England :: :: University of Virginia Library

King Arthur lives in merry Carlisle,
And seemly is to see;
And there with him Queen Guenever,
That bride so bright of blee.
And there with him Queen Guenever,
That bride so bright in bower,
And all his barons about him stoode,
That were both stiffe and stowre.
Old Ballad of Sir Gawaine.

Where merry Carlisle lifts her towers afar,
Scattering her streamers to the azure air;
Where Calder and swift Eden join their war,
And flow along through pastures, fresh and fair,
Rich with the treasures of their mountain cheer;
Of stately Skiddaw, with his brow of snow;
And proud Helvellyn, with his songs of fear;
And vale and grove, where beauty longs, I trow,
To sigh o'er love's sweet tale, and bind the shooded brow.

There—in a hall most rich, caparison'd
With carvings old, and pictures strange and quaint,
And tapestries all, work'd by ladies' hand,
Of minstrel's legend, or old warrior's plaint;

Or woeful stories told by holy saint—
King Arthur sits around the festive board;
The flower of chivalry—her proudest plant;
The wine-cup circles—the high song is heard,
And each grim warrior there does own King Arthur lord.

Like threads of gold his curling locks hung down;
His stedfast eye was as the burning sun;
His brow shone bright, like moonbeams on the snow;
His cheeks were as the heavens when day is done;
He look'd the lofty birth of Brutus' son.
Beside him, stately sat Queen Guenever,
So bright in bower and hall o'er every one;
And other noble ladies, wond'rous fair,
All clad in purple pall, with jewels rich and rare.

And—shall I leave ye out, who were so great,
Ye mighty knights and lords; and veil mine eyes
To your exploits, that reach'd so great a height—
Your valorous deeds, and daring enterprise?
Grandly ye stood around, in stately wise,
Like the first race of giants: on each face
Shone bright high acts,—and on your forehead's rise
Red battle of its scars left frequent trace;
And on your easy limbs, were strength and kingly grace.

The spell-bound princess never sigh'd in vain;
For war and love with you were ever wed;

Enchantment could not daunt ye with its rain
Of fiery horrors; everywhere ye spread
The fame of your vast deeds, and bore your head
Aloft, and sway'd as kings should ever sway:
And, thus, though age with age hath sunk to bed,
In noble legends shine your names alway;
And ye are of the band, that dwell in constant day.

Valiant Sir Bevis, and the bold Sir Gawaine;
The good Sir Krwene, the often tried Sir Kay;
Sir Roland and Sir Tristram, noble twaine;
Two stoutest knights that ever fought in fray;
Never, I wist, since that triumphant day,
Hath such high cheer in England's castles been:
For now the light is gone that warm'd their clay;
The fierce and fiery bloodhounds dead, I ween,
That kept the wolves and bears behind their forest screen.

And each bold knight his high exploits spake loud,
(Rous'd by the ruby wine, and lady's smile),
Of spotless maidens, in long slavery bow'd,
Rescued, at length, from rude enchanter's guile;
Of mighty giants, that laid waste the isle;
And fell magicians, in their dungeons slain;
Of spell-bound castles, wrung from wizards' wile;
Of gems, and pearls, and gold, that they had ta'en
From wond'rous cavern'd halls—some cruel tyrant's gain.

The minstrel sounded high the lofty song,
And told of love, and war, and chivalry,

With solemn voice that, mournful, roll'd along,
Or proudly swell'd in warlike tones on high;
Or, like the morning lark, sang cheerily.
Honour'd, was then, the lowly minstrel guest;
In princely halls, his form inspired might lie:
Kings lov'd to hear the warblings of his breast—
How fallen the mighty breed—how trampled and opprest!

Yea, (and my heart beats high to tell the tale),
Fair ladies lov'd the tremble of his tongue;
He, like a prophet, walk'd o'er hill and vale,
And of immortal themes and actions sung—
Rivalling the sweetest birds, with living song.
The dastard money-scrivener bound him not;
His wings were free, the forest depths among:
With scoff and sneer, that mock at his high thought,
The foul-reforming slave to brand him never mote.

This is the last song that the land shall know!
The old heroic times are past for aye:
Another garland circles England's brow—
Another sunlight beams upon her day—
Another voice hath mingled with the lay.
The rascal rebel lingers in our halls;
The soot-brow'd traitor tramps each pleasant way;
They seek for other flowers upon the walls,
Than clothe the abbey seams, with gold and purple palls.

Like vipers, they are twined in the grass,
And hiss at every royal thing of state;

The mountain wells are poison'd where they pass—
The air is rank with death: they lie in wait
Among our palaces, and yell with hate:
They fear not the white altars; nor the grave
Where their dead fathers sleep; and nought can sate
Their savage hunger: it would need the wave
Of the great sea, to cleanse their foul and filthy cave.

No more.—To valiant Arthur pass we on:—
Whilst yet a boy, they crown'd him Brittaine's king.
He slew the Saxons—made the Scots be gone—
Made Ireland, Denmark, Norway homage bring,
And over Gallya wav'd the conquering wing.
Five Paynim kings he took; and, what is more,
He won them, Jesu Christ, his praise to sing;
And, when again, he sought his native shore,
A hundred thousand men were buried in their gore.

And when he died, (so the old legends say)
By fairy hands his weary head was borne;
And fairy voices sang his dirge and knell,
And bore him to their halls beyond the morn;
There, stately doth he move, his locks unshorn—
As in the field, his sword and helmet bright;
A thousand warriors hear his silver horn,
And throng around him as the stars of night,
And there he holds his court, belov'd by each true knight.

From emerald cups they quaff the festive wine—
From hands invisible they take their food—
On winged steeds they ride, and are divine,
And heaven is with them in each pleasant mood.
At eventide, in princely halls, they brood;
'Mid lovely ladies' dance, and minstrel's song;
(Who chaunts aloud their ancient deeds of blood)
They quaff the bowl—they fight old fields among;
Whilst spirits watch their sleep, and give their souls a tongue.

There is no cloud, or gloom upon the air;
Nor rain, nor snow, nor chills upon the sky:
The woods, the groves, the fields, are ever fair;
On love's sweet forehead, never stain doth lie,—
And all is beauty, youth, and harmony.
What more can the dead hero seek than this?—
Is it not well for such high meed to die,
Where never shore may bound the ocean bliss—
Where never mist can dim the heavens of happiness!