till two days after mass
Was sung above Sir Launcelot, and the sound
Of rolling music surg'd along the aisles
Of the small chapel at the Joyous Guard,
And died in mournful murmurs like the wind
In clefts and hollows of some crag above
A heaving stormful sea. But when the knights,
Sir Ector and Sir Bors and all the rest,
Had gone their ways and left Sir Launcelot tomb'd
At altar-foot, the young Sir Lionel
Departed by another way from these,
And past into a wide waste land that lay
On both sides of a sullen stream that swept
Round many a loop of fenland to the sea.
Here in a shatter'd castle of his own
That stood half-islanded by the dark stream,
He past a lonely autumn-tide, nor knew
Nor car'd what hapt amid the world of men;
For ever was he thinking of the dead
Sir Launcelot, and saying to himself,
“Would I had died if so be he had liv'd:
Full gladly had I given my life for his.”
And had his brother knights beheld him then,
They might have deem'd the death he crav'd was near;
For like to one whose days have shrunk to hours
He sat in hall unheeding, while the wind
Tore at the casement and was loud without.
A sharp and bitter cry from those who stood
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And reverently bare him forth, the flower
Of knighthood, dead before his time.
And one,
His brother Lionel, a knight who seem'd
In the mid-strength and flourish of his youth,
Walk'd last of all with downdropt eyes until
They reach'd the castle of the Joyous Guard,
There he abode till two days after mass
Was sung above Sir Launcelot, and the sound
Of rolling music surg'd along the aisles
Of the small chapel at the Joyous Guard,
And died in mournful murmurs like the wind
In clefts and hollows of some crag above
A heaving stormful sea. But when the knights,
Sir Ector and Sir Bors and all the rest,
Had gone their ways and left Sir Launcelot tomb'd
At altar-foot, the young Sir Lionel
Departed by another way from these,
And past into a wide waste land that lay
On both sides of a sullen stream that swept
Round many a loop of fenland to the sea.
Here in a shatter'd castle of his own
That stood half-islanded by the dark stream,
He past a lonely autumn-tide, nor knew
Nor car'd what hapt amid the world of men;
For ever was he thinking of the dead
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“Would I had died if so be he had liv'd:
Full gladly had I given my life for his.”
And had his brother knights beheld him then,
They might have deem'd the death he crav'd was near;
For like to one whose days have shrunk to hours
He sat in hall unheeding, while the wind
Tore at the casement and was loud without.
So ran the autumn to its end. Each night
The little marshy pools were film'd with ice,
Rime whiten'd the tall reeds that grew beside,
And winter came, and still Sir Lionel
Abode in gloom; but on a day in spring
Nigh to Our Lady's feast, a sudden glow
O'erspread the land and brake from out the earth
In flame of crocus and of violet.
And on that day Sir Lionel awoke,
And on that day bethought him of the world,
And felt such stirrings of his youthful blood
As if the chase or tourney beckoned him.
Fill'd with the rush of old impetuous
Desires, Sir Lionel was moved to leap
At once to horse and lightly ride away,
But limbs disus'd from action held him fast,
At which he chaf'd and murmur'd but endur'd
Till all his wonted strength return'd and he
Look'd like a copy of that Launcelot
Who in his younger days flasht thro' the lists
And charg'd, in shock of tourney, past the eyes
Of ladies and of kings at Camelot.
The little marshy pools were film'd with ice,
Rime whiten'd the tall reeds that grew beside,
And winter came, and still Sir Lionel
Abode in gloom; but on a day in spring
Nigh to Our Lady's feast, a sudden glow
O'erspread the land and brake from out the earth
In flame of crocus and of violet.
And on that day Sir Lionel awoke,
And on that day bethought him of the world,
And felt such stirrings of his youthful blood
As if the chase or tourney beckoned him.
Fill'd with the rush of old impetuous
Desires, Sir Lionel was moved to leap
At once to horse and lightly ride away,
But limbs disus'd from action held him fast,
At which he chaf'd and murmur'd but endur'd
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Look'd like a copy of that Launcelot
Who in his younger days flasht thro' the lists
And charg'd, in shock of tourney, past the eyes
Of ladies and of kings at Camelot.
The Easter-tide was past when on a morn
In green mid-April, young Sir Lionel,
To southward turning, rode from out that wild
Waste country to a westward-gazing land
That breath'd of coming summer. On the branch
O'erhead the bud had swell'd to leaf, in hue
Pale emerald shot with threads of gold. The birds
Made riotous music in mid-air, and all
The turf burn'd with the daffodil's sharp flame.
Upon the brow of a low hill that cleft
The plain a half-league distant, rose the walls
Of a great castle from whose highest tower
There flutter'd a white ensign cross'd with bars
Of gold, that now and ever caught the sun
And flasht against the blue of sky beyond.
This when he saw, the knight spake to his squire,
A man in years much past his own, “I pray
You stay till I return,” and he made speech
In answer, “Yea, my lord.” Thereat the knight
Put spurs to horse and rode to castle gate,
That stood wide open and no man was near.
Above the keystone one long since had carv'd,
With intricate device of blazoning,
A shield and legend on a streaming scroll,
But all were dim with years, and none might tell
The sculptor's meaning save that on the scroll
“Amor” yet linger'd, as if one should say
That love outlasted pride of place and name.
In green mid-April, young Sir Lionel,
To southward turning, rode from out that wild
Waste country to a westward-gazing land
That breath'd of coming summer. On the branch
O'erhead the bud had swell'd to leaf, in hue
Pale emerald shot with threads of gold. The birds
Made riotous music in mid-air, and all
The turf burn'd with the daffodil's sharp flame.
Upon the brow of a low hill that cleft
The plain a half-league distant, rose the walls
Of a great castle from whose highest tower
There flutter'd a white ensign cross'd with bars
Of gold, that now and ever caught the sun
And flasht against the blue of sky beyond.
This when he saw, the knight spake to his squire,
A man in years much past his own, “I pray
You stay till I return,” and he made speech
In answer, “Yea, my lord.” Thereat the knight
Put spurs to horse and rode to castle gate,
That stood wide open and no man was near.
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With intricate device of blazoning,
A shield and legend on a streaming scroll,
But all were dim with years, and none might tell
The sculptor's meaning save that on the scroll
“Amor” yet linger'd, as if one should say
That love outlasted pride of place and name.
Much pond'ring on this thing, Sir Lionel
Rode slowly o'er the drawbridge 'neath the gate
And past within the courtyard. Nothing stirr'd
To meet his coming, tho' his horse's hoofs
Sent all the echoes flying back from wall
To wall, and for a space Sir Lionel
Sat silent on his horse and gaz'd upon
The empty courtyard. On three sides rose up
A high grey wall, doorless and windowless,
But on the fourth an archway pierc'd the stone,
In which a door swung lightly with each puff
Of wind. This seeing, Lionel was mov'd
To pass beyond. Dismounting from his horse,
He lightly overran the steep stone steps,
And pushing with one hand the oaken door,
Past in. Thereat the door clang'd to with sound
Like thunder, nor would ope again. In awe,
Yet nowise daunted, Lionel enter'd now
A hall hung round with 'broideries that mov'd
In the light breeze that thro' the doorway past
With him, and at the farther end there sat
An ancient maiden clad in faded cloth
Of yellow samite. Faded were the eyes
That lookt on him, and faded too the hue
That once had been sweet colour in the cheeks,
And he, beholding, deem'd her more than twice
His years, and, for she spake no word, bow'd low,
And said with reverence as became a knight
In presence of a dame of rank and years
Like hers, “Good-morrow, aunt.” At this a smile,
As wintry watery as the gleam that strikes
Athwart a barren land at close of some
November afternoon, lit up a while
The sombre visage that was turn'd to him,
And ere it past she pointed with a hand
To which, uncompanied, a jewel clung;
And following with his eyes the hand, he saw
An arch behind her, wherethro' Lionel past
In silence, reverencing her mood, and came
Into a hall ten paces longer than
That other hung with 'broideries, but this
With silken hangings, wonders of the loom.
Upon a dais midway of the space,
Beneath a canopy of crimson silk,
Sat one who seem'd a sister unto her,
The ancient maiden of the yellow robe,
But yet twin lustrums younger, for her eyes
Not wholly fail'd their charm, and on her gown
Of samite crimson folded hands lay yet
Unshrunken. Unto her Sir Lionel
With utmost grace of courtesy stoopt low
Until the plume upon his helmet swept
The floor, and with a voice that seem'd all made
Of courtesy, “I pray you, gentle aunt,
Good-morrow!”
Rode slowly o'er the drawbridge 'neath the gate
And past within the courtyard. Nothing stirr'd
To meet his coming, tho' his horse's hoofs
Sent all the echoes flying back from wall
To wall, and for a space Sir Lionel
Sat silent on his horse and gaz'd upon
The empty courtyard. On three sides rose up
A high grey wall, doorless and windowless,
But on the fourth an archway pierc'd the stone,
In which a door swung lightly with each puff
Of wind. This seeing, Lionel was mov'd
To pass beyond. Dismounting from his horse,
He lightly overran the steep stone steps,
And pushing with one hand the oaken door,
Past in. Thereat the door clang'd to with sound
Like thunder, nor would ope again. In awe,
Yet nowise daunted, Lionel enter'd now
A hall hung round with 'broideries that mov'd
98
With him, and at the farther end there sat
An ancient maiden clad in faded cloth
Of yellow samite. Faded were the eyes
That lookt on him, and faded too the hue
That once had been sweet colour in the cheeks,
And he, beholding, deem'd her more than twice
His years, and, for she spake no word, bow'd low,
And said with reverence as became a knight
In presence of a dame of rank and years
Like hers, “Good-morrow, aunt.” At this a smile,
As wintry watery as the gleam that strikes
Athwart a barren land at close of some
November afternoon, lit up a while
The sombre visage that was turn'd to him,
And ere it past she pointed with a hand
To which, uncompanied, a jewel clung;
And following with his eyes the hand, he saw
An arch behind her, wherethro' Lionel past
In silence, reverencing her mood, and came
Into a hall ten paces longer than
That other hung with 'broideries, but this
With silken hangings, wonders of the loom.
Upon a dais midway of the space,
Beneath a canopy of crimson silk,
Sat one who seem'd a sister unto her,
The ancient maiden of the yellow robe,
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Not wholly fail'd their charm, and on her gown
Of samite crimson folded hands lay yet
Unshrunken. Unto her Sir Lionel
With utmost grace of courtesy stoopt low
Until the plume upon his helmet swept
The floor, and with a voice that seem'd all made
Of courtesy, “I pray you, gentle aunt,
Good-morrow!”
At the words she rose from out
Her chair beneath the crimson canopy,
And lifting a white arm, wherefrom the folds
Of samite crimson slipt in gleaming lines,
With slender finger pointed to a door
Half hid in a shadow, smiling as the sun
Of middle summer smiles across a field
Of rip'ning wheat. In silence Lionel
Obey'd the motion of the finger point,
Push'd ope the door which clos'd behind with sound
That jarr'd the nerves of silence, leaving him
Alone within a corridor that led,
After long windings, to a lofty hall
Lighted by three vast windows in which flam'd
The story of the great Pendragonship
In saffron, gules, and azure. On the walls
Were dinted shields a many. From the roof
Droop't faded banners of some mighty king.
All this Sir Lionel saw not, or saw
As one whose heart is elsewhere sees the shapes
Of men and things about him, but of them
Thinks naught; for now his eyes were fixt on one
Who mov'd to meet him in a samite robe
Of palest azure, over which a vine
Wrought all of pearls, as thickly sown as turf
With trembling sparkles after April showers,
At random wander'd from the throat to hem.
Beholding stood Sir Lionel, like one
Who after many years of darkness sees
For the first time. Ne'er had he known a maid
So beautiful, for on her cheek there lay
The rose, and on her brow the lily. Hair
Like ripples of pale sunshine made a light
About her like a glory, and her eyes
Seem'd like twin stars.
Her chair beneath the crimson canopy,
And lifting a white arm, wherefrom the folds
Of samite crimson slipt in gleaming lines,
With slender finger pointed to a door
Half hid in a shadow, smiling as the sun
Of middle summer smiles across a field
Of rip'ning wheat. In silence Lionel
Obey'd the motion of the finger point,
Push'd ope the door which clos'd behind with sound
That jarr'd the nerves of silence, leaving him
Alone within a corridor that led,
After long windings, to a lofty hall
Lighted by three vast windows in which flam'd
The story of the great Pendragonship
In saffron, gules, and azure. On the walls
Were dinted shields a many. From the roof
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All this Sir Lionel saw not, or saw
As one whose heart is elsewhere sees the shapes
Of men and things about him, but of them
Thinks naught; for now his eyes were fixt on one
Who mov'd to meet him in a samite robe
Of palest azure, over which a vine
Wrought all of pearls, as thickly sown as turf
With trembling sparkles after April showers,
At random wander'd from the throat to hem.
Beholding stood Sir Lionel, like one
Who after many years of darkness sees
For the first time. Ne'er had he known a maid
So beautiful, for on her cheek there lay
The rose, and on her brow the lily. Hair
Like ripples of pale sunshine made a light
About her like a glory, and her eyes
Seem'd like twin stars.
Silent he stood such space
As one might count an hundred, then upon
One knee in reverence bending, spake aloud:—
“Good-morrow, maiden—aunt I may not say;
Sister I dare not—yet were you like these,
I might good-morrow bid you, aunts all three.
This can I not; but if you be of earth,
As sure I almost deem that one so fair
Was not of earthly mother born, I fain
Would be your eager, faithful knight to serve
You in such wise as you may deem me fit.”
Thereat the maid, extending a white hand,
Sign'd him to rise; when he, that moment seiz'd
With rapture of wild love, caught at the hand
And kiss'd it twice or thrice, but ere his lips
Had left it came a darkness over him,
And in the midst of that great darkness was
A voice that sang, and sadly sweet the words.
And when the song had end the darkness past,
And he upon his horse once more, beside
His squire, was gazing on that land that slop'd
To westward; but the castle no man saw
Thenceforward, and Sir Lionel went his way.
As one might count an hundred, then upon
One knee in reverence bending, spake aloud:—
“Good-morrow, maiden—aunt I may not say;
Sister I dare not—yet were you like these,
I might good-morrow bid you, aunts all three.
This can I not; but if you be of earth,
As sure I almost deem that one so fair
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Would be your eager, faithful knight to serve
You in such wise as you may deem me fit.”
Thereat the maid, extending a white hand,
Sign'd him to rise; when he, that moment seiz'd
With rapture of wild love, caught at the hand
And kiss'd it twice or thrice, but ere his lips
Had left it came a darkness over him,
And in the midst of that great darkness was
A voice that sang, and sadly sweet the words.
And when the song had end the darkness past,
And he upon his horse once more, beside
His squire, was gazing on that land that slop'd
To westward; but the castle no man saw
Thenceforward, and Sir Lionel went his way.
102
THE PLEASAUNCE OF MAID MARIAN
ARGUMENT
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,How does your garden grow?
Silver bells and cockle shells
And fair maids all in a row.”
Isolt the White, the daughter of a king,
Hoel of Brittany, the same who wed
Sir Tristram of the Woods, who lov'd her not,
Within a shadowy hall sat by herself,
Upon an autumn midnight drencht with rain
And loud with shrieking of the gale, and mus'd
How her white hands had been too weak to hold
Her lord, Sir Tristram, who had sworn to love
But her, then lightly broken, for the man
Was light, his promis'd word. He first had call'd
Her by that name, Isolt of the White Hands,
When those white hands had heal'd him of his hurt
Got in some tourney held in Brittany,
And she had lov'd him for the name, and thought,
“Full surely is he mine as I am his;”
And this had lasted but the waxing old
Of the same moon that crescive saw them wed.
Then he had left her taking slight farewell,
And over seas had come no word from him
Of bale or comfort, and a year was past.
Now as she mus'd on love, and musing felt
Aweary of her life because no love
Was had for her, the tempest-driven rain
Beat at the casement, and small puffs of wind
Flutter'd the flame that burnt upon the hearth,
And stirr'd the many-coloured tapestries
That lin'd the wall; and once a fiercer gust,
It seem'd, drave ope the door, and with the wind
And rain there came one trailing dripping weeds
Of samite after. Then Isolt thereat
Rais'd eyes amist with tears, and thro' these saw
Her cousin, sharp of tongue, sharper of face,
Of all men call'd Maid Marian the curst,
And gave a doubtful welcome. Thereupon
The sharp-fac'd damsel, clanging to the door,
Laught shrilly, crying out the while:
Hoel of Brittany, the same who wed
Sir Tristram of the Woods, who lov'd her not,
Within a shadowy hall sat by herself,
Upon an autumn midnight drencht with rain
And loud with shrieking of the gale, and mus'd
How her white hands had been too weak to hold
Her lord, Sir Tristram, who had sworn to love
But her, then lightly broken, for the man
Was light, his promis'd word. He first had call'd
Her by that name, Isolt of the White Hands,
When those white hands had heal'd him of his hurt
Got in some tourney held in Brittany,
And she had lov'd him for the name, and thought,
“Full surely is he mine as I am his;”
And this had lasted but the waxing old
Of the same moon that crescive saw them wed.
Then he had left her taking slight farewell,
And over seas had come no word from him
Of bale or comfort, and a year was past.
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Aweary of her life because no love
Was had for her, the tempest-driven rain
Beat at the casement, and small puffs of wind
Flutter'd the flame that burnt upon the hearth,
And stirr'd the many-coloured tapestries
That lin'd the wall; and once a fiercer gust,
It seem'd, drave ope the door, and with the wind
And rain there came one trailing dripping weeds
Of samite after. Then Isolt thereat
Rais'd eyes amist with tears, and thro' these saw
Her cousin, sharp of tongue, sharper of face,
Of all men call'd Maid Marian the curst,
And gave a doubtful welcome. Thereupon
The sharp-fac'd damsel, clanging to the door,
Laught shrilly, crying out the while:
“Your guest,
Good cousin, is not to your mind, meseems.”
Thereat Isolt, as stung to courtsey
Perforce, would fain have call'd for lights, and food
And all things needful, had not she, the maid,
Shook off in haste constraining hands and cried:
“I care not for your simple kindnesses,
Cousin Isolt;” then louder, “I have news
Of him you call your Tristram, so much yours
Indeed as any knight may be the prize
Of one among a score of maidens whom
He loves and leaves.”
By this, Isolt the White,
Trembling to hear what she for long had fear'd
To hear, had murmur'd, “False, my cousin, false,”
But that Maid Miriam shrill'd it once again:
“Ay! yours and hers, and any woman's else
On whom his fancy lights,” and crying out
On all false lovers, fled into the dark
That clos'd about her, and Isolt was left
To such small comfort as her prayers might yield.
Good cousin, is not to your mind, meseems.”
Thereat Isolt, as stung to courtsey
Perforce, would fain have call'd for lights, and food
And all things needful, had not she, the maid,
Shook off in haste constraining hands and cried:
“I care not for your simple kindnesses,
Cousin Isolt;” then louder, “I have news
Of him you call your Tristram, so much yours
Indeed as any knight may be the prize
104
He loves and leaves.”
By this, Isolt the White,
Trembling to hear what she for long had fear'd
To hear, had murmur'd, “False, my cousin, false,”
But that Maid Miriam shrill'd it once again:
“Ay! yours and hers, and any woman's else
On whom his fancy lights,” and crying out
On all false lovers, fled into the dark
That clos'd about her, and Isolt was left
To such small comfort as her prayers might yield.
But when the morrow brake upon a world
Washt clean with tempest, light'd by a sun
That drave the mists before in streaming lines
Of golden vapour, she, the white Isolt,
Out of a tender heart was fain to doubt
The word Maid Marian brought, had not the maid
Stood once again before her crying, “Come!
Sad cousin, and behold your lord.”
Washt clean with tempest, light'd by a sun
That drave the mists before in streaming lines
Of golden vapour, she, the white Isolt,
Out of a tender heart was fain to doubt
The word Maid Marian brought, had not the maid
Stood once again before her crying, “Come!
Sad cousin, and behold your lord.”
So they,
The twain, took ship, past over seas, and came
To where Tintagel with its crown of towers,
Defies with frowning might of splinter'd crag
The stormful tossing seas of Lyonnesse.
There, favour'd by the tangl'd arms of trees
That stretcht deep shadows on the landward side
Of the huge castle, went they by a path
That led with many windings to the tower
Of Queen Isolt of Britain, she men call'd
The Fair. Within her bower she lay asleep
Upon an azure-broider'd silken couch,
And half her robe had slipt aside and show'd
A silver skin glossy as satin, fair
As none was fair before in all that land.
The twain, took ship, past over seas, and came
To where Tintagel with its crown of towers,
Defies with frowning might of splinter'd crag
The stormful tossing seas of Lyonnesse.
There, favour'd by the tangl'd arms of trees
That stretcht deep shadows on the landward side
105
That led with many windings to the tower
Of Queen Isolt of Britain, she men call'd
The Fair. Within her bower she lay asleep
Upon an azure-broider'd silken couch,
And half her robe had slipt aside and show'd
A silver skin glossy as satin, fair
As none was fair before in all that land.
At her Maid Marian pointed hissing, “See!
The false queen whom false Tristram loves.”
Then she,
Isolt of the White Hands beholding Queen
Isolt the Fair, belov'd of Tristram, knew
That never would he leave that woman there,
That woman in the high tide of her youth,
That woman with the glory in her hair,
For her, his faded wife of Brittany,
For her, his pale Isolt of the White Hands,
And bitter was this knowledge unto her,
And bitter, too, the cry within her heart
At thought of it.
The false queen whom false Tristram loves.”
Then she,
Isolt of the White Hands beholding Queen
Isolt the Fair, belov'd of Tristram, knew
That never would he leave that woman there,
That woman in the high tide of her youth,
That woman with the glory in her hair,
For her, his faded wife of Brittany,
For her, his pale Isolt of the White Hands,
And bitter was this knowledge unto her,
And bitter, too, the cry within her heart
At thought of it.
Now, as they drew behind
The silken hangings of the room, the queen
Awoke, a step came up the circling stair,
And Tristram enter'd, whom all women lov'd.
On him the twain gaz'd through the narrow rents
That time had worn within the hangings' folds
And saw him stoop to greet the queen with kiss
Such as he never yet had laid upon
The lips of her of Brittany, and heard
Those false ones utter their adult'rous love
Till gloom had fallen, and King Mark, whom none
Remember'd, softly stole into the bower
And from behind false Tristram clove his skull
From crown to nape. So died the sinful knight
Belov'd of women, slain by him he wrong'd.
But she, Isolt the Fair, beholding him
She lov'd dead at her feet, and him she loath'd
Holding the sword, rais'd such a storm as husht
The outcry of those twain in hiding there,
And swiftly moving to the casement's edge,
And shrieking, “Him I follow whom I love,”
Leapt into that white surge which foam'd below,
And past to judgement as the sinful pass.
The silken hangings of the room, the queen
Awoke, a step came up the circling stair,
106
On him the twain gaz'd through the narrow rents
That time had worn within the hangings' folds
And saw him stoop to greet the queen with kiss
Such as he never yet had laid upon
The lips of her of Brittany, and heard
Those false ones utter their adult'rous love
Till gloom had fallen, and King Mark, whom none
Remember'd, softly stole into the bower
And from behind false Tristram clove his skull
From crown to nape. So died the sinful knight
Belov'd of women, slain by him he wrong'd.
But she, Isolt the Fair, beholding him
She lov'd dead at her feet, and him she loath'd
Holding the sword, rais'd such a storm as husht
The outcry of those twain in hiding there,
And swiftly moving to the casement's edge,
And shrieking, “Him I follow whom I love,”
Leapt into that white surge which foam'd below,
And past to judgement as the sinful pass.
Then came the white Isolt with Marian
Forth from her place, and stood beside the dead
Sir Tristram, crying, “He is mine, none else
May claim him dead, for he was mine, not hers;”
Whereat the king star'd full upon her. Face
And voice alike he knew not, but some thought
That she too was by Tristram wrong'd, mov'd him
To growl in churlish answer,
Forth from her place, and stood beside the dead
Sir Tristram, crying, “He is mine, none else
May claim him dead, for he was mine, not hers;”
Whereat the king star'd full upon her. Face
And voice alike he knew not, but some thought
107
To growl in churlish answer,
“Woman, take
The man you claim, if you will have him dead
Who living little lov'd you, as I deem,”
Then turn'd and past adown the stair, but sent
No long time after two stout churls to bear
Dead Tristram forth where these two women will'd.
The man you claim, if you will have him dead
Who living little lov'd you, as I deem,”
Then turn'd and past adown the stair, but sent
No long time after two stout churls to bear
Dead Tristram forth where these two women will'd.
So white Isolt bore home her murder'd lord
Across the sea to Brittany, and there
Entomb'd him piously like some dead saint,
And made a pleasaunce all about where vine
And flower grew thickly, and would walk therein
At morning, noon, and even, silently,
Till three slow twelvemonths past, when there was dole
In Brittany. So hers they made the tomb
She built for sinful Tristram of the Woods,
And after that long sorrow follow'd peace.
Across the sea to Brittany, and there
Entomb'd him piously like some dead saint,
And made a pleasaunce all about where vine
And flower grew thickly, and would walk therein
At morning, noon, and even, silently,
Till three slow twelvemonths past, when there was dole
In Brittany. So hers they made the tomb
She built for sinful Tristram of the Woods,
And after that long sorrow follow'd peace.
But one whom Tristram lov'd in earlier times,
Maid Marian, when she was fair as she
That wedded Mark, came when Isolt was dead
And pac'd the pleasaunce silently at morn
And noon and even, sowing seeds of some
Strange plant from far-off lands, that bloom'd when next
The summer came, in fair white silver bells
Of fragrance such as no man in that land
Had knowledge of, and by the tomb of him
All women lov'd she laid the fiery-edg'd
And many-wrinkl'd shells that hold within
Themselves the voices of the sea. And when
The autumn tempests came upon that shore,
Driven from streaming seas, she flitted through
Her wind-torn, faded, dripping pleasaunce like
Some wan leaf flying before a gale. And high
At such times shrill'd her voice in broken song,
That seem'd the harsh note of some bird at sea.
Maid Marian, when she was fair as she
That wedded Mark, came when Isolt was dead
And pac'd the pleasaunce silently at morn
And noon and even, sowing seeds of some
108
The summer came, in fair white silver bells
Of fragrance such as no man in that land
Had knowledge of, and by the tomb of him
All women lov'd she laid the fiery-edg'd
And many-wrinkl'd shells that hold within
Themselves the voices of the sea. And when
The autumn tempests came upon that shore,
Driven from streaming seas, she flitted through
Her wind-torn, faded, dripping pleasaunce like
Some wan leaf flying before a gale. And high
At such times shrill'd her voice in broken song,
That seem'd the harsh note of some bird at sea.
“False life! false love! Oh, why was I deceiv'd?
False heart! false love, that I, poor maid, believ'd!
False life! false love, that me of hope bereav'd!
False heart, false love!
False heart! false love, that I, poor maid, believ'd!
False life! false love, that me of hope bereav'd!
False heart, false love!
False lips! false tongue that spake false vows to me!
False face! false eyes, whence truth did turn and flee!
False hand! false heart that brake sweet love's decree!
False life! false love!”
False face! false eyes, whence truth did turn and flee!
False hand! false heart that brake sweet love's decree!
False life! false love!”
But when the spring was nigh there came to her
A little comfort from the budding leaf,
As still she pac'd the pleasaunce sowing seeds
Of that strange plant, and year by year there bloom'd
Within it such a wilderness of branch
And flower and wandering vine as none had seen
The like. Now fifty tides of Martinmas
Were past and over when there came a gale
Fiercer than any on that wind-swept coast,
And in the night above the storm some heard
The song that ancient Marian sang at whiles
Of false love and false life, and hearing shook
With fear of some dread thing.
A little comfort from the budding leaf,
As still she pac'd the pleasaunce sowing seeds
109
Within it such a wilderness of branch
And flower and wandering vine as none had seen
The like. Now fifty tides of Martinmas
Were past and over when there came a gale
Fiercer than any on that wind-swept coast,
And in the night above the storm some heard
The song that ancient Marian sang at whiles
Of false love and false life, and hearing shook
With fear of some dread thing.
But those who stirr'd
Upon the morrow earliest beheld
Within the pleasaunce, on the tomb of him
All women lov'd, the dead maid Marian.
About her brows was wound a faded scarf
That dead Sir Tristram wore as knight of hers
Full sixty dusty summers back at some
Forgotten tourney held in Brittany,
And in her hand was claspt a golden chain
That he had given her, and some there were
Who held that death had made her fair again,
Working a miracle for very ruth.
So past her soul to judgement and its rest.
But when three days were past there stood ten maids
Arow within the pleasaunce strewing blooms
Of latest autumn on the tomb disturb'd
Once more to hold the dust of Marian.
Upon the morrow earliest beheld
Within the pleasaunce, on the tomb of him
All women lov'd, the dead maid Marian.
About her brows was wound a faded scarf
That dead Sir Tristram wore as knight of hers
Full sixty dusty summers back at some
Forgotten tourney held in Brittany,
And in her hand was claspt a golden chain
That he had given her, and some there were
Who held that death had made her fair again,
Working a miracle for very ruth.
So past her soul to judgement and its rest.
But when three days were past there stood ten maids
110
Of latest autumn on the tomb disturb'd
Once more to hold the dust of Marian.
Full quickly glide the years, and none of all
Who knew that land in those dim days are left,
Yet still the pleasaunce shows an isle of green
Midmost of a wide, open, herbless space,
A desolate, waste country no man tills.
Who knew that land in those dim days are left,
Yet still the pleasaunce shows an isle of green
Midmost of a wide, open, herbless space,
A desolate, waste country no man tills.
111
GAWAIN AND MARJORIE
ARGUMENT
“See, saw, Margery Daw:Sold her bed and lay on straw.”
The first born son of Lot and Bellicent,
Gawain, in far-off days of striplinghood,—
Before men call'd him “false” or “light of love,”
And yet the same, for as the boy, the man,—
Half-aimless wandering upon a day
In sweet mid-summer of the Orcades,
Slack-footed under heat and thirst, had come
To a lone fountain iu the woods, and bode,
List'ning the tinkling fall of waters cool
And watching the swift arrow-flight of birds.
Tall as a man was Gawain, yet in sooth
The prince was but a lad in years, and all
The curves of his lithe body spoke the boy;
But let a twelvemonth pass and these would pass.
So stood the time with restless Gawain, who
By fits and starts chaf'd at the island ways,
And gladly would have left the court of Lot
For lands to southward, but that Bellicent
Had pray'd him “Stay a little,” and again,
“O stay!”
Gawain, in far-off days of striplinghood,—
Before men call'd him “false” or “light of love,”
And yet the same, for as the boy, the man,—
Half-aimless wandering upon a day
In sweet mid-summer of the Orcades,
Slack-footed under heat and thirst, had come
To a lone fountain iu the woods, and bode,
List'ning the tinkling fall of waters cool
And watching the swift arrow-flight of birds.
Tall as a man was Gawain, yet in sooth
The prince was but a lad in years, and all
The curves of his lithe body spoke the boy;
But let a twelvemonth pass and these would pass.
So stood the time with restless Gawain, who
By fits and starts chaf'd at the island ways,
And gladly would have left the court of Lot
For lands to southward, but that Bellicent
Had pray'd him “Stay a little,” and again,
“O stay!”
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Now, as it hapt, to quiet lull'd
By fall of waters and by stir of leaves,,
He past the gates of sleep before he knew,
And woke to find the shadows trebl'd, while
A face was looking into his with eyes
Darker than water in a sunless pool:
A maid scarce two years younger than himself.
A gown clung round her, leaving feet and arms
Bare to the summer's sun, and down her back
There roll'd the rippling blackness of her hair
That sparkl'd like the feathers of the daw.
By fall of waters and by stir of leaves,,
He past the gates of sleep before he knew,
And woke to find the shadows trebl'd, while
A face was looking into his with eyes
Darker than water in a sunless pool:
A maid scarce two years younger than himself.
A gown clung round her, leaving feet and arms
Bare to the summer's sun, and down her back
There roll'd the rippling blackness of her hair
That sparkl'd like the feathers of the daw.
All this young Gawain saw, half won from sleep,
And then his marvel had found tongue, but she,
The maid, a little drawing to one side,
Took up a lute, and twanging all the strings
A moment's space, sent out her voice in song
That maz'd the hearer, who had never known
There might be aught so sweet this side of heaven.
And then his marvel had found tongue, but she,
The maid, a little drawing to one side,
Took up a lute, and twanging all the strings
A moment's space, sent out her voice in song
That maz'd the hearer, who had never known
There might be aught so sweet this side of heaven.
“Wind, sun, and rain! and sweet the murmurs be
Of rill and runlet tinkling to the sea:
Yet not so sweet as sweet Love's voice to me.
Of rill and runlet tinkling to the sea:
Yet not so sweet as sweet Love's voice to me.
“Rain, wind, and sun! and dear the wood paths are,
And dear the glimmering of the evening star,
But not so dear as Love's step heard from far.
And dear the glimmering of the evening star,
But not so dear as Love's step heard from far.
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“Sun, rain, and wind! and fair all blossoms shine;
Fairer are moonbeams thro' the quivering vine:
Fairer are Love's eyes looking into mine.
Fairer are moonbeams thro' the quivering vine:
Fairer are Love's eyes looking into mine.
“Fair, sweet, and dear! and light of heart am I!
Dear, fair and sweet! I cannot choose but cry.
Sweet, fair, and dear! Oh, love me, or I die!”
Dear, fair and sweet! I cannot choose but cry.
Sweet, fair, and dear! Oh, love me, or I die!”
So ran the words, and when the lute had twang'd
Itself to silence, and the song had end,
The maid had turn'd to pass adown the wood
Without a word in parting. Gawain then—
“Fair, sweet, and dear, so seems thy song to me:
What may they call thee, singer?”
Itself to silence, and the song had end,
The maid had turn'd to pass adown the wood
Without a word in parting. Gawain then—
“Fair, sweet, and dear, so seems thy song to me:
What may they call thee, singer?”
“Marjorie,”
The maid gave answer. Then the prince:
“Thou art
No maid of Orkney, with such eyes and hair.”
To which the other:
“No, but since my life
Was pluckt from welter of down-streaming seas
In some wild storm, so they that sav'd me say,
None other home than Orkney have I known.”
Then by degrees in question and reply,
Did Gawain learn the maiden's history,
Simple enough and like the maid herself:
For after that chance rescue from the sea,
The rough shore folk, kind after their rough kind,
Had made her welcome unto all they had,
And she, content, had dwelt with them till now.
And once a damsel from King Arthur's court
Had taught her songs; she knew not what they meant,
But lov'd to sing them to the damsel's lute.
She ceased and turn'd on Gawain a full face,
And crying, “An it please you, sir, farewell,”
Was gone as lightly as the thistle-down
Is blown along upon a summer breeze.
Then Gawain, rising, strode back slow to court,
Musing the while upon the maid whose hair
Outmatch'd the daw's for blackness, and whose eyes
Gleam'd like the water in a sunless pool,
And on the morrow sought the forest fount,
And on the morrow after, and again
Until a week was past, yet never saw
Her whom he would, and day by day grew sick
At heart, till all the court had talk of it.
The queen alone, out of her mother wit
At last made happy hazard of the cause,
And drew from him the story of his love;
And, for she hoped this love might keep the prince
At Orkney ever, set herself to find
The maid, and finding, brought her to the court
To serve as maid of honour till the time
Were ripe for her and Gawain to be wed.
Then, thinking, “All is well for them and me,”
Bided content.
The maid gave answer. Then the prince:
“Thou art
No maid of Orkney, with such eyes and hair.”
To which the other:
“No, but since my life
Was pluckt from welter of down-streaming seas
In some wild storm, so they that sav'd me say,
None other home than Orkney have I known.”
Then by degrees in question and reply,
Did Gawain learn the maiden's history,
Simple enough and like the maid herself:
For after that chance rescue from the sea,
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Had made her welcome unto all they had,
And she, content, had dwelt with them till now.
And once a damsel from King Arthur's court
Had taught her songs; she knew not what they meant,
But lov'd to sing them to the damsel's lute.
She ceased and turn'd on Gawain a full face,
And crying, “An it please you, sir, farewell,”
Was gone as lightly as the thistle-down
Is blown along upon a summer breeze.
Then Gawain, rising, strode back slow to court,
Musing the while upon the maid whose hair
Outmatch'd the daw's for blackness, and whose eyes
Gleam'd like the water in a sunless pool,
And on the morrow sought the forest fount,
And on the morrow after, and again
Until a week was past, yet never saw
Her whom he would, and day by day grew sick
At heart, till all the court had talk of it.
The queen alone, out of her mother wit
At last made happy hazard of the cause,
And drew from him the story of his love;
And, for she hoped this love might keep the prince
At Orkney ever, set herself to find
The maid, and finding, brought her to the court
To serve as maid of honour till the time
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Then, thinking, “All is well for them and me,”
Bided content.
Months sped till twelve wore past,
And still Maid Marjorie bode at the court;
And Gawain likewise bode, till through his blood
Ran sudden promptings like to drive him hence
Ere long, forgetful of Maid Marjorie
Or Bellicent. Now, as it hapt, there came
Rumours of Arthur to the Orkney court,
And how he beat the heathen down, and how
He fain would build a kingdom in the south
And rear a throne and reign for love of Christ,
And how all brave knights crav'd to serve with him.
This Gawain heard, and, fir'd with knightly zeal,
Past in an hour from boy to man, and took
His armour from the hall, and girt his sword
Upon his thigh, mounted his horse and rode
Away to Arthur in the far southwest,
With scarce a word of parting.
And still Maid Marjorie bode at the court;
And Gawain likewise bode, till through his blood
Ran sudden promptings like to drive him hence
Ere long, forgetful of Maid Marjorie
Or Bellicent. Now, as it hapt, there came
Rumours of Arthur to the Orkney court,
And how he beat the heathen down, and how
He fain would build a kingdom in the south
And rear a throne and reign for love of Christ,
And how all brave knights crav'd to serve with him.
This Gawain heard, and, fir'd with knightly zeal,
Past in an hour from boy to man, and took
His armour from the hall, and girt his sword
Upon his thigh, mounted his horse and rode
Away to Arthur in the far southwest,
With scarce a word of parting.
Then the maid,
Who until Gawain went knew not her heart,
Felt that her heart was reft from her, and droopt
Like some dark lily in an August noon;
And all the court were ware and pitied her,
Save one, who fain had drawn Prince Gawain's love
To her, and failing, hated all men sore,
But most the maid in favour at the court.
Who until Gawain went knew not her heart,
Felt that her heart was reft from her, and droopt
Like some dark lily in an August noon;
And all the court were ware and pitied her,
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To her, and failing, hated all men sore,
But most the maid in favour at the court.
Slow wan'd the months, and scant the tidings brought
Of Gawain till a year had past, and then
A rumour blown about the court proclaim'd
The prince was yet with Arthur, and was made
One of the Table Round, and now was fam'd
As much for conquest in the court of Love
As service in the field or tournament.
Many a noble maid, so blew about
The word, had caught the young knight's fancy, caught,
But failed to hold, save for a week or month,
And he had gone his way and left the maid
To grieve, and all men call'd him “light of love,”
“False Gawain,” too, but naught did Gawain care.
Now when the accusing whisper reach'd the queen,
She laid command no tongue should tell the tale
To Marjorie; but one, the vengeful maid
Past o'er by Gawain, brought the flying word
To Marjorie, and, fierce with spite, told all.
Of Gawain till a year had past, and then
A rumour blown about the court proclaim'd
The prince was yet with Arthur, and was made
One of the Table Round, and now was fam'd
As much for conquest in the court of Love
As service in the field or tournament.
Many a noble maid, so blew about
The word, had caught the young knight's fancy, caught,
But failed to hold, save for a week or month,
And he had gone his way and left the maid
To grieve, and all men call'd him “light of love,”
“False Gawain,” too, but naught did Gawain care.
Now when the accusing whisper reach'd the queen,
She laid command no tongue should tell the tale
To Marjorie; but one, the vengeful maid
Past o'er by Gawain, brought the flying word
To Marjorie, and, fierce with spite, told all.
This when the damsel Gawain first had lov'd
Heard but still clung to hope, she straightway came
To Bellicent beseeching that the queen
Would grant her escort of some faithful squire,
That she might go herself to Arthur's court
Of Camelot; and pitying Bellicent,
Making no question, knowing well the cause,
Granted the boon, but swell'd it till the maid
Was 'compani'd befitting one of rank.
Heard but still clung to hope, she straightway came
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Would grant her escort of some faithful squire,
That she might go herself to Arthur's court
Of Camelot; and pitying Bellicent,
Making no question, knowing well the cause,
Granted the boon, but swell'd it till the maid
Was 'compani'd befitting one of rank.
Then followed weary days, for first there came
The passage over seas, and journey rough
By ways of peril next, until they drew
Nigh unto Arthur's city of the West,
The hundred-tower'd Camelot.
It hapt
That day the king rode forth alone, and met
The damsel and her train; she knew him not,
But staying him besought his kingly grace
To tell her if Prince Gawain yet abode
Within that city. These were all her words,
Yet her whole hist'ry trembl'd in her voice,
Flusht in the rose upon her cheek.
The passage over seas, and journey rough
By ways of peril next, until they drew
Nigh unto Arthur's city of the West,
The hundred-tower'd Camelot.
It hapt
That day the king rode forth alone, and met
The damsel and her train; she knew him not,
But staying him besought his kingly grace
To tell her if Prince Gawain yet abode
Within that city. These were all her words,
Yet her whole hist'ry trembl'd in her voice,
Flusht in the rose upon her cheek.
Then he,
The blameless king, thought in himself, “This maid
Is one our Gawain light has lightly lov'd;”
And then to her:—“The knight of whom you ask
Is absent far upon a quest of mine;
Not for a month will he return—but bide
You here at court that space. I am the king.”
The blameless king, thought in himself, “This maid
Is one our Gawain light has lightly lov'd;”
And then to her:—“The knight of whom you ask
Is absent far upon a quest of mine;
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You here at court that space. I am the king.”
So Marjorie abode with Guinevere,
To whom the king that night unbarr'd his thought
And added, “When the prince returns, those twain
Shall be made one by Dubric, shall they not?”
And she: “Your will is ever mine, my lord,”
And set herself to bring the thing to pass.
To whom the king that night unbarr'd his thought
And added, “When the prince returns, those twain
Shall be made one by Dubric, shall they not?”
And she: “Your will is ever mine, my lord,”
And set herself to bring the thing to pass.
Now when the month had end and he came not,
And yet another month and still he lagg'd,
Maid Marjorie, boding ill, crav'd to be free,
To go and seek him; and the kindly king,
Doubtful, but fearing to deny the maid,
Let her go forth in charge of good Sir Bors.
Three days they rode, till on an eventide
They came to a lone castle on a crag,
Empty in seeming while the gate swung wide,
And, for they needed shelter, enter'd. Scarce
The band had clear'd the archway, ere the gate
Clang'd to behind them, and an evil host
Who made that dismal place their robbers' nest
Fell on the slender train with swarming force,
Disarm'd and bound them, though Sir Bors fought hard.
And yet another month and still he lagg'd,
Maid Marjorie, boding ill, crav'd to be free,
To go and seek him; and the kindly king,
Doubtful, but fearing to deny the maid,
Let her go forth in charge of good Sir Bors.
Three days they rode, till on an eventide
They came to a lone castle on a crag,
Empty in seeming while the gate swung wide,
And, for they needed shelter, enter'd. Scarce
The band had clear'd the archway, ere the gate
Clang'd to behind them, and an evil host
Who made that dismal place their robbers' nest
Fell on the slender train with swarming force,
Disarm'd and bound them, though Sir Bors fought hard.
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Then Marjorie, who in woman-fear had cower'd
Till now within her litter, drew aside
The hangings. Mov'd by her strange beauty, yet
Still more by her sweet voice beseeching them,
The host, scarce knowing why, made pause. Then she,
Fing'ring her lute, sang as she once had sung
To Gawain on that day when first they met.
And when the song was done, she crav'd from these
Freedom for all her train, and in exchange
Offer'd her litter and rich hangings. They,
Won by the sweetness of the song, or fill'd
With sudden madness never felt before,
Gave all she ask'd and set their captives free.
Till now within her litter, drew aside
The hangings. Mov'd by her strange beauty, yet
Still more by her sweet voice beseeching them,
The host, scarce knowing why, made pause. Then she,
Fing'ring her lute, sang as she once had sung
To Gawain on that day when first they met.
And when the song was done, she crav'd from these
Freedom for all her train, and in exchange
Offer'd her litter and rich hangings. They,
Won by the sweetness of the song, or fill'd
With sudden madness never felt before,
Gave all she ask'd and set their captives free.
That night they lay on damp and mouldy straw
Within a lowly hovel in the wood,
And on the morrow would have gone once more
Upon their quest had not a fever seiz'd
The maid and held her fast; and good Sir Bors,
Knowing the deadly fever of that land,
Was ware the end was near.
Within a lowly hovel in the wood,
And on the morrow would have gone once more
Upon their quest had not a fever seiz'd
The maid and held her fast; and good Sir Bors,
Knowing the deadly fever of that land,
Was ware the end was near.
So past two days,
And on the third they heard the jingling reins
Of horses, and a train of knights and dames
Drew near and stay'd to rest. Sir Bors, alert,
Amongst them spying Gawain close to one
Whose name was lightly tost about the court,—
The subtle Vivien,—pluckt him by the sleeve,
Crying “Come hence with me!” And Gawain went
And after them stole Vivien, and the three,
Ent'ring the hovel, came where Marjorie lay
Moaning with fever on her bed of straw.
She, feeling subtly the fine Gawain's eyes
Upon her bent in wonder, open'd hers,
Half rais'd herself, and stretching out her arms
Toward him, gave a joyful cry, and past
Without more utterance where no soul is vext
With sighing or the myriad pains of earth.
So died the maid Prince Gawain first had lov'd.
And on the third they heard the jingling reins
Of horses, and a train of knights and dames
Drew near and stay'd to rest. Sir Bors, alert,
Amongst them spying Gawain close to one
120
The subtle Vivien,—pluckt him by the sleeve,
Crying “Come hence with me!” And Gawain went
And after them stole Vivien, and the three,
Ent'ring the hovel, came where Marjorie lay
Moaning with fever on her bed of straw.
She, feeling subtly the fine Gawain's eyes
Upon her bent in wonder, open'd hers,
Half rais'd herself, and stretching out her arms
Toward him, gave a joyful cry, and past
Without more utterance where no soul is vext
With sighing or the myriad pains of earth.
So died the maid Prince Gawain first had lov'd.
He, when he saw the damsel dead, and heard
The voice of good Sir Bors, “Your work, my Prince!”
Had felt a pain much like remorse within,
And would have stay'd to see that all was done
Fitting the time and her, but Vivien came
And wound her arms about his neck, and said
This thing and that thing of her wiliness:
So maz'd by Vivien was light Gawain's thought
That he departed leaving all to Bors.
The voice of good Sir Bors, “Your work, my Prince!”
Had felt a pain much like remorse within,
And would have stay'd to see that all was done
Fitting the time and her, but Vivien came
And wound her arms about his neck, and said
This thing and that thing of her wiliness:
So maz'd by Vivien was light Gawain's thought
That he departed leaving all to Bors.
Four days had end, and into Camelot
Light Gawain rode with Vivien beside,
But all the walls were hung with black, and all
The bells made music doleful from their towers.
Forth from the palace came a train of maids
Chanting a hymn, and after, on a bier
Pall'd all in samite blackness, lay the maid
Whose love had been her doom. King, queen, and court
Pac'd slowly after, and King Arthur bent
A brow of gloom on Gawain, but said naught.
Then Gawain turn'd and follow'd the dark train
Till all was done, the while that music roll'd
Sadly above the head of Marjorie.
Then, for the man was light, he past once more
To his light loves; and all that was, became
Erewhile to him as that which never hapt.
Such honour Gawain did to Arthur's court.
Light Gawain rode with Vivien beside,
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The bells made music doleful from their towers.
Forth from the palace came a train of maids
Chanting a hymn, and after, on a bier
Pall'd all in samite blackness, lay the maid
Whose love had been her doom. King, queen, and court
Pac'd slowly after, and King Arthur bent
A brow of gloom on Gawain, but said naught.
Then Gawain turn'd and follow'd the dark train
Till all was done, the while that music roll'd
Sadly above the head of Marjorie.
Then, for the man was light, he past once more
To his light loves; and all that was, became
Erewhile to him as that which never hapt.
Such honour Gawain did to Arthur's court.
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