BOOK VI.
ARGUMENT.
Description of the Cymrian fire-beacons—Dialogue between Gawaine and Caradoc—The raven—Merlin announces to Gawaine that the bird selects him for the aid of the King—The knight's pious scruples—He yields reluctantly, and receives the raven as his guide—His pathetic farewell to Caradoc—He confers with Henricus on the propriety of exorcising the raven—Character of Henricus—The knight sets out on his adventures—The company he meets, and the obligation he incurs—The bride and the sword—The bride's choice and the hound's fidelity—Sir Gawaine lies down to sleep under the fairy's oak—What there befalls him—The fairy banquet—The temptation of Sir Gawaine—The rebuke of the fairies—Sir Gawaine, much displeased with the raven, resumes his journey—His adventure with the Vikings, and how he comforts himself in his captivity.
On the bare summit of the loftiest peak—1
Crowning the hills round Cymri's Iscan home,
Rose the grey temple of the Faith Antique,
Before whose priests had paused the march of Rome,
When the Dark Isle reveal'd its drear abodes,
And the last Hades of Cimmerian gods;
While dauntless Druids, by their shrines profaned,2
Stretch'd o'er the steel-clad hush, their swordless hands,[1]
And dire Religion, horror-breathing, chain'd
The frozen eagles,—till the shuddering bands
Shamed into slaughter, broke the ghastly spell,
And, lost in reeks of carnage, sunk the hell
Quiver'd on column-shafts the poisèd rock,3
As if a breeze could shake the ruin down;
But storm on storm had sent its thunder-shock,
Nor reft the temple of its mystic crown—
So awe of Power Divine on human breasts
Vibrates for ever, and for ever rests.
Within the fane awaits a giant pyre,4
Around the pyre assembled warriors stand;
A pause of prayer;—and suddenly the fire
Flings its broad banner reddening o'er the land.
Shoot the fierce sparks and groan the crackling pines,
Toss'd on the Wave of Shields the glory shines.
Lo, from dark night flash Carduel's domes of gold,5
Glow the jagg'd rampires like a belt of light.
And to the stars springs up the dragon-hold,
With one lone image on the lonely height—
O'er those who saw a thrilling silence fell;
There, the still Prophet watch'd o'er Carduel!
Forth on their mission rush'd the wings of flame;6
Hill after hill the land's grey warders rose;
First to the Mount of Bards the splendour came,
Wreath'd with large halo Trigarn's stern repose;
On, post by post, the fiery courier rode,
Blood-red Edeirnion's dells of verdure glow'd;
Uprose the hardy men of Merioneth,7
When, o'er the dismal strata parch'd and bleak,
Like some revived volcano's lurid breath
Sprang the fierce fire-jet from the herbless peak;
Flash'd down on meeting streams the Basalt walls,
In molten flame Rhaiadyr's thunder falls.
Thy Faban Mount, Caernarvon, seized the sign,8
And pass'd the watchword to the Fairies' Hill;
All Mona blazed—as if the isle divine
To Bel, the sun-god, drest her altars still;
Menai reflects the prophet hues, and far
To twofold ocean knells the coming war.
Then wheeling round, the lurid herald swept9
To quench the stars yet struggling with the glare
Blithe to his task, resplendent Golcun leapt—
The bearded giant rose on Moel-y-Gaer—
Rose his six giant brothers,—Eifle rose,
And great Eryri lit his chasms of snows.
So one vast altar was that father-land!10
But nobler altars flash'd in souls of men,
Sublimer than the mountain-tops, the brand
Found pyres in every lowliest hamlet glen
Soon on the rocks shall die the grosser fire—
Souls lit to freedom burn till suns expire.
Slowly the chiefs desert the blazing fane,11
(Sure of steel-harvests from the dragon seed)
Descend the mountain and the walls regain;
As suns to systems, there to each decreed
His glorious task,—to marshal star on star,
And weave with fate the harmonious pomp of war.
Last of the noble conclave, linger'd two;12
Gawaine the mirthful, Caradoc the mild,
And, as the watchfires thicken'd on their view.
War's fearless playmate raised his hand and smiled,
Pointing to splendours, linking rock to rock;—
And while he smiled—sigh'd earnest Caradoc.
"Now by my head—(an empty oath and light!)13
No taller tapers ever lit to rest
Rome's stately Cæsar;—sigh'st thou, at the sight,
For cost o'er-lavish, when so mean the guest?"
"Was it for this the gentle Saviour died?
Is Cain so glorious?" Caradoc replied.
"Permit, Sir Bard, an argument on that,"14
True to his fame, said golden-tongued Gawaine,
"The hawk may save his fledglings from the cat,
Nor yet deserve comparisons with Cain;
And Abel's fate, to hands unskill'd, proclaims
The use of practice in gymnastic games.
"Woes that have been are wisdom's lesson-books—15
From Abel's death, the men of peace should learn
To add an inch of iron to their crooks
And strike, when struck, a little in return—
Had Abel known his quarterstaff, I wot,
Those Saxon Ap-Cains ne'er had been begot!"
More had he said, but a strange, grating note,16
Half laugh—half croak, was here discordant heard;
An ave rose—but died within his throat,
As close before him perch'd the enchanter's bird,
With head aslant, and glittering eye askew,
It near'd the knight—the knight in haste withdrew.
"All saints defend me, and excuse a jest!"17
Mutter'd Sir Gawaine—"bird or fiend avaunt:
Oh, holy Abel, let this matter rest,
I do repent me of my foolish taunt!"
With that the cross upon his sword he kist,
And stared aghast—the bird was on his wrist.
"Hem—vade Satanas!—discede! retro,"18
The raven croak'd, and fix'd himself afresh;
"Avis damnata!—salus sit in Petro,"
Ten pointed claws here fasten'd on his flesh;
The knight, sore smarting, shook his arm—the bird
Peck'd in reproach, and kept its perch unstirr'd.
Quoth Caradoc—whose time had come to smile,19
And smile he did in grave and placid wise—
"Let not thine evil thoughts, my friend, defile
The harmless wing descended from the skies."
"Skies!!!" said the knight—"black imps from skies descend
With claws like these!—the world is at an end!"
"Now shame, Gawaine, O knight of little heart,20
How, if a small and inoffensive raven
Dismay thee thus, couldst thou have track'd the chart
By which Æneas won his Alban-haven?
On Harpies, Scylla, Cerberus, reflect—
And undevour'd—rejoice to be but peckt."
"True," said a voice behind them,—"gentle bard,21
In life as verse, the art is—to compare."
Gawaine turn'd short, gazed keenly, and breathed hard
As on the dark-robed magian stream'd the glare
Of the huge watch-fire—"Prophet," quoth Gawaine,
"My friend scorns pecking—let him try the pain!
"Please to call back this—offspring of the skies!22
Unworthy I to be his earthly rest!"
"Methought," said Merlin, "that thy King's emprize
Had found in thine a less reluctant breast;
Again is friendship granted to his side—
Thee the bird summons, be the bird thy guide."
Dumb stared the knight—stared first upon the seer,23
Then on the raven,—who, demure and sly,
Turn'd on his master a respectful ear,
And on Gawaine a magisterial eye.
"What hath a king with ravens, seer, to do?"
"Odin, the king of half the world, had two.
"Peace—if thy friendship answer to its boast,24
Arm, take thy steed and with the dawn depart—
The bird will lead thee to the ocean coast;
Strange are thy trials, stalwart be thy heart."
"Seer," quoth Gawaine, "my heart I hope is tough
Nor needs a prop from this portentous chough.
"You know the proverb—'birds of the same feather,'25
A proverb much enforced in penal laws,[2]—
In certain quarters were we seen together
It might, I fear, suffice to damn my cause:
You cite examples apt and edifying—
Odin kept ravens!—well, and Odin's frying!"
The enchanter smiled, in pity or in scorn;26
The smile was sad, but lofty, calm, and cold—
"The straws," he said, "on passing winds upborne
Dismay the courser—is the man more bold?
Dismiss thy terrors, go thy ways, my son,
To do thy duty is the fiend to shun.
"Not for thy sake the bird is given to thee,27
But for thy King's."—"Enough," replied the knight,
And bow'd his head. The bird rose jocundly,
Spread its dark wing and rested in the light—
"Sir Bard," to Caradoc the chosen said
In the close whisper of a knight well bred:
"Vow'd to my King—come man, come fiend, I go,28
But ne'er expect to see thy friend again,
That bird carnivorous hath designs I know
Most Anthropophagous on doom'd Gawaine;
I leave you all the goods that most I prize—
Three steeds, six hawks, four gre-hounds, two blue eyes.
"Beat back the Saxons—beat them well, my friend,29
And when they're beaten, and your hands at leisure,
Set to your harp a ditty on my end—
The most appropriate were the shortest measure:
Forewarn'd by me all light discourses shun,
And mostly—jests on Adam's second son."
He said, and wended down the glowing hill.30
Long watch'd the minstrel with a wistful gaze,
Then join'd the musing seer—and both were still,
Still 'mid the ruins—girded with the rays:
Twin heirs of light and lords of time, grey Truth
That ne'er is young—and Song the only youth.
At dawn Sir Gawaine through the postern stole,31
But first he sought one reverend friend—a bishop,
By him assoil'd and shrived, he felt his soul
Too clean for cooks that fry for fiends to dish up;
And then suggested, lighter and elater,
To cross the raven with some holy water.
Henricus—so the prelate sign'd his name—32
Was lord high chancellor in things religious;
With him church militant in truth became
(Nam cedant arma togæ) church litigious;
He kept his deacons notably in awe
By flowers epistolar perfumed with law.
No man more stern, more fortiter in re,33
No man more mild, more suaviter in modo;
When knots grew tough, it was sublime to see
Such polish'd shears go clippingly in nodo;
A hand so supple, pliant, glib, and quick,
Ne'er smooth'd a band, nor burn'd a heretic.
He seem'd to turn to you his willing cheek,34
And beg you not to smite too hard the other;
He seized his victims with a smile so meek,
And wept so fondly o'er his erring brother,
No wolf more righteous on a lamb could sup,
You vex'd his stream—he grieved—and eat you up.
"Son," said Henricus, "what you now propose35
Is wise and pious—fit for a beginning;
But sinful things, I fear me, but disclose,
In sin, perverted appetite for sinning;
Hopeless to cure—we only can detect it,
First cross the bird and then (he groan'd) dissect it!"
Till now, the raven perch'd on Gawaine's chair36
Had seem'd indulging in a placid doze,
And if he heard, he seem'd no jot to care
For threats of sprinkling his demoniac clothes,
But when the priest the closing words let drop
He hopp'd away as fast as he could hop.
Gain'd a safe corner, on a pile of tomes,37
Tracts against Arius—bulls against Pelagius,
The church of Cymri's controverse with Rome's—
Those fierce materials seem'd to be contagious,
For there, with open beak and glowering eye,
The bird seem'd croaking forth, "Dissect me! try!"
This sight, perchance, the prelate's pious plan38
Relax'd; he gazed, recoil'd, and faltering said,
"'Tis clear the monster is the foe of man,
His beak how pointed! and his eyes how red!
Demons are spirits;—spirits, on reflexion,
Are forms phantasmal, that defy dissection."
"Truly," sigh'd Gawaine, "but the holy water!"39
"No," cried the Prelate, "ineffective here.
Try, but not now, a simple noster-pater,
Or chaunt a hymn. I dare not interfere;
Act for yourself—and say your catechism;
Were I to meddle, it would cause a schism."
"A schism!"—"The church, though always in the right,40
Holds two opinions, both extremely able;
This makes the rubric rest on gowns of white,
That makes the church itself depend on sable;
Were I to exorcise that raven-back
'Twould favour white, and raise the deuce in black.[3]
"Depart my son—at once, depart, I pray,41
Pay up your dues, and keep your mind at ease,
And call that creature—no, the other way—
When fairly out, a credo, if you please;—
Go,—pax vobiscum;—shut the door I beg,
And stay;—On Friday, flogging,—with an egg!"
Out went the knight, more puzzled than before;42
And out, unsprinkled, flew the Stygian bird;
The bishop rose, and doubly lock'd the door;
His pen he mended, and his fire he stirr'd;
Then solved that problem—"Pons Diaconorum,"
White equals black, plus x y botherorum.
So through the postern stole the troubled knight;43
Still as he rode, from forest, mount, and vale,
Rung lively horns, and in the morning light
Flash'd the sheen banderoll, and the pomp of mail,
The welcome guests of War's blithe festival,
Keen for the feast, and summon'd to the hall.
Curt answer gave the knight to greeting gay,44
And none to taunt from scurril churl unkind,
Oft asking, "if he did mistake the way?"—
Or hinting, "war was what he left behind;"
As noon came on, such sights and comments cease,
Lone through the pastures rides the knight in peace.
Grave as a funeral mourner rode Gawaine—45
The bird went first in most indecent glee,
Now lost to sight, now gamb'ling back again—
Now munch'd a beetle, and now chaced a bee—
Now pluck'd the wool from meditative lamb,
Now pick'd a quarrel with a lusty ram.
Sharp through his visor, Gawaine watch'd the thing,46
With dire misgivings at that impish mirth:
Day wax'd—day waned—and still the dusky wing
Seem'd not to find one resting-place on earth.
"Saints," groan'd Gawaine, "have mercy on a sinner,
And move that devil—just to stop for dinner!"
The bird turn'd round, as if it understood.47
Halted the wing, and seem'd awhile to muse;
Then dives at once into a dismal wood,
And grumbling much, the hungry knight pursues,
To hear (and hearing, hope once more revives),
Sweet-clinking horns, and gently-clashing knives.
An opening glade a pleasant group displays;48
Ladies and knights amidst the woodland feast;
Around them, reinless, steed and palfrey graze;
To earth leaps Gawaine—"I shall dine at least."
His casque he doffs—"Good knights and ladies fair,
Vouchsafe a famish'd man your feast to share."
Loud laugh'd a big, broad-shoulder'd, burly host;49
"On two conditions, eat thy fill," quoth he;
"Before one dines, 'tis well to know the cost—
Thou'lt wed my daughter, and thou'lt fight with me."
"Sir Host," said Gawaine, as he stretch'd his platter,
"I'll first the pie discuss, and then—the matter."
The ladies look'd upon the comely knight50
His arch bright eye provoked the smile it found;
The men admired that vasty appetite,
Meet to do honour to the Table Round;
The host, reseated, sent the guest his horn,
Brimm'd with pure drinks distill'd from barley corn.
Drinks rare in Cymri, true to milder mead,51
But long familiar to Milesian lays,
So huge that draught, it had dispatch'd with speed
Ten Irish chiefs in these degenerate days:
Sir Gawaine drain'd it, and Sir Gawaine laugh'd,
"Cool is your drink, though scanty is the draught;
"But, pray you pardon (sir, a slice of boar),52
Judged by your accent, mantles, beards, and wine,
(If wine this be) ye come from Huerdan's[4] shore,
To aid, no doubt, our kindred Celtic line;
Ye saw the watch-fires on our hills at night
And march to Carduel? read I, sirs, aright?"
"Stranger," replied the host, "your guess is wrong,53
And shows your lack of history and reflection;
Huerdan with Cymri is allied too long,
We come, my friend, to sever the connection:
But first (your bees are wonderful for honey),
Yield us your hives—in plainer words your money."
"Friend," said the golden-tongued Gawaine, "methought54
Your mines were rich in wealthier ore than ours."
"True," said the host, superbly, "were they wrought!
But shall Milesians waste in work their powers?
Base was that thought, the heartless insult masking,"
"Faith," said Gawaine, "gold's easier got by asking."
Upsprung the host, upsprung the guests in ire—55
Unsprung the gentle dames, and fled affrighted;
High rose the din, than all the din rose higher
The croak of that curs'd raven quite delighted;
Sir Gawaine finish'd his last slice of boar,
And said, "Good friends, more business and less roar.
"If you want peace—shake hands, and peace, I say,56
If you want fighting, gramercy! we'll fight."
"Ho," cried the host, "your dinner you must pay—
The two conditions."—"Host, you're in the right,
To fight I'm willing, but to wed I'm loth:
I choose the first."—"Your word is bound to both:
"Me first engaged, if conquer'd you are—dead,57
And then alone your honour is acquitted:
But conquer me, and then you must be wed;
You ate!—the contract in that act admitted."
"Host," cried the knight, half-stunn'd by all the clatter,
"I only said I would discuss the matter.
"But if your faith upon my word reposed,58
That thought alone King Arthur's knight shall bind."
Few moments more, and host and guest had closed—
For blows come quick when folks are so inclined:
They foin'd, they fenced, changed play, and hack'd, and hew'd—
Paused, panted, eyed each other and renew'd;
At length a dexterous and back-handed blow59
Clove the host's casque and bow'd him to his knee.
"Host," said the Cymrian to his fallen foe;
"But for thy dinner wolves should dine on thee;
Yield—thou bleed'st badly—yield and ask thy life."
"Content," the host replied—"embrace thy wife!"
"O cursed bird," cried Gawaine, with a groan,60
"To what fell trap my wretched feet were carried!
My darkest dreams had ne'er this fate foreshown—
I sate to dine, I rise—and I am married!
O worse than Esau, miserable elf,
He sold his birthright—but he kept himself."
While thus in doleful and heart-rending strain61
Mourn'd the lost knight, the host his daughter led,
Placed her soft hand in that of sad Gawaine—
"Joy be with both!"—the bridegroom shook his head!
"I have a castle which I won by force—
Mount, happy man, for thither wends our course:
"Page, bind my scalp—to broken scalps we're used.62
Your bride, brave son, is worthy of your merit;
No man alive has Erin's maids accused,
And least that maiden, of a want of spirit;
She plies a sword as well as you, fair sir,
When out of hand, just try your hand on her."
Not once Sir Gawaine lifts his leaden eyes,63
To mark the bride by partial father praised,
But mounts his steed—the gleesome raven flies
Before; beside him rides the maid amazed:
"Sir Knight," said she at last, with clear loud voice,
"I hope your musings do not blame your choice?"
"Damsel," replied the knight of golden tongue,64
As with some effort be replied at all,
"Sith our two skeins in one the Fates have strung,
My thoughts were guessing when the shears would fall;
Much irks it me, lest vow'd to toil and strife,
I doom a widow where I make a wife.
"And sooth to say, despite those matchless charms65
Which well might fire our last new saint, Dubricius,
To-morrow's morn must snatch me from thine arms;
Led to far lands by auguries, not auspicious—
Wise to postpone a bond, how dear soever,
Till my return."—"Return! that may be never:
"What if you fall? (since thus you tempt the Fates)66
The yew will flourish where the lily fades;
The laidliest widows find consoling mates
With far less trouble than the comeliest maids;
Wherefore, Sir Husband, have a cheerful mind,
Whate'er may chance your wife will be resign'd."
That loving comfort, arguing sense discreet,67
But coldly pleased the knight's ungrateful ear,
But while devising still some vile retreat,
The trumpets flourish and the walls frown near;
Just as the witching night begins to fall
They pass the gates and enter in the hall.
Soon in those times primæval came the hour68
When balmy sleep did wasted strength repair,
They led Sir Gawaine to the lady's bower,
Unbraced his mail, and left him with the fair;
Then first, demurely seated side by side,
The dolorous bridegroom gazed upon the bride.
No iron heart had he of golden tongue,69
To beauty none by nature were politer;
The bride was tall and buxom, fresh and young,
And while he gazed, his tearful eyes grew brighter;
"'For good, for better,' runs the sacred verse,
Sith now no better—let me brave the worse."
With that he took and kiss'd the lady's hand,70
The lady smiled, and Gawaine's heart grew bolder,
When from the roof by some unseen command,
Flash'd down a sword and smote him on the shoulder—
The knight leapt up, sore-bleeding from the stroke,
While from the lattice caw'd the merriest croak!
Aghast he gazed—the sword within the roof71
Again had vanish'd; nought was to be seen—
He felt his shoulder, and remain'd aloof.
"Fair dame," quoth he, "explain what this may mean."
The bride replied not, hid her face and wept;
Slow to her side, with caution, Gawaine crept.
"Nay, weep not, sweetheart, but a scratch—no more,"72
He bent to kiss the dew-drops from his rose,
When presto down the glaive enchanted shore—
Gawaine leapt back in time to save his nose.
"Ah, cruel father," groan'd the lady then,
"I hoped, at least, thou wert content with ten!"
"Ten what?" said Gawaine.—"Gallant knights like thee,73
Who fought and conquer'd my deceitful sire;
Married, as thou, to miserable me,
And doom'd, as thou, beneath the sword to expire—
By this device he gains their arms and steeds,
So where force fails him, there the fraud succeeds."
"Foul felon host," the wrathful knight exclaims,74
"Foul wizard bird, no doubt in league with him!
Have they no dread lest all good knights and dames
Save fiends their task, and rend them limb from limb?
But thou for Gawaine ne'er shalt be a mourner,
Thou keep the couch, and I—yon farthest corner!"
This said, the prudent knight on tiptoe stealing75
Went from his bride as far as he could go,
Then laid him down, intent upon the ceiling;
Noses, once lost, no second crop will grow—
So watch'd Sir Gawaine, so the lady wept,
Perch'd on the lattice-sill the raven slept.
Blithe rose the sun, and blither still Gawaine;76
Steps climb the stair, a hand unbars the door—
"Saints," cries the host, and stares upon the twain,
Amazed to see that living guest once more.—
"Did you sleep well?"—"Why, yes," replied the knight,
"One gnat, indeed;—but gnats were made to bite.
"Man must leave insects to their insect law;—77
Now thanks, kind host, for board and bed and all—
Depart I must,"—the raven gave a caw.
"And I with thee," chimed in that damsel tall.
"Nay," said Gawaine, "I wend on ways of strife."
"Sir, hold your tongue—I choose it; I'm your wife."
With that the lady took him by the hand,78
And led him, fall'n of crest, adown the stair;
Buckled his mail, and girded on his brand,
Brimm'd full the goblet, nor disdain'd to share—
The host saith nothing or to knight or bride;
Forth comes the steed—a palfrey by its side.
Then Gawaine flung from the untasted board79
His manchet to a hound with hungry face;
Sprung to his selle, and wish'd, too late, that sword
Had closed his miseries with a coup de grace.
They clear the walls, the open road they gain;
The bride rode dauntless—daunted much Gawaine.
Gaily the fair discoursed on many things,80
But most on those ten lords—his time before,
Unhappy wights, who, as old Homer sings,
Had gone, "Proiapsoi," to the Stygian shore;
Then, each described and praised,—she smiled and said,
"But one live dog is worth ten lions dead."
The knight prepared that proverb to refute.81
When the bird beckon'd down a delving lane,
And there the bride provoked a new dispute:
That path was frightful—she preferr'd the plain.
"Dame," said the knight, "not I your steps compel—
Take thou the plain!—adieu! I take the dell."
"Ah, cruel lord," with gentle voice and mien82
The lady murmur'd, and regain'd his side;
"Little thou know'st of woman's faith, I ween,
All paths alike save those that would divide;
Ungrateful knight—too dearly loved!"—"But then,"
Falter'd Gawaine, "you said the same to ten!"
"Ah no; their deaths alone their lives endear'd83
Slain for my sake, as I could die for thine;"
And while she spoke so lovely she appear'd
The knight did, blissful, towards her cheek incline—
But, ere a tender kiss his thanks could say,
A strong hand jerk'd the palfrey's neck away.
Unseen till then, from out the bosky dell84
Had leapt a huge, black-brow'd, gigantic wight;
Sudden he swung the lady from her selle,
And seized that kiss defrauded from the knight,
While, with loud voice and gest uncouth, he swore
So fair a cheek he ne'er had kiss'd before!
With mickle wrath Sir Gawaine sprang from steed,85
And, quite forgetful of his wonted parle,
He did at once without a word proceed
To make a ghost of that presuming carle.
The carle, nor ghost nor flesh inclined to yield,
Took to his club, and made the bride his shield.
"Hold, stay thine hand!" the hapless lady cried,86
As high in air the knight his falchion rears;
The carle his laidly jaws distended wide,
And—"Ho," he laugh'd, "for me the sweet one fears,
Strike, if thou durst, and pierce two hearts in one,
Or yield the prize—by love already won."
In high disdain, the knight of golden tongue87
Look'd this way, that, revolving where to smite;
Still as he look'd, and turn'd, the giant swung
The unknightly buckler round from left to right.
Then said the carle—"What need of steel and strife?
A word in time may often save a life,
"This lady me prefers, or I mistake,88
Most ladies like an honest hearty wooer;
Abide the issue, she her choice shall make;
Dare you, sir rival, leave the question to her?
If so, resheath your sword, remount your steed,
I loose the lady, and retire."—"Agreed,"
Sir Gawaine answer'd—sure of the result,89
And charm'd the fair so cheaply to deliver;
But ladies' hearts are hidden and occult,
Deep as the sea, and changeful as the river.
The carle released the fair, and left her free—
"Caw," said the raven, from the willow tree.
A winsome knight all know was fair Gawaine90
(No knight more winsome shone in Arthur's court:)
The carle's rough features were of homeliest grain,
As shaped by Nature in burlesque and sport;
The lady look'd and mused, and scann'd the two,
Then made her choice—the carle had spoken true.
The knight forsaken, rubb'd astounded eyes,91
Then touch'd his steed and slowly rode away—
"Bird," quoth Gawaine, as on the raven flies,
"Be peace between us, from this blessed day;
One single act has made me thine for life,—
Thou hast shown the path by which I lost a wife!"
While thus his grateful thought Sir Gawaine vents,92
He hears, behind, the carle's Stentorian cries;
He turns, he pales, he groans—"The carle repents!
No, by the saints, he keeps her or he dies!"
Here at his stirrups stands the panting wight—
"The lady's hound, restore the hound, sir knight."
"The hound," said Gawaine, much relieved, "what hound?"93
And then perceived he that the dog he fed,
With grateful steps the kindly guest had found,
And there stood faithful.—"Friend," Sir Gawaine said,
"What's just is just! the dog must have his due,
The dame had hers, to choose between the two."
The carle demurr'd; but justice was so clear,94
He'd nought to urge against the equal law;
He calls the hound, the hound disdains to hear,
He nears the hound, the hound expands his jaw;
The fangs were strong and sharp, that jaw within,
The carle drew back—"Sir knight, I fear you win."
"My friend," replies Gawaine, the ever bland,95
"I took thy lesson, in return take mine;
All human ties, alas, are ropes of sand,
My lot to-day, to-morrow may be thine;
But never yet the dog our bounty fed
Betray'd the kindness, or forgot the bread."[5]
With that the courteous hand he gravely waved,96
Nor deem'd it prudent longer to delay;
Tempt not the reflow, from the ebb just saved!
He spurr'd his steed, and vanish'd from the way.
Sure of rebuke, and troubled in his mind,
An alter'd man, the carle his fair rejoin'd,
That day the raven led the knight to dine97
Where merry monks spread no abstemious board;
Dainty the meat, and delicate the wine,
Sir Gawaine felt his sprightlier self restored;
When towards the eve the raven croak'd anew,
And spread the wing for Gawaine to pursue.
With clouded brow the pliant knight obey'd,98
And took his leave and quaff'd his stirrup cup;
And briskly rode he through glen and glade,
Till the fair moon, to speak in prose, was up;
Then to the raven, now familiar grown,
He said—"Friend bird, night's made for sleep, you'll own.
"This oak presents a choice of boughs for you,99
For me a curtain and a grassy mound."
Straight to the oak the obedient raven flew,
And croak'd with merry, yet malignant sound.
The luckless knight thought nothing of the croak,
And laid him down beneath the Fairy's Oak.
Of evil fame was Nannau's antique tree,100
Yet styled "the hollow oak of demon race;"[6]
But blithe Gwyn ab Nudd's elfin family
Were the gay demons of the slander'd place;
And ne'er in scene more elfin, near and far,
On dancing fairies glanced the smiling star.
Whether thy chafing torrents, rock-born Caine,101
Flash through the delicate birch and glossy elm,
Or prison'd Mawddach[7] clangs his triple chain
Of waters, fleeing to the happier realm,
Where his course broad'ning smiles along the land;—
So souls grow tranquil as their thoughts expand.
High over subject vales the brow serene102
Of the lone mountain look'd on moonlit skies;
Wide glades far opening into swards of green,
With shimmering foliage of a thousand dyes,
And tedded tufts of heath, and ivyed boles
Of trees, and wild flowers scenting bosky knolls.
And herds of deer as slight as Jura's roe,[8]103
Or Irân's shy gazelle, on sheenest places,
Group'd still, or flitted the far alleys through;
The fairy quarry for the fairy chaces;
Or wheel'd the bat, brushing o'er brake and scaur,
Lured by the moth, as lures the moth the star.
Sir Gawaine slept—Sir Gawaine slept not long,104
His ears were tickled, and his nose was tweak'd;
Light feet ran quick his stalwart limbs along,
Light fingers pinch'd him, and light voices squeak'd.
He oped his eyes, the left and then the right,
Fair was the scene, and hideous was his fright!
The tiny people swarm around, and o'er him,105
Here on his breast they lead the morris-dance,
There, in each ray diagonal before him,
They wheel, leap, pirouette, caper, shoot askance,
Climb row on row each other's pea-green shoulder,
And point and mow upon the shock'd beholder.
And some had faces lovelier than Cupido's,106
With rose-bud lips, all dimpling o'er with glee;
And some had brows as ominous as Dido's,
When Ilion's pious traitor put to sea;
Some had bull heads, some lions', but in small,
And some (the finer drest) no heads at all.
By mortal dangers scared, the wise resort107
To means fugacious, licet et licebit;
But he who settles in a fairy's court,
Loses that option, sedet et sedebit;
Thrice Gawaine strove to stir, nor stirr'd a jot,
Charms, cramps, and torments nail'd him to the spot.
Thus of his limbs deprived, the ingenious knight108
Straightway betook him to his golden tongue—
"Angels," quoth he, "or fairies, with delight
I see the race my friends the bards have sung
Much honour'd that, in any way expedient,
You make a ball-room of your most obedient."
Floated a sound of laughter, musical—109
As when in summer noon, melodious bees
Cluster o'er jasmine roofs, or as the fall
Of silver bells, on the Arabian breeze;
What time with chiming feet in palmy shades
Move, round the soften'd Moor, his Georgian maids.
Forth from the rest there stepped a princely fay—110
"And well, sir mortal, dost thou speak," quoth he,
"We elves are seldom froward to the gay,
Rise up, and welcome to our companie."
Sir Gawaine won his footing with a spring,
Low bow'd the knight, as low the fairy king.
"By the bright diadem of dews congeal'd,111
And purple robe of pranksome butterfly,
Your royal rank," said Gawaine, "is reveal'd,
Yet more, methinks, by your majestic eye;
Of kings with mien august I know but two,
Men have their Arthur,—happier fairies, you."
"Methought," replied the elf, "thy first accost112
Proclaim'd thee one of Arthur's peerless train;
Elsewhere alas!—our later age hath lost
The blithe good-breeding of King Saturn's reign,
When, some four thousand years ago, with Fauns,
We Fays made merry on Arcadian lawns.
"Time flees so fast it seems but yesterday!113
And life is brief for fairies as for men."
"Ha," said Gawaine, "can fairies pass away?"
"Pass like the mist on Arran's wave, what then?
At least we're young as long as we survive;
Our years six thousand—I have number'd five.
"But we have stumbled on a dismal theme,114
As always happens when one meets a man—
Ho! stop that zephyr!—Robin, catch that beam!
And now, my friend, we'll feast it while we can."
The moonbeam halts, the zephyr bows his wing,
Light through the leaves the laughing people spring.
Then Gawaine felt as if he skirr'd the air,115
His brain grew dizzy, and his breath was gone;
He stopp'd at last, and such inviting fare
Never plump monk set lustful eyes upon.
Wild sweet-briars girt the banquet, but the brake
Oped where in moonlight rippled Bala's lake.
Such dainty cheer—such rush of revelry—116
Such silver laughter—such arch happy faces—
Such sportive quarrels from excess of glee—
Hush'd up with such sly innocent embraces,
Might well make twice six thousand years appear
To elfin minds a sadly nipp'd career!
The banquet o'er, the royal Fay intent117
To do all honour to King Arthur's knight,
Smote with his rod the bank on which they leant,
And Fairy-land flash'd glorious on the sight;
Flash'd, through a silvery, soft, translucent mist,
The opal shafts and domes of amethyst;
Flash'd founts in shells of pearl, which crystal walls118
And phosphor lights of myriad hues redouble;
There, in the blissful subterranean halls,
When morning wakes the world of human trouble,
Glide the gay race; each sound our discord knows,
Faint-heard above, but lulls them to repose.
O Gawaine, blush! Alas! that gorgeous sight,119
But woke the latent mammon in the man,
While fairy treasures shone upon the knight,
His greedy thoughts on lands and castles ran.
He stretch'd his hands, he felt the fingers itch,
"Sir Fay," quoth he, "you must be monstrous rich!"
Scarce fall the words from those unlucky lips,120
Than down rush'd darkness, flooding all the place;
His feet a fairy in a twinkling trips;
The angry winglets swarm upon his face;
Pounce on their prey the tiny torturers flew,
And sang this moral while they pinch'd him blue:
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Joy to him who fairy treasures
With a fairy's eye can see;
Woe to him who counts and measures
What the worth in coin may be.
Gems from wither'd leaves we fashion
For the spirit pure from stain;
Grasp them with a sordid passion
And they turn to leaves again.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Here and there, and everywhere,
Tramp and cramp him inch by inch;
Fair is fair,—to each his share
You shall preach, and we will pinch.
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Fairy treasures are not rated
By their value in the mart;
In thy bosom, Earth, created
For the coffers of the heart.
Dost thou covet fairy money?
Rifle but the blossom bells—
Like the wild bee, shape the honey
Into golden cloister-cells.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Spirit hear it, flesh revere it!
Stamp the lesson inch by inch!
Rightly merit, flesh and spirit,
This the preaching, that the pinch!
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Wretched mortal, once invited,
Fairy land was thine at will;
Every little star had lighted
Revels when the world was still.
Every bank a gate had granted.
To the topaz-paven halls—
Every wave had roll'd enchanted,
Chiming from our music-falls.
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Round him winging, sharp and stinging,
Clip him, nip him, inch by inch,
Sermons singing, wisdom bringing,
Point the moral with a pinch.
CHORUS OF PREACHING FAIRIES.
Now the spell is lost for ever,
And the common earth is thine;
Count the traffic on the river,
Weigh the ingots in the mine;
Look around, aloft, and under,
With an eye upon the cost;
Gone the happy world of wonder!
Woe, thy fairy land is lost!
CHORUS OF PINCHING FAIRIES.
Nature bare is, where thine air is,
Custom cramps thee inch by inch,
And when care is, human fairies
Preach and—vanish, at a pinch!
Sudden they cease—for shrill crow'd chanticleer;121
Grey on the darkness broke the glimmering light;
Slowly assured he was not dead with fear
And pinches, cautious peer'd around the knight;
He found himself replaced beneath the oak,
And heard with rising wrath the chuckling croak.
"O bird of birds most monstrous and malific,122
Were these the inns to which thou wert to lead!
Now gash'd with swords, now claw'd by imps horrific;
Wives—wounds—cramps—pinches! Precious guide, indeed!
Ossa on Pelion piling, crime on crime:
Wretch, save thy throttle, and repent in time!"
Thus spoke the knight—the raven gave a grunt,123
(That raven liked not threats to life or limb!)
Then with due sense of the unjust affront,
Hopp'd supercilious forth, and summon'd him—
His mail once more the aching knight indued,
Limp'd to his steed, and ruefully pursued.
The sun was high when all the glorious sea124
Flash'd through the boughs that overhung the way,
And down a path, as rough as path could be,
The bird flew sullen, delving towards the bay;
The moody knight dismounts, and leads with pain
The stumbling steed, oft backing from the rein.
One ray of hope alone illumed his soul,125
"The bird will lead thee to the ocean coast,"
The wizard's words had clearly mark'd the goal;
The goal once won—of course the guide was lost;
While thus consoled, its croak the raven gave,
Folded its wings and hopp'd into a cave.
Sir Gawaine paused—Sir Gawaine drew his sword;126
The bird unseen scream'd loud for him to follow—
His soul the knight committed to our Lord,
Stepp'd on—and fell ten yards into a hollow;
No time had he the ground thus gain'd to note,
Ere six strong hands laid gripe upon his throat.
It was a creek, three sides with rocks enclosed,127
The fourth stretch'd, opening on the golden sand;
Dull on the wave an anchor'd ship reposed;
A boat with peaks of brass lay on the strand;
And in that creek caroused the grisliest crew
Thor ever nurst, or Rana[9] ever knew.
But little cared the knight for mortal foes.128
From those strong hands he wrench'd himself away,
Sprang to his feet and dealt so dour his blows,
Cleft to the chin a grim Berseker lay,
A Fin fell next, and next a giant Dane—
"Ten thousand pardons!" said the bland Gawaine.
But ev'n in that not democratic age129
Too large majorities were stubborn things,
Nor long could one man strive against the rage
Of half a hundred thick-skull'd ocean kings—
Four felons crept between him and the rocks,
Lifted four clubs and fell'd him like an ox.
When next the knight unclosed his dizzy eyes,130
His feet were fetter'd and his arms were bound—
Below the ocean and above the skies;
Sails flapp'd—cords crackled; long he gazed around;
Still where he gazed, fierce eyes and naked swords
Peer'd through the flapping sails and crackling cords—
A chief before him leant upon his club,131
With hideous visage bush'd with tawny hair.
"Who plays at bowls must count upon a rub,"
Said the bruised Gawaine, with a smiling air;
"Brave sir, permit me humbly to suggest
You make your gyves too tight across the breast."
Grinn'd the grim chief, vouchsafing no reply;132
The knight resumed—"Your pleasant looks bespeak
A mind as gracious;—may I ask you why
You fish for Christians in King Arthur's creek?"
"The kings of creeks," replied that hideous man,
"Are we, the Vikings and the sons of Ran!
"Your beacon fires allured us to your strands,133
The dastard herdsmen fled before our feet,
Thee, Odin's raven guided to our hands;
Thrice happy man, Valhalla's boar to eat!
The raven's choice suggests it's God's idea,
And marks thee out—a sacrifice to Freya!"
As spoke the Viking, over Gawaine's head134
Circled the raven with triumphal caw;
Then o'er the cliffs, still hoarse with glee, it fled.
Thrice a deep breath the knight relieved did draw,
Fair seem'd the voyage—pleasant seem'd the haven;
"Bless'd saints," he cried, "I have escaped the raven!"