OF PALOMIDE FAMOUS KNIGHT OF KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE
by
ÆLIAN PRINCE [FRANK CARR]
To CHARLES KENT, Remembering His Gracious Encouragement And His Intimacy With Minds Whose Geniality and Genius Have Been Light, Grace And Power To The Literature Of Our Century.
PROEM.
Yes, I am minstrel for this evening hour Sweet Esther. Seat thee there, my heart, beneath Those liberal golden showers, which Spring suspends, Laburnum's bloom, close by the garden gate. And with that glory we have purple, too-- The lilac hedge--indisputable gleams Of Love it brings to us: soft, fragrant airs, Creep from the verdant covert--ah, that breath!-- The perfume of the violet of the shade Which blesses hearts to whom it nothing owes-- It gives us memories lingering of true-love.
--Yea, here, not otherwhere, I am your bard, Your scald, your troubadour: for this our tale Requires free air--such air as ever breathed The valiant, loving, master-knights of old. We shall have music, too, above, around-- The lavrock rains it from the blue; yon larch Is vocal with the thrush.
We may believe In full accord each listening heart shall beat With each event in field or bowers, for we Are of the lineage we sing.*** But, hark,-- Queen of my song! Think of our happy years, And take my verse as of their happy growth A genial portion, for as well as wars, Of Love I sing: and let the cynic girl, And laughing casuist boy, on either side Sit by thee in a truce of poësy. Our other friends of grace and older days, May listen as they choose amongst the trees. Friends are for judgment, Esther. Thou, bride-queen, First, best-beloved, thine all of this, my song.
CHAPTER I.
Of Table Round he was the pearl, the flower, In Arthur's peerage he was perfect knight, Tristram: so named of sorrow, since his birth Drew o'er his mother's eyes the veil of death. Yet, never name so ill was worn, for blithe As in his minstrel mirth was he in war. Soonest of all his fellowship he shed The sable plume of sorrow from his soul. Sage Merlin told on his nativity, The stars ordained of song and power ruled clear Within their heavenly houses. These, the words:-- "His hours of life are mingled gold and gloom, "But hours of gloom o'ercome by golden hours, "With better speed than fortunes other knights. "The hours' conclusion--sudden--it may come "Only from hands o'erburdened with the grace "And largess of his love: whene'er the time "A loyal and affectionate spear shall slake "Within his heart, thirst for his foeman's blood." As brave as Launcelot, lacking half his blame, Heart-noble as the King, without the taint Which clings to power, he suffered, strove, and shone The clearest Light of Honour to his times, And Knight of Love--of Arthur's martial Ring The Light of Honour, and the Knight of Love.
*******
Yet, now he lies within Ierne's bowers For heal of hurt--ah, yet to find more hurt, As his more bliss, than comes from spear, or sword, Or leech with magic herbs. Strange, errant life His heretofore. Or ere of youth its rose Blanched on his cheeks, his father's second bride, Whose love towards Tristram was a love sharp-set To find her sons of birthright dispossessed By a forerunner pleasing to all hearts, Twice poisoned she the chalice with intent On Tristram's life,--whereby, she woke the furies. Her fairest son, her eldest born, athirst Partook the drink and languished on her knee Till death in mercy stilled his pain: the king, Had drunk the second, but her conscience moved Seized the envenomed cup and spake her guilt: Whereon, she doomed to expiate by fire The crime of that device, --but saved from thence, 'Twas famed through Lyonesse, his native realm, In garnished story and domestic song How Tristram gained a pardon for the queen-- Made her, save twain, his truest fere in life. That same year, Tristram crossed to France; learned there All curious arts of sport, for which renown Through many a century at the jocund feast, And hot carouse which crowns the hunting day, Rang loud for him. Moreover, thence he brought Rarest of cunning on the harp. 'Tis told, No mortal ever could withstand the strain! That bird and beast, yea, fish within the lake Were charmed on hearing. Tuneful as benign, He was a wondrous harper: known full soon Through Britain's island precincts, for the youth As in his knightly prime, wide-wandering sought Adventurous exploit. But chiefly this, Marked his long alien residence; with growth Of hardihood there was a growth of soul: With aptitude and clemency in arms, There was repose of aspect and a low Affectionate tenderness of voice, which drew This fair memorial of him: "Each estate Did love him wheresoever he did go."
Returned to Lyonesse, on Tristram came A change of spirit: better say, were changed Its hope and object. Looking on his life Amidst the mirth and courtliness of France Restless, unsatisfied, remorseful, he As wakening from a futile March-day's dream Yearned for the full-orbed blazon of a knight. Hence, grew his story: hence, his name in song His fame, as lord of honour: as the peer, Peerless in honour and the parleying heart. First Lyonesse to feel his passion's power By spear and song--wherein, betimes, were won Such reverence of his might, such awe, such love, The kingdom in its peace through all his days Slept, wotting that his harp still sang, his lance Was ever-ready. That emprise now closed, He, at his father's solitary court, Bemoaned the slowly creeping, vacant months As Honour lost, because not newly won: Ill shown in dull despair.
Now, reached him news From Cornwall's bounds: its royal head, king Mark, His father's brother, a slight, suspicious man One who would give offence for love of harm, And find offence housed in a kindly deed, Whose crown was trembling ever in the storm Of foes once named as friends, one friendship lost, Born in the honest flowering time of youth. Ungracious, slanderous, and a viper act, Which stung and menaced in his scorn that friend Anguis, imperial head of Ireland's realm, From Castlehaven, throughout her breadth of green To Giant's Causeway: whence retributive, Before Tintagel's gate now stood the knight Sir Marhaus, next in fame to him who stood Chiefest, Sir Launcelot, of the Table Round. There, in his rocky keep, his royal home, Tintagel, Mark was kept as is a dog Kept to his kennel by the keeper's thong. More than his idle graceless time mourns now Young Tristram--as at Honour's death. Spake then, To save him from himself, with coyest words The step-dame queen. In subtle playfulness She bade him see that Honour was with him As Love with knights of fame, and honour-sick None other cure could come save on that field,-- Whence Honour might arise, when heard the call Of one strong heart--the stricken Cornish realm. So said, so heard, so done with quickest speed That thence three days Tintagel knew the youth, Tristram.
He, brought within its audience hall, Beheld a shape--low-statured, quivering, thin, Bedecked with mis-shaped yellow weeds and crowned. "The court fool!" thought he: but he heard it named-- The king. And that was Mark. Well might surprise O'ercome the court as in the silence breathed Expectancy, beholding there these twain Contrasted, met by love's election, bound To weave the sweetest, mournfullest, most strange Of all love's histories: that eager, young, Bright son of valour and of song: and he Their stunted king, whose age a wrinkled skin, Dry, brown as parchments of a ducal house, Concealed, but in whose deep-set slinking eyes A heart of fraud lay clear.
On his first watch, Ensconced within the fosse, the prince beheld Sir Marhaus ride up from the beach, a god A very god of battle and of doom Resplendent in the early sun--and life Went from his spirit, and he dwelt apart One abject week. But dawn of Pentecost Brought grace of strength in heart, and Tristram bore The menace of the warrior peaceably. Next day, defiance: and the youth implored Mark make him knight. Then Mark, amidst his court Fools in their craven laughter, drew his brand Muttering--"Shall impotence attend the act? "Our chapel all devoid of holy rites "In this extremity, we lack the priest "For sacrament--Nay, the anointed King "Suffices!" Tristram knew a feeble blow From scathless blade, the consecrating words With fluttered accents "In the name of God, "And His archangel, Michael, and His hosts "Militant, we do dub thee Knight. Arise!-- "Thus, nephew, hath the valiance of thy tongue "Brought honour towards thee--but its darling home "Is in the dangerous quest. Now, show how keen "My spur to worthy deed. Sir Marhaus calls. "Answer be thine: and honour in thee show "Clear, double-edged, twin to thy sword." Upsprang, The youth responsive, "By the Evangelists! "Sir Tristram now is born," with rising voice Hailing thus soon his quest. "O, ladies bright, "Sweet proxies of the beauteous sisterhood "Irradiating the soul of this dark world "Refining, cleansing, cheering powers: pray, learn "These first words of my knighthood: hear the scope "Of its intent. Know well, ye ladies bright, "My way in life, shall take your smiles for flowers: "My way in life, for stars shall seek your eyes; "The ladies are my charge, and with the law "And order of the state make up my being. "My way in life, is towards the Table Round."
Next morning, saw great Marhaus driven to ship, Discomfited and wounded unto death. So soon--for which high festival was held By Mark--so soon, Sir Tristram's life arrayed With smiles more sweet than flowers, and moved beneath A heaven of ladies' eyes more bright than stars, And felt years nearer to the Table Round.
But toils, and woes, and wounds are knighthood's price, And Tristram reckoning with his foeman's lance Deep hurt received beyond the leech's cure. One, then, of astral lore, enquiring whence The knight whose skill bestowed the dolorous wound And answered Ireland--"Unto Ireland speed, "The healing power awaits thee there." Where come, The knight, as in Love's providence, was lodged Close by the castle--now the mourning days For Marhaus ended--where King Anguis held Free-hearted, courtly state--since heard a voice That soon an errant, knightly spear of worth Should fill the vacant quest for Ireland's weal.
*****
One mist-clad, breathless noon, as was his wont, To allay the fierceness of his pain and win A new and pleasant voyage for his thoughts, He harped upon his bed. His memory strayed O'er blissful times bygone: insensibly, As half in dream he lay, his hand awoke A strain once sung in France: a strain whereon Birds, brooklets, leaves and sudden showers would sing And every heart in hearing would be merry. Too great its charm for Amicie of Gand; The minstrel passing with a love unsworn, Reft of his comforting melody she kept Her bower and sorrowed to her death.
That lay, Harped Tristram now, and as he harped the dusk Slid from the face of the high jubilant noon. Commingling noises grew i' th' air, from streams, Near winged choirs, the tremulous woods and reeds. The chambers of his lodge brake into laughter. Up to the castle rose the magical strain, Swept round its walls, assailed its ports and towers, Where found one cedarn casement garlanded With odorous flowers tangled in sprays of green Wide open to receive the new-born joy, Entering, it passed through galleries, chambers, halls, Caught kitchen churls, peers, matrons dull of sprite-- And lo, from forth yon ivied postern steps The fairest star of maidenhood on earth! In azure robes; a golden girdle binds Their fullness close beneath the bosom's rise: Her tresses, snooded with rare blooms of spring, Inwardly darkle, as our richest thoughts Within the soul wanting fit words for day-- Towards the sun, stirring with a shining life Each several hair--like fine thoughts finding voice For conquest of the world and praise--such they To sight of men, these tresses which must shew The inner nature of her sensitive being. So comes she, gliding with soft musical grace, Her countenance as a dawn of early May Which beautifies the world o'er which it smiles. The drawbridge crossed--she, down the budding lane, Into his lodge, into his very room, When to the faded eyes of Tristram shone A spirit from sweet mercy's heaven, down-drawn By his great strain to heal--to solace him Through many changeful years to come.--I wit, Ye all know who the starry maiden was,-- La Belle Isonde!
The spirit gazed--and fled-- Nor word--nor sign--but soon a helpful band Of servitors down-speeding from the keep, Bore him up thither. There, in chamber cool Sweetened by every flower and fragrant bush That in her pleasaunce 'neath her lattice grew, Isonde was constant in her duteous love, With divers aids medicinal to bate His malady. A gainless task of tears, Until her mother furnished potent draughts Educed from shrubs and herbs and mandrake roots By wizard operation--art, forsooth, Which mightier ends for both, hereafter, brings. Thence day by day, his fever ebbed; his eyes Won their young light again.--O, happy he, To feel the world grow lovelier morn and even: Eve sweeter than the morn, the morn more sweet Than the past eve with all its peace and stars-- And Isonde anxious, passionate and quick On feeblest sign or sound in this her proud Triumphant labour of a crescent love.-- O happy Tristram! Happy Belle Isonde!
This time, a rumour wandered through the Isle, Achievements were at hand of dread and death, Since Palomide, the sable heathen knight From Upsal's plain, warfarer in his love-- For Belle Isonde drew many subject hearts From far-off lands to her sea-circled home-- Randing the realm adventurous, on report Of harbourage of a strange, unproven knight, Named as the Nameless, now with restless foot Haunted the castle's purlieus. Humblest hearts Can judge of lordliest; simple village maids Spelled lightly, rightly of the matter's growth And what should follow: wedded island folk Wot wisely, too, these crossing loves would shew War's blood-red blossoms,
Nor less so it happed. For one fair dame, the Lady of the Lands, King Anguis was beholden to let cry A tournament. Our maiden Beautiful Bethought of this, with ample news beguiled A short spring eve. But this her story told, In warlike phrase with silver laughs between, None answer gave the Nameless, and Isonde Might not behold beneath the gathering shades Earnest of fray which gleamed within his eyes Whilst she had spoken. Through that wasteful night, Waking, or dreaming as one half-awake, Within his ears resounded dash of steeds, Blasts of the tromp: before his eyes, the glare Of lightnings from the shield. The vacant dark Shook with accursed taunts, wide flashed the stroke Of sword blades unaccomplished: bitter taste There was of bitterness far worse than death, Taste of discomfiture most rash, most foul, And unredeemable. On him attended The sprites of horror known of sleepless minds Which make a tempest of the silent hours. At earliest dawn with dumb voice cried his soul And through that day: "I must acquit myself. "The shame within me, daughter of disease, "Not of my nature, may no longer lodge "Within a heart to honour dedicate "And love." Whereon, he gently spake Isonde, Who light o' heart conspired to prove at full His growing vigour, as a knight from far, Mistimed, who seeks the lists with errant spear. That tourney-day being come: advanced the jousts; The court, the vassal-throngs inspired by sight Of marvellous chevisaunce which made that field As lustrous in the scroll of chivalry As famed Caerleon's jousts what time the King Arthur, achieved his crown against six kings-- Isonde in worship of her nameless lord Ordained and well-arrayed him all in white And privily brought him forth. To churls and court, 'Tis told, he seemed an angel from the skies Descended on a cause of solemn right. His face, fresh from the beauty of Isonde, Shone sunbright through the tourney's dusty air, Whilst he displayed anew to ruthless fray The blazon of his shield, first in renown Henceforth in herald's lore, the argent lion. Instantly, veered opinion of the day. As silent as his airy, snow-white plume Waved o'er his helm, the silence of the throng Waiting his onset. Three long wood-wroth hours The trumpet's urgent call found him to fore, Rousing the stormy glories of the list. The keen fang of his spear--his yearning sword-- Made a huge crimson vintage to redeem His mischance from the stroke of Marhaus: none, Prince, baron, peer, whoever couched the lance, Or lifted brand against him, but o'erthrown Amidst such wreck of harness as ne'er graced Cadwor, Geraint, Owaine, those knights elect For battle, leaders of the Table Round, Paid homage to his dire puissance, while Swart Palomide down-beaten was forsword Of Belle Isonde, unknighted for a year. The Lady of the Lands, and her demesne Our knight forewent, again that they should fire The eagles and the buzzards of the lists.-- So fared the Light of Honour on that day.
How many months, how many dulcet months-- Nay, curious gentles, ask me not how long Within the verdant kingdom Tristram held Bondsman to love: each jot of knightly will Meshed in Belle Isonde's wondrous, affluent hair: His heart intoxicate with joy to note Her gentle goings.
*****
Then came sudden close. Secret, imperative, a missive brief Called on him to depart. "At once?--and whither? "And why?" enquired La Belle Isonde, a tear, The virgin tear of her surpassing love, Shining within her eye. 'Twas, thereupon, His name he told--his history--his estate-- And somewhat of his heart--which made Isonde Tremble as on the forecast of an hour When love would glorify all ensuing hours. Thus, farewell on their lips had more than words For comfort: words more of the living soul Than common day-speech: and with confidence In love's presiding spirit to bring all good In near good time, the maiden to her bower, Tristram before a frolic, singing wind Sailed to his aim, Tintagel's surge-beat towers.
That mandate was for service.--This achieved, Tintagel found a guest much changed from him Tristram, ere known of reland's court. Isonde, Dwelt angel of his spirit everywhere; Ever upon his lips as in his heart; Till Mark, infected by his mood and praise, Longed for the royal maid. Her knight soul-racked Held silence, kept apart,--but much too late. For by great Honour, worship of his soul, His fealty held a covenant with Mark, whereby Mark's word became a law unto his soul. Thus, when Mark spoke his charge, Sir Tristram took That charge, and loyally sought Ireland's court To bring the starry maiden thence, Isonde,-- To set her lustre in Mark's clouded throne, Her light of joy upon his rayless crown.
Once more, as from the stars, decreed of heaven, Fortune within misfortune came, now dressed In war's most dread attire. Ierne's lands, Within, without, torn, pillaged by ill friends Worse than her foes,--tormented now by both-- Through these with prowess, diligence, and skill Tristram, one long twelve months, that year one war, Subdued where'er he wandered. Never still, That lion-heartedness which made the realm A threshing-floor for the fury of his spear, Till foes were whirled from thence as chaff--ill friends Curbed, chastened, law-bound in the peace--else, smitten Dead, ta'en of death where most intent on death. For this the king, the queen, the realm's estates Welcomed him to their halls with joyous pomp, Music, and garlands, and triumphant praise As ne'er before rang through the hearts and homes Of haughty, laurelled Ireland. Thus it came, Our knight-ambassador had gift to mould His graceless charge into command of grace. When he must name his boon, he to the king Full-gazing, calm in aspect, but with voice Solemn as one renouncing for all years His best delight,--"From Cornwall have I charge "To bring thy daughter, that she be its queen." Grief smote the court. Belle Isonde's violet eyes-- O, what a heaven of pleading love shone there, Lovelier, more pitiful, within that shower Of sacred tears,--spoke to his heart,--but he Full meekly left the hall.
Whilst king and maid Fulfilled their sudden woe with weeping sobs And piteous choking words, around them stole A breeze of golden sounds--the harp's most high Immutable language, gentliest tones and strong To turn the mind from all its dear resolves, To win from every mood, to every mood, From smiles to sighs, from mourning unto festal Merriment. They were soothed, went forth and reached A myrtle shade, wherein their knight-guest harped; And ere the lustrous moon which shone that night Shed half her silver fire within the dark Sir Tristram sailed the sea; La Belle Isonde His charge with nuptial gifts, herself the gift Beyond the price of gifts, for Cornwall bound.
Of all the marvels told in prose or song Of what there happed in Pendragonian times, Of things mysterious, loving--now appears That most mysterious, loving, absolute. The queen, sweet mother of La Belle Isonde, Disquiet for her daughter's weal, in hours Secret, when natal stars benignant reigned, Brewed her a drink which held and amorous charm, And thus to Isonde's gentlewoman spake:-- "Brengwain, give heed, that blessings close thy care. "See on the bridal-eve that Cornwall's king "Partake of this quick draught with our Isonde. "Therewith, be sure, a love shall grow between "As never known in any royal house. "Be wary and be prompt!"
The vessel driven, Storm-caught by night, leagues to the south below Tintagel, shelters in these flowery isles Which front the rocky, bare, wave-smitten end Of Cornwall: and to Tristram's glad surprise In eye-shot of his native Lyonesse, Since drawn beneath the ocean waves, its towers, Fields, palaces, and wealth of mighty life, Where then his name lived as a guardian spell.
******
Of sullen brightness, noon, o'erdrowsing all, As by some sultry toils o'erborne, when he In fretful humour with these sterile hours Made speed below--a dolorous haste, to find The destiny of darkness in the sun-- Searching for cheer. There, Brengwain's cabin door, Which to and fro swung sleepily, provoked His questing eye--but ere his outstretched hand Could reach it, well, too well, he was aware Half-hidden in a store of silken gifts There lay a golden flasket. Passing in, Drawn by the shining object, sense and spirit Were captive. Carven curiously around, Beneath, above, the flasket's gold with mystic, Woven, unintelligible signs, which seemed Of power and beauty mingled--such as lie Within the stellar houses, that a man Unquestioning of astral force is won To observation, with a dread surmise Destiny operates in their moving lights: As lie in flowers, from stigma unto leaf In form and colour,--so that we exclaim "O, lovely flower!" all unaware, true joy,-- Of magic resident, the soft mute spell Kindling the soul,--for science none of man, May separate the beauty from the signs. This carven, golden flasket Tristram brought To Belle Isonde, whose vision strayed from isle To isle, last rested on the foamless deep. "Methinks, the best of cheer our servants hold. "This flasket, sure, has bounteous nourishment "Worthy its glistering shell," said Tristram. "I, "Found it in hiding under Brengwain's care." Isonde turned from the sea, to find her sight Caught by the flasket, as though she would read, Yet failed to read or guess, the hieroglyphs Wreathed everywhere throughout the carven gold. "Oft have you urged me to demand a boon-- "And since that much," continued he: "nay all, "Of my poor heart shall part for ever from me "When we shall part; one hour I would remember, "Last shining rubric in our passing love-- "To other hours as diamond is to sand-- "One radiant hour, when you vouchsafed my boon-- "Let me partake this well-kept draught with thee." To this Isonde, with moise uplifted eyes, Wherein the light of love obscurely shone,-- "Yea, be it so, with all this heart of mine "Which goes with thee whenever thou shalt go." He oped the carven flasket and poured forth, With gentle hand, the treasured wine, which gleamed Golden and danced--a brisk, bright life was in it To hold the sight and woo the taste. They pledged. The pleasing trouble working in the wine Worked swiftly in each heart. Their pledge had been Of that love-drink designed, as you have heard, By Ireland's queen.
The hair of Belle Isonde, Moved over her a moving haze of gold: Upon the midnight of her sorrowing soul, So spake her eyes, love's day-star brightly rose, And Tristram saw her beauty, heard her voice, As, ere now, he had never heard or seen. He gave the kiss of Rimini--she received-- And love between them, there was evermore.
Unto these twain, in spirit and in sense, As day is fulfilled of the sun, as night Is fulfilled of the stars, and spring is fulfilled Of the primrose and lark, the summer fulfilled Of the rose--so their love with all of beauty Of passion and all of pleasure was full Filled by this mystical flasket of wine, This golden, and carven, and mystical Flasket of wine.
Here, as one liege to Love, I ask the favour of all lovers' thoughts, I ask the favour of all lovers' shades, The magic, not the sin, as hath been named, Known by Francesca from Sir Launcelot's kiss, I call upon it and the poet's heart Which made it music: on that name not less, Poet and lover, whose one word of song Was Laura--any soul of love reply, And absolution for this hour is given Ample as ocean, certain as its tide.
But never yet mere summer-sport was love. Proportionate sacrifice it shall exact For every sprinkling of its meed of grace. Even as they dallied with love's aloe bloom The south wind stirred. When, promptly, Tristram's voice Commands the sea-browned mariners hoist sail, Which answering, as with inborn will, the ship Speeds from those flowery isles to reach their home Tintagel. Forth, from paradise of love, With sharpest speed to sorrow. Known next morn, Stranded beneath Dunrabin's rocky hold: A nest of ruffians with more ruffian lord Whose mirth was misrule, one elect of evil, Known as they hound and drew to dungeons deep This company late frolic o'er bright seas Sailing to greet their welcome; nor released Until the guardian-knight evinced his force, His passion, and his faith, in divers broils For pleasure of that miscreant chief--pleased first, But better pleased, anon, to yield a free Acquittance through a horror of that sword, That spear, which flamed before him night and day Slaying his peace, awakening memories Of murderous years for reckoning ere death's coast In view.
With gladness from the keep they went. But whither? Deep in trackless, unkenned ways, The constant light to which the sphered harp Of Arthur sings, highest in heaven, sole guide On all their march--awaited many an eve For safe direction. Strangely thus they fared Three fell, bewildered weeks: Tristram ordained Each breaking morn, or bright or dim, to break Upon some high adventure, so his love Should bear the harrying stress of years of dole, Before he gave his star into the dark Of other keeping. Fortune then or helped Or marred, by leading them to friendly paths, Whereof, King Mark apprised, in hast despatched Barons and squires, for dignity and pomp Of chivalry, and to regale their spirits A minstrel troop approved by voice and lute. These brought unto Tintagel's rest the twain, With such a pageantry of arms, such storm Of musical merriment as its hoary walls Never afore had wot of.--Five long days, Horns in the forest, lances in the joust Gave brave delight throughout the sunshine hours: At eventime, beneath the summer's heaven, Soft-stringed instruments with varying song Made ravishing cheer: and ere the ancient hold Lost feeling of its younger years, King Mark Was richly wedded with all nobleness To Tristram's love, Isonde.
*****
But high emprise and Tristram form one name. Behold at eve, a sombre eve, sad child Of golden day, before the gate there stands None other than the paynim Palomide. Love, or in heathen or in Christian breast, Works the same bale or bliss. He, hither drawn Because Love will not have it otherwise. Had Belle Isonde been hidden deep within Matted recesses of the Mercian woods: Or, midst the fens of Sessoin been immured: Or, lodged within Avilion's cypress bowers: There, had this Palomide this instant been And not before Tintagel's gate. Urbane, Obsequious, captivating sight and ear The castle's latest comer: framed by Love For all Love's needs, its pleasure or its end. Boastful and threatening, one of bloody will, When thought Isonde might like enough be wooed By force, or pride in force, which she inspired; He now shows tender, odorous, subtle-breathed As breeze which creeps along a hawthorn lane In white mid-May: a very lady's page For low obedience in her flowery pleasaunce, Or in the chase, or in the jocund hall-- Wherein lie waiting birth, new labours sore For Tristram, and a warp in life.
Till Yule, Till Passion-tide, here rested Palomide. Nor wist then Mark, the paynim yet should part, Since now it was his kingdom's beauteous time, Which kept the guest and drew from neighbour-realms Knights errant, pilgrims, minstrels, gallant throngs From courts and halls; when spring with cope of blue, Spring with its voice of music, and its coat Of many colours, told to earth once more Gone was another winter's silver strength Except for memory's keeping.--Then, arose Sounds of dismay amidst Tintagel's bowers. Brengwain was fled: nor had the general cry Abated, till obsequious Palomide, On promised boon, in seven days brought the maid For Cornwall's queen.
Boon chosen at twilight time, Rich with the breath of pansy and young leaves Dew-drenched. That time, Upsala's knight of craft Beneath Belle Isonde's balcon then required Her promised favour.--Later, in the shades Walking the inner court, Sir Tristram saw One broad high lattice open, thereby knew His fond bird's cage unclosed. Rejoiced in heart, Wotting his love awaited sweet "Good night!" He blithely sang, for whisper of "Good night." No answer: not a chirp: he climbed to find No bird--no bird--and yet the oaken door Thrice-barred within. What o' the bird? No guess-- It has been snared.
Grievous were it to learn This new wayfaring, and its labour sore. The queen was gone, as wrapped into the dark By darksome powers: and Palomide and squire Gone,--lost as shades within the shadow of night. Manifold terrors haunted Tristram's quest: The wolf, the wild-worm, dwellers of the waste, On open ways, and lurking in the brake Bandits and heathen swords. That haggard search Compassed a life of warlike hardihood: For his great anguish was a constant spur Which took rest from him at the golden noon, Whilst midnight lacked in him her sleepy dues. Belle Isonde's knight pursued them with the sense Of passion feverously vigilant, Which keeps the trail once found. He overtook Palomide, near a willow-shaded fount Reposing: challenged him to horse--and drave So vehemently, Mark's treasonous guest o'erwhelmed, Swooned from the saddle.
This the day far-famed, Tristram bade Palomide pronounce himself: When first this Palomide, with eye on death, Avowed untroubled by its fear, the source And venture of his heart's regard. "By Thor! "Thy spear persuades. Nay, Knight, withdraw thy point; "I falter not. I, of the Aser line: "But with report in Odin's iron land "Of one whose beauty known as of the sun, "To whom as frosted lights all other maids, "Upon myself I took this quest of love. "Hence, Ireland found me. Hence, found I your queen, "Whose look inspires more than the sacred mead "Our pontiff-chief, 'neath Upsal's dome of gold, "Dispenses at the wreathed shrine when she "Iduna, mother of your laughing Spring, "Restorer of the flowers of youth to mortals "And to the gods, claims every heart to drink "Life's joy and hope. It was Iduna's month "I raught your queen. To perish in my love, "Far sweeter than upright amid the slain "The battle-virgins' favour mine. Nay, strike! "Strike!--And the pearl-roofed mansion of our skies, "Wide-shining Breidalblick, receives new guest "For Balder to console." With woe at heart, Fresh knight of worth, had life within him slain By hapless love, Sir Tristram led her back Unscarred, unstained, through many a perilous way, His queen to weak and wily Mark.
Then love Took pity on the Lion Knight, his wounds, His woeful enterprise, that inward fire Consuming, to behold his Beautiful, Bride of his heart, bride Beautiful of him Who masked all meanness with a kingly name. Mysterious Love, working through fortunes ill Bestowed its own soft truce, drew him afar In peaceful sequestration. Honour's wound,-- A rueful gash and from a venomed blade Earned in his recent quest--rejecting cure From potent simples, needs he must repair Forthright to Howell's court in Brittanie, Whose daughter in the science of the leech Bore high repute--but ah, she bore for him Enchantment in the music of her name, Which was none other than his queen's--Isonde-- King Howell's daughter--named of the Lily Hands.
******
Ah, how with Tristram, whose great passionate heart Here finds the vital word of his best life, Isonde, clothed with such loveliness, the maid Might be twin-sister to his Beautiful? Ah, this, Love's ordination, soon surmised. What with her delicate charms, whose influence worked Confederate with the beauty of his queen: Gifted devotion through his venomous ill, And that her name gave to his heart of love Presence and power; and her observance meek, Yet quick, varying in mood with varying need Throughout his long recovering hours--these all Blending their sway, co-operating, brought Tardy acknowledgment from grateful gaze To language; thence to reason's deeds. The maid Became his virgin spouse.
Leavened by his will She sowed life's graces throughout Brittanie. Rich in the knight she loved, thence came her boon Of sunniest years--most joyous, placid years-- Most bright and placid known to Tristram yet. And, it may be, that their deep peacefulness Obtained security from tearful prayers La Belle Isonde sent to her lowering heaven, When told of Tristram's nuptials. Lorn, but true, Knowing his love for her, she prayed for him And his fair consort: did not set her heart Against him, but at evensong and prime Prayed that his heart be hardly 'gainst her set, And that a new love, wider, holier love, Enrich him with its tokens most divine. These prayers and tears might have reward to keep The distant wedded twain as under charge Angelic: albeit, tears and prayers of her To whom their answer had undone her more Than aught beside--plagued, darkened all her hours, Drained life, and ta'en the light of hope from death.
CHAPTER II.
Heavily leaning upon Brengwain's arm, La Belle Isonde steps gently towards the grove, Her fairest pleasaunce, a most inward grove, Her noontide haunt: behind a lilac bush Hears rustling garments, noise of flying feet, And walking round beholds two maids, one churl, In flight for private entrance to the keep. Curious, half-roused from out her trance-like mood, She vainly asks the purpose of that flight: Then loiters dreamful in the winding paths, Her eyes in search amidst the border-flowers For something lost. "Dull and despoiled these walks, "Sweet Brengwain," murmurs she, pale queen. "All's changed "Since heart's-ease died. Would evening's hour were come, "Then we might hear our nightingale. An yet, "Our nightingale, methinks, has lost his note "These many weeks. All's dead-dull now. Our blooms "Were brighter upon Michelmas, of yore-- "But, then, all were together. Didst thou say, "That upon noon may come an instant night?" --"No, no."--On this they reached a shrivelled shape Lain on the grass: a creature ragged, sick Unto the very death; found seven days since At break of morn by Severn's hermit saint. Thence to Tintagel brought for friendly care-- And here at noon laid in the sun whose beam, Perchance, may stir the tides of life anew. The queen's hand tightened on her maiden's arm, Regarding him as one with winter-thoughts Regards the ruin of the summer's green No more returning: upon her he looked, A mystic knowledge gleaming in his eyes, As they beheld a something more than seen By earthly vision--wondrous, unspeakable. Confused in spirit, unsatisfied, the queen Drew back, and in a winter-wailing tone,-- "Methinks, that form a-many weeks has drunk "Of sorrow like to mine, and some fair dame "Saddens upon his absence. Let us go." Yet sought she not her inward grove, but strayed Forlorn, with earthward searching look: then paused: Cried in a voice of pain. "That bunch of leaves-- "Those withered leaves--beneath yon thorn--think you, "Were once my once-dear flower?--Sweet Brengwain, say, "Now being apart, and here no listening walls, "When Tristram back from Brittanie, was't one "Or two his fellows, played upon my pride "And drave him to the woods?"--"Sir Palomide, "Sir Kay, two men, but one in evil mind."-- "Ay, ay! And they would woo, and I would win "In fancy, having lost so much in life "Wearing the name of queen. But, they be gone?--" "In truth, Sir Tristram gone, for them to stay "Had been perdition unto court and king, "So fierce thy spirit"--"Well! Ah, but not well-- "For him my sun, and I thus desolate. "So weak, too, from these suffering, palsying months. "Fever and pain their tabernacle long "Have made this quivering frame--Thou, surely, sweet, "Hast seen our knightly star of late--or wast "In dream I learned of it?"--"Yea, but in dream. "Yet, guided as by dream, I found his haunt, "A forest, guarded by an iron keep, "Where, two years gone, the heathen Palomide, "For gain of thee, foughten his angriest fight "With Tristram; who, that victory won, his rest "Took with the castle's dame. He, as he healed, "Taught her most featly and most prettily "To harp. He left her wiser in that art "Which wisely she has kept. Thus, led by me, "Her music found thy knight and drew him forth, "Captive of harmony, unto her home, "Wherein his soul gat peace. But for three days, "Misfortunes crossed her--then, the lady's touch "Failed at the fount of melody and health, "And by the demon of his madness borne "Into the icy dawn and shroud of mists, "Tristram--nor rested, as I wot, until "The forest's thorn-embrangled inmost heart "Held him lone guest of sorrow as before,"-- "--O woe, O misery! Of all mankind, "Lovers have sharpest doom--not one hath joy "Of those that thou hast named.--Brengwain, be sure, "That withered man no long time since hath been "Somewhat a pleasure to the sight--aye, aye-- "With nobleness of frame and might of limb. "My dream-wrought mind! The heart's-ease.--O, this heart! "Brengwain, be we all dying? Dimly sense "Recalls the darling flower.--That withered man, "His former life within me as a dream "Floats dimly. Strange--that withered man, near death, "Seems, like the flower, familiar once; again, "My cozening memory fails--the flower--the flower-- "His face?" She paused, self-questioning--"His face, "Is as the face of one whom I have seen "In many places." Here a hopeless moan Spake from her heart. Silence some moments--then, "Hist, Brengwain. Hast thou ever loved?"--"Yea, queen." "And does Love wander wild, as I have talked?" "I never knew my state in love, sweet queen. "Your words are very words of love. My ease "Of heart would perish in a night. Ay, lover "Be nought of lover on a syllable. "'Tis like nought else."--"Ah, Brengwain, now I think-- --"How sweet to feel one's memory hold again-- "Did I not question thee--or should have done-- "Upon Love's instant?"--"Yestermorn, we spake-- "And now thou bringest me again to talk on't: "Whenas, I least would have of hope--in years, "Years long, long past--of love and lover--one "And both would shine.--O, those sweet years long past-- "More beautiful than in the spring o' love." --"Such things then come again. I, too, have found "That love may in a moment shew new season. "I ne'er was told--but know--its summer dies "With all its sighing autumn in an hour: "Then the cold, deathly winter--deathly cold, "And long."--Brengwain cried out.--"However long, "It yields to spring on the instant of a smile. "There is the word you asked for, my sweet queen." --"Months, months, I deem, have passed. And may that instant "Come here?--to me?"--"It may."--"What time, sayst thou? --"For life, sweet queen."--"Nay, that was not thy word. "I said months, months--you spake of an instant--ah, "That instant of spring birth, may not the months "Black, icy months in which we now be bound, "Strangle it? Ware you, Brengwain, that of love "Only one thing is certain unto all: "Being not, it shall not be, though angels crave it: "And being, as certain as it once was not "Time comes it shall not be. There's all."--"Nay, nay! "Within the radiance of that instant's life "The past is as the past of night at dawn, "Forgotten: the present, glory; and the future "Secure, serene." Thus Isonde with her maid Along the pleasaunce-walks with frequent sighs, Talked as is need of those of highest place In grief with faithful servitors--the heart Being everywhere in everyone the same-- And fellowship of sorrow makes us one.
Listless, a few steps onward: then, the queen Looked on the shrivelled shape again, which lay With close-shut eyes, and motionless.--"How still "He lies, as now in the extremity "Of quiet death," whispered La Belle Isonde. But scarcely had she wandered three spears' length Beyond the man, when her full heart brake forth. "O, Brengwain, Love is very life, I see. "We'd better love a withered man like that "Than have no love at all. And, yet, my knight "Was glorious as an angel: ever the same "Unto my soul, as when in Ireland's jousts-- "Our Tristram! Grace of arms! Our Lion Knight! "Our Light of Honour!"--In her passion's pause She heard a cry. "Hark, Hodain finds me here, "With voice I ever loved next to his lord's." She turned. She saw with wild amaze her hound Leaping around the man--nor hand, nor brow, Nor cheek it left unkissed: and then recalled, Hodain had never left her save for one, But for that one would ever leave her side,-- He who had given the hound. Nor could she speak, Nor move, La Belle Isonde: and on her, lo, The man's eyes opened: knew she wept: and tears Can cleanse the foulest wound--and at the sight His soul healed, and his life gat strength--upsprang Sir Tristram--caught her--pressed her heart to heart. And voice was gone from both: and best for both A sobbing silence.--Thus, again, the pair Came to each other: thus the Spring o' Love Vanquished the winter in an instant's space.
*****
Long, She hung upon him as a wilding flower Hangs on a castle's ruins beautiful And beautifying. After parley sweet-- How long they might not know, since Time's fleet wing Swept past so softly then--with knightly step Tristram withdrew to seek his bower. He gone, The queen with questioning melodious voice To Brengwain. "Hath the season changed? Your eye "Speaks wickedly. You may lack grace o' love, "Yet, let me kiss thee. Thou wert ever kind, "And hast forgiveness.--Of a truth, the light "Grows lovelier in the day: and my heart sings "Sweetlier unto me than might any bird. "The scant flowers smile! and, look, that willow branch "Beckons to yonder thorn: and whispers,--hark,-- "In every bush, to bid hearts'ease upraise "Its eye of blue again. Yet tell me, truly, "Brengwain, dear soul, has it for once been so "These many, many months?"--"Yes, lovelier far "To lovers with Love's summer in their souls, "And nought to cross them."--"Thou art envious, pert, "Petulant. A surly maid. Must ever lack "Love's grace. Go! Lead me to my bower. Pray, let "Thy face wear the true colour of thy heart, "Show not the shine of happiness you know not, "But take its proper sable." Haughtily, Strode Belle Isonde as more than queen that hour: Triumphing royally in her knight returned. Tintagel's knight now here, a double pride Guerdon'd Mark's liberal pains. 'Twas vastly strange The history of the madman: then 'twas fine Self-satisfaction to bestow his care On soul so desolate, whereon rang praise Full-voiced from Cornwall's nest of dissolute peers. And when the lion knight in time assumed The lion's port, between the four broad seas What potentate could claim such arm of faith, And iron will for functions of the field? Not long, this blithe content. Barons and squires-- Mark's revelling, craven, shrewd and rare, long-pledged Companions whilst Sir Marhaus held his gate-- Their owlish spirits could not brook the light Of Honour shining in their purlieus. Soon, Mark's double pride was flustered into hate. Whispering of Honour night and noon, wrought heat Of spirit, but when barbed hints and looks, Slanting at queen and lion-knight, were caught By Mark in jealous phrensy, men might wot Fate then abridged a noble life.--Soon done,-- Within Tintagel's dungeons--or, her waves Were ready to receive and hide the dead. But no--fear rules the raging heart--there lived Camelot's peerage, first estate of arms: The vengeance, when to Launcelot's heart went up The cry of Tristram's blood--therefore, his doom, Away, exiled from Cornwall's boundaries, Despised, affronted, roving knight-of-green, For twice five years. Worse news had never struck Sir Tristram's soul--and with a voice of tears, He mourned of his large worship shown to Mark, Much known to all, but much untold, unknown. Sleepy neglect forbore to speak of much And envy hath its silence.
That o'erpast, The fields of Logris called, awaiting him With other thoughts and hopes, with other fields For fame. The knight-of-green's adventurous hand Still strenuous through the righteous wrath of love-- Since Belle Isonde within his bosom lived As all of love in love's own powers and flame Exceeding, and impelled to deed sublime, Chastening or hallowed, or by arms or song, Achieved.
But for herself, the Beautiful, Rest none for her--and of her hot unrest Brengwain would find for her its errant cause: And on report of Logris, as domain Renovate by his roaming enterprise, Through perils, here not to be rehearsed, but dire, She found the steerage of his path, and last, Found him, the knight, in slumber near a spring-- Sate softly by his side, and kept her heart In patience till he woke, when she resigned Letters of grace from her, his ladye-love.
The Dragon King, that time, from Camelot Let cry a solemn three days' tournament For Maidens' Castle. Mindful, Tristram held The news in keeping. Upon loneliest hours, Gladdened his spirit with the fire of hope Bethinking of the promise of that day. This told he Brengwain, with request "Sweet dame "An thou wilt thither with me?"--"Ay, my lord, "Or whither thou mayst lead, if going I save "My lady's heart from sorrow, or yield her joy "To know thy worship."--"Sorrow none for us, "When heart doth write these letters brought by thee, "And letters have the welcome of such heart "As tells thee now its joy. Thither, with me "The gainest way which brings us to behold "The famous fellowship of the Table Round, "Brave emulation in the Table Round, "The sun and centre of the Table Round, "Arthur, and in her throne queen Guinevere."
O, vanity of Love! He spoke the maid; He brought the maid to Maidens' Castle jousts-- For why? Scarce heard as whisper in his heart; It was, that seeing nobleness of knights And ladies beautiful beyond men's praise, Proclaim his valour, Brengwain soon should bring, For hearing of Isonde, report with wit Particular to time, display, and deed. But when this of the maiden, seen and heard, Her heart sank, never having yet conceived Such glory, beauty, power. All those three days, Her heart, as in a marvellous vision endured Such terror for his weal, and, O, such pangs Of sudden amazing joy, when she beheld Time after time, his argent lion flare Before the lists--then the career, the clash, And prouder for the shock ride forth, his faith His honour, valour, crowned again. Yea, fear Darkened her whilst his prowess kept each day. Was one so terrible, lord of the jousts, Crimson from helm to stirrup, truly knight So debonnair, so gentle in his grace, Single and simple in his love, as known? Found in such thought, a giant knight rode in, Claiming to break a lance. With sea-like voice, Scornful he cried: "From Cornwall's court I come-- "Confess its queen, Isonde, excelling aught "Of any dame of any knight; announce "My purpose! Save her rightful king, shall none "Exceed my worship: none divide my claim, "And here, by me, the lion shall be quelled." Then Brengwain knew who came as from the shades, Knight of the King of Terrors,--Palomide, As he no less in darkest passion came, With sable panoply on sable steed, As ever in his quest, to drive to doom All valour that stood thwart his love, or dulled His worship of Isonde. This Brengwain knew, And knowing swooned. Her wakening eyes surveyed In fear the lists below--so long her swoon The knights had evenly proved two careers,-- Now came the third. Or e'er he placed his lance In rest, Sir Tristram raised him on his steed, Stretched forth his arms, as though in previous fray He had been idler, and his limbs of might Ached for due action. Then, the thunderous course-- On which, midway, the shattering shock spread wide The splinters of the spears. With speed of flame Tristram laid hands upon his foeman's shield Burst every strap--upon his charger's mane Laid prone the knight of Upsal's head, then swift With shield smote, stunned him--hurled the shield to earth-- Caught at his helm, brake all its brazen bands, With helm showered wrathful perilous blows--so, bruised, Bloody, as dead, the peer of Odin sank Unhorsed, last tribute to that day of deeds, Since none, of fifty unbreathed knights, none now Dare trace the field. The last dread day had closed-- Tristram each day of all those three dread days, Master of the degree.
Yet with default.-- In fortune's frolic, shorn of fortune's grace.-- He came not to dismount, as no knight came Master of the degree, ere comes a knight On lusty stammel steed with chiming pace, Clad in carnation-coloured arms, all o'er Beset with golden sprays: upon his helm Spruce sprays of gold in bloom, with shield's device One golden blooming spray, and nuts of gold. His open visor shows a countenance Lightening with crafty humours, which distrain The glooming heart of Brengwain, as a torch Acquires with light within a cave the space Of darkness it is conquering. Hark, the steed Caracoles blithely to its master's wit, Which tells that in the knight's appointments lie, Of silver sound some scores of hidden bells Ringing unto the caracole. Then rose From knight, and clown, and laughing voice of dame-- "Now, comes the singing-tilt of Dinadin." The sturdy stammel steed of Dinadin Sprang as to get a forward grip of earth, Whereon it held. The lion like the wind, Or whirlwind towards him--missed in his attaint-- Flew back from spear of Dinadin, as he By naught but violence of his whirlwind speed Were blown from saddle. Ere the foiled knight rose,-- Ringing alway, as though the chivalry Of Camelot had voice in scornful song, Dinadin forth had sped, had flown the lists, With cry, "I ask no blood." So is it told, These tilting times lacked not their special play To ease the crimson passions of the joust.
Brengwain returned with news, she interwove Such praise of Dinadin within her speech And of the singing-tilt, her mournful queen Impassioned bade her exorcise his name From history of that jousting--but when all The puissance, the courtesy of those days Was heard, rightway that simple heart of love Swooned in her ecstasies of joy.
No need In her estate for wonder. Lovers' news At any time are powers--in misery, As fallen now upon the Beautiful, Love's loving news dash down the heart grown weak, Through abstinence of joy with suffering. Suffering? Ay, Mark ere this had made well-known Beyond surmise, his mean, malignant self. His ruthless humour grew with passing weeks. None, in the misrule of his court might blame Or warn him: one and all in love alike And wisdom scant. Last, in his scornful hate Bestowed on Belle Isonde, her lord displayed Polluted taste, a riotous wantonness, As though each sorry portion of his guilt Of foulness, was more precious from the foil Of foulness to the sweetness of his queen: As, though her hurt and sorrow from his guilt, Gave to it pleasure's daintiest sting.
With arm Free to his twofold cause, now Tristram fared Once more the Knight of Love: high Honour's beam Bare through shy noisome ways, till on an eve Fog-darkened, weary, and misled, he found, Deep in the quaking lands of Rueful Dale, Lodgment within a hold of mystery. There for a season cloistered, bondsman held Of wiliest witch that ever wore the form And beauty of a woman--Morgan le Fay-- His faith was brought to proof. Ah, but his love Moved not from Belle Isonde. The dazzling witch, Her wiles, her potions, glamour in her gaze, Stirred not his fealty. ****
Abrupt the end, Blasting enchantment, drawing the far sound Of the world's voices full upon his soul: Sanguine that end and sudden, when in mail The lady's paramour, her confrere tried In love's expedients and designs of death, Sought to conclude with Tristram in her grove, Whose leaves and blossoms had sweet nourishment From hearts beneath--brave, bounteous, and renowned Lured hither, buried here. The mailed man With words of shame, shamed her--Morgan le Fay-- As stings to rouse the peer--unsheathed his brand As for immediate outrage. Then, the knight Held breath in anguish. "Surely this be stain "Upon the virtues of the dame"--that thought Illumined him with honour's light, he saw Only a slanderous, intrusive churl-- Leapt on him: from his gauntlet's nerveless grasp Wrenching the blade, he clove him to the breast. Cloven the charm. One thought, one stroke--the life Of bestial churl--and cloven was the charm. A wakening stroke: a judgment flash had been The swift white lightning of his flying sword: And blood of evil broke the evil spell, And strong and clear of inward vision now, Still Knight of Honour, Tristram stood. His bane Furnished new trophy for his trust in love.
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Led by that faith in Love, his venturous way Straight tended to the fair Memorial Stone Near Camelot, long years desired as place Dedicate to the sacrifice of love, Best place for heart sick-sorrowing.
Gazing there, O'er its white marble, crossed with crimson streak, Significant of radiant loves there slain, There resting--old and memorable words Of Merlin, from the bud of prophecy Burst into blossom.
Hither, rode this time Sir Launcelot of the Lake: and now was fought, Unknown of each, that fight of spear and sword, These gone, the struggle hand to hand, each gripe Keen as the fang of death. Had bard been there, That crested hour were more than Roncesvalles In battle-blast of song. Then each confessed Name to each other, and in knightly love Paced to the hallowed stone, where kneeling, both Made covenant of faithfulness and gave, Last token of consummate knightlihood, Matchless degree unto each other. Thus, Blossomed the words of Merlin's wintry years. Beside that white Memorial Stone, there met "The two best knights in all King Arthur's days "And truest lovers known in any land."
Now Launcelot's mind, wot that an hour was born Pre-eminent for worship: that on him Was laid the charge of glory to induct Tristram into that final avenue Which brings the knight to be true child of fame. Hence, unto Arthur's court he drew his fere, Saluted with a jubilance as ne'er Before that day in Camelot, or known After, in Pendragonian times. Once there, Arthur with pomp and honours brought our knight To seek the Table Round. With him, approached Guinevere, in her lustre, damsels, peers,-- Soft-shining Pleiades of beauty, bands Chivalrous, whose appointments, gleaming shewed Various device of shield. Then Guinevere Cried, "Welcome!" answering, "Welcome!" cried the dames: "Welcome!" the damsels: thrice the silver cries Against the clanging "Welcome!" of the knights. Uprose, the trumpet-greeting of the king, Whereon the signet of his tongue fulfilled The vehement joyaunce:--"Welcome! to our court, "One of earth's best and gentlest knights, be thou! "Great hunter of the heathen!--from three realms "Thrusting their fierce invading hosts. In chase, "Bearer of chiefest prize! The bugle horn, "Of all its choicest measures: terms of sport, "By hawk, and hound, and spear, beginner thou! "Of all the mystery by river's marge: "Of all the mystery in woodland ways, "Pursuit in air, field, holt, thou president! "Knight of most worship! we confess and laud "Thee for thy dues: and, as excelling other claim, "Thou music's great magister! Voice nor hand, "Like thee hath stirred the spirit's melody, "Whence are begotten thoughts assuming oft "Wilful predominance, we lose the sense "For that indwelling music whence evolved. "Then, welcome! Gentlest knight--of noblest deed, "Of song, master and lord! Of noblest deed, "Love, courtesy, liege vassal, and yet lord "Puissant! Welcome!"
This being heard, with haste The martial Order ranged the Table Round. And Arthur looked on every seat there void, And one siege lacked its living knight,--that knight Foiled by young Tristram in his virgin fray Of knighthood 'neath Tintagel's walls--the siege Of Marhaus. Whereupon, the Order's king Declared the morrow's business, when the tromp, Brought towards the dragon-throne--imperial work Of marvellous device from Merlin's hand, Which raised high o'er its royal seat the head Vengeful, with flickering tongue and blood-red eyes, And wound behind the king with folds of steel Rough-sparkling, and flat underneath his feet Laid broad its tail endued with arrowy sting; So Arthur sate as there upon his throne Protected by the beast, his dragon-helm Bickering, as though in wrath, himself a fear, Dragonish to every foe of law or faith; Around him, on this throne, by sound of tromp Gathered the pageantry of Table Round, With priests and saintly servitors in choirs, At spring of day. Then to the minister porch. By hoar, divine Dubricius, there received: Hence led to the high altar, midst the noise Of instrument and song in psalmody Of praise, and incense fumes, with fragrant wreaths Filling the temple; there, intoned the mass, Succeeded by the service of the sword, The oaths of chivalry, the sacred charge-- With benediction, whereupon heaven's hosts Raise their hosannas for the goodly time The knight shall strive for on the earth appears-- And welcome of that hour, his good fight fought, He join the bands celestial. Arthur, then, With state illustrious, adjudged the knight Worthy the vacant siege, with accolade Of resonant voice confirmed, invested him With due insignia of the Table Round.
Closed these solemnities, through knightly throngs, Whose panoply of bright incessant flashed Fresh splendours into morn, there mingled groups Of fair and sweet, like blooms of garden blown By gentle winds. All day, there intervened High tournament of young, and brave and gay, With minstrel sport which winged the golden hours With laughing joy.--Such martial nobleness, Such consecrating pomp, such merriment, Closed with proud feasting, used the Dragon King When Tristram entered siege of Table Round.
CHAPTER III.
This was the spring, with music overflown, Flower-starred, and odorous as any spring That smiled across the Logrian isle, or since, Or ever shall when we are all forgotten.
****
Days pleasantly grew into weeks, the weeks To months, which slid apace with shining feet Until within the autumn time there slept A sabbath's lustre upon Camelot. A day of peace and praise.--What thunderous noise Travels the vale in hast towards Camelot? Mark and his knights!--who reck not of the day, Its dedication, nor the faith whose peace Enwraps this evening's hour. With pagan sneer Riding at morn, he cried,--"This day, fools know, "Adopts the sun: and, so, but shine the sun "To us ripe time to speed our enterprise. "Matins to-morrow of the sword and spear." Hence, came the hoofs of these hard-breathing steeds Of Cornwall and his troop, led by himself Clanging to Camelot; with grace received By Arthur and the Order of the Ring, At close of evensong.
At large, had Mark Heard of Sir Tristram's worshipful estate, The Dragon King's esteem, Sir Launcelot's love, Regard of Guinevere, and Logrian fame Blown by the wind throughout the land's resorts. Whereon, his wrath turned from his queen awhile. Despite the lion's lance, and of its sword Mindless, he brought his retinue to seek Favour of evil in the tournament. Short-coming there, his evil confidence Full store possessed of foul dishonouring tales Particular in poisonous hint--or, last, None better than this heart of fraud, was schooled In mission of the hidden steel.
But, lo, What change upon that self-same sabbath's night, And days succeeding! Cornwall had receipt Of bounteous, general greeting, courteousness, Simplicity of elegance in act, Imperial consideration, meek, Mutual, cementing ranks from churl to queen, That in the sharp air of the chivalrous court The habit of Mark's mind endured a change-- Passion of peace, of gentleness the power Known now in Mark, and Arthur had his vow Within Tintagel pure and lofty life Should be sustained. A vow, his noblest given, Soon secretly unsworn, although its gloss Held Cornwall still as one redeemed to eyes Unsharpened by suspicion, blind in trust.
*****
Within the noiseless chariots of the clouds, The spirits of night drave to the setting sun, And brought for him an hour unsought, prepared By evil minds. Within a lonely glade, Rambling in thought, Mark was aware of twain Conversing as in grief, who won delight On his approach. Mordred and Vivien these, And he their prey. That nephew of the king Mordred, within the court a secret tongue, Moving with creeping step and humbled face, Alive to everything: the fiend in need, Acknowledging the heaven he had foregone And sought to discompose: Mordred, a name Of shame and death:--Vivien, of wanton gaze, On Merlin, late withdrawn to hermit cell As done with life, but prescient that his life Would strangely suffer from a damsel's wiles; Prescient a seeming silent tongue would strike Ruin on glory of the state--a step Noiseless was creeping upon Arthur's fame, Nor long to speed him to the silent shores-- Merlin, whose spring of three-score years was gone And all his mighty summer, now a seer Hoary, a memory clothed with poësy-- On him intent Vivien, the winsome fair, Patient his fated, long-deferred return Awaiting--but, meanwhile, kept her in play: With frivolous, perilous thoughts in ward, ne'er found Idling in toils of blame: or fishing she, Or mending of her nets, was always found. Now, her resolve dight her in crimson gleams: Soft blush of wilding rose at morn, this hour Of eve brought cramousie, for love's desires Fancy's best fashion, and to Cornwall's eyes An amourous trouble. Either spake to Mark In interchange of comment: Mark replied-- Of scandals of the court, of knights, of dames And wrongs of Mark.--Disloyal speech conceived Of hate, had brood of murderous thoughts: delight Of death, came of this intercourse.
Days died, Days rose, and rising now, bright broke the day Mark shall depart, when faithful to the vow Kept unto knights and dames, he asks a boon As sealing vow: that, for Tintagel's aid, In pure and lofty life there be conjoined Sir Tristram--boon upcast on Arthur's wish-- "Let men be in accord, all will be well: "Without they are accorded, nought is well." But Launcelot feared for Tristram, feared King Mark, His dungeons and his secret ministers, So spake against the temper of his king. Clear, resolute--drew his anointed sword, Thrice waved it o'er his head as sacred sign, Thrice kissed its hilt, as token of the cross, Therewith, to pledge his worship and his soul, Should harm befall Sir Tristram on such choice, Affliction should befall to Cornwall's land Beyond the scath of heathen or of plague. Nor trusting to his minatory words, Nor awe, as told the pallor of the kings, Launcelot besought his first beloved of knights, In knightly faith and Love's obeisance, wait Here in the circuit metropolitan: Oft, honour calls to hold the kingdom's fame 'Gainst paynim prowess: here, due residence For faith and valour; else, let Tristram seek Emprise promiscuous amidst the wilds Of lands beyond the seas--only, with Mark Forbear to go. Not to Tintagel--no. On which with slow, half-weeping voice replied The heart-struck knight of war, "My brother, mine, "By all that makes our Order as the stars "Of honour unto dark humanity: "By all the worship shewn in pageants played, "Or stiff-fought fields, for favour or defence "Of ladye-love, my brother, I must go! "More than to leave the lists of Logris, more, "Than here renounce the glory-lighted realms "By paynims held, is to lose thee. Yet still, "I go. Their wish is mine: its home is here "And resting place." Gently, with head abased, He laid his palm above his heart. "Here, home "Of all the kingly wish: though well you wit, "Upon an issue of mine own I go. "Angels are with us all: but none, the chief "Gabriel, Archangel, bearer of the divine "Decrees, may ever bind or loosen love. "The sorrow in my loss of thee foregone, "This heart exults with joy. Thou knowest love. "So bound, so burdened, yet so light of heart, "Always our case when ladye-love in view. "Yet,--nay--without the sight of Belle Isonde, "My spirit may not endure." And from that hour, Till darkness brought him light, he knew not Mark, From his own eye, or from the voice of friend, But kept his faith in king, and served him well, Soul-blind through his o'er-quickened sense of love.
The winter gone, a damsel from Isonde-- Brengwain, it was, once more--reached Camelot At glow-worm time, when midst the evening shades, First seen its lamp of love. Hers, news of joy: Letters for Arthur, Launcelot, Guinevere,-- Letters affecting Mark, Isonde, their weal, And Tristram's; unto most, a resonant joy. But twain found in her news a hate disguised,-- Arthur and Launcelot. These apart communed, Shadows upon the common joy: whence came An answer royal, one of kindly words Yet bearing thought, as of Sir Tristram's weal Doubtful but heedful.
Now it was, the worm Disclosed his fang before the open day. Sting, poison went together and at once. Mark's answer, as with haste of wings, arrived, The first jar in the music of his life, Puissant, pure, high-hearted, gentle, proud And guileless Arthur:--"As we are, we are. "I bid thee intermit thee with thyself, "And wife and knight: as for myself, the power "I ever had, have now, will ever have "To rule and keep a wife."
The house of hell There threw its lurid light on hidden ways Known not to Arthur's generous, trustful mind-- Which knew alone what honour's sun revealed, Fair, simple paths on which none went astray. And as Mark's words of searching fire would burn Ceaseless within his brain, as clouds on clouds Rolling and gathering, darkening evils came In deepening folds, O, that imperial soul Felt, O, such sadness! O, such loneliness! Slackened his spirit, that he may nor write, Nor think reply to Cornwall: and his throne Suffered besieging sorrows, till that fray Adder-begotten, and of Mordred's work, Roared through the misty noon, and Arthur's realm With evening sank in silence by the sea, And Arthur's saintly soul found final peace.
But, now, a counter-stroke from Dinadin-- Returned from lengthy embassage--gay sprite. Ay, certes, as his name rings when ye read Or hear, his nature tallied with his name. He was the merry-making knight within The Table Round--all hurry, sparkle, song. And, now, an apparition from the halls Dedicate to victorious mirth, made fly Arrows of scornful laughter, and re-lit The courtly joyaunce. Jaunty muse being his, Half-pique, half-love, with speedy offspring fit, In homage to the royal grief--the child, A ballad to King Mark: its name, a shaft That pierced, "Mark is my mark." Whereon, he called His harper Elyot, taught him harp this lay-- Ordained him other harpers,--but, enow,-- Sir Dinadin within his ballad verse Retorted on Mark's shame a sixfold shame In phrase so forceful still it lives renowned, "Worst lay that ever harper sang with harp."
When Elyot reached Tintagel there to harp The waspish lay, Sir Tristram then had cleansed Cornwall from foes once more. Once more, not one In Cornwall's buffoon chivalry gave word Of courage; and the scourge of sword and fire By Sessoin's raging bands, the dread White Horse, Christ's bane, the pagan's iron pride, for long Kept still the music of Sir Tristram's hand-- The lion knight, once more, in fate of arms Tintagel's help; through strengths of love and faith The bastion of her towers.
Great Sessoin's lord He met in view of either host: when sate The seigniories of knights to taste the fray; In midst of Cornwall's powers, its king: with him, His queen, the Beautiful, unto the gaze Of Sessoin's peerage a most marvellous light Of loveliness. Each knight her every grace Computed at war's value: favouring smile, Well-worth a spear-thrust: and that shining cloud Which dimmed her diadem, that affluent hair Dazzling, one lock of it well-worth the price Of venturous quest from Candlemas to Yule: No soul of Sessoin's barbarous horde but owned Presence of one of those fine beings rare Amidst the cloudy centuries they gild, Well-worth the hazard of a kingdom's rule. Prompt at the hour of tierce, Sir Ælias rode, His purport shown in sable panoply, Straight to the tourney's eastern gate, and there Paused. La Belle Isonde's beauty on his tongue Silenced the challenge. But by herald's voice Drawn from his fantasy, his sanguine ire Re-doubled, Ælias shouted o'er the lists-- "Fair knight, at thy pavilion this dawn "With my spear point, good iron of Poictou, "I touched thy shield. Thou knows't my purpose--death!" "I answer to the utterance," Tristram cried. "Our orisons are told, but with the dirge "My tears will be required for thee. Fair knight, "Now thy devoir."
*****
But Tristram wist not, yet True danger was to come. This Sessoin's lord, Man in the height of arms was he: inspired By passion of the war, he was enriched With skill and hardiment. On this third bout, Both spears were splintered, both knights fell unhorsed. But fallen not their spirits: with their swords They fought as there had been a flaming fire Encompassing. They fenced, they foigned--keen, quick, Stout strokes of nimblest play: traced, traversed, hot As wild stags full of autumn blood provoked In lordship of the hind. Hauberk and helm Hewn roughly: shorn, huge cantles of their shields-- Their doughten deeds surpassed all learned from voice, Or scroll, of fairy land or chivalry.
Now crimson fall the sands of Tristram's life. Faint from the heat and anguish of the fray His head droops o'er his shield: the draught of death Proposed for Ælias, Tristram's parting soul Longs to partake, as o'er his eyes descend Shades, closing all the bright and noisy scene, This dread imperial debate, transact For Mark and Cornwall, and the lists of love, Late glorious, with the queen of every heart Presiding. Then, a mocking laughter sprung From galleries westward, keener than the edge Of sword or glaive to Tristram, as he felt His knighthood was the gazing stock of fools, Who judge not of event but of the chance. Awakening sounds.--His soul creeps from the swoon To feebly grasp at life. Uncomforted, And cold, he wots that hosts with revelling jeers Witness his yielding strength: whilst others mourn Doom falling darkly on their lion knight. On Isonde's throne, he there beholds a face Pale, with its eyes afire, and o'er it hang Cumbrous and dun her tresses in the bright Slant sunshine. Harken, Love's power, once again!-- He notes upon her rose-bereaved, worn cheek, Flashing a sacred and peculiar light, Tears of wild sorrow, whereupon his soul Drank courage from them, cast aside the robes Of palsying faintness, fear and pain.--More brief Than this brief verse, such fury in his change, Sir Tristram's finish of the fight. His sword Flew on his foe: a score of blows for one Confused the lord of Sessoin: from their force The shield brake on his arm--his hauberk pierced, Oped entrance to his heart, his helmet cloven Brought death on death--to the beholder's gaze Ælias seemed smitten everywhere at once.
For all of this, despiser of true worth, Worship of arms, renown, fidelity, Mark, when he heard the song of Dinadin Mark would have slain his champion-knight, sole stay Of throned authority, the warden spear Of his dominion. And when Elyot's lay Was harped and sung before the languid court, Mark blazed in angered words--but softly ends, "Name him who sends thee, and we bide our time "For chastisement." But Elyot as he heard, Bore heedless gaiety of look, and thrummed An under-note, and gazing on the ground, Spake as a harper in the privilege Of song accorded everywhere. "The name "I serve beneath?--One you affect, sweet king-- "Sir Dinadin, most debonair of knights, "My lord, my gentliest lord is Dinadin. "An, wit ye well, I am a minstrel, sire, "One who must sing the songs made by his lord "As he must wear the arms his lord doth wear."
Thus, Mark the king, the king but newly saved, Clothed in fair silken raiment, and his word Soft as the chime for vigils, but within Dead spirit cased in thrice-proof mail of self Played the knave-king. For, this time, Tristram lay Close chamber-prisoned, sore with many wounds Begat from Ælias, known when careful leech Found harness of the war to bring more hurt Than it might save from. Silken, chiming Mark, His trailing step now haunts the corridors 'Tween the sick room and feasting hall, morn, noon, And midnight--kindly in his watch, with heed In all required for Tristram's tourney-hurt And fever--till his time was come. Then, haste-- When time was come.
Knights, dames, intent on mirth, Warily brought was Tristram, one still eve, Through dense dusk woods, lone fields, by moorland heights And craggy pass: lodged in a lonesome keep, Fore-fronting sea, with rear of splintered cliffs, Flanked, south and north, with black, sharp, high-heaped rocks, With torrent of its own, whose ceaseless shout Would drown the noise of battle though hard by. Thus safely brought and lodged, from potion sooth Three nights, two days, he fell on sleep, and then Awoke in darkness.--Well, was Tristram, here, Withdrawn from notice of his fellowship: In changeless night imprisoned: this his grave, Deep in the heart of the wild water's cry, Far-hid from any quest, or guess of friend.
Nothing of Tristram, now, from Mark but pride Through this event. He, dungeoned to await The hour when Mark should end his earthly hours, Awoke Mark's pride in other hate and love: Outspoken at the feast when courtly tongues Talked Camelot--and, there--now, here--now, round-- Flew whispers, with eye-wantonness, when named One maiden. Hearing it, the lips of Mark Stirred with pale spasms, and from them, as would spring, From covert a wild creature of the woods, Out of the secret shadows of his mind To light sprang Vivien's graceless name; wherewith, Such travail of his love-sick thoughts, with throes Of husky utterance, waving arms, and cheeks Red with the haste of passion, came to birth The burden of his blind adulterous hopes. "Vivien! ah, Vivien! Fondling once of hers, "Amidst the butterflies of Arthur's court, "Was he, your king.--Vivien! her eyes--stars, stars, "My liegemen, stars--whose random beams abase "The tempered glances of our dames--her eyes, "Like planet-stars would ever seek for me "As her sole sun: to tell by luminous look, "Excelling orders, princedoms, royalties, "Which whirled around in rainbow-throngs, your king "Within her love's respect." Mark's shrunken form Grew with the fever of his mood: his laugh Metallic, coarse, now owned a softened tune, As Vivien's name had learned it music. "Ah, "Vivien might not of me, nor I of her: "But time will come. Fair ladies, you may smile. "The evening lustre poured from Vivien's eyes "Brightens above our dusk of absence: morn "Near, and to be awakened by those eyes, "Both wait in patience. Ay, my speech is plain. "'Tis told, that Vivien found a leman since, "And wons with him in hoar Broceliande. "Soon be that ended. Many loves your king "May have, whilst lacking her." He paused to hear A little, hidden, quavering, feminine laugh-- As comes the intermittent note of bird From thicket ere its month of song arrives, This mocking trill--and in Mark's pause, its voice, "The queen! the queen!" Mark answered challenge quick, Vociferous, "Queen! Which queen? Of Camelot, "Or this Tintagel? or, one yet to be?" Foul mirth ran round the borders of his court, Whereon, he adds, "'Tis for one's gain at times "To clear the mind: it makes our fellows wise." To other talk Mark turned, with sad conceit His tongue had done good work, and not invoked The fates in altered Belle Isonde. No word She uttered; murmured only in her heart, "He is immured and sigheth unto death!" The worst was now begun. With lengthening speech, The tresses of La Belle Isonde, their bright Heavily deepening into shade, their shades Darkening, informed her bosom, now the lodge Of torments. Mark had slain her loyalty, And tolled the advent of his deadliest fear: Removed the crown from off her heart: disrobed Her thoughts of hallowed passiveness: of queen, Dismantled every august privilege:-- No more of queen for her to grace the throne, Nor on her soul for reverence--nevermore. Shorn of her comeliness, of smiles, she rose Speechless, but, as she passed the door, sounds fell Unconscious from her lips--"Asp of a King!" Shuddering, the court held silence, and its head Paled, cowering as he wot the sudden glaive Gleamed on his last of life. Thenceforth, his queen A soul upon cross-currents of dark thoughts, Which loathed the present, shunned respected right. Mute-wandering ceaselessly, alone, A silent presence, she, within his halls-- Cold, waning in her silence, till arose At midnight, from her ruffled dreams, fierce words With shrilling shrieks, and with the shrieks the flame Of phrensy brake upon her countenance: Her eyes, stabbed at a king within the air: Her hands, tore at its heart: her shrilling tongue Declared the blood, the fury, the content. Nor waiting dawn, king Mark made speed for France, Fearing her phrensy kindling--what, where, who? He knew not: or, her scorpion words had sting, Instant to strike, when, where, or how? he knew not. A shapeless terror, proper chastisement Of dastard souls of cruelty, had cleansed Tintagel of that heart of fraud, its king.
Some six weeks thence, the angered peril past For Belle Isonde, her steps fresh-sought her groves, A queen of sorrow in Tintagel's towers, With sole and solemn rule. Within these weeks Mark had been judged: his first offence and chief Against the spiritual powers: next, wedded pledge Broken with bruited boastfulness by Mark, On which, that pious light Dubricius Pronounced him excommunicate and signed The writing of divorcement, by his king Delayed not from Tintagel. Thus, Isonde, The sundering words of awe made free--gat gain Of freedom with no heart in it.
***There was-- Believe it, hearts of love, even as ye hear-- A brightening of the star of Jupiter Upon the vigil of Epiphany, Sir Tristram's star,--since at his meal that eve His unseen warder spake him kindly. Who, But knows the blessing of the word in season? For Tristram, more was this than lavrock's song On darkling hours which sings the sun's approach. The gentle language of an uncouth voice Brought to his mind his last bright yesterday, Awakened hopes of daylight, with mirage Of glories of the tournament. And soon The angel of his Christian valiance cheered His heart late sorrowful as of the dead Within the sepulchre. He sank in dreams Where fields of noblest guerdon, realms of peace Prosperous in halls and lists gave starry fame To worth in arms: and, clearer than of dreams, Obtained a star more fair than stars of power, A visionary form, in smiles and grace A heavenly womanliness, o'erhung, it seemed, With golden mists as of resplendent hair, Clothed with like radiance.
Less than seven days thence, The dungeoned Tristram knew of nought beside, Than, loosed from chains and the loud cataract's cry, Borne from his hideous hold on kindly arms, Strange freedom claimed him. With that travel soothed, He sank on sleep. Orion rose and fell, Day came, and ruled with lordly light, and passed-- When wakening, lo, he found himself on sea, The star of love lightening the evening hour, The star of love shining above his head: Isonde the Beautiful, his guardian now, As she with woman's guile, in this quick time, Had caused these things to be, and un-queened queen, Guardian, and free from grim Tintagel's walls.
Bluff next morn's wind, but sailors of renown Manned the good ship, so that her prow still kept A forward voyage: and when eve brought calm, Her large full moon revealed the isles, whereby, On lucid waves life-love was born, as born Love's queen, well-known, on azure orient seas Saluted by the hours whose odorous dance Thereon rings through the world to-day--mope, doubt, Or moan, whoever, and how many list. --No time for loitering now. Love's plumes are spread To reach its fairest bowers by northern shores. Swift through the waters, now direct to east The vessel speeding through that night--next day-- And Tristram's old strong life began to flow Responsive to the spring-tide's rising wave, Each moment fledged with song, or song-like talk Of past delights: and while the westering sun Shot crimsoning radiance over all the deeps, On that supremest of emotion's hours-- Tristram grew restless--saw, anew, his joy Of Isonde with its rich original powers Move in the shining mazes of her hair: Light of all light the blossom, in her eye, Whose glamour henceforth through all fate to hold, Till sudden death-mists compassed both their lives. Moulting his sorrows, on a stronger wing His freshened spirit gloried as it rose. Boldness, with deepening dusk--and when the moon Silvered the myriad-wrinkled seas, and far The cliffs of Dovre stood out clear, he drew The master from his place: his spear-hands took The helm, put ship about, and set her head Against the pole-star. Then, wind-favouring night Breathed from the south: before it eager sprang The ship through star-lit hours: next day: next eve-- And when the Great Bear through heavens crystal-bright, Eternal, wheeled above their eyes, the ship Veered, as if witting home, to larboard up Dull Humber's stream--with day-spring touched the land-- Logris was won.
Ere long, these news being brought To Camelot, thence upon the court's desire, Sealed by the ordinance of the Dragon King, Launcelot with haste passed through the land to greet These twain self-banished, yield them royalty Of courtesy: which done, as lovers know, He led them to his famous Joyous Gard. Northwards, by long and pleasant paths he led Isonde and Tristram. Then, approaching near His fair possession's borders, he with sighs Bade both farewell, distrustful that its view, And their large joy in love's estate, might work His passion to excess.
'Twas primrose time: Exhilarating then the pomp of spring, But close in loving intercourse the twain Fare softly onwards, heeding none the tracts Of flowery gold, which skirting either side Lead from their path to fairy lawns wherein Blue breaks of passionate forget-me-not Peer bright as spring's own heavens: unconscious, too, Of Joyous Gard itself, till by the shore Within the sun it rises from the sea Irradiant. Like some broad, voluminous shape Of vapour, which upon an autumn eve Towers in the western skies, with lustre clad Of varying sunset hues up from its base To high aërial battlements, no less Of marvellous and of glorious to their sight The keep of Joyous Gard. Then, unawares,-- As though invisible this lordliest keep Till now--redoubled wonder in them. Hope,-- Sir Tristram won great hope in heart at this, Remembering what the household legends held: That Joyous Gard possessed a conscious life For care of its indwellers: oft at noon Fleeting, at midnight it would re-appear Begirt and crowned with stars, but on the morn Its station lay concealed. He cried in joy, "This truly is the home of love, of us "Expectant. Hid from eyes of enmity, "Hosts in their search discomfited may learn "Love's bowers sequestered lie in keep of air. "Love's choicest home, henceforth it shall be ours."
CHAPTER IV.
Intrusted to the care of Joyous Gard, our song Must linger with the happy exiles here. Brave Joyous Gard! or lands, or keep, or town Be named as Joyous Gard.
*****
Look forth,-- Know Launcelot's province! Seaward, roughly-edged, Range beyond range of black volcanic scars, Thence, westward, verdant undulating lands Stretch to the folding hills and half-way climb Their slopes: within the upper, keener air The moorland's growth, the crags, green combs, grey screes, The tarn, the eagle--here the loneliness Of hills, their terrors, loveliness and glooms.
Three furlongs from the strand, the little town Named Joyous Gard lies in a little dell, Through which the breathings of the sea come fresh Morning and evening. Little town, it looks Up to the Keep, whose station off-shore, east, Some three-score fathoms. Cunning its approach From narrow beach--a frith of pebbles, laid Between the sharp-cut rocks, whence went the way Suddenly shelving towards a sinuous path Hidden at ebb of tide,--access but one, Which found the portals cavernous and dark. Above the sea, the steeps high-climbing clothed With grass, moss, wilding flowers, unto the tall Columnar cliffs, tower-crowned.--Ah, of these towers! Along the gaunt, brown pinnacles a growth Of sparry crags, or unto fancy's eye The blossoming of the brown, gaunt cliffs, along Whose crests it glittered, or beneath the sun, Or during star-lit hours.--Mysterious Keep! One foot within deep waters, one on land, Terrible in its beauty, of more fame Than its haught kindred, lone Tintagel, or Mount of Defence, when billows of the war Rolled in from the Atlantic.
This the work, In happier years of Merlin, august voice Prophetic, from whose accents souls of hope Still trust the Beatific Time to see. This Gard, once named as Dolorous, now of Joy, Was edified by him in nights but seven: A silent, unseen labour of seven nights: Thence holding near affinity with night, Its majesties, its glories, and its powers, Its attributes of peace and mystery. The sea-mists first would gather o'er its towers, Last leave them. At such times, the landsmen cried, "Lo, Joyous Gard hath disappeared once more!"-- "Lo, Joyous Gard floats on our waves again!" But the deceit of absent-mindedness Augmented wonders: as we frequent pass Some scene and see it not--those of the fields In eye-shot of the Keep, on many a day Would reap or delve, come, go, with earth-bent head, Then, some time, looking up,--"Ah, me," would cry. "This be a blessed hour! The Gard of Joy, "Missed this long while, returns to us." Should one, A chance wayfarer, walk that road and vow Before his travels it had been this while, They would embrace the man: with fairy gifts Deem him endowed, and hospitality Enforce with words of worship--simple race, As further we to learn.
Miles twain o'er sea, Out towards the orient, running south and north, A long, low-crested line of reefs stayed off The wind-wrought surges--with nor-easter days, Shattered thereon in cloudlike splendours,--thus, A slumbrous, inner, ocean-lake retained, Peculiar watery province of the Gard,-- Beset with isles, which, here and there a home, Made bright scenes brighter, each with crescent holt Of gracious lady-birch, in autumn time Midst sunlight very bowers of trembling gold. Upon the furthest northern holm, a fane, Conspicuous shrine of spiritual power, Eye, soul of Joyous Gard's humanities, Caught with one glittering point, whilst valleys slept And yet the inland heights were darkness, caught Morn's earliest light shot o'er the eastern seas, As eager for new promise from that east, Well-spring of sacred light.
O, Joyous Keep! O, Royal Gard! O, happy those its charge! Bright spirits are their ministers: for them, Quietly ocean's waves fall and flow, Retire and flow again. If on the sea, Within the storm if any sorrow rang, It reaches not these towers: the tempest's cry Sounds as a murmuring rill, or when the winds Mourn in the beechen groves: all beauteous things Of sea-birth flourish in the tranquil wave, Or moving through the crystal deeps, or far Beneath in clusters grow, a wealth of flowers As earth's flowers do in air.
Once hither come, La Belle Isonde and Tristram, bowers apart Are duly given them: his outlooking west Abroad upon the lands and warder hills: Hers eastward, with the sea lake and its isles, A pleasaunce all her own. O, Joyous Gard, What fervent, dainty times, alive with cheer Of gentle change, which is the salt of life, For these our exiled lovers lingering here. Days grow to weeks: the weeks mature to months-- Which find them still true acolytes of love, Enquiring of its secrets, which would own Elysian birth-right of felicities Robed in dawn-splendours. Then, their wanderings-- Whither? Ah, could we follow them, to learn The life of those meek dwellers in their land, And of its leafy privacies, and what Of grandeur and of awe its mountains hold. These quick delights, with island journeys, kept Love-life in pulse and flame of sense and soul True as the alternation of the tides. Their talk, heart-eloquence upon the lips, Its temper fashioned by each scene, most gay Towards eventime, with fancies rainbow-winged In flight at objects far or near, as framed For their peculiar pleasures. So the months Slid by delectably.--Then martial rouse Brake from a brawling trumpet off the shore, Sounded by squire of Arthur, from whose tongue, Rough as a war-cry, through these northern lands Under the ordinance of the Dragon King A tournament was cried at Lonazep: And with him, warlike as his precept, rode Swart Palomide.
It was a raw, cross day, As now and then will creep from Jutland's dunes, Possess the broad north sea, invade the isles. Mist, like a vast unrisen cloud clung close And hid the wave: the forest-herds, the fields, Homesteads and mountain falls, as of the mist Drank silence, save when wet winds drave across Sharp as the sword of frost, with groans beneath As of the trouble of a soul. Such sounds, Such stillness here, when Odin's knight was led Hither, as he was ever, by Isonde, And took his lodgment in the town--soul-sick And wearying of his weary, forlorn quest, More grieved to learn within such doleful lands Lived Belle Isonde.
"She must draw me unto death;" He thought. "Within this home of trampling clouds "It cannot be otherwise. An if she die, "Death, and the quickest, were most sweet for me." At evening, sea-blown midnight took the town, Sealed hope in darkness, and for his resolve A demon-phantom travelled on the mist,-- To his perdition, held his soul in thrall. "An she must die, I shall die first, and now." Yet held he back his hand: maybe, the morn Less palled with cloud, he might behold the keep Wherein Isonde: the view, it might endear The dagger-thrust. But with the morning came Winds from the hills, and clove the Jutland gloom, Which opening, rolling, closed again, but cleft, Ceaselessly hither, thither, rolled, till day Pierced through the mist-clouds' heavenward heights of gold: Wind, cloud and light, not dallying as at eve Desiring best to minister to joy: But strong, and bright, and swift each strove--whilst men Drew anxious breath as well they wot the fray Of fierce etherial hosts on their behoof For night or liberty of sunshine,--last, Lightness and brightness. Paynim Palomide, Beholding with astonied countenance Mists moving, now revealing, now concealing, The knight divined a new world was being born. When last the life, the Joyous edifice, Flashed various colours o'er the ghostly cliffs, And at their feet the clinging earth showed rich, As void it never was that season's month Of wilding blooms, all floating on a sea, Which held their shadows as a thought of bliss Held in a lover's bosom, Palomide, This mighty and imperial Joyous Gard, Of glorious things of earth most glorious this, Unto his knightly soul: and to his heart, To hold his heart's-hope in her loveliness The fitliest pile.
When Tristram gat report How Upsal's knight was near, in rueful mood Still questing for Isonde, he sped his squire With welcome.--Nay. That essay much too bold. To enter in the lodgment of his foe None may, endued with warrior's wariness. Whereon, the knight of Joyous Gard himself Brings his own welcome. Still, the paynim's voice Wavering, eludes. "Another time, perchance, "An this may be,--not now." To which demur, Replying without sentence, Tristram's eyes Quickened with light of blameless Honour, threw Upon his countenance the strength and shine Of the heart's morning, whilst he gently caught The wanderer's left mid-finger, softly led Forthright to Joyous Gard. Even thus was he, Whom iron scarce might hold, even by a touch, Lightest of any, taken that one way He needs must go by reason of his love For Belle Isonde.
O, marvellous Joyous Gard, For Palomide! The chambers of the keep; Aërial towers; their strength invincible; The sea-domain, its fair innumerous isles, With frequent waving woodlands clothed, more fai Than those which beautify thy native streams-- Were all, as Odin for thy quest bestowed The brightest residence of Himmelberg, That paradise above the crossing swords, Of spirits doughtiest in Valkyrian deeds. O, Joyous Gard! miraculous realm of joy For Palomide! Or, in the morning hunt Ranging the greenwoods: thorough sylvan del Musical as a rebeck from the rills Glinting amongst their shingles--over glades, Green velvet breadths whereon the rings were seen Of fairy revels: joyous travail now For steed, and hound, and man to press right on, Right up the boulder-sprinkled slopes, and last, The game with slackened pace, hard breathed, finds last The roaring, rocky, eagle-haunted gorge Where closed abrupt the chase,--a gainless toil, For mirthful wonder,--nature's mind well shown To give her creatures heritage of peace And stern security from outward harm. --Or, on the homeward way, when he would find, Or seek, drawn by the prompting of Isonde, Beautiful spirit of that rare demesne, Felicities in every opening view; Grace, hiding in the green haunts of the fern; Cool sweetness breathed from mossy water-slips; Beneath the delicate shadows of the woods, Coverts, wherein the elves, preparing soon For dancing frolics pleasing to their queen Cynthia, and court of countless laughing lights: Smooth, shining pools, the water-lilies' home, Seen with her own eyes some few months agone, Large, silver shallops, which returned once more Spring would sail in them.--Or, Sir Tristram's voice Deep-toned and clear, bade pause their steeds, to note The clarion of a torrent from the cliff, Answering its brethren lost in distant caves; Or, mighty stag-horned oak which stood supreme With lordship of seven leagues of pastoral vale; Or, now it was an eagle in high air Majestical, peremptory king, and calm Throned in empyreal sapphire, ruling thence, Proud power predominant, the peaceful bounds Of these fair liberties of Joyous Gard. In every title of the law of peace.
To roam at eve, fulfilled some new delights.-- Gentles, the high noon of the season this, The guardian hills assume their regal pomp,-- Their shoulders, length and depths down to the fields, Robed with imperial purple. Season this, To feel the blamiest blisses of the heights. None lost by them. When sunk the autumn day, Leaving an after-glow on wave and shore, A brightness brightening where day-shadows fell, Found was our company on heather slopes Entranced, mute-gazing at the seaward view. The landskip, sparkling emerald, lay beneath, Netted with silver brooklets from the hills, Sprinkled with lodge and hamlet, each the sign Of home and hospitality; green bowers Unchanged since spring: far-scattered sea-lake isles: The castle's crowning, quivering, diamond gleam Above the calm, clear, interfluent wave Wherein, as beautiful, the upper-world Lay shadowed: and, yet visible, afar, As streamers on the quiet, black-frost night, Restlessly wreathing foam-fringe, opal hues Embosomed in white lustrous clouds:--all this, Brought thoughts, and deep emotions, more than speech Could utter; left a happiness behind Deeper than any gift of loud delight.
Such rovings ended, oft their steps attained By rocky ways one large, round mountain-mere Named Zeemerwater. Well, you wot, a name Of blended tongues; as those who named it felt-- "This water is so excellently fair, "Translucent, still--its virtues shall be known, "Hereafter, threefold-named whenever man "Shall mention it." And virtuous is that truth. O, water! water! water! threefold peace, And loveliness, and crystal light, still thine. Yea, when the dread nor-easter sounds--sole voice Whose anger reached the homes of Joyous Gard Or troubled dwellers in its halcyon years, Never this mountain lake bereft of peace-- A fluctuating silver smile--nor more-- Deranged its passionless tranquillity.
Hereby, those friends at eventime would rest. Tristram lain at the feet of Belle Isonde, Fondling his lyre by that lone mystic mere, Their former joys re-blossomed: Palomide Naught grieved, yea glad, for his own heart allowed The magic of the music, since for him Radiant-winged memories arose--Isonde, Still smiling on him through the lattice-green Within her Irish home. To hear that strain, Flowers by the marge cast off the sleepy dew, Spread wide their petals as they felt fresh day, Yielded their morning incense, stirred their heads As amourous of the kisses of the wind: Then, softly-sailing murmurs told the bees Were on their noontide honied quest.--But, list! Floating athwart the surface of the wave Aërial symphonies--now heard--now gone, When Tristram pauses. On his new-touched string-- A coil of low, sweet harmonies reply As from flower-hidden fountains flowing. Now, Unwinding o'er the waters, hither steal Mixed melodies--more rigorous when the strain Augmenting: rising, falling--climbing high As lark may sing in air,--along the shore Now ranging audibly--and two-fold noise Swept through the music--in the woven tones Were tears and laughter.
Whence these wondrous sounds? Whence?--Echoes from some region o'er the hills, Sore-smitten in one province,--revelry Within its civic borders--all here heard? Or, some invisible city in the air Festival in its groves, its lanes plague-struck-- Its cries and joy-calls heard alike? Or, whence? Asked Isonde and their guest. Whereon, his heart Remembered, and the harper's fingers mute Fell on his knees, as he with sigh relates,-- "Beneath this mere, close-hedged by these its hills, "A city lived, a place of gladsome times, "Envied of demon-powers which sway the clouds. "These, on mid-summer's merriment, the day "Wherefrom the grace of sunshine ne'er removed, "So dear to the ascended Lord of Light-- "The clouds brought hosts west, north, and south, and east. "Though succouring winds drave from the mountain heights, "Sharp-stricken by the arrows of the rain, they fell-- "Hosts of the clouds prevailed, and forty days "Numbered of evil, every day as night, "Darkness, and roar of rain, and tumbling cliffs "Closing the high-roads from the dales.--Thenceforth, "No more the voice of lover or of bride: "Of the new father: or of children's glee; "Of Christian praise; of chimes for even-song, "Or matins.--Only from this town o'er which "The waters keep an endless silver night, "Will issue, answering to my harp's sad soul "Commingling notes of ancient joys and woes, "Or, of themselves upon midsummer's day. "This heard I first within our keep: since then, "Sought by me frequent, to my harping hand "Ever these waters, or the sky above "Have answered: and, as I have known, ye hear, "Who now have token of the elements "And ask the tale." And oft rehearsed that tale. Day's-travels done: the mere attained: the harp Sorcerous, drew spring around,--each listener's heart-- As in the rose-lipped shell we hear its own Melodious memories--each listening heart Acquiring from the mingled sounds its own Harvest of love and pleasure from past years. Then would the old tradition speak once more. Yet why his invocation?--Still the truth For lover as for saint, that happiness Most sweet within the shadow of sorrow and pain. Hovering above the wave these threnodies, Entangled in bright festal songs, woke ruth, Woke piteous ruth, sharpening the sense of joy-- As echoes sad from lands afar, whereon Thought might but briefly brood. For here be none Of trouble, or of dread, or hopes which feed On life,--alone a passive happiness,-- Prime of the best bygone, with dews and light Best future e'er may give, its nourishment. The stars arisen, from Tristram's hand would fall Pathetic silence: symphonies, and moans Subsiding, as the sound of evening bells Borne on the wind away--nor rose again-- But gently sank and died; and last, were heard Voices as if in prayer, upon the hills, Which sent the friends with pensive pilgrim-pace To seek their castled bowers of sleep.
***Seven times, Had ocean duly hymned his orisons Throughout the sacred, greater Morning Hours, With trumpet-voice,--unheard within the keep, So strong the silken toils of slumber held, Strangers to any care, who dwelt therein-- But, now, its walls, in answer to the sun An orient blaze,--now, from the reefs out-rolled Midst dazzling vapours of their spray, the voice Majestical, was heard, to wake the choirs, Rivulets, torrents, birds and quivering leaves, The early ritual in the holy fane, All notes of morning praise--now, heard the voice By busied folk in Joyous Gard, alert For progress unto Lonazep ere noon.
That pleasure-travel over, they arrived, La Belle Isonde, Sir Tristram, Palomide, Damsels and squires, late but not last, to find Logris from all her quarters sent her knights, With chiefest of the Table Round,--and, there, The Dragon King himself. But on the view Of Isonde every fault forgiven, as told The king's heart in sonourous greeting, heard By every knight with new flame in the blood, By dames in mute dismay. The fairest forms Upon her presence were despoiled of grace, And grace of loveliness,--yet each in pride, Or ruth, confessed, from knowledge or report The realm of sun-bright names could name but one Who should excel, or rival--Guinevere,-- Halting mid-way upon her journey hither, Cold, petulant, in Cardoyle's perfumed bowers.
The morning of the gentle tournament Informed what zeal in this twofold emprise Of arms and beauty, now to be adjudged. Well seen, our Logris never has before Completed such a radiant company. On regal seat, o'er-canopied, the King-- Power-president of the Table Round. In form Still stately,--yet, no wavering of that hand, Noblest in Britain's kingly lines, which formed His age for nations to revere: though hope O'erclouded in his eye, his saintly soul, Kept its auroral powers of light: even as, Before the face of battle, now his face Shone beautiful at promise of the jousts. Close by the throne, high o'er the canopy, Heavily hung in drowsy crimson folds The Dragon Standard, yet to throw its flames On this field's valour. Eager was the morn With country swarms, afoot or roughly horsed, From near and far: which loved to see their king, To feel the battle-throes--when fought the knights, An' they without the barriers: curious these-- But those for tourney-raptures longing, shewed Proud in deport, with glittering arms, and plumes Gay-coloured, tossing on the rider's course, And shields of rich recognisance--their squires Bedight as fanciful as maids. And, here, Within the balcon, either side the King, Of fair and dark, of grace and graciousness Such affluence as had left in silent glooms Half the land's lady-bowers, whose martial halls Have maintenance of princes, for these days Of their inheritance of loveliness Defrauded.
Chiefly in attire, this morn, The dames' contention. Vivien held her worth Must overmatch the beauty of Isonde. So seen, and seen but enhance the day, She moved a fragrance breathed from orient bowers Thrown wide beyond her footsteps: gay-beseen, Apparrelled as the meads, white, green, and gold, King cups and daisies, gleaming in the grass, When June's rose-breath o'ertakes the bloom of May,-- Symbolled in golden favours of her knights, Bright silks and pearls,--the subtle witch of taste, In visage and address demeaned herself Confident, gladsome, in her pride, as she Authentic daughter of the diamond keep. As she, so everywhere the balcon's freight, Odours diffused, and with the shine of robes Unparagoned in royal rooms, bewitched Wide o'er the barriers. Women's best gift to men, Joy--from their delicate favours self-bestowed Insensibly in use,--but open guile Scarce less delectable,--although their speech Failed in its music, distance-lost, their eyes Might shower no splendours, to the common folk Outside the lists, the perfumed airs, and hues Of restless vestures told that women's gift Still prospered. Faces fair, with dimpling smiles, Wantoned in tissues of all varied sheen: Those auburn, robed in sombre-shaded silks Withdrawn from Mecca: others dark, arrayed In crimson Sendal: but no place of note Held back its tribute,--gleaming garments sent From the enchanted looms of Provençal: Its lace of gold from Brittanie, as bright As fringe of evening clouds: from pastoral Raines, By maiden hands these lissome vestures woven, Whose web had caught the love-light from their eyes, Vibrating with each motion: but, or dark, Rose-red, or brown, or what apparel chosen, La Belle Isonde excels, though she appear In simple radiance of her native charms, Enrobed in lily-satin: as a star Shone beauty's sceptred hand: and when at length Unwimpling--noon brake full upon the morn, And murmurs from all tongues announce the spell Wrought by the living lustre of her hair And glory of her countenance.
But now, The voice of Lonazep affirms the hour Due for the tourney. Beauty now requires Worship of arms. Knightly confessions made Of ladye-love, the herald's trumpet rang Dressing each lance to rest; and this for death Or honour. Palomide for death.
First seen, First feat was his. Well-skilled, with slanting spear He entered helm and brain. It was the prince Blown oversea from Armorica fell First sacrifice, whereby, the sable knight As earnest of his passion, potency, And deft exploit, this chiefest feat in arms Writ in the laws of chivalry, performed. All done in his obeisance to his queen; A service, in his trust--marked but by one, Since vailed with samite his recognisance, So none might read his heart. Thenceforth, that day No might or craft withstood him. Or the crown, Its lords, the balcon's beauty, knights arraigned For judgment, were as general lookers-on, Marvelling alike, as every thrust and stroke Won worship for the paynim. His the brand Tempered within the secret icy springs Of Nifleheim, inscribed with magic runes, Fulfilled within this tourney: but fulfilling, Hereafter, higher duty, subaltern To Tristram's chivalry of faith. His lance, Won on a summer's noon beside the Ure, From an o'er-boastful baron of the court, So well, so often, had he proven its strength, That, by his gods, he sware, the strong tree's life Lived in that spear, and wroth thus foully rent, Inexorable sought the kind's heart-blood Which shore it from its home. That sword and spear, The lightning, and the thunder, and the death Of battle rendered to the stricken lists. Strength grew with his puissant labour. Knights, All men of proof, the passion of his spear O'erwhelmed or e'er their steeds gat time to fetch Their course upon a second joust: or quelled, Stout though their arms and dazzling, by the swift Edge of that two-edged sword. Thus, when was heard The chime of vespers from a chapel near Sounding to prayers, closing that royal play, The lists in every steel-scourged quarter shewed Ruin of harness, iron, silver, gold, Blood-tarnished havoc, without soul to give Life to the purposes of morn. Ne'er since Those jousts in circuit of the northern king, When Norroy challenged Camelot, and red Ran Trent, ne'er in the loud seven years between, Carnage like this--but named I leave untold Not in despite, but pity, as I leave Those brightest, best of my own years, laid now In nameless sleep.
Yet this puissant worth, Foreseen by jocund Dinadin, who sang His news as combatants rode forth, or fought, Or fell. He noted Palomide at morn Mounting, make search for Belle Isonde, who found, As her laugh rang, he took it to his heart A tuneful answer, and his visage showed Effulgence, as the torse were on his brows-- The stranger's trophy. Dinadin wot well Whence fared with fiery courage Palomide From knowledge of the morn, and these his news-- In winding, rhyming riddle ever sang With burden "'Tis his day, Love: 'tis his day!" The pageant ended, with a railing voice Disguised in dulcet numbers, o'er the lists Sir Dinadin proclaimed, as to defect Of Odin's Knight. "The worship he hath won, "Faith, is begotten of the Queen Isonde! "Isonde in Joyous Gard, no prize had been "Thine, pagan. Queen Isonde, makes this thy day." The mirth hereon, not more than on the beach, Weak-murmuring, sliding back within its wave The latest ripple of the flowing tide, Nor more the sound of mirth,--since Palomide Now knight-of-hearts through valour: but they all Held breath, as he with reverence towards the king Unhelmed, performed his homage to Isonde. "I own the day not mine, great warrior-king. "My service lies where named: through it, I vaunt-- "Heard of the mightiest of thy Table Round-- "I never did so much: nor ever shall "In all life's battle-days: and no knight here "May reach beyond my valiance--and its queen "She hath been named." Sir Launcelot, straight replied, "Ye have done marvellously well these jousts: "How Love has led ye through, I understand: "Well have I known, Love is a goddess great: "For were my lady here, as she is not, "My parlance had not been amongst these dames "But where the spear and sword debate, whereon, "Pray, wit ye well, such worship Palomide "Should not have borne from us." Even so, that day The paynim bore from all, from all received, His due degree.
This weight of honour earned To his despite in fealty to Isonde Pressed hard on Tristram's soul. Day gone, his steps Forsook his bright pavilion, sought the dark For comfort of its cold and silence. Naught, Answered his hot desires: within the air The war-horse neighed, he heard the tourney-spears Ring in attaint, with moans from one defoiled. Asking the stars for peace, he saw in them Immortal memories of sorrow--none Within the twinkling hosts but heart of fire Restless, even as his own in agonies Born of another's glory.
When morn shone For scenes of honour's throes and beauteous birth Of valiance,--discomposed, of clouded face, Thoughts fever-mad, he turned from Lonazep But that Sir Dinadin crossed him. Ever free, From peevish cares, and heart-whole, Dinadin; This was the very spirit for the morn So dark in Tristram. With his dancing eyes, Loud, fluting voice, as one who scorns a foe New-fallen, in utter praise he spake and sang Of Palomide:--Unconquerable in selle; Matchless in knighthood: proven Valkyrian spear: Pure, golden branch of chivalry: O, sword, Surpassing rare Excalibur: swart prince, Outbraving Arthur's Ring, from heathenesse: For bounty, sufferance, largeness, courtesy, Pre-eminent star! "My Tristram! Lion-knight! "Where be his hiding!--Ah, mine eyes have found. "Shy, sighing truant."--Tristram moaned. "Fool-knight, "Silence, fool-knight! A war-worn man you see. "But anguish of the soul since yester-eve, "More than the doughtiest arms, this arm subdues. "I am un-knighted; now, must seek my own. "Far Lyonesse! the martial pilgrim's shoon "Through ways of danger, pain, and penitence "Shall seek thee now. The conscience of my love "Attainted in this land, my pride abates "Flight and desire. But when I shall be known "By the loud breakers at my royal place, "Their boy-loved tones of battle-cheer, perchance, "Will re-awaken knighthood in me. Go." To which Sir Dinadin his whistle blew, Shrill as when falconer shall provoke his bird To higher flight, and for Sir Tristram's ear This sally to his deepening hurt. "Dear lord, "Be such thine orison? A dame of cheer, "Known well to all, hath vowed the soaring lark "Singing, bestows her music of delight, "On which her heart will sing--and this, forsooth, "Because her lord was song. A dame, you deem, "Of foolish cheer. Then, pray her better wit! "Ah, sleep is still within thine eyes; the worse, "Wanting sleep in fair season. O, thou art,-- "Late lion-spear, and lion-sword,--become "A sullen weed beside a stagnant pool: "A peacock parting with its plumes to magpies: "The royal beast that fled with fear to hear "Tromp of his doom in the loud ass's bray?" Black wrath in Tristram had that instant slain The scorner, but his hand unsatisfied Felt at the baldrick where his blade should hang. O'erborne by wrath, devoid of arms, he raised His fist of mail, when Dinadin great in voice, "There--there, the hopeful anger! None of rest, "My new-awakened lord, till passion's powers "Have slaked thy thirst for honour and renown, "And made this day red-bright."
But now there calls The brazen beume; three strenuous blasts, whereon, The Dragon King, princes, dukes, knights, and squires Have dressed themselves unto the tourney-field, Whose golden galleries either side the throne, Ennobled with all beauty of the lands Seen yester-morn, shed airs of Persian groves Athwart the lists, as drew from western woods Soft breezes for their curious messengers.-- Blow, blow ye fragrant breezes! from your bowers Bring hither healing calm for fevered hearts, Else storm of death, forboded by these clouds On Tristram's brow, shall make, O, Lonazep, Thy name a terror from this day.--And she, A sweet child of the dawn, in loveliness Appears to worshipful eyes again, her powers Unworn, wherever seen her countenance, Or heard that harp-toned voice. And Vivien strove-- Enchantments of her grace and elegance Consummate in their virtues wrought, nor failed. Hers, liberal light of smiles--hers, fashioned quaint Carnation raimnet, here and there a star, Emblem of passion and desire attained Suddenly, unexpected--as Ninon Avers most good in loves like hers--nor failed. For Mordred's voice affirmed--that wary bird, Fast kept in Vivien's net--when he beheld The prodigal glory of untempered knights, Surcoat and harness, helm and shield a-blaze With favours, make a garden of the field,-- "This day is Vivien's!"
Other powers, Isonde's: Whose grace for Tristram, fell no more aslant On other knight: but in meridian shone Full on her very Tristram. Heart of Love! O, vehement Honour! Kindled all their fires, Tristram his pageant played so wondrously, The battle-proven Arthur, and his peers, Barons--whose long life-sport had been the wars: Those dames, familiar with the nimblest feats Achieved for empery of their favours; folk, Who always love the roughest shock, and blow The ruddiest and most fell, joined common voice Lauding the Knight of Lyonesse. His course-- Each, every blow, and turn, and thrust--his strength, His long-breathed valour--like were marvelled at. Through that wide-wasting holiday of blood He drave as though the valiance of a realm Intrusted to his shock: smote, as the jousts Were called for him alone: throughout that day His one hand held the torment of deep wounds, Sweet mercy of quick death the other held, His heart, forgiveness on the pleading voice-- Such grace has ever heart of love! That day, Sore-travailled, he nor changed nor brand, nor lance, Nor martial weeds: first to begin was he, He last to end: unresting he, like death The reaper, through the lists went first and last. A piteous field in its high revelry! Or seen the mighty in their agonies, Or those, the flowers of morn--now spread, wan-hued, To beautify these direful jousts. The spear, Approved of Love and Honour, through him smote Recognisant of both; their sword, nor swerved, But struck and striking answered in each blow As to the grave confessing: midst all praise None might appraise his Honour and his Love, None the puissance of that arm elect, Nay, nor its gentle knightliness: its deeds, Attended by acclaim of truthful words, Doubled the deeds Sir Palomide had done. Which great acclaim, woke frenzy in that knight; Perplexity, and sorrow of soul--despair So wild and sightless, as in dreams he hove Apart the tourney: but three times drawn back By fiend begotten of disordered thoughts, Three times had slain Sir Tristram treasonously. Three times o'ermatched his jealousy of hate, By jealousy of love in Launcelot,--once, Spared by the pity in Sir Tristram's spear; Twice, in its pitying sorrow; thrice, forgiven In sorrowing pity by his spear and sword, And vailed from common ken the knight's reproach By Tristram in his honour's courtesy, Which sought some utterance in its knightly speech, Resting upon his last essay. "This time, "Launcelot, in thee puts forth its brightest flower. "Above the lists, our heavens are pure and fair: "So shines thy knightliness of heart on me. "Well is it, when we love. The dust of life "Shines golden,--accident, or strife, or pain "Be golden blessings--or we lose or thrive, "If in the light of love.--But happier far, "Attended by the vigilance of one "Whose love is as this knightly love of thine. "'Tis of the angel-hosts."--But there was snapt His rising speech, as oft his harp when load With note too fine for human ears--for spake, Abrupt, with hurried tremble in his voice, The knight of knights, the knight of Guinevere, First name and disrepute of knightlihood, The knight, whose heart had grown grey before his beard, All, all through Love--with hurried, trembling voice, Launcelot, distraught, remorseful as he heard, Yet dazzled by the glory as he heard Words all too kind, and glory in his soul Kindling thereon, fulfilled in haste of speech, "None may contest thy day. This day is thine, "By the divinity of love, whose faith "We serve. Another day the jousts be mine, "Mine, then, thy present grace--which worthiest, they, "The angel-hosts, may judge. Nearest our king, "I see thy inspiration. Wanting one, "Now hid in Cardoyle's bower,--she claims my heart "In worship. By St. Michael, unto me "The rarest covenant of beauty made "Between earth's dust and immortality, "Is she, thy fair Isonde: well-worth this field "O'erwrought with jeopardy. With this reserve-- "Wanting of one--none in our royal halls "Compare with thy Isonde.--But whose large form "Sweeps like an eagle on the jousts?" This while, As clouds in breaking up, go down the wind On different ways, the folk of all estates Were so departing, but in haste returned When rode a knight from south, as one kept late And yet must keep his pledge.
Entered the lists, Nimbly he drew his rein before the king; Displayed the blazon of his shield--a sword Within a heart. The black indented shield, The sword, the bleeding heart, spake terrible The will of him their bearer. With slow hand, The knight availed and showed his face, a face Full-earnest, but a peach-bloom face: his height And thews of giant brood: but when he spake, Greeting the throne of Arthur, he was known, Scarce more than eunuch-voiced. His name, it fell From Belle Isonde's white, tremulous lips,--the Knight Of Peril,--and it was as winds had caught Her words, so swiftly, widely noised his name. "Good news; good news; great news; to end the day. "Fair Knight of Peril, he will give us news "Of stiffer service than have known these jousts: "An' brave Sir Tristram, he must answer them." But Isonde's fear now gone, as to herself, Her royal kinsfolk heard her murmur thus:-- "Truly, thou art a god of breathing gold "To those within Tintagel: but not that "Shall save thy body from the iron's law "Striving with flesh, and ruling these our days."
Amazement troubled either gate, when seen The Knight of Peril his obeisance make Before the Beautiful, then turn in scorn Whilst to the herald's challenge he confessed, "Vivien!" For three-score heart-beats in the lists Deep silence of surprise, when once again Spoke Peril's Knight, "Here, an' so help me God, "St. Martin, and my ladye! I acquit "My pledge given Cornwall's king,--from France returned, "To Cornwall's joy returned--before seven days "Brought hence shall traitor-Tristram's heart appease, "As naught else may, his sleepless wrath. On Love, "I call--known queenly as I am named, as known "Alike by kings, knights, squires; an' call on them, "Now, to approve my pledge." For Vivien's ear, Mordred aloud,--"Christ's mercy, how the folk "Be tamed! Where, be their eager, hungry shouts "For Tristram? Still the morning's counsel holds "Best for these after-hours: an' holds my faith, "This yet be Vivien's day--sweet Vivien's day!"
Fire sprang from Tristram's eyes as he bade speed Divide the sunshine of the falling noon Between them. Nor, the smiles of Belle Isonde, Nor Arthur's waving hand of grace, assuaged The risen tide of anger, as with tones Learnt from the torrents of the hills, our Knight Of Lyonesse,--"I hear thee call on Love. "Love answers from the dust. Dire Anteros, "Hath claimed thee! Now, to Lonazep hath brought "Tintagel's ribald shame for doom--with laud "Of honour. Of thy kindred, sadly known, "None hold with men of worship: thou, too, known "As light-o'-love, a curse to honest dames:-- "Of thine and thee, that brand--but, now, their brand, "Ever-remembered from this hour to be, "Drawn by this spear. Weakling, you deem, in me "A knight-forewearied by this battailous day, "Of which, due-born of thunder, shall its fame "Run through the confines of these realms. My arm "Upstayed by honour still--but, say thee sooth, "Need none, for yonder smirking squire, this eve "Unlace thy harness." Then, they made their course: So well demeaned--they clashed--and in mid-lists Both spears were burst--yet in his selle each knight Unmoved--composed as they had toyed with straws. Whereon in wrath, as though his word were broke, His lance so breaking, Tristram leaped to ground; "I have no second spear," he hoarsely cried, In drawing of his sword, "Behold this blade! "Though thine the armour of Bordeaux thrice-proven, "Such cunning shall its lightning-edge now wreak, "As folk shall wot the vagaries of thy life "Rehearsed in death--their marvel, and my praise-- "Direct dishonour unto thee." He smote Tintagel's champion, sharp, inscrutable blows-- The poignant sword-light was beheld, nor more, Besides arms falling into hasty ruins. Then, Tristram's supple wrist and subtle play Carved tediously the flesh of Peril's Knight, Morsel by morsel, as to the seventh death For sacrifice: last, with three diverse blows He hewed his body that his heart leaped out, And horror fell on all estates to know Fulfilment of such wrath, on which the king Hand-screened his eyes, and with his right held forth The peace-commanding sceptre. So that day, Crowned by Sir Tristram with red-hilted sword, Its proud degree his own.
What time morn's light, A spring of yellow broom before the rose Flames fuller season, and contrary sprites, Eager for day, or wearying of the dark, These brightest and those saddest, early risen, Cry, "Lo, the day appears!" the Dragon King Walked midst the knights' pavilions, where he heard Sir Tristram's harp, awakened by the dawn. Said he, whilst passing--"That is as the voice Of some rare lady sounding in mine ears." Whereon, the harper, hearing this, bespake His knightly fellow. "Arthur hearkened. Thou, "So hearkening, if of love were thine to hear, "So hearkening, I had said, fair knight, to thee, "My Lady Isonde's voice spake from the strings "When at her matins within Joyous Gard, "The peace of happy sleep still held by prayer "Asleep within her heart. But thou, fair knight, "Hast not love's hearing." Unto which, the man, "An' I may speak, more truly may I speak "Than harped voice. This day, thy Belle Isonde "Shall little gain of peace, and gaining not, "Make this a dolorous day for thee. And this, "Through shallow peace of Joyous Gard."
These jousts, Last, first in fame, at Lonazep, were named The Jewel Tournament; when dames desired, And damsels deemed the time was opportune, To shew their treasures--heirlooms, fulgent spoils Of heathen thrones, offerings through blood and pain, From foreign realms, by knighthood hither borne-- Compacted wealth in gems: and, furthermore, Consecrate to the Table Round, this day. Of this, I name but of the sacred twelve, Who then appeared. The aged Geraint, whose lance Reposed against the throne, since oft that throne In bygone times of dread attained repose, Alone from Geraint's spear; and Caradoc, Of the three faithful lovers of the Ring, An exiled star for long, who now returns From that green burgh, down-sloping to the main, Where ladye-love, most dear, dwells in her halls, To whom not long ere he returns: Owaine, Bewitched with pomp and blazonry of arms Lightest in heart among the warrior-three; With secret Aron, solitary, renowned For artful valour: and, of lute-like tongue, Gilded Gawaine, born on the southern downs Amidst the primrose, and as boy and man His nature wanton, but a heartening spear When fortune at her rudest; crowning all, Gleamed Launcelot's cross of red, and eager-eyed Sir Tristram's argent lion, he himself In silver panoply, to show his cause Pure, single honour. Adversaries fierce For martial meddle, drew to Lonazep, Children of wild repute, their courage known To Arthur's Table: spears from heathenesse, Beyond the four salt floods: from Calydon, Beneath whose lofty, bare-stemmed, bush-topped pines Dwell serpents of the fiend: and knightly blooms, New-sprung since Marhaus, from Ierne's shores With gold-fringed lips, alike for love alert, Or dauntless battle-cry: and swarthy-faced, Their hate devised upon their shields, knights ten From Marches of North Galis: nor had failed The liberties of Richmondshire to send Her company of valour: nor had failed Deira's wolvish lords. For knightly cheer, And to outbrave report of byegone jousts, All shewed as new as Lonazep's first day,-- Knights in the gorgeous housing of their steeds And harness of the war, and carven twain New curiously gilded galleries Contained the dames, whose silent Tournament Of Jewels resounded throught their times as loud As tourney feats--since well it might--that shew Of gem-besprinkled raiment, lustrous gems Kindling upon white fingers, bosoms, arms, Or pendant from the shell-like pale pink ear, Accessory unto other charms,--what charmed Before, now doubly charms--each dame more fair Than on each former day, as beauty here Flourished on valour.
Chief, La Belle Isonde, Enriched with hues known of that earliest spring Beheld by her in Joyous Gard: loose-robed In silken amethyst from hem to throat, Topaz and chrysoprase her gems, of flowers Of souvenance and promise fairest sign And of young greening days,--these in her hair A shining chaplet--those, a beating light Upon her bosom. Vivien in her sport, Showed none of native colours: such, her maid Amidst the rural throngs ordained to wear-- False yellow, whereby lost her gaysome charms Of sun-brown cheeks, those founts of fire, dark eyes, And golden jewels drowned in yellow folds-- Nor worse, nor better, than when amber clouds With evening stars between, their mutual glow Lost in each other: but that fallen star, Vivien, with thought on Tristram still, enrobed In ample sendal of the emerald's sheen, Bedashed with gems of liquid light as dews In morning grass, and of that light there hung A princedom, shining in each ear. Around, Those in the worship of herself, or those In worship of the knight on whom her guiles Were now adventuring, jasper on their brows Figured in circlets of bright flexile gold, Or in the necklace wavering: no attire Amidst the sunny flock, but there beheld Of green of meads and mountains, chrysolite And beryl, sparkling in some quaint device. Others, who angled for themselves, displayed More varied shews, and none bewitching more Than mutable, flying colours, worn by those Unstable in opinion--opals, chief, With faltering hues which never ceased to gleam: Those pledged to knights, well known their firm intent, Those pure, in samite fair, as washed in white Chalcedony attired, with silver bloom Of pearls, as lacking gems: maids, in desire, Marked by their violent colours--many a heart In the hot blaze of garnets told its own Consuming passion: milder loves, wore gems Sea-green, or of the Lydian stone, whose gloom Gave fairer lustre to the fairest fair-- And amethyst, which cheeks of rosy-red Makes lovelier, as the violet lain beside The fragrant maiden's-blush. Those crystal stones, Imperial diamond, reserved shone sole O'er Arthur's brows, and twain from Central Ind, Whose price were empires, cunningly were set Eyes in the Dragon of the Throne.
These shews, I name, aware, nor ever in this realm before, Nor since, so beauty in victorious pride Adorned: fires answering fires, as on the hills The beltane flames, through all the galleries The jewels blazed that day, a light of fame Which beamed through centuries of this realm, nor yet Paled in its colours.
Ere these jousts began, A private word reached Lonazep: therewith, A golden ring, assurance whose the word For Launcelot; whereupon, he called his squire; Armed--sought the tourney--well-surmised by all, Queen Guinevere had made him new of heart. So ere devoir was paid to Belle Isonde, Sir Tristram knew his love must have debate With Launcelot's love, all knew dread time was near When love debateth love. Four hours, the storm Of thunder-hoofs, of martel, spear and sword, With crimson showers of death, raged through the lists. And Table Round held glory in account. No more the heathen number in their hosts That score of martial manhood,--prey of lance Thrust through the gates of endless sleep. How vain, In valour's morn, Ierne's chivalry Shewed blazonry of beauty on its shields, With lightsome war-cry, "Rashness cancels fear!" The dark encounter answers, "Death." The tromp Which sounds the onset is the tromp of doom To savage Calydon, Deiras wolves, And knighthoods from North Galis and the vales Which lie around the Ure.--But not without Their rigorous recompense. Owaine was reached By Gallcoit's northern lance: and Caradoc Gat Irish favour from Prince Gwittart's brand, For which his ladye-love must be his leech, Else his an early burial; with these two, Gilded Gawain's life-stream shines i' the sun, An' so the more his frolic spirit darkens: Whilst Aron hurt by Andegavion's knight, Pleads for the sacrament. Amidst this toil Of tourney-festival, Sir Launcelot won Surpassing honour; Tristram's knightly star Ascending still--his service sadly shewn In noble peers o'erthrown, and praise which rang Louder than martial welcomes. As he went, His yester-noblenesse he crowned with feats Excelling all that day, as did that day Excel the valiance of the opening jousts. Then met the twain; and from the noon-song hour Till nearing time of vespers, these twain held Their joyous meddle. Still within their strength, Although the strength within their blows had been Even as their strength of love: who might prevail None might propose: nor either of those dames, Guinevere nor Isonde, in these their knights Suffered reproach of valour: nor could tongue Diminish aught of glory each attained. These brother-hearts of chivalry, so left, As now attained;--since sable Palomide, Poisoned in soul, disloyally designed Once more, a covert stroke on Tristram's life-- Whereof, espied by Launcelot, stern he bade His knightly brother's sword surcease, and called With voice fired by death's passion. "Son of Lok! "Base pagan! Of the northern serpent born. "Defouled with falseness and a treasonous will, "These lists require thee! I, within the lists! "Assail with thy best courage, or my mail "Sufficeth to repulse thee: with best arms "Defend thee, or my stroke shall cleave thy steel, "An' give thy soul to night. Thy foe, these hours "Hath worship of his valour won beyond "Our martial brotherhood of Camelot. "An' two long, deathly days, thine honour won "So hardly, he hath shorn and made as naught. "Ride forth, avenge its wrong on me--his foe "These jousts: on me, or ere my knightly fere "Exclude my service. Pagan, son of Lok! "Abide my challenge." Whilst Sir Launcelot spake, A breeze arose, and now and then of dust A cloud passed sighing through the tournament, Opening the standard-folds above the king Wherein the Dragon moved.
Sir Tristram claimed This last adventure,--but with change of cheer, The lustre of his armour changed--not morn's But evening's light it shewed--approaching gloom, Leading to shades of stillness, which the eye Of Arthur marked, with anguish in his heart. And when the knight of Odin rode the lists In ebon harness, no applausive noise Rang welcome--silence of eventful change O'ercast the tourney,--on his sable steed, Lord of dark silence rode the pagan knight.
He paused. His urgent spear within its rest Swayed to and fro, as if from playful thoughts. None such were his. That, is the spear of hate! Gentle its motion, yet it yearns for strife, Sealed with dark death's assurance. Now a cloud Surged o'er the barriers: and the eddying dust Hung round the knight, as when is seen that cliff Mist-robed, above the Leeza's reedy marge, Solitary of its mountain-girdled vale, The Pillar named. On mid-October noon So clothed its heights with hoary, tumbling mists, That cliff, reverberate, with its thunder-voice Gives answer to the tempest: such the tone Proceeding from the cloud that clothed the knight. "I here require thee, by thy knighthood's faith, "Bestow my boon!" As message from the breeze That word sprang through the tourney's purlieus,--heard With hard heart-sickness. Otherwise, hath heard The Dragon of the Standard. On the staff The silken folds heave heavily--now seen The Dragon's angered head--now sailing wings Beheld--but spent the breeze, it hides itself Within its former sleepy lair--and, now, Lifting, unfolding, gleaming, high it swirled Above the throne, then with sharp sound shot out Its battle-roaring grandeurs o'er the lists. As menacing clang of sword upon the shield Ere fray begins, Sir Tristram's voice. "What boon, "Is thine to claim?"--"The boon of thine own vow "Besought by Cornwall's queen. I ask thy spear." O, woe, such treasonous wiles, the viper-brood Of Palomide's crossed love! Woe, to our knight, Questioning the message with sore-stricken heart. As one submerged, in losing hold of life His inner eye surveys a tract of years, Their long-lost incidents in shapes and hues, Alive with old significance: so, now, The paynim's speech, a wave of death, shut out As sunk in midnight dark the tourney-scene, And clear before Sir Tristram's inner sight Appeared a time and place late-past--one bower, In Joyous Gard. The noon-tide casement trick't With jasmin sprays--the sunbeams in the room Sundered in stars--that amorous hour now his. He felt the sharp, sweet kisses of the sea; Within his heart the favours of that time, Of love and knightliness,--for Palomide Was there, the guest: and she, the Beautiful Whose voice more soft than ocean's murmurous caves, More musical than chime of Angelus, From its far island fane, to tell the hour Of praise and love--a voice more than its words Sweet as they were; to Tristram's dreamful ear A sound of dear melodious memories,-- Was heard--now silent--now with fervency, Spake suddenly, "To honour this fair time, "Thy graciousness, thy hospitality, "Thy valorous gentleness, good Tristram, yield "Our guest a boon! a loving boon of worth. "The corner stone, the flowery capital, "The heart and beauteous visage of thy faith "Chivalrous, may not lack its worship here. "A boon! a boon!"--"Aught but thyself, my soul." Answers her knight. "What claim'st thou, Palomide?"-- "No boon this hour desires but its own bliss. "When fortune veers and mischance mine, then thou "The imperfections of a troubled will "May help. Or then, the boon, perchance, thy spear." O, mischief hiding in a living wish! O, bounteous spirit, whose joy provides the sting To slay thee, undisguised! The fates now call. That reverenced hour slid by, its fair delight Drunk by each heart as from the chalice of life Its richest wine: and since that reverenced hour To this, nought of its words, which now arose With ghostly call for Tristram's doom.--The scene In sight and sound, lived with him crystal-clear As to the spirit of a drowning man; And Palomide was ware the lion-lance Drooped in surrender for his craven boon,-- The liberal, love-gift boon, made deadly boon-- Which made his time for gain.
He spurred his steed: With "Isonde!" on his lips, he spurred his steed To Tristram's death, whose soul enwrapt in love Played with its lineage of fair joys which bound That hour of Joyous Gard--that hour now here.-- Isonde!--Her name rings music since the morn-- Writ crimson by him through the day--the hour Isonde's! There came the inspiration!--Quick, Answering the hastening of the brazen hoofs, Rising upon his stirrup vehemently, Tristram bestowed his boon.--"Thou hast my spear!" O'erthwart the tournament's blood-sloken space Forthright the spear, which in its passage sang As on a lurid morn, the seven witch-elms Above the pass of norland Atäfors Sing in the storm, or e'er, foredoomed, it smites Field, wood and thorpe within the dales below. Sharp-singing, underneath the Dragon's roar, The spear, midway his course, caught Palomide As with the cumulative strength of all Its green and growing years, by him received As fate's own shaft: nor armour of defence, Nor warding gauntlet's art availed--the shaft Bestowed death's twilight. He down-driven to earth, Not answering to the herald's second call, The haught day's fortune, given as diadem Of Lonazep's three days, was then proclaimed; And these twain martial brethren, as in love In arms, Launcelot and Tristram, these receive The day's degree, the diadem-degree. Even as the praise and wonder of the world Their ladies' beauty: thus, to them assigned Honour of valour, eminent o'er knights And Table Round. But, with his helmet doffed, Launcelot unto the king:--"Of all the knights, "Good king, we number in our honour's guild, "My brother-peer select, the perfect flower. "That grace, I may not here dispute, divide, "Abridge--since, ye may learn it from the folk, "Had not this Palomide disturbed our fray "With infidel guile, on which no sentence more, "Since his the leech's inquest for his harm-- "My royal brother, Knight of Lyonesse, "Sir Tristram, had maintained throughout this day "On me, his jewelled honour. And, therewith, "My soul accords--as gladsome as nine jousts "Her glory, yielding Tristram the degree." Was it the breeze, or came it from her heart That quickening of Belle Isonde's hair, when heard The speech of Launcelot? Straightway, she uprose As to approve his finding, when uprose Rejoicing thunders from the barriers. Not Sir Tristram's valour, nor Sir Launcelot's free, Full-hearted graciousness, but sudden view Of this the lion's inspiration, queen Of chivalry and beauty, brought that joy Thus mightily on the lists. Then, Hesper's lamp Westward, now lightening the grey gates of even, Closing the tourney, all the knightly throng Blew unto lodging, and their diadem-prize And praise were given our peer. And thus was kept The tourney-tryst of Lonazep.
But thoughts More foul than Palomide's: and hearts more smooth-- Though humorous in delight--than Belle Isonde's Or Tristram's: and excelling Launcelot's eyes In searching evil--there were thoughts abroad, And laughing hearts, and eyes of piercing ken, That earnest day.
At opening of the jousts, Sir Dinadin tricked out with dress and paint As grim and grinning gargoyle, lent his mirth Within and out the barriers: oft the gems, Twinkled to note his travestie of sport, Obeisance, pageant, essay: oft their lights Brake into tinkling laughter-rills, whenas, Curt sentence dropt among them acid-sweet With double-ending rhymes. But, now, as eve Lifting within high heaven her star of peace, No singing-tourney prowess might be his, Angered, on Tristram's thrice-approved degree, He poured the venom of the day, more keen Through his unshaken humours; which, thrice-told Nor moved the lion-knight,--he cried,--"You go "To hear the fool-talk, make one in fools'-play. "Go.--Thinking good most evilly, since, unknown "Things with their sober faces,"--"Dinadin! "The bells of Dagonet you have usurped "Throughout this tourney, nor have rung them well. "Too much of fool upon thy tongue. Shall I "Call thee fool-Dinadin? Which were more truth, "Than thy devisings of a courtly throng "Now gathering from the borders of the field "Of death and honour. All day, hast thou been "In trouble as the pot upon the fire, "And, now, ye bubble hot phrase meaningless "In such thy mood."--"List, an' I speak ye calm. "And slow my voice, and clear, to speak proud words "Of burning glory. These twain days, men know, "Thy valour as the valour of seven. Ay, more; "The ghostly memories of our mighty wars "Will perish on the lips, whenever heard "These jousts of Lonazep. But was all glory, "All this day? Mordred,--ye would note,--I trow, "Of many colours were his company "In petticoats. Ye noted. Him I heard, "Hissing his single phrase maleficent, "Of fray in which he hath defect.--'My King, "'Your King, in suffering shame obscure, unnamed, "'Abates not in his general laud and smile. "'Approving best hot revelry in arms, "'He keeps vile lust of blood keen in his Ring. "'Weeds of the carnage his surpassing boast. "'Ah me, how blind men be: none wot he keeps "'The secrecy of monarchs, who have tamed "'The fierce blood of their kindred, and must keep "'The salt taste of the blood full-well provoked "'Within his the belt of valour. Blood!' Dames heard; "An' those who wore their pledges heard.--God's peace, "Adding one to one ye marvelling cry, 'five!' "Forgotten three slides in, an'darkens faith. "Mordred is more than Mark, much more--much less, "Than Vivien. This day, sheen of gems and smiles-- "Around her feet the shades. Sly sorceress! "Mark,--Mordred--other shrouded forms, I see, "(The carrion on her way) who work her wish-- "Dominion. As o'er Merlin, laid in sleep "Beneath the white thorn in Broceliande "Her prey in body and soul--she, o'er these days, "Valiance and blaze of lauds of Lonazep "A death-cloud permanent, as death o'er life, "O'er pride and puissance of Logris.--Knight! "May sleepers in the sepulchre awake "Before the judgment tromp? An' be it so: "Her little, little laugh shall stir the dust "Above her face-cloth, when these faded realms "Be truly heathenized. Last, for myself. "The present has its own.--Go, priests to church; "Knights to repair their hurt, or some to seek "Opinion of the dames,--fool-Dinadin, "One happy hour secures for every day,-- "Less than man's hope, somewhat above his worth, "Thinks he, yet ever finds, as now he goes "Assured again of choicest meats and drinks-- "Or cloud, or shine, fool-Dinadin, to dine."
******
But here, sweet gentles, pause. The sun, you see, Bestows wide glories on eve's gathering clouds: With ministry of beauty, prophecies, As known from ancient Palestine, as writ Within our Book of Life, not clouds, but morn Fair, shall ascend upon our slumbers. So, This holding true, we end the golden tale Of Joyous Gard, of Palomide, his worth, His consecration, ere again our flowers Their loveliness and incense both withdrawn, Or shines within the dusk, that one sole star Of Love, of lovers all approved their star.
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have experience of many forms of meditation and practices for self improvement
including: Transcendental meditation (TM) 12 years, Kriya Yoga 9 years, Sushila
Buddhi Dharma (SUBUD) 7 years, and more recently the Sedona Method and the
Course in Miracles.
The Energy Enhancement programme encapsulates and expands all of these systems,
it is complete and no questions are left unanswered."
Energy
Enhancement Meditation LEVEL 1 Immortality - Activate the Antahkarana! Gain
Infinite Energy from the Chakras above the Head - Power UP!! Open Your Third
Eye, Gain Super Samadhi Kundalini Alchemical VITRIOL Energy. Ground All Negative
Energies. Access Quantum Immortality
Energy
Enhancement Meditation LEVEL 2 - The Energy Enhancement Seven Step Process to Totally
Remove Energy Blockages, Totally Remove All
Problems, Totally Remove Negative Emotions, Heal Your DNA, Remove your Karma -
OPEN YOUR LIFE!!
Energy
Enhancement Meditation LEVEL 3 - Eliminate even Deeper Energy Blockages - The
Removal of Strategies. Quantum Integration. The Karma Cleaning Process to
Totally Eliminate All Your Karma, all your Trauma, all your Energy Blockages
from All your Past Lifetimes!!
Energy
Enhancement Meditation LEVEL 4 - Stop the Suck!! Heal All your Relationships!! Find Your
Twin Flame!! MASTER ENERGY CONNECTIONS AND
RELATIONSHIPS
