There in that straitening way they met
The wild Welsh host against them set,
And smote their strong king down, ere yet
His hurrying horde of spears might get
Fierce vantage of them. Then the fight
Grew great and joyous as it grew,
For left and right those brethren slew,
Till all the lawn waxed red with dew
More deep than dews of night.
And ere the full fierce tale was read
Full forty lay before them dead,
And fast the hurtling remnant fled
And wist not whither fear had led:
And toward the king they went again,
And would have slain him: but he bowed
Before them, crying in fear aloud
For grace they gave him, seeing the proud
Wild king brought lowest of men.
And ere the wildwood leaves were stirred
With song or wing of wakening bird,
In Camelot was Merlin’s word
With joy in joyous wonder heard
That told of Arthur’s bitterest foe
Diskingdomed and discomfited.
“By whom?” the high king smiled and said.
He answered: “Ere the dawn wax red,
To-morrow bids you know.
“Two knights whose heart and hope are one
And fain to win your grace have done
This work whereby if grace be won
Their hearts shall hail the enkindling sun
With joy more keen and deep than day.”
And ere the sundawn drank the dew
Those brethren with their prisoner drew
To the outer guard they gave him to
And passed again away.
And Arthur came as toward his guest
To greet his foe, and bade him rest
As one returned from nobler quest
And welcome from the stormbright west,
But by what chance he fain would hear.
“The chance was hard and strange, sir king,”
Quoth Ryons, bowed in thanksgiving.
“Who won you?” Arthur said: “the thing
Is worth a warrior’s ear.”
The wild king flushed with pride and shame,
Answering: “I know not either name
Of those that there against us came
And withered all our strength like flame:
The knight that bears two swords is one,
And one his brother: not on earth
May men meet men of knightlier worth
Nor mightier born of mortal birth
That hail the sovereign sun.”
And Arthur said: “I know them not
But much am I for this, God wet,
Beholden to them: Launcelot
Nor Tristram, when the war waxed hot
Along the marches east and west,
Wrought ever nobler work than this.”
“Ah,” Merlin said, “sore pity it is
And strange mischance of doom, I wis,
That death should mar their quest.
“Balen, the perfect knight that won
The sword whose name is malison,
And made his deed his doom, is one:
Nor hath his brother Balan done
Less royal service: not on earth
Lives there a nobler knight, more strong
Of soul to win men’s praise in song,
Albeit the light abide not long
That lightened round his birth.
“Yea, and of all sad things I know
The heaviest and the highest in woe
Is this, the doom whose date brings low
Too soon in timeless overthrow
A head so high, a hope so sure.
The greatest moan for any knight
That ever won fair fame in fight
Shall be for Balen, seeing his might
Must now not long endure.”
“Alas,” King Arthur said, “he hath shown
Such love to me-ward that the moan
Made of him should be mine alone
Above all other, knowing it known
I have ill deserved it of him.” “Nay,”
Said Merlin, “he shall do for you
Much more, when time shall be anew,
Than time hath given him chance to do
Or hope may think to say.