BOOK VIII.
ARGUMENT.
Lancelot continues to watch for Arthur till the eve of the following day, when a Damsel approaches the Lake—Lancelot's discreet behaviour thereon, and how the Knight and the Damsel converse—The Damsel tells her tale—Upon her leaving Lancelot, the fairy ring commands the Knight to desert his watch, and follow the Maiden—The story returns to Arthur, who, wandering by the sea-shore, perceives a bark with the Raven flag of the sea-kings—The Dove enjoins him to enter it—The Ship is deserted, and he waits the return of the Crew—Sleep falls upon him—The consoling Vision of Ægle—What befalls Arthur on waking—Meanwhile Sir Gawaine pursues his voyage to the shrine of Freya, at which he is to be sacrificed—How the Hound came to bear him company—Sir Gawaine argues with the Viking on the inutility of roasting him—The Viking defends that measure upon philosophical and liberal principles, and silences Gawaine—The Ship arrives at its destination—Gawaine is conducted to the shrine of Freya—The Statue of the Goddess described—Gawaine's remarks thereon, and how he is refuted and enlightened by the Chief Priest—Sir Gawaine is bound, and in reply to his natural curiosity the Priest explains how he and the Dog are to be roasted and devoured—The sagacious proceedings of the Dog—Sir Gawaine fails in teaching the Dog the duty of Fraternization—The Priest re-enters, and Sir Gawaine, with much satisfaction, gets the best of the Argument—Concluding Stanzas to Nature.
Lone by the lake reclined young Lancelot—1
Night pass'd, the noonday slept on wave and plain;
Lone by the lake watch'd patient Lancelot;
Like Faith assured that Love returns again.
Noon glided on to eve; when from the brake
Brushed a light step, and paused beside the lake.
How lovely to the margin of the wave2
The shy-eyed Virgin came! and, all unwitting
The unseen Knight, to the frank sunbeam gave
Her sunny hair—its snooded braids unknitting;
And, fearless, as the Naiad by her well,
Sleeked the loose tresses, glittering where they fell.
And, playful now, the sandal silks unbound,3
Oft from the cool fresh wave with coy retreat
Shrinking,—and glancing with arch looks around,
The crystal gleameth with her ivory feet,
Like floating swan-plumes, or the leaves that quiver
From water-lilies, under Himera's river.
Ah happy Knight, unscath'd, such charms espying,4
As brought but death to the profane of yore,
When Dian's maids to angry quivers flying
Pierced the bold heart presuming to adore!
Alas! the careless archer they disdain,
Can slay as surely, though with longer pain.
But worthy of his bliss, the loyal Knight,5
Pure from all felon thoughts as Knights should be,
Revering, anger'd at his own delight,
The lone, unconscious, guardless modesty,
Rose, yet unseen, and to the copse hard by,
Stole with quick footstep and averted eye.
But as one tremour of the summer boughs6
Scares the shy fawn, so with that faintest sound
The Virgin starts, and back from rosy brows
Flings wide the showering gold; and all around
Casts the swift trouble of her looks, to see
The white plume glisten through the rustling tree.
As by some conscious instinct of the fear7
He caused, the Knight turns back his reverent gaze;
And in soft accents, tuned to Lady's ear
In gentle courts, her purposed flight delays;
So nobly timid in his look and tone
As if the power to harm were all her own.
"Lady and liege, O fly not thus thy slave;8
If he offend, unwilling the offence,
For safer not upon the unsullying wave
Doth thy pure image rest, than Innocence
On the clear thoughts of noble men!" He said;
And low, with downcast lids, replied the maid.
[Oh, from those lips how strangely musical9
Sounds the loathed language of the Saxon foe!]
"Though on mine ear the Cymrian accents fall,
And in my speech, O Cymrian, thou wilt know
The Daughter of the Saxon; marvel not,
That less I fear thee in this lonely spot
"Than hadst thou spoken in my mother-tongue,10
Or worn the aspect of my father-race."
Here to her eyes some tearful memory sprung,
And youth's glad sunshine vanish'd from her face;
Like the changed sky, the gleams of April leave,
Or the quick coming of an Indian eve.
Moved, yet embolden'd by that mild distress,11
Near the fair shape the gentle Cymrian drew,
Bent o'er the hand his pity dared to press,
And soothed the sorrow ere the cause he knew.
Frank were those times of trustful Chevisaunce,[1]
And hearts when guileless open to a glance.
So see them seated by the haunted lake,12
She on the grassy bank, her sylvan throne,
He at her feet—and out from every brake
The Forest-Angels singing:—All alone
With Nature and the Beautiful—and Youth
Pure in each soul as, in her fountain, Truth!
And thus her tale the Teuton maid begun:13
"Daughter of Harold, Mercia's Earl, am I.
Small need to tell to Knighthood's Christian son
What creed of wrath the Saxons sanctify.
With songs first chaunted in some thunder-field,
Stern nurses rock'd me in my father's shield.
"Motherless both,—my playmate, sole and sweet,14
Years—sex, the same, was Crida's youngest child,
(Crida, the Mercian Ealder-King) our feet
Roved the same pastures when the Mead-month[2] smiled;
By the same hearth we paled to Saga runes,
When wolves descending howl'd to icy moons.
"As side by side, two osiers o'er a stream,15
When air is still, with separate foliage bend;
But let a breezelet blow, and straight they seem
With trembling branches into one to blend:
So grew our natures,—when in calm, apart;
But in each care, commingling, heart to heart.
"Her soul was bright and tranquil as a bird16
That hangs with silent wing in breathless heaven,
The plumes of mine the faintest zephyr stirr'd,
Light with each impulse by the moment given;
Blithe as the insect of the summer hours,
Child of the beam, and playmate of the flowers.
"Thus into youth we grew, when Crida bore17
Home from fierce wars a British Woman-slave,
A lofty captive, who her sorrow wore
As Queens a mantle; yet not proud, though grave,
And grave as if with pity for the foe,
Too high for anger, too resign'd for woe.
"Our hearts grew haunted by that patient face,18
And much we schemed to soothe the sense of thrall.
She learn'd to love us,—let our love replace
That she had lost,—and thank'd her God for all,
Even for chains and bondage:—awed we heard,
And found the secret in the Gospel Word.
"Thus, Cymrian, we were Christians. First, the slave19
Taught that bright soul whose shadow fell on mine;
Thus we were Christians;—but, as through the cave
Flow hidden river-springs, the Faith Divine
We dared not give to-day—in stealth we sung
Hymns to the Cymrian's God, in Cymri's tongue.
"And for our earlier names of heathen sound20
We did such names as saints have borne receive;
One name in truth, though with a varying sound;
Genevra I—and she sweet Genevieve,—
Words that escaped from other ears, unknown,
But spoke as if from angels to our own.
"Soon with thy creed we learn'd thy race to love,21
Listening high tales of Arthur's peerless fame,
But most such themes did my sweet playmate move;
To her the creed endear'd the champion's name,
With angel thoughts surrounded Christ's young chief,
And gave to Glory haloes from Belief.
"Not long our teacher did survive, to guide22
Our feet, delighted in the new-found ways;
Smiling on us—and on the cross—she died,
And vanish'd in her grave our infant days;
We grew to woman when we learn'd to grieve,
And Childhood left the eyes of Genevieve.
"Oft, ev'n from me, musing she stole away,23
Where thick the woodland girt the ruin'd hall
Of Cymrian kings, forgotten;—through the day
Still as the lonely nightingale midst all
The joyous choir that drown her murmur:—So
Mused Crida's daughter on the Saxon's foe.
"Alas! alas! (sad moons have waned since then!)24
One fatal morn her forest haunt she sought
Nor thence return'd: whether by lawless men
Captured, or flying of her own free thought,
From heathen shrines abhorr'd;—all search was vain,
Ne'er to our eyes that smile brought light again."
Here paused the maid, and tears gush'd forth anew,25
Ere faltering words rewove the tale once more;
"Roused from his woe, the wrathful Crida flew
To Thor's dark priests, and Odin's wizard lore.
Task'd was each rune that sways the demon hosts,
And the strong seid[3] compell'd revealing ghosts.
"And answer'd priest and rune, and the pale Dead,26
'That in the fate of her, the Thor-descended,
The Gods of Cymri wove a mystic thread,
With Arthur's life and Cymri's glory blended,
And Dragon-Kings, ordain'd in clouded years,
To seize the birthright of the Saxon spears.
"'By Arthur's death, and Carduel's towers o'erthrown,27
Could Thor and Crida yet the web unweave,
Protect the Saxon's threaten'd gods;—alone
Regain the lost one, and exulting leave
To Hengist's race the ocean-girt abodes,
Till the Last Twilight[4] darken round the Gods.'
"This heard and this believed, the direful King28
Convenes his Eorl-born and prepares his powers,
Relates the omens, and the tasks they bring,
And points the Valkyrs to the Cymrian towers.
Dreadest in war—and wisest in the hall,
Stands my great Sire—the Saxon's Herman-Saul.[5]
"He to secure allies beyond the sea29
Departs—but first (for well he loved his child)
He drew me to his breast, and tenderly
Chiding my tears, he spoke, and speaking smil'd,
'Whate'er betides thy father or thy land,
Far from our dangers Astrild[6] woos thy hand.
"'Beorn, the bold son of Sweyn, the Göthland king30
Whose ocean war-steeds on the Baltic deeps
Range their blue pasture—for thy love shall bring
As nuptial-gifts, to Cymri's mountain keeps
Arm'd men and thunder. Happy is the maid,
Whose charms lure armies to her Country's aid
What, while I heard, the terror and the woe,31
Of one who, vow'd to the meek Christian God,
Found the Earth's partner in the Heaven's worst foe!
For ne'er o'er blazing altars Slaughter trod
Redder with blood of saints remorsely slain,
Than Beorn, the Incarnate Fenris[7] of the main.
"Yet than such nuptials more I fear'd the frown32
Of my dread father;—motionless I stood,
Rigid in horror, mutely bending down
The eyes that dared not weep.—So Solitude
Found me, a thing made soul-less by despair,
Till tears broke way, and with the tears flow'd prayer."
Again Genevra paused: and, beautiful33
As Art hath imaged Faith, look'd up to heaven,
With eyes that glistening smiled. Along the lull
Of air, waves sigh'd—the winds of stealing Even
Murmur'd, birds sung, the leaflet rustling stirr'd;
His own loud heart was all the list'ner heard.
"Scarce did my Sire return (his mission done),34
To loose the Valkyrs on the Cymrian foe,
Then came the galley which the sea-king's son
Sent for the partner of his realms of snow;
Shuddering, recoiling, forth I stole at night,
To the wide forest with wild thoughts of flight.
"I reach'd the ruin'd halls wherein so oft35
Lost Genevieve had mused lone hours away,
When halting wistful there, a strange and soft
Slumber fell o'er me, or, more sooth to say,
A slumber not, but rather on my soul
A life-dream clear as hermit-visions stole.
"I saw an aged and majestic form,36
Robed in the spotless weeds thy Druids wear,
I heard a voice deep as when coming storm
Sends its first murmur through the heaving air:
'Return,' it said, 'return, and dare the sea,
The Eye that sleeps not looks from heaven on thee.'
"The form was gone, the Voice was hush'd, and grief37
Fled from my heart; I trusted and obey'd:
Weak still, my weakness leant on my belief;
I saw the sails unfurl, the headlands fade;
I saw my father, last upon the strand,
Veiling proud sorrow with his iron hand.
"Swift through the ocean clove the flashing prows38
And half the dreaded course was glided o'er,
When, as the wolves, which night and winter rouse
In cavernous lairs, from seas without a shore
Clouds swept the skies; and the swift hurricane
Rush'd from the North along the maddening main.
"Startled from sleep upon the verge of doom,39
With wild cry, shrilling through the wilder blast,
Uprose the seamen, ghostlike through the gloom,
Hurrying and helpless; while the sail-less mast
Now lightning-wreathed, now indistinct and pale
Bow'd, or, rebounding, groan'd against the gale,
"And crash'd at last;—its sullen thunder drown'd40
In the great storm that snapp'd it. Over all
Swept the long surges, and a gurgling sound
Told where some wretch, that strove in vain to call
For aid, where all were aidless, through the spray
Emerging, gasp'd, and then was whirl'd away.
"But I, who ever wore upon my heart41
The symbol cross of Him who walk'd the seas,
Bow'd o'er that sign my head; and pray'd apart:
When through the darkness, on his crawling knees,
Crept to my side the chief, and crouch'd him there,
Mild as an infant, listening to my prayer.
"And, clinging to my robes, 'Thee have I seen,'42
Faltering he said, 'when round thee coil'd the blue
Lightning, and rush'd the billow-swoop, serene
And scathless smiling; surely then I knew
That, strong in charms or runes that guard and save,
Thou mock'st the whirlwind and the roaring grave!
"'Shield us, young Vala, from the wrath of Ran,43
And calm the raging Helheim of the deep.'
As from a voice within, I answer'd, 'Man,
Nor rune nor charm locks into mortal sleep
The Present God; by Faith all ills are braved;
Trust in that God; adore Him, and be saved."
"Then, pliant to my will, the ghastly crew44
Crept round the cross, amid the howling dark—
Dark, save when swift and sharp, and griding[8] through
The cloud-mass, clove the lightning, and the bark
Flash'd like a floating hell; low by that sign
All knelt, and voices hollow-chimed to mine.
"Thus as we pray'd, lo, open'd all the Heaven,45
With one long steadfast splendour——calmly o'er
The God-Cross resting: then the clouds were riven
And the rains fell; the whirlwind hush'd its roar,
And the smooth'd billows on the ocean's breast,
As on a mother's, sighing, sunk to rest.
"So came the dawn: o'er the new Christian fold,46
Glad as the Heavenly Shepherd, smiled the sun;
Then to those grateful hearts my tale I told,
The heathen bonds the Christian maid should shun,
And pray'd in turn their aid my soul to save
From doom more dismal than a sinless grave.
"They, with one shout, proclaim their law my will,47
And veer the prow from northern snows afar,
Soon gentler winds the murmuring canvas fill,
Fair floats the bark where guides the western star.
From coast to coast we pass'd, and peaceful sail'd
Into lone creeks, by yon blue mountains veil'd.
"Here all wide-scatter'd up the inward land48
For stores and water, range the blithesome crew;
Lured by the smiling shores, one gentler band
I join'd awhile, then left them, to pursue
Mine own glad fancies, where the brooklet clear
Shot singing onwards to the sunlit mere.
"And so we chanced to meet!" She ceased, and bent49
Down the fresh rose-hues of her eloquent cheek;
Ere Lancelot spoke, the startled echo sent
Loud shouts reverberate, lengthening, plain to peak;
The sounds proclaim the savage followers near,
And straight the rose-hues pale,—but not from fear.
Slowly Genevra rose, and her sweet eyes50
Raised to the Knight's, frankly and mournfully;
"Farewell," she said, "the wingèd moment flies,
Who shall say whither?—if this meeting be
Our last as first, O Christian warrior, take
The Saxon's greeting for the Christian's sake.
"And if, returning to thy perill'd land,51
In the hot fray thy sword confront my Sire,
Strike not—remember me!" On her fair hand
The Cymrian seals his lips; wild thoughts inspire
Words which the lips may speak not:—but what truth
Lies hid when youth reflects its soul in youth!
Reluctant turns Genevra, lingering turns,52
And up the hill, oft pausing, languid wends.
As infant flame through humid fuel burns,
In Lancelot's heart with honour, love contends;
Longs to pursue, regain, and cry, "Where'er
Thou wanderest, lead me; Paradise is there!"
But the lost Arthur!—at that thought, the strength53
Of duty nerved the loyal sentinel:
So by the lake watch'd Lancelot;—at length
Upon the ring his looks, in drooping, fell,
And see, the hand, no more in dull repose,
Points to the path in which Genevra goes!
Amazed, and wrathful at his own delight,54
He doubts, he hopes, he moves, and still the ring
Repeats the sweet command, and bids the Knight
Pursue the Maid as if to find the King.
Yielding at last, though half remorseful still,
The Cymrian follows up the twilight hill.
Meanwhile along the beach of the wide sea,55
The dove-led pilgrim wander'd,—needful food,
The Mænad's fruits from many a purple tree
Flush'd for the vintage, gave; with musing mood,
Lonely he strays till Æthra[9] sees again
Her starry children smiling on the main.
Around him then, curved grew the hollow creek;56
Before, a ship lay still with lagging sail;
A gilded serpent glitter'd from the beak,
Along the keel encoil'd with lengthening trail;
Black from a brazen staff, with outstretch'd wings
Soar'd the dread Raven of the Runic kings.
Here paused the Wanderer, for here flew the Dove57
To the tall mast, and, murmuring, hover'd o'er;
But on the deck no watch, no pilot move,
Life-void the vessel as the lonely shore.
Far on the sand-beach drawn, a boat he spied,
And with strong hand he launch'd it on the tide.
Gaining the bark, still not a human eye58
Peers through the noiseless solitary shrouds;
So, for the crew's return, all patiently
He sate him down, and watch'd the phantom clouds
Flit to and fro, where o'er the slopes afar
Reign storm-girt Arcas,[10] and the Mother Star.
Thus sleep stole o'er him, mercy-hallow'd sleep;59
His own loved Ægle, lovelier than of old,
Oh, lovelier far—shone from the azure deep—
And like the angel dying saints behold,
Bent o'er his brow, and with ambrosial kiss
Breathed on his soul her own pure spirit-bliss.
"Never more grieve for me," the Vision said,60
"Behold how beautiful thy bride is now!
Who to yon Heaven from heathen Hades led
Me, thine Immortal? Mourner, it was thou!
Why shouldst thou mourn? In the empyreal clime
We know no severance, for we own no time.
"Both in the Past and Future circumfused,61
We live in each;—all life's more happy hours
Bloom back for us;—all prophet Fancy mused
Fairest in days to come, alike are ours:
With me not yet—I ever am with thee,
Thy presence flows through my eternity.
"Think thou hast bless'd the earth, and oped the heaven62
To her baptized, reborn, through thy dear love,—
In the new buds that bloom for thee, be given
The fragrance of the primal flower above!
In Heaven we are not jealous!—But in aught
That heals remembrance and revives the thought,
"That makes the life more beautiful, we bind63
Those who survive us in a closer chain;
In all that glads we feel ourselves enshrined;
In all that loves, our love but lives again."
Anew she kiss'd his brow, and at her smile
Night and Creation brighten'd! He the while,
Stretch'd his vain arms, and clasp'd the mocking air,64
And from the rapture woke![11]—All fiercely round
Group savage forms, amidst the lurid glare
Of lifted torches, red; fierce tongues resound,
Discordant, clamouring hoarse—as birds of prey
Scared by man's footstep in some desolate bay.
Mild through the throng a bright-hair'd Virgin came,65
And the roar hush'd;—while to the Virgin's breast
Soft-cooing fled the Dove. His own great name
Rang through the ranks behind; quick footsteps press'd
(As through arm'd lines a warrior) to the spot,
And to the King knelt radiant Lancelot.
Here for a while the wild and fickle song66
Leaves the crown'd Seeker of the Silver Shield;
Thy fates, O Gawaine, done to grievous wrong
By the black guide perfidious, be reveal'd,
Nearing, poor Knight, the Cannibalian shrine,
Where Freya scents thee, and prepares to dine.
Left by a bride, and outraged by a raven,67
One friend still shared the injured captive's lot;
For, as the vessel left the Cymrian haven,
The faithful hound, whom he had half forgot,
Swam to the ship, clomb up the sides on board,
Snarl'd at the Danes, and nestled by his lord.
The hirsute Captain, not displeased to see a68
New bonne bouche added to the destined roast
His floating larder had prepared for Freya,
Welcomed the dog, as Charon might a ghost;
Allow'd the beast to share his master's platter,
And daily eyed them both,—and thought them fatter!
Ev'n in such straits, the Knight of golden tongue69
Confronts his foe with arguings just and sage,
Whether in pearls from deeps Druidic strung,
Or link'd synthetic from the Stagirite's page,
Labouring to show him how absurd the notion,
That roasting Gawaine would affect the Ocean.
But that enlighten'd though unlearnèd man,70
Posed all the lore Druidical or Attic;
"One truth," quoth he, "instructs the Sons of Ran
(A seaman race are always democratic),
That truth once known, all else is worthless lumber:
'The greatest pleasure of the greatest number.'
"No pleasure like a Christian roasted slowly,71
To Odin's greatest number can be given;
The will of freemen to the gods is holy;
The People's voice must be the voice of Heaven.
On selfish principles you chafe at capture,
But what are private pangs to public rapture?
"You doubt that giving you as food for Freya72
Will have much mark'd effect upon the seas;
Let's grant you right:—all pleasure's in idea;
If thousands think it, you the thousands please.
Your private interest must not be the guide,
When interests clash majorities decide."
These doctrines, wise, and worthy of the race73
From whose free notions modern freedom flows,
Bore with such force of reasoning on the case,
They left the Knight dumbfounded at the close;
Foil'd in the weapons which he most had boasted,
He felt sound logic proved he should be roasted.
Discreetly waiving farther conversations,74
He, henceforth, silent lived his little hour;
Indulged at times such soothing meditations,
As, "Flesh is grass,"—and "Life is but a flower."
For men, like swans, have strains most edifying,
They never think of till the time for dying.
And now at last, the fatal voyage o'er,75
Sir Gawaine hears the joyous shout of "Land!"
Two Vikings lead him courteously on shore:
A crowd as courteous wait him on the strand.
Fifes, viols, trumpets braying, screaming, strumming,
Flatter his ears, and compliment his coming.
Right on the shore the gracious temple stands,76
Form'd like a ship, and budded but of log;
Thither at once the hospitable bands
Lead the grave Knight and unsuspicious dog,
Which, greatly pleased to walk on land once more,
Swells with unprescient bark the tuneful roar.
Six Priests and one tall Priestess clothed in white,77
Advance—and meet them at the porch divine;
With seven loud shrieks, they pounce upon the Knight,—
Whisk'd by the Priests behind the inmost shrine,
While the tall Priestess asks the congregation
To come at dawn to witness the oblation.
Though somewhat vex'd at this so brief delay—78
Yet as the rites, in truth, required preparing,
The flock obedient took themselves away;—
Meanwhile the Knight was on the Idol staring,
Not without wonder at the tastes terrestrial
Which in that image hail'd a shape celestial.
Full thirty ells in height—the goddess stood79
Based on a column of the bones of men,
Daub'd was her face with clots of human blood,
Her jaws as wide as is a tiger's den;
With giant fangs as strong and huge as those
That cranch the reeds, through which the sea-horse goes.
"Right reverend Sir," quoth he of golden tongue,80
"A most majestic gentlewoman this!
Is it the Freya,[12] whom your scalds have sung,
Goddess of love and sweet connubial bliss?
If so—despite her very noble carriage,
Her charms are scarce what youth desires in marriage."
"Stranger," said one who seem'd the hierarch-priest—81
"In that sublime, symbolical creation,
The outward image but conveys the least
Of Freya's claims on human veneration—
But (thine own heart if Love hath ever glow'd in),
Thou'lt own that Love is quite as fierce as Odin!
"Hence, as the cause of full one half our quarrels,82
Freya with Odin shares the rites of blood;—
In this—thou seest a hidden depth of morals,
But by the vulgar little understood;—
We do not roast thee in an idle frolic!
But as a type mysterious and symbolic."
The Hierarch motions to the priests around,83
They bind the victim to the Statue's base,
Then, to the Knight they link the wondering hound,
Some three yards distant—looking face to face.
"One word," said Gawaine—"ere your worships quit us,
How is it meant that Freya is to eat us?"
"Stranger," replied the Priest, "albeit we hold84
Such questions idle, and perhaps profane;
Yet much the wise will pardon to the bold—
When what they ask 'tis easy to explain—
Still typing Truth, and shaped with sacred art,
We place a furnace in the statue's heart.
"That furnace heated by mechanic laws85
Which gods to priests for godlike ends permit,
We lay the victim bound across the jaws,
And let him slowly turn upon a spit;
The jaws—(when done to what we think their liking)
Close;—all is over:—The effect is striking!"
At that recital, made in tone complacent,86
The frozen Knight stared speechless and aghast,
Stared on those jaws to which he was subjacent,
And felt the grinders cranch on their repast.
Meanwhile the Priest said—"Keep your spirits up,
And ere I go, say when you'd like to sup?"
"Sup!" falter'd out the melancholy Knight,87
"Sup! pious Sir—no trouble there, I pray!
Good though I grant my natural appetite,
The thought of Freya's takes it all away:
As for the dog—poor, unenlighten'd glutton,
Blind to the future,—let him have his mutton."
'Tis night: behold the dog and man alone!88
The man hath said his thirtieth noster pater,
The dog has supp'd, and having pick'd his bone
(The meat was salted), feels a wish for water;
Puts out in vain a reconnoitring paw,
Feels the cord, smells it, and begins to gnaw.
Abash'd Philosophy, that dog survey!89
Thou call'st on freemen—bah! expand thy scope;
"Aide-toi toi-même, et Dieu t'aidera!"
Doth thraldom bind thee?—gnaw thyself the rope.—
Whatever Laws, and Kings, and States may be;
Wise men in earnest can be always free.
By a dim lamp upon the altar stone90
Sir Gawaine mark'd the inventive work canine;
"Cords bind us both—the dog has gnaw'd his own;
O Dog skoinophagous[13]—a tooth for mine!—
And both may 'scape that too-refining Goddess
Who roasts to types what Nature meant for bodies."
Sir Gawaine calls the emancipated hound,91
And strives to show his own illegal ties;
Explaining how free dogs, themselves unbound,
With all who would be free should fraternize—
The dog look'd puzzled, lick'd the fetter'd hand,
Prick'd up his ears—but would not understand.
The unhappy Knight perceived the hope was o'er,92
And did again to fate his soul resign;
When hark! a footstep, and an opening door,
And lo, once more, the Hierarch of the shrine,
The dog his growl at Gawaine's whisper ceased,
And dog and Knight, both silent, watch'd the priest.
The subtle captive saw with much content93
No sacred comrades had that reverend man;
Beneath a load of sacred charcoal bent,
The Priest approach'd; when Gawaine thus began:
"It shames me much to see you thus bent double,
And feel myself the cause of so much trouble.
"Doth Freya's kitchen, ventrical and holy,94
Afford no meaner scullion to prepare
The festive rites?—on you depends it wholly
To heat the oven and to dress the fare?"
"To hands less pure are given the outward things,
To Hierarchs only, the interior springs,"
Replied the Priest—"and till my task be o'er,95
All else intruding, wrath divine incur."
Sir Gawaine heard and not a sentence more
Sir Gawaine said, than—"Up and seize him, Sir,"
Sprung at the word, the dog; and in a trice
Griped the Priest's throat and lock'd it like a vice.
"Pardon, my sacred friend," then quoth the Knight,96
"You are not strangled from an idle frolic,
When bit the biter, you'll confess the bite
Is full of sense, mordacious but symbolic;
In roasting men, O culinary brother,
Learn this grand truth—'one turn deserves another!'"
Extremely pleased, the oratoric Knight97
Regain'd the vantage he had lost so long,
For sore, till then, had been his just despite
That Northern wit should foil his golden tongue.
Now, in debate how proud was his condition,
The opponent posed and by his own position!
Therefore, with more than his habitual breeding,98
Resumed benignantly the bland Gawaine,
While much the Priest, against the dog's proceeding
With stifling gasps protested, but in vain—
"Friend—(softly, dog; so—ho!) Thou must confess
Our selfish interests bid us coalesce.—
"Unknit these cords; and, once unloosed the knot,99
I pledge my troth to call the hound away,
If thou accede—a show of hands! if not
That dog at least I fear must have his day."
High in the air, both hands at once appear!
"Carried, nem. con.,—Dog, fetch him,—gently, here!"
Not without much persuasion yields the hound!100
Loosens the throat, to gripe the sacred vest.
"Priest," quoth Gawaine, "remember, but a sound,
And straight the dog—let fancy sketch the rest!"
The Priest, by fancy too dismay'd already,
Fumbles the knot with fingers far from steady.
Hoarse, while he fumbles, growls the dog suspicious,101
Not liking such close contact to his Lord
(The best of friends are sometimes too officious,
And grudge all help save that themselves afford).
His hands set free, the Knight assists the Priest,
And, finis, funis, stands at last released.
True to his word—and party coalitions,102
The Knight then kicks aside the dog, of course;
Salutes the foe, and states the new conditions
The facts connected with the times enforce;
All coalitions nat'rally denote
The State-Metempsychosis—change of coat!
"Ergo," quoth Gawaine,—"first, the sacred cloak;103
Next, when two parties, but concur pro temp.
Their joint opinions only should be spoke
By that which has most cause to fear the hemp.
Wherefore, my friend, this scarf supplies the gag
To keep the cat symbolic—in the bag!"
So said, so done, before the Priest was able104
To prove his counter interest in the case,
The Knight had bound him with the victim's cable!
Closed up his mouth and cover'd up his face,
His sacred robe with hands profane had taken,
And left him that which Gawaine had forsaken.
Then Gawaine stepp'd into the blissful air,105
Oh, the bright wonder of the Northern Night!
With Ocean's heart of music heaving there,
Under its starry robe!—and all the might
Of rock and shore, and islet deluge-riven,
Distinctly dark against the lustrous heaven!
Calm lay the large rude Nature of the North,106
Glad as when first the stars rejoicing sang,
And fresh as when from kindling Chaos forth
(A thought of God) the young Creation sprang;
When man in all the present Father found,
And for the Temple, paused and look'd around!
Nature, thou earliest Gospel of the Wise,107
Thou never-silent Hymner unto God!
Thou Angel-Ladder lost amid the skies,
Though at the foot we dream upon the sod!
To thee the Priesthood of the Lyre belong—
They hear Religion and reply in Song!
If he hath held thy worship undefiled108
Through all the sins and sorrows of his youth,
Let the Man echo what he heard as Child
From the far hill-tops of melodious Truth,
Leaving on troubled hearts some lingering tone
Sweet with the solace thou hast given his own!