The Works of Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate

At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law: With moon and trembling stars, so loved And therefore, till the King himself should please

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
eye,

Who first had found and loved her in a

state

Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,

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

Grateful to Prince Geraint for service Of Severn, and they past to their own

Loved her, and often with her own white Where, thinking, that if ever yet was

hands

Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court. And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart

Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth. And seeing them so tender and so close, Long in their common love rejoiced

Geraint.

But when a rumour 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,

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. Not less Geraint believed it; and there And this she gather'd from the people's

At last, it chanced that on a summer Than that my lord thro' me should suffer

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep

As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone,
Running too vehemently to break upon it. True tears upon his broad and naked
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,

breast,

Admiring him, and thought within herself, And these awoke him, and by great mis

Was ever man so grandly made as he? Then, like a shadow, past the people's

chance

He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife.

And then he thought, 'In spite of all my

care,

For all my pains, poor man, for all my

pains,

She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's

hall.'

Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much

To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang

That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried,

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 thou, put on thy worst and meanest There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard

dress

And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd,

amazed,

'If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.'
But he, 'I charge thee, 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.

instead

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,

Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow
ford

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll.
A purple scarf, at either end whereof
There swung an apple of the purest gold,
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly
In summer suit and silks of holiday.
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she,
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd
him:

'Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, 'later than we!'

'Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, ‘and so late

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Not join it.' 'Therefore wait with me,'

Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day: these things he told

the King.

Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. And when the Queen petition'd for his leave

To see the hunt, allow'd it easily.

That I but come like you to see the hunt,

she said;

'For on this little knoll, if anywhere, There is good chance that we shall hear

the hounds:

Here often they break covert at our feet.'

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt,

So with the morning all the court were And chiefly for the baying of Cavall,

In the King's hall, desired his name, and Then will I fight him, and will break his

sent
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf;
Who being vicious, old and irritable,
And doubling all his master's vice of pride,
Made answer sharply that she should not
know.

'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said.
'Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried
the dwarf;

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; And may you light on all things that you love,

'Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of And live to wed with her whom first you love :

him ;'

And when she put her horse toward the But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,

knight,

Struck at her with his whip, and she And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the

return'd

Indignant to the Queen; whereat Geraint
Exclaiming, Surely I will learn the name,'
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 The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
knight,
A little vext at losing of the hunt,
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his A little at the vile occasion, rode,

cheek.

The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf,

By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy

glade

three.

Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand And valley, with fixt eye following the
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

At last they issued from the world of
wood,

And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge,
And show'd themselves against the sky,

and sank.

And thither came Geraint, and under-
neath

Beheld the long street of a little town
In a long valley, on one side whereof,
White from the mason's hand, a fortress
rose;

And on one side a castle in decay,

On loan, or else for pledge; and, being Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry

him dead!

And out of town and valley came a noise Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed
Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks
At distance, ere they settle for the night.

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

And onward to the fortress rode the O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,

Found every hostel full, and everywhere And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot

hiss

Speak!'

Whereat the armourer turning all amazed

And bustling whistle of the youth who And seeing one so gay in purple silks,

scour'd

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

Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answer'd, Pardon me, O stranger knight;

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, Who told him, scouring still, The And there is scantly time for half the work.

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?

Who answer'd gruffly, 'Ugh! the sparrow-hawk.'

Then riding further past an armourer'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, he that labours for the sparrow-
hawk

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

spleen :

Arms? truth! I know not all are

wanted here.

Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save,

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine.

There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl,
(IIis dress a suit of fray'd magnificence,
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said :
Whither, fair son?' to whom Geraint

replied,

'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the
night.'

Then Yniol, 'Enter therefore and partake
The slender entertainment of a house

'A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- Once rich, now poor, but ever open

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