Last of the noble conclave, linger'd two;12
Gawaine the mirthful, Caradoc the mild,
And, as the watchfires thicken'd on their view.
War's fearless playmate raised his hand and smiled,
Pointing to splendours, linking rock to rock;—
And while he smiled—sigh'd earnest Caradoc.
"Now by my head—(an empty oath and light!)13
No taller tapers ever lit to rest
Rome's stately Cæsar;—sigh'st thou, at the sight,
For cost o'er-lavish, when so mean the guest?"
"Was it for this the gentle Saviour died?
Is Cain so glorious?" Caradoc replied.
"Permit, Sir Bard, an argument on that,"14
True to his fame, said golden-tongued Gawaine,
"The hawk may save his fledglings from the cat,
Nor yet deserve comparisons with Cain;
And Abel's fate, to hands unskill'd, proclaims
The use of practice in gymnastic games.
"Woes that have been are wisdom's lesson-books—15
From Abel's death, the men of peace should learn
To add an inch of iron to their crooks
And strike, when struck, a little in return—
Had Abel known his quarterstaff, I wot,
Those Saxon Ap-Cains ne'er had been begot!"
More had he said, but a strange, grating note,16
Half laugh—half croak, was here discordant heard;
An ave rose—but died within his throat,
As close before him perch'd the enchanter's bird,
With head aslant, and glittering eye askew,
It near'd the knight—the knight in haste withdrew.
"All saints defend me, and excuse a jest!"17
Mutter'd Sir Gawaine—"bird or fiend avaunt:
Oh, holy Abel, let this matter rest,
I do repent me of my foolish taunt!"
With that the cross upon his sword he kist,
And stared aghast—the bird was on his wrist.
"Hem—vade Satanas!—discede! retro,"18
The raven croak'd, and fix'd himself afresh;
"Avis damnata!—salus sit in Petro,"
Ten pointed claws here fasten'd on his flesh;
The knight, sore smarting, shook his arm—the bird
Peck'd in reproach, and kept its perch unstirr'd.
Quoth Caradoc—whose time had come to smile,19
And smile he did in grave and placid wise—
"Let not thine evil thoughts, my friend, defile
The harmless wing descended from the skies."
"Skies!!!" said the knight—"black imps from skies descend
With claws like these!—the world is at an end!"
"Now shame, Gawaine, O knight of little heart,20
How, if a small and inoffensive raven
Dismay thee thus, couldst thou have track'd the chart
By which Æneas won his Alban-haven?
On Harpies, Scylla, Cerberus, reflect—
And undevour'd—rejoice to be but peckt."
"True," said a voice behind them,—"gentle bard,21
In life as verse, the art is—to compare."
Gawaine turn'd short, gazed keenly, and breathed hard
As on the dark-robed magian stream'd the glare
Of the huge watch-fire—"Prophet," quoth Gawaine,
"My friend scorns pecking—let him try the pain!