The Tale of Balen

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

And toward his host he turned and spake;
“Now for your son’s long-suffering sake
Blood ye may fetch enough, and take
Wherewith to heal his hurt, and make
Death warm as life.” Then rose a cry
Loud as the wind’s when stormy spring
Makes all the woodland rage and ring:
“Thou hast slain my brother,” said the king,
“And here with him shalt die.”

“Ay?” Balen laughed him answer. “Well,
Do it then thyself.” And the answer fell
Fierce as a blast of hate from hell,
“No man of mine that with me dwell
Shall strike at thee but I their lord
For love of this my brother slain.”
And Pellam caught and grasped amain
A grim great weapon, fierce and fain
To feed his hungering sword.

And eagerly he smote, and sped
Not well: for Balen’s blade, yet red
With lifeblood of the murderous dead,
Between the swordstroke and his head
Shone, and the strength of the eager stroke
Shore it in sunder: then the knight,
Naked and weaponless for fight,
Ran seeking him a sword to smite
As hope within him woke.

And so their flight for deathward fast
From chamber forth to chamber passed
Where lay no weapon, till the last
Whose doors made way for Balen cast
Upon him as a sudden spell
Wonder that even as lightning leapt
Across his heart and eyes, and swept
As storm across his soul that kept
Wild watch, and watched not well.

For there the deed he did, being near
Death’s danger, breathless as the deer
Driven hard to bay, but void of fear,
Brought sorrow down for many a year
On many a man in many a land.
All glorious shone that chamber, bright
As burns at sunrise heaven’s own height:
With cloth of gold the bed was dight,
That flamed on either hand.

And one he saw within it lie:
A table of all clear gold thereby
Stood stately, fair as morning’s eye,
With four strong silver pillars, high
And firm as faith and hope may be:
And on it shone the gift he sought,
A spear most marvellously wrought,
That when his eye and handgrip caught
Small fear at heart had he.

Right on King Pellam then, as fire
Turns when the thwarting winds wax higher,
He turned, and smote him down. So dire
The stroke was, when his heart’s desire
Struck, and had all its fill of hate,
That as the king fell swooning down
Fell the walls, rent from base to crown,
Prone as prone seas that break and drown
Ships fraught with doom for freight.

And there for three days’ silent space
Balen and Pellam face to face
Lay dead or deathlike, and the place
Was death’s blind kingdom, till the grace
That God had given the sacred seer
For counsel or for comfort led
His Merlin thither, and he said,
Standing between the quick and dead,
“Rise up, and rest not here.”

And Balen rose and set his eyes
Against the seer’s as one that tries
His heart against the sea’s and sky’s
And fears not if he lives or dies,
Saying, “I would have my damosel,
Ere I fare forth, to fare with me.”
And sadly Merlin answered, “See
Where now she lies; death knows if she
Shall now fare ill or well.

“And in this world we meet no more,
Balen.” And Balen, sorrowing sore,
Though fearless yet the heart he bore
Beat toward the life that lay before,
Rode forth through many a wild waste land
Where men cried out against him, mad
With grievous faith in fear that bade
Their wrath make moan for doubt they had
Lest hell had armed his hand.