To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field,

THE LAST TOURNAMENT.

And follow'd to the city. It chanced that DAGONET, the fool, whom Gawain in his

mood

both Brake into hall together, worn and pale. Had made mock-knight of Arthur's There with her knights and dames was Table Round,

Guinevere.

Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, him

Who had not greeted her, but cast himself

Down on a bench, hard-breathing.

ye fought?'

At Camelot, high above the yellowing
woods,

Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
And toward him from the hall, with harp

in hand,

And from the crown thereof a carcanet Have Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,

She ask'd of Lancelot. Ay, my Queen,' Came Tristram, saying, 'Why skip ye

he said.

'And thou hast overthrown him?' 'Ay,

my Queen.'

so, Sir Fool?'

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once

Then she, turning to Pelleas, 'O young Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak

knight,

Hath the great heart of knighthood in

thee fail'd

So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from him?' Then, for he answer'd not,

half-dead,

From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,

Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air

'Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree

She quail'd; and he, hissing 'I have no Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous

Sprang from the door into the dark. This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon,

The Queen

Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her;

brought

And each foresaw the dolorous day to A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying

And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney- From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his

Following thy will! but, O my Queen, A churl, to whom indignantly the King,

Those diamonds that I rescued from the Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? tarn, And Lancelot won, methought, for thee Man was it who marr'd heaven's image

'Plunge and be lost-ill-fated as they Yet strangers to the tongue, and with

And when I call'd upon thy name as one May win them for the purest of my maids.' That doest right by gentle and by churl,

Maim'd me and maul'd, and would out- Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds,

Have founded my Round Table in the Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it,

Only to yield my Queen her own again? My knights have sworn the counter to Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it

The heathen are upon him, his long lance And while they stood without the doors, Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'

Turn'd to him saying, 'Is it then so well? Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the sene- Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he

The heathen-but that ever-climbing A manner somewhat fall'n from reverThat only seems hal.'-loyal to command,

By noble deeds at one with noble vows, Friends, thro' your manhood and your From flat confusion and brute violences,

Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd

the Queen.

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream

North by the gate. In her high bower To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf

Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that

she sigh'd.

Then ran across her memory the strange

rhyme

And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume

Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one

Of bygone Merlin, 'Where is he who Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,

knows?

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'

But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey,

The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure

White samite, and by fountains running wine,

When all the goodlier guests are past

away,

Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the
lists.

He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight

cast down

Before his throne of arbitration cursed
The dead babe and the follies of the King;
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd,
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole,
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billow'd round the barriers

roar

An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, Where children sat in white with cups of But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, gold, And armour'd all in forest green, whereon Moved to the lists, and there, with slow There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,

chair.

sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle-Tristram-late From overseas in Brittany return'd, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White-Sir Tristram of the Woods

He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen

White-robed in honour of the stainless Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime

And some with scatter'd jewels, like a His own against him, and now yearn'd to bank

shake

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong

fire.

He look'd but once, and vail'd his eyes again.

hands gript

And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,

Until he groan'd for wrath-so many of Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly those, saying, That ware their ladies' colours on the 'Fair damsels, each to him who worships each

casque,

Drew from before Sir Tristram to the Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold bounds, This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.' And there with gibes and flickering And most of these were mute, some anger'd, mockeries

one

Stood, while he mutter'd, 'Craven crests! Murmuring, 'All courtesy is dead,' and O shame!

one,

What faith have these in whom they sware The glory of our Round Table is no more.' to love?

The glory of our Round Table is no more.'

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day

Art thou the purest, brother? See, the Laugh'd shrilly, crying, 'Praise the patient

Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.

whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's

languorous mood,

Made answer, 'Ay, but wherefore toss me this

Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart

The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the
year,

Would make the world as blank as
Winter-tide.

Come-let us gladden their sad eyes, our
Queen's

And might of limb, but mainly use and And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.'

skill,

Are winners in this pastime of our King.
My hand-belike the lance hath dript

upon it

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast

No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold

knight,

Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,

Great brother, thou nor I have made the Falls on the mountain in midsummer world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.' And all the purple slopes of mountain

snows,

flowers

And Tristram round the gallery made Pass under white, till the warm hour