BOOK I.
ARGUMENT.
Opening—King Arthur keeps holiday in the Vale of Carduel—Pastimes—Arthur's sentiments on life, love, and mortal change—The strange apparition—The King follows the Phantom into the forest—His return—The discomfiture of his knights—the Court disperses—Night—The restless King ascends his battlements—His soliloquy—He is attracted by the light from the Wizard's tower—Merlin described—The King's narrative—The Enchanter's invocation—Morning—The Tilt-yard—Sports, knightly and national—Merlin's address to Arthur—The Three Labours enjoined—Arthur departs from Carduel—His absence explained by Merlin to the Council—Description of Arthur's three friends, Caradoc, Gawaine, and Lancelot—The especial love between Arthur and the last—Lancelot encounters Arthur—The parting of the friends.
Our land's first legends, love and knightly deeds,1
And wondrous Merlin, and his wandering King,
The triple labour, and the glorious meeds
Sought in the world of Fable-land, I sing:
Go forth, O Song, amidst the banks of old,
And glide translucent over sands of gold.
Now is the time when, after sparkling showers,2
Her starry wreaths the virgin jasmine weaves;
Now murmurous bees return with sunny hours;
And light wings rustic quick through glinting leaves;
Music in every bough; on mead and lawn
May lifts her fragrant altars to the dawn.
Now life, with every moment, seems to start3
In air, in wave, on earth—above, below;
And o'er her new-born children, Nature's heart
Heaves with the gladness mothers only know;
On poet times the month of poets shone—
May deck'd the world, and Arthur fill'd the throne.
Hard by a stream, amidst a pleasant vale4
King Arthur held his careless holiday:—
The stream was blithe with many a silken sail,
The vale with many a proud pavilion gay;
While Cymri's dragon, from the Roman's hold,[1]
Spread with calm wing o'er Carduel's domes of gold.
Dark, to the right, thick forests mantled o'er5
A gradual mountain sloping to the plain;
Whose gloom but lent to light a charm the more,
As pleasure pleases most when neighbouring pain;
And all our human joys most sweet and holy,
Sport in the shadows cast from Melancholy.
Below that mount, along the glossy sward6
Were gentle groups, discoursing gentle things;
Or listening idly where the skilful bard
Woke the sweet tempest of melodious strings;
Or whispering love—I ween, less idle they,
For love's the honey in the flowers of May.
Some plied in lusty race the glist'ning oar;7
Some, noiseless, snared the silver-scalèd prey;
Some wreathed the dance along the level shore;
And each was happy in his chosen way.
Not by one shaft is Care, the hydra kill'd,
So Mirth, determined, had his quiver fill'd.
Bright 'mid his blooming Court, like royal Morn8
Girt with the Hours that lead the jocund Spring,
When to its smile delight and flowers are born,
And clouds are rose-hued,—shone the Cymrian King.
Above that group, o'er-arch'd from tree to tree,
Thick garlands hung their odorous canopy;
And in the midst of that delicious shade9
Up sprang a sparkling fountain, silver-voiced,
And the bee murmur'd and the breezes play'd:
In their gay youth, the youth of May rejoiced—
And they in hers—as though that leafy hall
Chimed the heart's laughter with the fountain's fall.
Propped on his easy arm, the King reclined,10
And glancing gaily round the ring, quoth he—
"'Man,' say our sages, 'hath a fickle mind,
And pleasures pall, if long enjoyed they be.'
But I, methinks, like this soft summer-day,
'Mid blooms and sweets could wear the hours away;—
"Feel, in the eyes of Love, a cloudless sun,11
Taste, in the breath of Love, eternal spring;
Could age but keep the joys that youth has won,
The human heart would fold its idle wing!
If change there be in Fate and Nature's plan,
Wherefore blame us?—it is in Time, not Man."
He spoke, and from the happy conclave there12
Echo'd the murmur, "Time is but to blame:"
Each knight glanced amorous on his chosen fair,
And to the glance blush'd each assenting dame:
But thought had dimm'd the smile in Arthur's eye,
And the light speech was rounded by a sigh.
And while they murmur'd "Time is but to blame,"13
Right in the centre of the silken ring,
Sudden stood forth (none marking whence it came),
The gloomy shade of some Phantasmal Thing;
It stood, dim-outlined in a sable shroud,
And shapeless, as in noon-day hangs a cloud.
Hush'd was each lip, and every cheek was pale;14
The stoutest heart beat tremulous and high:
"Arise," it mutter'd from the spectral veil,
"I call thee, King!" Then burst the wrathful cry,
Feet found the earth, and ready hands the sword,
And angry knighthood bristled round its lord.
But Arthur rose, and, waiving back the throng,15
Fronted the Image with a dauntless brow:
Then shrunk the Phantom, indistinct, along
The unbending herbage, noiseless, dark, and slow;
And, where the forest night at noonday made,
Glided,—as from the dial glides the shade.
Gone;—but an ice-bound horror seemed to cling16
To air; the revellers stood transfix'd to stone;
While from amidst them, palely pass'd the King,
Dragg'd by a will more royal than his own:
Onwards he went; the invisible control
Compell'd him, as a dream compels the soul.
They saw, and sought to stay him, but in vain,17
They saw, and sought to speak, but voice was dumb:
So Death some warrior from his armèd train
Plucks forth defenceless when his hour is come.
He gains the wood; their sight the shadows bar,
And darkness wraps him as the cloud a star.
Abruptly, as it came, the charm was past18
That bound the circle: as from heavy sleep
Starts the hush'd war-camp at the trumpet's blast,
Fierce into life the voiceless revellers leap;
Swift to the wood the glittering tumult springs,
And through the vale the shrill BON-LEF-HER rings.[2]
From stream, from tent, from pastime near and far,19
All press confusedly to the signal cry—
So from the Rock of Birds[3] the shout of war
Sends countless wings in clamour through the sky—
The cause a word, the track a sign affords,
And all the forest gleams with starry swords.
As on some stag the hunters single, gaze,20
Gathering together, and from far, the herd,
So round the margin of the woodland-maze
Pale beauty circles, trembling if a bird
Flutter a bough, or if, without a sound,
Some leaf fall breezeless, eddying to the ground.
An hour or more had towards the western seas21
Speeded the golden chariot of the day,
When a white plume came glancing through the trees,
The serried branches groaningly gave way,
And, with a bound, delivered from the wood,
Safe, in the sun-light, royal Arthur stood.
Who shall express the joy that aspect woke!22
Some laugh'd aloud, and clapp'd their snowy hands:
Some ran, some knelt, some turn'd aside and broke
Into glad tears:—But all unheeding stands
The King; and shivers in the glowing light;
And his breast heaves as panting from a fight.
Yet still in those pale features, seen more near,23
Speak the stern will, the soul to valour true;
It shames man not to feel man's human fear,
It shames man only if the fear subdue;
And masking trouble with a noble guile,
Soon the proud heart restores the kingly smile.
But no account could anxious love obtain,24
Nor curious wonder, of the portents seen:
"Bootless his search," he lightly said, "and vain
As haply had the uncourteous summons been.
Some mocking sport, perchance, of merry May."
He ceased; and, shuddering, turn'd his looks away.
Now back, alas! less comely than they went,25
Drop, one by one, the seekers from the chace,
With mangled plumes and mantles dreadly rent;—
Sore bleed the Loves in Elphin's blooming face:
Madoc, whose dancing scarcely brush'd the dew,
O grief! limps, crippled by a stump of yew!
In short, such pranks had brier and bramble play'd,26
And stock and stone, with vest, and face, and limb,
That had some wretch denied the place was made
For sprites, a sprite had soon been made of him!
And sure, nought less than some demoniac power
Had looks so sweet bewitch'd to lines so sour.
But shame and anger vanish'd when they saw27
Him whose warm smile a life had well repaid,
For noble hearts a noble chief can draw
Into that circle where all self doth fade;
Lost in the sea a hundred waters roll,
And subject natures merge in one great soul.
Now once again quick question, brief reply,28
"What saw, what heard the King?" Nay, gentles, what
Saw or heard ye?"—"The forest and the sky,
The rustling branches,"—"And the Phantom not?
No more," quoth Arthur, "of a thriftless chace.
For cheer so stinted brief may be the grace.
"But see, the sun descendeth down the west,29
And graver cares to Carduel now recall:
Gawaine, my steed;—Sweet ladies, gentle rest,
And dreams of happy morrows to ye all."
Now stirs the movement on the busy plain;
To horse—to boat; and homeward winds the train.
O'er hill, down stream, the pageant fades away,30
More and more faint the plash of dipping oar;
Voices, and music, and the steed's shrill neigh,
From the grey twilight dying more and more;
Till over stream and valley, wide and far,
Reign the sad silence and the solemn star.
Save where, like some true poet's lonely soul,31
Careless who hears, sings on the unheeded fountain;
Save where the thin clouds wanly, slowly roll
O'er the mute darkness of the forest mountain—
Where, haply, busied with unholy rite,
Still glides that Phantom, and dismays the night.
Sleep, the sole angel left of all below,32
O'er the lull'd city sheds the ambrosial wreaths,
Wet with the dews of Eden; Bliss and Woe
Are equals, and the lowest slave that breathes
Under the shelter of those healing wings,
Reigns, half his life, in realms too fair for Kings.
Too fair those realms for Arthur; long he lay33
An exiled suppliant at the gate of dreams,
And vex'd, and wild, and fitful as a ray
Quivering upon the surge of stormy streams;
Thought broke in glimmering trouble o'er his breast,
And found no billow where its beam could rest.[4]
He rose, and round him drew his ermined gown,34
Pass'd from his chamber, wound the turret stair,
And from his castle's steep embattled crown
Bared his hot forehead to the fresh'ning air.
How Silence, like a god's tranquillity,
Fill'd with delighted peace the conscious sky!
Broad, luminous, serene, the sovereign moon35
Shone o'er the roofs below, the lands afar—
The vale so joyous with the mirth at noon;
The pastures virgin of the lust of war;
And the still river shining as it flows,
Calm as a soul on which the heavens repose.
"And must these pass from me and mine away?"36
Murmur'd the monarch; "Must the mountain home
Of those whose fathers, in a ruder day,
With naked bosoms rush'd on shrinking Rome,
Yield this last refuge from the ruthless wave,
And what was Britain be the Saxon's slave?
"Why hymn our harps high music in our hall?37
Doom'd is the tree whose fruit was noble deeds—
Where the axe spared the thunder-bolt must fall,
And the wind scatter as it list the seeds!
Fate breathes, and kingdoms wither at the breath;
But kings are deathless, kingly if their death!"
He ceased, and look'd, with a defying eye,38
Where the dark forest clothed the mount with awe
Gazed, and then proudly turn'd;—when lo, hard by,
From a lone turret in his keep, he saw
Through the horn casement, a clear steadfast light,
Lending meek tribute to the orbs of night.
And far, and far, I ween, that little ray39
Sent its pure streamlet through the world of air:
The wanderer oft, benighted on his way,
Saw it, and paused in superstitious prayer;
For well he knew the beacon and the tower,
And the great Master of the spells of power.
There He, who yet in Fable's deathless page40
Reigns, compass'd with the ring of pleasing dread,
Which the true wizard, whether bard or sage,
Draws round him living, and commands when dead—
The solemn Merlin—from the midnight won
The hosts that bow'd to starry Solomon.
Not fear that light on Arthur's breast bestow'd,41
As with a father's smile it met his gaze;
It cheer'd, it soothed, it warm'd him while it glow'd;
Brought back the memory of young hopeful days,
When the child stood by the great prophet's knee,
And drank high thoughts to strengthen years to be.
As with a tender chiding, the calm light42
Seem'd to reproach him for secreted care,
Seem'd to ask back the old familiar right
Of lore to counsel, or of love to share;
The prompt heart answers to the voiceless call,
And the step quickens o'er the winding wall.
Before that tower precipitously sink43
The walls, down-shelving to the castle base;
A slender drawbridge, swung from brink to brink,
Alone gives fearful access to the place;
Now, from that tower, the chains the drawbridge raise,
And leave the gulf all pathless to the gaze.
But close where Arthur stands, a warder's horn,44
Fix'd to the stone, to those who dare to win
The enchanter's cell, supplies the note to warn
The mighty weaver of dread webs within.
Loud sounds the horn, the chain descending clangs,
And o'er the abyss the dizzy pathway hangs;
Mutely the door slides sullen in the stone,45
And closes back, the gloomy threshold cross'd;
There sate the wizard on a Druid throne,
Where sate Duw-Iou,[5] ere his reign was lost;
His wand uplifted in his solemn hand,
And the weird volume on its brazen stand.
O'er the broad breast the heavy brows of thought46
Hang, as if bow'd beneath the load sublime
Of spoils from Nature's fading boundaries brought,
Or the dusk treasure-house of orient Time;
And the unutterable calmness shows
The toil's great victory by the soul's repose.
Ev'n as the Tyrian views his argosies,47
Moor'd in the port (the gold of Ophir won),
And heeds no more the billow and the breeze,
And the clouds wandering o'er the wintry sun,
So calmly Wisdom eyes (its voyage o'er)
The traversed ocean from the beetling shore.
A hundred years press'd o'er that awful head,48
As o'er an Alp, their diadem of snow;
And, as an Alp, a hundred years had fled,
And left as firm the giant form below;
So in the hush of some Chaonian grove,
Sat the grey father of Pelasgic Jove.
Before that power, sublimer than his own,49
With downcast looks, the King inclined the knee;
The enchanter smiled, and, bending from his throne,
Drew to his breast his pupil tenderly;
And press'd his lips on that young forehead fair,
And with large hand smooth'd back the golden hair!
And, looking in those frank and azure eyes,50
"What," said the prophet, "doth my Arthur seek
From the grey wisdom which the young despise?
The young, perchance, are right!—Fair infant, speak!"
Thrice sigh'd the monarch, and at length began:
"Can wisdom ward the storms of fate from man?
"What spell can thrust Affliction from the gate?51
What tree is sacred from the lightning flame?"
"Son," said the seer, "the laurel!—even Fate,
Which blasts Ambition, but illumines Fame.
Say on."—The King smiled sternly, and obey'd—
Track we the steps which track'd the warning shade.
"On to the wood, and to its inmost dell52
Will-less I went," the monarch thus pursued,
"Before me still, but darkly visible,
The Phantom glided through the solitude;
At length it paused,—a sunless pool was near,
As ebon black, and yet as chrystal clear.
"'Look, King, below,' whisper'd the shadowy One:53
What seem'd a hand sign'd beckoning to the wave;
I look'd below, and never realms undone
Show'd war more awful than the mirror gave;
There rush'd the steed, there glanced on spear the spear,
And spectre-squadrons closed in fell career.
"I saw—I saw my dragon standard there,—54
Throng'd there the Briton; there the Saxon wheel'd;
I saw it vanish from that nether air—
I saw it trampled on that noiseless field;
On pour'd the Saxon hosts—we fled—we fled!
And the Pale Horse[6] rose ghastly o'er the dead.
"Lo, the wan shadow of a giant hand55
Pass'd o'er the pool—the demon war was gone;
City on city stretch'd, and land on land;
The wondrous landscape broadening, lengthening on,
Till that small compass in its clasp contain'd
All this wide isle o'er which my fathers reign'd.
"There, by the lord of streams, a palace rose;56
On bloody floors there was a throne of state;
And in the land there dwelt one race—our foes;
And on the single throne the Saxon sate!
And Cymri's crown was on his knitted brow;
And where stands Carduel, went the labourer's plough.
"And east and west, and north and south I turn'd,57
And call'd my people as a king should call;
Pale in the hollow mountains I discern'd
Rude scatter'd stragglers from the common thrall;
Kingless and armyless, by crag and cave,—
Ghosts on the margin of their country's grave.
"And even there, amidst the barren steeps,58
I heard the tramp, I saw the Saxon steel;
Aloft, red Murder like a deluge sweeps,
Nor rock can save, nor cavern can conceal;
Hill after hill, the waves devouring rise,
Till in one mist of carnage closed my eyes!
"Then spoke the hell-born shadow by my side—59
'O king, who dreamest, amid sweets and bloom,
Life, like one summer holiday, can glide,
Blind to the storm-cloud of the coming doom;
Arthur Pendragon, to the Saxon's sway
Thy kingdom and thy crown shall pass away.'
"'And who art thou, that Heaven's august decrees60
Usurp'st thus?' I cried, and lo the space
Was void!—Amidst the horror of the trees,
And by the pool, which mirror'd back the face
Of Dark in crystal darkness—there I stood,
And the sole spectre was the Solitude!
"I knew no more—strong as a mighty dream61
The trouble seized the soul, and seal'd the sense;
I knew no more, till in the blessed beam,
Life sprung to loving Nature for defence;
Vale, flower, and fountain laugh'd in jocund spring,
And pride came back,—again I was a king!
"But, ev'n the while with airy sport of tongue62
(As with light wing the skylark from its nest
Lures the invading step) I led the throng
From the dark brood of terror in my breast;
Still frown'd the vision on my haunted eye,
And blood seem'd reddening in the azure sky.
"O thou, the Almighty Lord of earth and heaven,63
Without whose will not ev'n a sparrow falls,
If to my sight the fearful truth was given,
If thy dread hand hath graven on these walls
The Chaldee's doom, and to the stranger's sway
My kingdom and my crown shall pass away,—
"Grant this—a freeman's, if a monarch's, prayer!—64
Life, while my life one man from chains can save;
While earth one refuge, or the cave one lair,
Yields to the closing struggle of the brave!—
Mine the last desperate but avenging hand;
If reft the sceptre, not resign'd the brand!"
"Close to my clasp!" the prophet cried, "Impart65
To these iced veins the glow of youth once more;
The healthful throb of one great human heart
Baffles more fiends than all a magian's lore;
Brave child——" Young arms embracing check'd the rest,
And youth and age stood mingled breast to breast.
"Ho!" cried the mighty master, while he broke66
From the embrace, and round from vault to floor
Mysterious echoes answered as he spoke;
And flames twined snake-like round the wand he bore.
And freezing winds tumultuous swept the cell,
As from the wings of hosts invisible:
"Ho! ye spiritual Ministers of all67
The airy space below the Sapphire Throne,
To the swift axle of this earthly ball—
Yea, to the deep, where evermore alone
Hell's king with memory of lost glory dwells.
And from that memory weaves his hell of hells;—
"Ho! ye who fill the crevices of air,68
And speed the whirlwind round the reeling bark—
Or dart destroying in the forkèd glare,
Or rise—the bloodless People of the Dark,
In the pale shape of Dreams—when to the bed
Of Murder glide the simulated dead,—
"Hither ye myriad hosts!—O'er tower and dome,69
Wait the high mission, and attend the word;
Whether to pierce the mountain with the gnome,
Or soar to heights where never wing'd the bird;
So that the secret and the boon ye wrest
From Time's cold grasp, or Fate's reluctant breast!"
Mute stood the King—when lo, the dragon-keep70
Shook to its rack'd foundations, as when all
Corycia's caverns and the Delphic steep
Shook to the foot-tread of invading Gaul;[7]
Or, as his path when flaming Ætna frees,
Shakes some proud city on Sicilian seas;
Reel'd heaving from his feet the dizzy floor;71
Swam dreamlike on his gaze the fading cell;
As falls the seaman, when the waves dash o'er
The plank that glideth from his grasp—he fell.
To eyes ungifted, deadly were the least
Of those last mysteries, Nature yields her priest.
Morn, the joy-bringer, from her sparkling urn72
Scatters o'er herb and flower the orient dew;
The larks to heaven, and souls to thought return—
Life, in each source, leaps rushing forth anew,
Fills every grain in Nature's boundless plan,
And wakes new fates in each desire of man.
In each desire, each thought, each fear, each hope,73
Each scheme, each wish, each fancy, and each end,
That morn calls forth, say, who can span the scope?
Who track the arrow which the soul may send?
One morning woke Olympia's youthful son,
And long'd for fame—and half the world was won.
Fair shines the sun on stately Carduel;74
The falcon, hoodwink'd, basks upon the wall;
The tilt-yard echoes with the clarion's swell,
And lusty youth comes thronging to the call;
And martial sports (the daily wont) begin,
The page must practise if the knight would win.
Some spur the palfrey at the distant ring;75
Some, with blunt lance, in mimic tourney charge;
Here skirs the pebble from the poisèd sling,
Or flies the arrow rounding to the targe;
While Age and Fame sigh smiling to behold
The young leaves budding to replace the old.
Nor yet forgot, amid the special sports76
Of polish'd Chivalry, the primal ten[8]
Athletic contests, known in elder courts
Ere knighthood rose from the great Father-men.
Beyond the tilt-yard spread the larger space,
For the strong wrestle, and the breathless race;
Here some, the huge dull weights up-heaving throw;77
Some ply the staff, and some the sword and shield;
And some that falchion with its thunder-blow
Which Heus[9] the Guardian, taught the Celt, to wield;
Heus, who first guided o'er "the Hazy Main"
Our Titan[10] sires from Defrobanni's plain.
Life thus astir, and sport upon the wing,78
Why yet doth Arthur dream day's prime away?
Still in charm'd slumber lies the quiet King;
On his own couch the merry sunbeams play,
Gleam o'er the arms hung trophied from the wall;
And Cymri's antique crown surmounting all.
Slowly he woke; life came back with a sigh79
(That herald, or that follower, to the gate
Of all our knowledge)—and his startled eye
Fell where beside his couch the prophet sate;
And with that sight rush'd back the mystic cell,
The awful summons, the arrested spell.
"Prince," said the prophet, "with this morn awake80
From pomp, from pleasure, to high toils and brave;
From yonder wall the arms of knighthood take,
But leave the crown the knightly arms may save;
O'er mount and vale, go, pilgrim, forth alone,
And win the gifts which shall defend a throne.
"Thus speak the Fates—till in the heavens the sun81
Rounds his revolving course, O King, return
To man's first, noblest birthright, TOIL:—so won
In Grecian fable, to the ambrosial urn
Of joyous Hebè, and the Olympian grove,
The labouring son Alemena bore to Jove.
"By the stout heart to peril's sight inured,82
By the wise brain which toil hath stored and skill'd,
Valour is school'd and glory is secured,
And the large ends of fame and fate fulfill'd:
But hear the gifts thy year of proof must gain,
To fail in one leaves those achieved in vain.
"The falchion, welded from a diamond gem,83
Hid in the Lake of Argent Music-Falls,
Where springs a forest from a single stem,
And moon-lit waters close o'er Cuthite halls—
First taste the herb that grows upon a grave,
Then see the bark that wafts thee down the wave.
"The silver Shield in which the infant sleep84
Of Thor was cradled,—now the jealous care
Of the fierce dwarf whose home is on the deep,
Where drifting ice-rocks clash in lifeless air;
And War's pale Sisters smile to see the shock
Stir the still curtains round the couch of Lok.
"And last of all—before the Iron Gate85
Which opes its entrance at the faintest breath,
But hath no egress; where remorseless Fate
Sits, weaving life, within the porch of Death;
Earth's childlike guide shall wait thee in the gloom,
With golden locks, and looks that light the tomb.
"Achieve the sword, the shield, the virgin guide,86
And in those gifts appease the Powers of wrath;
Be danger braved, and be delight defied,
From grief take wisdom, and from wisdom faith;—
And though dark wings hang o'er these threaten'd halls,
Though war's red surge break thundering round thy walls,
"Though, in the rear of time, these prophet eyes87
See to thy sons, thy Cymrians, many a woe;
Yet from thy loins a race of kings shall rise,
Whose throne shall shadow all the seas that flow;
Whose empire, broader than the Cæsar won,
Shall clasp a realm where never sets the sun:
"And thou, thyself, shalt live from age to age,88
A thought of beauty and a type of fame;—
Not the faint memory of some mouldering page,
But by the hearths of men a household name:
Theme to all song, and marvel to all youth—
Beloved as Fable, yet believed as Truth.
"But if thou fail—thrice woe!" Up sprang the King:89
"Let the woe fall on feeble kings who fail
Their country's need! When eagles spread the wing,
They face the sun, not tremble at the gale:
And, if ordain'd heaven's mission to perform,
They bear the thunder where they cleave the storm."
Ere yet the shadows from the castle's base90
Show'd lapsing noon—in Carduel's council-hall,
To the high princes of the Dragon race,
The mighty Prophet, whom the awe of all
As Fate's unerring oracle adored,—
Told the self exile of the parted lord;
For his throne's safety and his country's weal91
On high emprise to distant regions bound;
The cause must wisdom for success conceal;
For each sage counsel is, as fate, profound:
And none may trace the travail in the seed
Till the blade burst to glory in the deed.
Few were the orders, as wise orders are,92
For the upholding of the chiefless throne;
To strengthen peace and yet prepare for war;
Lest the fierce Saxon (Arthur's absence known)
Loose death's pale charger from the broken rein,
To its grim pastures on the bloody plain.
Leave we the startled Princes in the hall;93
Leave we the wondering babblers in the mart;
The grief, the guess, the hope, the doubt, and all
That stir a nation to its inmost heart,
When some portentous Chance, unseen till then,
Strides in the circles of unthinking men.[11]
Where the screen'd portal from the embattled town94
Opes midway on the hill, the lonely King,
Forth issuing, guides his barded charger down
The steep descent. Amidst the pomp of spring
Lapses the lucid river; jocund May
Waits in the vale to strew with flowers his way.
Of brightest steel (but not emboss'd with gold95
As when in tourneys rode the royal knight),
His arms flash sunshine back; the azure fold
Of the broad mantle, like a wave of light,
Floats tremulous, and leaves the sword-arm free.—
Fair was that darling of all Poetry!
Through the raised vizor beam'd the fearless eye,96
The limpid mirror of a stately soul;
Bright with young hope, but grave with purpose high;
Sweet to encourage, steadfast to control;
An eye from which subjected hosts might draw,
As from a double fountain, love and awe.
The careless curl, that from the helm escaped,97
Gleam'd in the sunlight, lending gold to gold.
Nor fairer face, in Parian marble shaped,
Beam'd gracious down from Delian shrines of old;
Albeit in bolder majesty look'd forth
The hardy soul of the chivalric North
O'er the light limb, and o'er the shoulders broad,98
The steel flow'd pliant as a silken vest;
Strength was so supple that like grace it show'd,
And force was only by its ease confest;
Ev'n as the storms in gentlest waters sleep,
And in the ripple flows the mighty deep.
Now wound his path beside the woods that hang99
O'er the green pleasaunce of the sunlit plain,
When a young footstep from the forest sprang,
And a light hand was on the charger's rein;
Surprised, the adventurer halts,—but pleased surveys
The friendly face that smiles upon his gaze.
Of all the flowers of knighthood in his train100
Three he loved best; young Caradoc the mild,
Whose soul was fill'd with song; and frank Gawaine,[12]
Whom mirth for ever, like a fairy child,
Lock'd from the cares of life; but neither grew
Close to his heart, like Lancelot the true.
Gawaine when gay, and Caradoc when grave,101
Pleased: but young Lancelot, or grave or gay.
As yet life's sea had roll'd not with a wave
To rend the plank from those twin hearts away;
At childhood's gate instinctive love began,
And warm'd with every sun that led to man.
The same sports lured them, the same labours strung,102
The same song thrill'd them with the same delight;
Where in the aisle their maiden arms had hung,
The same moon lit them through the watchful night;
The same day bound their knighthood to maintain
Life from reproach, and honour from a stain.
And if the friendship scarce in each the same,103
The soul has rivals where the heart has not;
So Lancelot loved his Arthur more than fame,
And Arthur more than life his Lancelot.
Lost here Art's mean distinctions! knightly troth,
Frank youth, high thoughts, crown'd Nature's kings in both.[13]
"Whither wends Arthur?" "Whence comes Lancelot?"104
"From yonder forest, sought at dawn of day."
"Why from the forest?" "Prince and brother, what,
When the bird startled flutters from the spray,
Makes the leaves quiver? What disturbs the rill
If but a zephyr floateth from the hill?
"And ask'st thou why thy brother's heart is stirr'd105
By every tremor that can vex thine own?
What in that forest hadst thou seen or heard?
What was that shadow o'er thy sunshine thrown?
Thy lips were silent,—be the secret thine;
But half the trouble it conceal'd was mine.
"Did danger meet thee in that dismal lair?106
'Twas mine to face it as thy heart had done.
'Twas mine——" "O brother," cried the King, "beware,
The fiend has snares it shames not man to shun;—
Ah, woe to eyes on whose recoiling sight
Opes the dark world beyond the veil of light!
"Listen to Fate; till once more eves in May107
Welcome Bal-huan back to yon sweet sky,[14]
The hunter's lively horn, the hound's deep bay,
May fill with joy the Vale of Melody,[15]
On spell-bound ears the Harper's tones may fall,
Love deck the bower, and Pleasure trim the hall—
"But thou, oh thou, my Lancelot shalt mourn108
The void, a life withdrawn bequeaths the soul;
No mirth shall greet thee in the buxom horn—
Nor flash in liquid sunshine from the bowl;
Sorrow shall sit where I have dwelt,—and be
A second Arthur in its truth to thee.
"Alone I go;—submit; since thus the Fates109
And the great Prophet of our race ordain;
So shall we drive invasion from our gates,
Guard life from shame, and Cymri from the chain;
No more than this my soul to thine may tell—
Forgive,—Saints shield thee!—now thy hand—farewell!"
"Farewell! Can danger be more strong than death—110
Loose the soul's link, the grave-surviving vow?
Wilt thou find fragrance ev'n in glory's wreath,
If valour weave it for thy single brow?
No!—not farewell! What claim more strong than brother
Canst thou allow?"—"My Country is my Mother!"—
At the rebuke of those mild, solemn words,111
Friendship submissive bow'd—its voice was still'd;
As when some mighty bard with sudden chords
Strikes down the passion he before had thrill'd,
Making grief awe;—so rush'd that sentence o'er
The soul it master'd;—Lancelot urged no more;
But loosing from the hand it clasp'd, his own,112
He waved farewell, and turn'd his face away;
His sorrow only by his silence shown:—
Thus, when from earth glides summer's golden day,
Music forsakes the boughs, and winds the stream;
And life, in deep'ning quiet, mourns the beam.