A Spring Harvest

by Geoffrey Bache Smith

Glastonbury

Thither through moaning woods came Bedivere,

At gloomy breaking of a winter’s day,

Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart,

With a great wound gotten in that last fray

Ere he stood by, and watched the King depart

Down the long, silent reaches of the mere:

And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear,

And the wind cried, and chased the relict leaves

Like ships, that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves,

And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear.

So he found at the last an hermitage

Hard by a little hill, and sheltering trees

That bent gaunt branches in the winter’s breeze;

And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door:

Then presently came forth an hermit sage

And helped him to dismount with labour sore:

Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lame

Stumbled against the open door, and swooned,

And would have fallen, but the hermit caught

And laid him gently down; then hurrying brought

From a great chest a cordial, and came

That he might drink, and so beheld his wound.

Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death,

Like a torn traveller on a stormy height

’Twixt one wind and another: till his breath

Came easier, and he prospered. Then did sleep

Bathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep,

And left him whole, at breaking of the light,

So he beheld the old man, and desired

That he would tell of whom he was, and whence.

[pg 14]

Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired:

“I, I was Arthur’s bishop, at his court

And in his church I ministered, and thence

When at the last the whole was overthrown

With wrath and ill designings, straight I sought

A place where I might die, too feeble grown

To endure a new beginning to my years

When once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears.

Hither I came, where, in the dawns of time

Dim peoples, that the very stones forget,

Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rime

On a lake island mystically set.

They passed, and after ages manifold

Came wandering sainted Joseph (even he

That tended God’s frail body, and enrolled

In linen clothes of spicèd fragrancy).

He brought the vessel, vanished now from earth

That wrought destruction to the Table Round,

Since many deemed themselves above their worth

And sought in vain, and perished ere they found.”

Then Bedivere: “Alas the King! I saw

The unstayed overwhelming tide of war:

And when the opposèd standards were unfurled

Of Arthur and of Mordred, his base son,

Ere yet the noise of battle was begun

I heard the heralds crying to the world:

“‘Ye that have sought out pallid harmonies

Where never wind blows, save the gentle south:

Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seas

And fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth:

“‘Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened crops

Of word and measure, till the rime, grown proud,

Did straight contemn the leaping mountain tops

And lose itself in air, and riven cloud:

[pg 15]

“‘Ye that have lived a dangerous life of war

Whose speech has been bold words and heady boasts

Gather, for strife and death unknown before,

Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.’

“I saw the last dim battle in the mist

There, where a dreary waste of barren sand

Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;

Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist

Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths

Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors

Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;

And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths

Were all confounded on those desolate shores.

And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept

A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end

Of all mankind, and of created time.

How many fell therein of foe or friend

I know not, save that when the darkness came

And the mist cleared, I found at last the King,

His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime,

And fading in his eyes the ancient flame.

“I saw him make on Mordred with his spear,

And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life,

He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’

Put a dread ending to the outworn strife.

I saw them fall together, and, drawn near.

Knew that the King was wounded unto death.

“Then as he drew with growing pain his breath

I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole

Across the waters, like a wandering soul

Returnèd from the woeful realm, to view

The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew.

And when it touched the shallows I did bear

The dying Arthur as he bade, and there

[pg 16] I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell

Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.”

Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door

There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn,

And there did worship in the days of yore

The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither

I was awakened by the sound of feet.

And I looked forth, and saw a body borne

By veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither,

In at the chapel gateway. I went down

And found that they had digged a grave, most meet

For one of saintly life, or king by birth:

They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light

I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown

Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth,

Then prayed, and so went out into the night.”

Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway

Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld

The stone beneath whose length the body lay:

Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled

Graven in golden character, “Arcturus

Rex Quondamque Futurus.”

Quoth Bedivere:

“Thank God this voice remaineth unto us;

Now I do mind me of a prophecy

Spoken long since in some emblazoned year,

How Arthur should escape mortality

And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep

Or on some shore, where faery seas do break:

Around him all his warriors shall sleep,

Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake

What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm

Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes

Go over her; his own victorious arm

Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.”

[pg 17]

So leave we them, each head inaureoled

With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold.

Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung

Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung,

They saw who stood therein, and each one knew

The face unspared by years and strife and shame,

Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,

With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,

Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few

Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came

Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights,

Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.

“Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the

Queen,

The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade

Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil

Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen

Most puissant proud of all that ever made

The traitor honest, and the valorous frail.

“Yet evermore about her form there clings

And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,

Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:

And till the end of all created things

There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace

The immortal loveliness of Guinevere.

“Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies

In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,

In shady paths, and marble terraces

Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.

But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given,

And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,

The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,

And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.

[pg 18]

“Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind,

Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago,

Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf.

The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,

Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow

Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.”

Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain

Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year

Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.

Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled

By winds of winter, until skies were clear,

And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world

Lay glistening to the newly risen sun.

Till came that season, wherein solemn days

Do celebrate the reign on earth begun

Of the most blessèd Child, whenas all ways

Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow.

Then in the chapel at high noon they three

Offered their quiet orisons and so

Came forth and looked upon the purity,

And when he saw the fields all stainless-white

Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore

And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight

Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod.

Even so once before the eyes of God

My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.”

“Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage;

No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain

Through the great love of God, and His dear Son.

Repent and be forgiven: know that none

Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain,

Nor shall one name be blotted from the page

If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.”

[pg 19]

Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years

That still are left before the longed-for earth

Receive my body, I should strive amain

To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,

Alas it were all profitless and vain.

Verily, when I came unto this place

I railed on God, that I had lost my soul

And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace

Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,

And now my grief is only for old sin.

But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree

(He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),

This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before

I pass the gates divine, and enter in

To the fair country I must never see.”

But even as he spoke, the hand of God

Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway

They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,

As at the very bidding of the spring,

Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay

With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze

(So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod),

And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.

Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief

Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;

For God beholds the living, not the dead;

And He that took the semblance of a child

Loves He but penance, and the drooping head,

Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?”

So they grew old together, and the years

Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears

(They had drained all, maybe). And ever less

Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness

They pondered the eternal mysteries

(The noblest heritage of all men born),

[pg 20] Such as are writ upon the face of dawn,

Or in the glamour of a moonlit night,

Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight,

Or in the breaking of the restless seas:

Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days

While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell

On bower and roof of ancient Camelot:

Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell,

When all was song, and laughter, and high praise,

Even when as yet the accursed thing was not.

Then would loom out from the chill mists of time

The faces and the forms remembered still,

The King and Guinevere, and Galahad,

That rode upon a peerless quest and dire,

Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire,

And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad;

Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime,

And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill.

So as the day draws ever toward the dark,

Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath,

And ever toward the further shore the bark

They drew to the dark, silent realm of death.

Far, far away from their old palace-halls

Where once they lived a splendid life and vain,

That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls

In some soft vale, or by the echoing main,

Beneath the springing grass, and very deep

They three do lie, where never mornings rise

To ope the portals of their dazèd eyes,

Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep,

And near beside lies Arthur, even he

That was King once, and yet again shall be.

[pg 21]