And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark-not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his halls Who hates thee, as I him-ev'n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thon wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."
And drawing somewhat backward, she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow
What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand-not, tho' he found me thus ! But hearken! have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting-as he said- And so returns belike within an hour.
Mark's way, my soul !-but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee."
So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one-his name is out of me-the prize, If prize she were-(what marvel-she could see)Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to last?"
And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness-ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland."
"Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled ?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me-soft, gracious, kind- Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, Lancelot: for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love."
To whom Isolt, "Ah, then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who breakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinn'd against the highest, And I misyoked with such a want of manThat I could hardly sin against the lowest."
He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me-fear And fault and doubt-no word of that fond taleThy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away."
And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee-yearnings?-ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress- Well-can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? Her too hast thon left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. Oh, were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love."
And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiendMark's way to steal behind one in the darkFor there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God '— And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms."
Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her.
May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me! I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beastsSave that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well-art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King-My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:-I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair."
Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down,
"Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark | Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself- My knighthood taught me this-ay, being snapt- We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more, I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once-ev'n to the height-I honor'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall- His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool
But Michaël trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by-The vows! Oh ay-the wholesome madness of an hour- They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows- First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep?
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord
To bind them by inviolable vows,
Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine-the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Wooes his own end; we are not angels here
Nor shall be: vows-I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale
Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee,
Seeing it is not bounded save by love."
Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself- For courtesy wins woman all as well
As valor may, but he that closes both
Is perfect, he is Lancelot-taller indeed,
Rosier and comelier, thou-but say I loved
This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?"
He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, until- Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd-meat, Wine, wine and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come."
So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, aud set before him all he will'd; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts- Now talking of their woodland paradise,
And I shall never make thee smile again."
The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark- Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:
"Ay, ay, oh ay-the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! Ay, ay, oh ay-a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, oh ay-the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, oh ay-the winds that move the mere."
QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice: one low light betwixt them burn'd Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,
Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,
And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some Order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers."
"Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee."
He rose, he turn'd, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried, "Thine Order, O my Queen!" But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.
For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this He chill'd the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot.
For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,
"Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, brain.
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, That Modred still in green, all ear and eve,
To spy some secret scandal if he might,
That night came Arthur home, and while he Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Euid, and lissome Vivien, of her court
The wiliest and the worst; and more than this
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by
For testimony; and crying with full voice "Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last," aroused Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell
Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off, Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar,
So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way;
And all was still: then she, "The end is come, And I am shamed for ever;" and he said, "Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise, And fly to my strong castle overseas:
But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, Made such excuses as he might, and these Full knightly without scorn; for in those days No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him
There hold thee with my life against the world." She answer'd "Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou
By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall, Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly,
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, And he was answer'd softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast.
But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries "I shudder, some one steps across my grave;" Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be for evermore a name of scorn. Henceforward rarely could she front in hall, Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began
To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear- Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, That keeps the rust of murder on the walls- Held her awake: or if she slept, she dream'd An awful dream; for then she seem'd to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun, And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd- When lo her own, that broadening from her feet, And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. And all this trouble did not pass but grew; Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, And trustful courtesies of household life, Became her bane; and at the last she said, "O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, For if thou tarry we shall meet again; And if we meet again, some evil chance
For I will draw me into sanctuary,
And bide my doom." So Lancelot got her horse, Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way, There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he past, Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, Back to his land; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: And in herself she moan'd "Too late, too late!" Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, Croak'd, and she thought, "He spies a field of
For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land."
And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, "Mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you:" and her beauty, grace, and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it.
So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself; but now, This night, a rumor wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, "With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me," and bow'd down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd No silence, brake it, uttering, "Late! so late! What hour, I wonder, now ?" and when she drew Nor answer, by and by began to hum
An air the nuns had taught her: "Late, so late!" Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, "O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing,
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep."
Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.
Before the people, and our lord the King." And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, And still they met and met. Again she said, "O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence." And then they were agreed upon a night (When the good King should not be there) to meet And part for ever. Passion-pale they met And greeted: hands in hands, and eye to eye, Low on the border of her couch they sat Stammering and staring: it was their last hour, A madness of farewells. And Modred brought His creatures to the basement of the tower
"Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
"No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
"No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! Oh, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, remembering
Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice, prattling to her,
"Oh, pray you, noble lady, weep no more; But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, And if I do not there is penance given- Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow From evil done; right sure am I of that, Who see your tender grace and stateliness. But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, And weighing find them less; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he left in charge of all, The traitor-Ah! sweet lady, the King's grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. For if there ever come a grief to me
I cry my cry in silence, and have done:
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dream'd; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served By hands unseen; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen."
Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, "Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men: could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs
None knows it, and my tears have brought me good: And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm?" But even were the griefs of little ones
As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the great must bear, That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen, And were I such a King with such a Queen, Well might I wish to veil her wickedness; But were I such a King, it could not be."
Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, "Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?" But openly she answer'd, "Must not I,
If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ?"
To whom the novice garrulously again, "Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: So, said my father-and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at those Who call'd him the false son of Gorloïs:
For there was no man knew from whence he came; But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos,
"Yea," said the maid, "this is all woman's grief, There came a day as still as heaven, and then That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen."
Then thought the Queen within herself again, "Will the child kill me with her foolish prate ?" But openly she spake and said to her, "O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery ?"
To whom the little novice garrulously, "Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table-at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turning-there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them-headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west: And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft
They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea: And that was Arthur; and they foster'd him Till he by miracle was approven King: And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as great As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp, And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n,
But that they stay'd him up; nor would he tell His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ?"
Then thought the Queen, "Lo! they have set her
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me," and bowed her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously,
Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, "and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too: Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died, Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back,
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