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To fight my wars, and worship me their | Long in their common love rejoiced

king;

The old order changeth, yielding place

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THE brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,

A tributary prince of Devon, one
Of that great order of the Table Round,
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child,
And loved her, as he loved the light of
Heaven.

And as the light of Heaven varies, now
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night
With moon and trembling stars, so loved
Geraint

To make her beauty vary day by day,
In crimsons and in purples and in gems.
And Enid, but to please her husband's

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Geraint.

But when a rumor rose about the Queen, Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard

The world's loud whisper breaking into

storm,

Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint In nature wherefore going to the king, He made this pretext, that his princedoni lay

Close on the borders of a territory, Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,

Assassins, and all fliers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law: And therefore, till the king himself should please

To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,

He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches; and the king

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to

the shores

Of Severn, and they past to theirown land; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, He compass'd her with sweet observances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the king, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name, Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness. And this she gather'd from the people's

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While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more

Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last it chanced that on a summer

morn

(They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless casement of the

room,

And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;

Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his

throat,

The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,

As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone,
Running too vehemently to break upon it.
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,
Admiring him, and thought within her-
self,

Was ever man so grandly made as he?
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk
And accusation of uxoriousness
Across her mind, and bowing over him,
Low to her own heart piteously she said:

"O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I am the cause because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here; I cannot love my lord and not his name. Far liever had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, And watch his mightful hand striking great blows

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing any more his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms, And darken'd from the high light in his

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"My charger and her palfrey," then to her, "I will ride forth into the wilderness; For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. And you, put on your worst and meanest dress

And ri le with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed,

"If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault."
But he, "I charge you, ask not but obey."
Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
A faded mantle and a faded veil,
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
Wherein she kept them folded reverently
With sprigs of summer laid between the
folds,

She took them, and array'd herself therein,
Remembering when first he came on her
Drest in that dress, and how he loved
her in it,

And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the

court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall,

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Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the | And may ye light on all things that ye

knight Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the king's hall, desired his name, and

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Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him,

Who answer'd as before; and when the Prince

Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,

Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.

The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd

From ev'n a word, and so returning said:

"I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself: And I will track this vermin to their earths:

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found,

Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,

And on the third day, will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell."

"Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen.

"Be prosperous in this journey, as in all;

love,

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And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls.

"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth." And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd

His master's armor; and of such a one He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the town?"

Who told him, scouring still "The sparrow-hawk!"

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

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Who answer'd gruffly,

row-hawk."

"Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley."

Ugh! the spar- | Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck

Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work,

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
He put the self-same query, but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him,
said:

"Friend, ne that labors for the sparrowhawk

Has little time for idle questioners." Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden

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him dead!

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world! What is it to me?

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow

hawks!

Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawkmad,

Where can I get me harborage for the night?

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!"

At this the armorer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks,

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