Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems

by Madison Julius Cawein

II.

NOON; and the wistful Autumn sat among

The lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrung

By crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,

To don imperial pomp at any cost.

On each wild hill they stood as if for war

Flaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;

And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;

Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,

Who in a little fretful while, how soon!

Would work rebellion under some wan moon;

Pluck their old beards deriding; shriek and tear

Rich royalty; sow tattered through the air

Their purple majesty; and from each head

Dash down its golden crown, and in its stead

Set there a pale-death mockery of snow,

Leave them bemoaning beggars bowed with woe.

Blow, wood-wind, blow! now that all's fresh and fine

As earth and wood can make it; fresh as brine

And rare with sodden scents of underbrush.

Ring, and one hears a cavalcade a-rush;

Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows;—

A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goes

Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green,—

Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held between

His selle and hunter's head, and at his thigh

A good, broad hanger, and one fist on high

To wind the rapid echoes from his horn,

That start the field birds from the sheavéd corn,

Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,

That cease again when it no longer sings.

Away, away, they flash a belted band

From Camelot thro' that haze-ghostly land;

Hounds leashed and leamers and a flash of steel,

A tramp of horse and the long-baying peal

Of stag hounds whimp'ring and—behold! the hart,

A lordly height, doth from the covert dart;

And the big blood-hounds strain unto the chase.

A-hunt! a-hunt! the pryce seems but a pace

On ere 'tis wound; but now, where interlace

The dense-briered underwoods, the hounds have lost

The slot, there where a forest brook hath crossed

With intercepting waters full of leaves.

Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves

Thro' dimmer boscage, and the wizard sun

Shapes many shadowy stags that seem to run

Wild herds before the baffled foresters.

And treed aloft a reckless laugh one hears,

As if some helping goblin from the trees

Mocked them the unbayed hart and made a breeze

His pursuivant of mocking. Hastening thence

Pursued King Arthur and King Urience

With one small brachet, till scarce hear could they

Their fellowship far-furthered course away

On fresher trace of hind or rugged boar

With haggard, hairy flanks, curled tusks and hoar

With fierce foam-fury; and of these bereft

The kings continued in the slot they'd left.

And there the hart plunged gallant thro' the brake

Leaving a torn path shaking in his wake,

Down which they followed on thro' many a copse

Above whose brush, close on before, the tops

Of the large antlers swelled anon, and so

Were gone where beat the brambles to and fro.

And still they drave him hard; and ever near

Seemed that great hart unwearied; and such cheer

Still stung them to the chase. When Arthur's horse

Gasped mightily and lunging in his course

Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience

Left his gray hunter dying near; and thence

They held the hunt afoot; when suddenly

Were they aware of a wide, roughened sea,

And near the wood the hart upon the sward

Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.

Right so the king dispatched him and the pryce

Wound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.

As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast

Waked from its sleep,—the quietude had cast

Tender as mercy on it,—in a band

Rose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,

Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,

From that red woodland gliding. These each knight

Graced with obeisance and "Our lord," said one,

"Tenders ye courtesy until the dawn;

The Earl Sir Damas; well in his wide keep,

Seen thither with due worship, ye shall sleep."

And then they came o'erwearied to a hall,

An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall

Towered based on crags rough, windy turrets high;

An old, gaunt giant-castle 'gainst a sky

Wherein the moon hung foam-faced, large and full.

Down on dank sea-foundations broke the dull,

Weird monotone of ocean, and wide rolled

The watery wilderness that was as old

As loud, defying headlands stretching out

Beneath still stars with a voluminous shout

Of wreck and wrath forever. Here the two

Were feasted fairly and with worship due

All errant knights, and then a damsel led

Each knight with flaring lamp unto his bed

Down separate corridores of that great keep;

And soon they rested in a heavy sleep.

And then King Arthur woke, and woke mid groans

Of dolorous knights; and 'round him lay the bones

Of many woful champions mouldering;

And he could hear the open ocean ring

Wild wasted waves above. And so he thought

"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught

By that long hunt;" and then he sought to shake

The horror off and to himself awake;

But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs,

And deep in iron-ribbéd cells the eyes

Of pale, cadaverous knights shone fixed on him

Unhappy; and he felt his senses swim

With foulness of that cell, and, "What are ye?

Ghosts of chained champions or a company

Of phantoms, bodiless fiends? If speak ye can,

Speak, in God's name! for I am here—a man!"

Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay

A dusky nightmare dying day by day,

Yet once of comely mien and strong withal

And greatly gracious; but, now hunger-tall,

With scrawny beard and faded hands and cheeks:

"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaks

Is but an one of twenty knights here shamed

Of him who lords this castle, Damas named,

Who mews us here for slow starvation keen;

Around you fade the bones of some eighteen

Tried knights of Britain; and God grant that soon

My hunger-lengthened ghost will see the moon,

Beyond the vileness of this prisonment!"

With that he sighed and round the dungeon went

A rustling sigh, like saddened sin, and so

Another dim, thin voice complained their woe:—

"He doth enchain us with this common end,

That he find one who will his prowess bend

To the attainment of his livelihood.

A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good

And courteous, withal most noble, whom

This Damas hates—yea, ever seeks his doom;

Denying him to their estate all right

Save that he holds by main of arms and might.

And thro' puissance hath he some fat fields

And one rich manor sumptuous, where he yields

Belated knights host's hospitality.

Then bold is Ontzlake, Damas cowardly.

For Ontzlake would decide by sword and lance

Body for body this inheritance;

But Damas dotes on life so courageless;

Thus on all knights perforce lays coward's stress

To fight for him or starve. For ye must know

That in his country he is hated so

That no helm here is who will take the fight;

Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."

Quoth he and ceased. And wondering at the tale

The King was thoughtful, and each faded, pale,

Poor countenance still conned him when he spake:

"And what reward if one this battle take?"

"Deliverance for all if of us one

Consent to be his party's champion.

But treachery and he are so close kin

We loathe the part as some misshapen sin,

And here would rather dally on to death

Than serving falseness save and slave our breath."

"May God deliver you for mercy, sirs!"

And right anon an iron noise he hears

Of chains clanked loose and bars jarred rusty back,

The heavy gate croak open; and the black

Of that rank cell astonished was with light,

That danced fantastic with the frantic night.

One high torch sidewise worried by the gust

Sunned that lorn den of hunger, death and rust,

And one tall damsel vaguely vestured, fair

With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair.

And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she;

"God's life! the keep stinks vilely! and to see

So noble knights endungeoned hollowing here

Doth pain me sore with pity—but, what cheer?"

"Thou mockest us; for me the sorriest

Since I was suckled; and of any quest

To me the most imperiling and strange.—

But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change

I offer thee, through thee to these with thee,

And thou but grant me in love's courtesy

To fight for Damas and his livelihood.

And if thou wilt not—look! thou seest this brood

Of lean and dwindled bellies specter-eyed,

Keen knights erst who refused me?—so decide."

Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze

That blew delirious over waves and trees;

Thick fields of grasses and the sunny earth

Whose beating heat filled the red heart with mirth,

And made the world one sovereign pleasure house

Where king and serf might revel and carouse;

Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;

Lone forest chapels by their radiant rills:

His palace rich at Caerlleon upon Usk,

And Camelot's loud halls that thro' the dusk

Blazed far and bloomed a rose of revelry;

Or in the misty morning shadowy

Loomed grave for audience. And then he thought

Of his Round Table and that Grael wide sought

In haunted holds on demon-sinful shore;

Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar

With dragon heads unconquered and devour

This realm of Britain and pluck up that flower

Of chivalry whence ripened his renown:

And then the reign of some besotted crown,

A bandit king of lust, idolatry—

And with that thought for tears he could not see:

Then of his greatest champions, King Ban's son,

And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:

And then, ah God! of his dear Guenevere,

And with that thought—to starve and moulder here?—

For, being unfriend to Arthur and his court,

Well wist he this grim Earl would bless that sport

Of fortune which had fortuned him so well

To have to starve his sovereign in a cell.—

In the entombing rock where ground the deep;

And all the life shut in his limbs did leap

Thro' eager veins and sinews fierce and red,

Stung on to action, and he rose and said:

"That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!

To rot here harder; I will fight his foe.

But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail,

No steed against that other to avail."

"Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire."

And so she led the path: her torch's fire

Scaring wild spidery shadows at each stride

From cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,

That labyrinthed the rock foundation strong

Of that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.

At length they came to a nail-studded door,

Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore

Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence

They issued on a terraced eminence.

Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the King

Breathed open air that had the smell and sting

Of brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;

For in the East the second dawning's gloam,

Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks

Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.

And so within that larger light of dawn

It seemed to Arthur now that he had known

This maiden at his court, and so he asked.

But she, well-tutored, her real person masked,

And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not;

Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot.

For here it likes me best to sing and spin

And work the hangings my sire's halls within:

No courts or tournaments or gallants brave

To flatter me and love! for me—the wave,

The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;

My garth wherein I walk to think; the charm

Of uplands redolent at bounteous noon

And full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;

White ships that pass some several every year;

These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear."

"An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrue

Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,

Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying of

The King, half-brother, whom she did not love.

And presently she brought him where in state

This swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate....

King Urience that dawning woke and found

Himself safe couched at Camelot and wound

In Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it was

That this thing secretly had come to pass.

But Accolon at Chariot sojourned still

Content with his own dreams; for 'twas the will

Of Morgane thus to keep him hidden here

For her desire's excess, where everywhere

In Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,

Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;

And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wont

To list a tinkling, falling water fount,—

Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramours

At sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,

Had caught a laughing language light thereof,

And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!"—

On cool white walls her hands had deftly draped

A dark rich hanging, where were worked and shaped

Her fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind,

Imperishable passions, which could wind

The past and present quickly; and could mate

Dead loves to kisses, and intoxicate

With moon-soft words of past delight and song

The heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong.

And there beside it pooled the urnéd well,

And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fell

From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,

With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawn

Came solely; with not ev'n her brindled hound

To leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground;

No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,

Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;

But this her lute, about which her perfume

Clung odorous of memories, that made bloom

Her flowing features rosy to his eyes,

That saw the words, his sense could but surmise,

Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunk

Her deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunk

And slowly waned away to smouldering dreams,

Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams.

And so for those most serious eyes and lips,

Faint, filmy features, all the music slips

Of buoyant being bubbling to his voice

To chant her praises; and with nervous poise

His fleet, trained fingers call from her long lute

Such riotous notes as must make madly mute

The nightingale that listens quivering.

And well he knows that winging hence it'll sing

These aching notes, whose beauties burn and pain

Its anguished heart now sobless, not in vain

Wild 'neath her casement in that garden old

Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold

Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon;

And if it dies, the heartache of the tune

Shall clamor stormy passion at her ear,

Of death more dear than life if love be there;

Melt her quick eyes to tears, her throat to sobs

Tumultuous heaved, while separation throbs

Hard at her heart, and longing rears to Death

Two prayerful eyes of pleading "for one breath—

An ardor of fierce life—crushed in his arms

Close, close! and, oh, for such, all these smooth charms,

Full, sentient charms voluptuous evermore!"

And sweet to know these sensitive vows shall soar

Ev'n to the dull ear of her drowsy lord

Beside her; heart-defying with each word

Harped in the bird's voice rhythmically clear.

And thus he sang to her who was not there:

"She comes! her presence, like a moving song

Breathed soft of loveliest lips and lute-like tongue,

Sways all the gurgling forests from their rest:

I fancy where her rustling foot is pressed,

So faltering, love seems timid, but how strong

That darling love that flutters in her breast!

"She comes! and the green vistas are stormed thro'—

As if wild wings, wet-varnished with dripped dew,

Had dashed a sudden sunbeam tempest past,

—With her eyes' inspiration clearly chaste;

A rhythmic lavishment of bright gray blue,

Long arrows of her eyes perfection cast.

"Ah, God! she comes! and, Love, I feel thy breath,

Like the soft South who idly wandereth

Thro' musical leaves of laughing laziness,

Page on before her, how sweet—none can guess!

To say my soul 'Here's harmony dear as death

To sigh wild vows, or utterless, to bless.'

"She comes! ah, God! and all my brain is brave

To war for words to laud her and to lave

Her queenly beauty in such vows whereof

May hush melodious cooings of a dove:

For her light feet the favored path to pave

With oaths, like roses, raving mad with love.

"She comes! in me a passion—as the moon

Works madness in strong men—my blood doth swoon

Towards her glory; and I feel her soul

Cling lip to lip with mine; and now the whole

Mix with me, aching like a tender tune

Exhausted; lavished in a god's control.

"She comes! ah, Christ! ye eager stars that grace

The fragmentary skies, that dimple space,

Clink, and I hear her harp-sweet footfalls come:

Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,

Art of her presence, of her wild-flower face,

That like some gracious blossom stains the gloom?

"Oh, living exultation of the blood!

That now—as sunbursts, the almighty mood

Of some moved god, scatter the storm that roars,

And hush—her love like some spent splendor pours

Into it all immaculate maidenhood,

And all the heart that hesitates—adores.

"Vanquished! so vanquished!—ah, triumphant sweet!

The height of heaven—supine at thy feet!

Where love feasts crowned, and basks in such a glare

As hearts of suns burn, in thine eyes and hair,

Unutterable with raveled fires that cheat

The ardent clay of me and make me air.

"And so, rare witch, thy blood, like some lewd wine,

Shall subtly make me, like thee, half divine;

And,—sweet rebellion!—clasp thee till thou urge

To combat close of savage kisses: surge

A war that rubies all thy proud cheeks' shine,—

Slain, struggling blushes,—till white truce emerge.

"My life for thine, thus bartered lip to lip!

A striving being pulsant, that shall slip

Like song and flame in sense from thee to me;

Nor held, but quick rebartered thence to thee:

So our two loves be as a singleship,

Ten thousand loves as one eternally."

Babbled the woodland like a rocky brook;

And as the ecstacy of foliage shook,

Hot pieces of bright, sunny heavens glanced

Like polished silver thro' pale leaves that danced.

As one hath seen some green-gowned huntress fair,

Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair,

Eyes clear as hollow dews; clean limbs as lithe

As limbs swift morning moves; a voice as blithe

As high hawk's ringing thro' the falling dews;

Pant thro' the bramble-matted avenues,—

Where brier and thorn have gashed her gown's pinched green,

About bright breasts and arms, the milky sheen

Of white skin healthy pouting out; her face,

Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase.