“Methought the wide round world could bring
Before the face of queen or king
No knights more fit for fame to sing
Than fill this full Round Table’s ring
With honour higher than pride of place:
But now my heart is wrung to know,
Damsel, that none whom fame can show
Finds grace to heal or help thy woe:
God gives them not the grace.”
Then from the lowliest place thereby,
With heart-enkindled cheek and eye
Most like the star and kindling sky
That say the sundawn’s hour is high
When rapture trembles through the sea,
Strode Balen in his poor array
Forth, and took heart of grace to pray
The damsel suffer even him to assay
His power to set her free.
Nay, how should he avail, she said,
Averse with scorn-averted head,
Where these availed not? none had sped
Of all these mightier men that led
The lists wherein he might not ride,
And how should less men speed? But he,
With lordlier pride of courtesy,
Put forth his hand and set her free
From pain and humbled pride.
But on the sword he gazed elate
With hope set higher than fear or fate,
Or doubt of darkling days in wait;
And when her thankful praise waxed great
And craved of him the sword again,
He would not give it. “Nay, for mine
It is till force may make it thine.”
A smile that shone as death may shine
Spake toward him bale and bane.
Strange lightning flickered from her eyes.
“Gentle and good in knightliest guise
And meet for quest of strange emprise
Thou hast here approved thee: yet not wise
To keep the sword from me, I wis.
For with it thou shalt surely slay
Of all that look upon the day
The man best loved of thee, and lay
Thine own life down for his.”
“What chance God sends, that chance I take,”
He said. Then soft and still she spake;
“I would but for thine only sake
Have back the sword of thee, and break
The links of doom that bind thee round.
But seeing thou wilt not have it so,
My heart for thine is wrung with woe.”
“God’s will,” quoth he, “it is, we know,
Wherewith our lives are bound.”
“Repent it must thou soon,” she said,
“Who wouldst not hear the rede I read
For thine and not for my sake, sped
In vain as waters heavenward shed
From springs that falter and depart
Earthward. God bids not thee believe
Truth, and the web thy life must weave
For even this sword to close and cleave
Hangs heavy round my heart.”
So passed she mourning forth. But he,
With heart of springing hope set free
As birds that breast and brave the sea,
Bade horse and arms and armour be
Made straightway ready toward the fray.
Nor even might Arthur’s royal prayer
Withhold him, but with frank and fair
Thanksgiving and leave-taking there
He turned him thence away.
III
As the east wind, when the morning’s breast
Gleams like a bird’s that leaves the nest,
A fledgeling halcyon’s bound on quest,
Drives wave on wave on wave to west
Till all the sea be life and light,
So time’s mute breath, that brings to bloom
All flowers that strew the dead spring’s tomb,
Drives day on day on day to doom
Till all man’s day be night.