In the Volume OF PALOMIDE, the author has chosen Bamborough Castle, Northumberland, as the best authenticated site of the Keep of Joyous Gard and the country up to the Cheviots as its Province. To this he had adhered in the following pages. Upon the arrival in Logris, from Cornwall, of La Belle Isonde and Sir Tristram (after King Mark's flight to France) they were led to Joyous Gard by Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and the present portion of Arthurian story opens with the return of La Belle Isonde, Sir Tristram and Palomide, after the jousts of Lonazep.
PROEM. Named of a star, sweet Esther! take thy seat, There, as last eve, beneath these showers of gold, Laburnum's bloom, and, midst thy vernal court, Command conclusion of the knightly tale. The spear-thrust, and the sword-light, and the storm Of onset--dash, and clang of arms, and death, Known in our song. But, patience, gentles, all. Sweet gentles of our grove, keep patience still! For scenes of gentle joyaunce shall beguile, When entered Joyous Gard, once clothed with hues As of a dream of poësy--a dream Of peaceful beauteousness--and listening leave Mistrust and cares to colder minds, or learn Your own in other hearts, the tread of fate Sounding through lives divine; for these, of truth, Are notes preluding, all too sadly near, The swan-song of the Table Round. Rejoice! In all your patience, entering Joyous Gard. Rejoice! The blissful hours--midst those of gloom And mingled miseries, few as we know And disproportioned to the events of life-- Rejoice! when known their kindred anywhere; But now, sequestrate in lone Joyous Gard, Rejoice, more largely.--Yes, I now begin.-- Yet, in our story, judging from yourselves Of any weakness, on it be bestowed Approval from the soul of charity; Forgiving, purifying, with intent To yield the myrrh and frankincense where due, With happier circumstance of light. Rejoice! In patience, gentles, ere song claims the tear.
I. Proud Lonazep's high feast-days following tourney, Its royal week fulfilled, and Joyous Gard Found of Sir Tristram and Isonde, with them Associate, curious each to learn the Gard's Dominions,--Ector, Gareth, Bleoberis, Dinadin--mirthful Censor of the Ring; And he, King Arthur's friend, war-proof; and he, Sir Gareth, fresh from glory of his quest For skittish, brown Lynette; with Ector fair Of fancy, face, and soul, his clear device One star of gold, with words, "For Happiness, One star is all we need:" and in their rear, Ever rode Palomide, unasked, unlured, But captive of Sir Tristram's kindness, felt The Gard could not reject him.
Pity, give; Great pity, yield we, errant Palomide, Woe-worn and unregenerate knight, distraught By love, enmeshed in wiles:--Ah, yet, no more Distraught than shields which bore the Rood, as knew, Crossed, chastened, haggard in Tintagel times, The Lion-knight himself.
Brave, ringing days Of chase and disport, as their knightly wits Could best in lusty idleness devise, Disordered keep, dominions, town--and then, Sweet quietude. Which, said of Joyous Gard, Sir Launcelot's fair possession, given this while To these our lovers flown from Cornwall's lands, Is to name quietude unknown to haunt By river set, or midst the heathy hills, Or valley green where blooms the asphodel, Now that those fiery spirits, warrior-guests, Withdrawn to Camelot.
Nay, only four. The Knight of Odin here remains, unasked And unbeguiled, except through Love's own guile Through which we all are self-beguiled, and caught, Or, confident in Tristram's kindly heart. Forsooth, of kindliest heart, Belle Isonde's peer; For when she chode the pagan for his shame-- That stain of honour, done at Lonazep-- Tristram so loveably forgave all wrong Done or designed, his Queen declined her head, Nor answered. "Hardest matters," said he, "these To lovers, since fidelity belongs But to the angels unfallen. We hold but this, Our chivalry imbound by faith in Christ, Contrition cancels sin!" Indeed, no knight Sorrowed more greatly, in a hapless love More grievously enthralled, more madly toiled; None, in such utter ghastliness of soul Through fell remorse, as he their guest. And, now, When come the morrow he must leave the bounds Of Joyous Gard, delirious partings ne'er Shook the soul's temple, as with Palomide. For, now, in silence on the sea he looks, With inquisition of each several isle: And, now, with moans half-stilled, he eyes the land As questing for the rills and mossy ways Known of their later roamings, fixed at length Far up those shadowy mountain-heights, whereby Lay mystic Zeemerwater, which bestowed Last eve's delights: and, now, his lady's hand He kissed, and wetted with his bright, warm tears: And, now, it was Sir Tristram he embraced With thick heart-throbs his corslet might not hide. Thus parted he, for once and aye. Nay, noon Finds him returning--next morn, he would go. Morn waited for the noon, noon for its eve, Eve, spring of day. Tarrying, he vowed to part,-- Departing, rode a circle of green lanes Which led him back: noon's greeting came as sure As "farewell" at the dawn: he vowed, re-vowed, Promised, undid, as wont of love debarred. It was great joy to stay. "My heart doth sing:" Said he, new-vowed, departure new-postponed, "Sings sweet as saga in a marriage room:" Yet was there deadliest dolour in his joy.
Thus wayward weeks passed by, till none gave heed His meek inconstancy; all, heedless seemed, Considerate of his travail. But, within, Were ceaseless fightings, and the mastery lay With grief, whereby his soul grew sere, his frame Despoiled of manhood's graces. Thus, to go Worked torment, and to stay none less, as known When in a silver-bright, brake-girdled spring, His startled eyes beheld a countenance Wasted and wan--the former Palomide Had vanished. Hereupon, with wailing tone He sang his ruthful pains to this sad worst. His plainings hovered over Isonde's name, As autumn's bee above the heather bloom. The heart she brake, pronounced her virtues, grace, Beauty, compassion. Loving-kind, was she Who so forbore the presence of this worn, Gaunt, tearful, smileless pagan. Hard thereby, Sir Tristram riding near the river's marge, Seeking fresh sport, across the brake was ware This weeping song: drew near: and angered learnt The purport of those sorrowings by the spring. Impetuously he burst the thicket-screen, Laid hands of fury on their guest, with words Fierce as the stroke of swords; whereon, he gat Answer as Love can give, when speak it must, Although such speech be death. "Fair Knight, I shall Acquit me in the way ye least desire. La Belle Isonde, once wife of Mark, and Queen Of Cornwall, nor long since: divorced from Mark May be, by law, by spiritual powers, but ne'er Divorced from Love's respect. By grace of Love, That star of Erin's royal maidenhood Shines ever golden in my Knighthood's heart, Which she makes Joyous Gard for me. I love La Belle Isonde! I love her, as ye wit, Above all other ladies of the world; Love her, though it befall me through such love-- That hap of many knights--to die for her. Yet her sweet grace, well is it worth my life, Since it hath been best life in life to me. Isonde, the fountain, centre, hope, and rest Of all my worship, as best life in life May claim my life. Without her, I had been The simplest squire that ever strove for spurs; But she in my remembrance--well, ye know The frequent times my spear hath given her name To victory--chief, in those heroic lists Of Lonazep's first day, when never knight Withstood my onset.
"Have respect of one Whose manhood's years, as by a snap of frost Smitten, decline--through love. I lack no faith. Hope may, resurgent, bring fresh hours of green; St. Brita's summer in my heart may bring Season more precious than the month of rose. But wrinkles of despondency, now mine. No bounty have I had, naught of reward From Belle Isonde: nor have I in these days. No treason lies in this my love, ye wit, Since love is free to all. First known, last know-- Your lady I have loved: do love: whereby, She is my lady, even as she is thine. Then, have I not, my brother, wrong of you? For you rejoice her: such grace never mine, Nor never like to be. Yet neither scorn, Nor weariness, nor waters, wastes, nor time Remove me from La Belle Isonde. My fate To love her--love her to the uttermost, And to my end of days, as well as ye."
But Palomide departed, gave no gain; Nay, took the gain of pleasure in the land From Tristram's mind. Unconquered soul of love, A glory in his ruin, Palomide, Was errant, faithful in that enterprise, Keen-questing after wrong; whilst, Tristram here, Love-bound from Honour's strife.
Then, marvel none, War's passion warm, though languid in his blood, Rebelled, when now the spring gave birth to hopes, Desires, love-fancies, as it haps the man, Or, woman's leaning. In Sir Tristram's arm, Tumultuous yearnings,--none to be assuaged But by the blood of evil, riotous then Within some vineyard, where God's righteous rule Late thriving. Thus, the gloomed Knight has no ear For Isonde's pretty heart-conceits: apart, Walks restless--no regard in eye or speech. Leading to haunts, endeared by times of mirth, She hoped some scene, some incident, perchance, Or impulse, might the pains of phantasy Hasten to utterance, and, that travail past, She could dispute the birthright of his thought.
Vainly. In shade, or sun, or bower, still gloomed His temper in the shadows of evil cast From southern homes. Then Isonde, grown heart-strong For such event--one eve, with merriest voice She blithely, brightly, swiftly sped. O, she, Now empress of herself--hard thing to do, Made gay of "Go, my Love!" and sped him forth. "You must begone, sweet lord. No tarrying, Haste! Thy purpose as the night--calm, clear--fulfilled; Then, haste thee back. These shining, peopled heavens Wait on thy quest. Ah, me, but one lone star Is mine. But that one star, Love's very own, Ascending now. Note it each eve, my soul! Not tarrying here: no tarrying, whilst farewell Sits sorrowing waiting welcome--not until That star of Hesper on the edge of morn Change nature with departure. Faithful heart! Faithful, unto that token come again." "Heart of my heart!" he answered, "Now, I know All conquest is for thee. My Honour's theme, Art thou; and in my apprehension, single, Pure and chivalrous, Isonde's love, my quest-- However named that be, in challenged fields, Or gossip of the halls."
Straightway he left. When day called from the deep, his silver arms Glistened upon the hill remote which slopes To Logris. In these arms, by Belle Isonde Arrayed, in memory of the olden times Of Erin, he subdued by marsh and weald, In murderous ways and forests, beasts and men Monstrous in kind: within the homely dales Gave counsel from the Holy Word: gave boon Of song which sweetened toils and death: abroad, Spread law for highroad and the household: those Known of the Table Round, he holped in need Spear-stricken of the pagans--e'er, for those Changed darkened fortunes into bright--then, turned Towards Joyous Gard, star-timed, to seek her bowers.
Here saddens Isonde for her absent Knight: Yet, hither, wends the Knight of Love, the Light Of Honour; he whose lone lamenting harp Companion of her love whene'er her mood Is loneliest. Now, in this her loneliness Awaiting--fluttering, sweet, strange, varying notes Glide through the strings, as kindling to the breeze, Whereon, she hums the ballad-- "O, he comes, He comes! His step is near." He, over hill, By scaur, thick woods, by ford and valley, rides Carolling to his armour's clink that strain Of golden-tongued Lolod, the roundelay Sung at high feast in Carduel's lily halls Ever at Pentecost, of early wars When Arthur won his empire. Now he reached The ragged coast, approached the glittering hold, Yet knew not of its place; so bright the force Of day-dream to obscure the natural sight. Sharp turning on the pebbly frith, a way Well known, his steed awoke him--he beheld That massy growth of rocks, their breadths of wall, Their unassailable, resplendent towers,-- "O, magical, O, blessed Gard," he cried: "The beauteous marvel of an evil world!" Then was his heart ensnared by other thoughts. Along the secret sea-path wending,--lo, The white flower at yon lofty lattice waves; Waves wildly in the higher breeze. No flower, No flower! The kerchief of La Belle Isonde Shines welcome. Well he knows it: lifts his helm: And, now, the cavern-portals of the Gard Receive him, welcome.
Often thus it happed. When felt the fang of hunger for the war: Whene'er his spirit heard dark places call, Cheerily for the south he brake away; Varying in venture of his chivalry, He failed not, leaving songs of gospel-peace Which held in roughest homes the hearts for truth And loving-kindness in melodious leash-- And cheerily came back. For him, delight In search, in trial, and return--return, Advised within the music of the harp. When seen by him the curtseying branches, heard Approaching welcomes faring on the breeze From children's voices, instruments between, And notes above the gleemen's sylvan tones Resounding from proud martial tongues, for him Then finest joy. And yet, 'twere hard to say, Which dearest--wounding or the healing--which, The passionate rapture of the assailing spear, Or Joyous Gard's affectionate repose.
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O Joyous Gard! once more thy flowery lands Are ours: and would that we could linger here, Now here returned. Fair Keep of Joyous Gard! Thy battlements as built of gems and gold Sparkling, with double joy we hail, returned.
II.
Patience, each gentle of our grove, for here Be scenes of gentle joyaunce. Gentles, more! Give the heart's rarest sweetness to a tale, Too near that full-voiced strain, which must be sung, The last of glory for the Sacred Ring. Hither, shall hide another royal love, But with beleaguering hosts: and with the hosts Consuming suffering; so, the cordial Keep Be Dolorous Gard, again. Revolt on ruin, Roaring, with storms of fire, and sword, and blood, Follow from here to Camlan's tristful field.
But, now, Isonde, and Tristram, in this Keep,-- Mysterious in its beauty and dark powers, A dazzling glory, and a hold of might, This Joyous Gard, queen of the northern seas, Girdled by emerald waters, clear and calm, With realm of golden isles, and liberties Inland, far-stretching to safe-guarding hills-- Herein, our lovers,--blissful terms are theirs. The distant reefs, with flying clouds of foam Radiant at day-dawn, are unknown of eyes Emparadised, where softer fragrance falls, And fairer lights illume than at this prime, So deep, so sweet, so long its slumber won From yester-joys: and noon-tide hath its groves, Its woodlands, sought when morning's sylvan sports Close with the ardent hours: cool, silver eve, Delight dwells in her name, and lovers love Her silence and her sweetness--O, then, here Fivefold delight environs this meek time: And night--the azure and the passionate night-- Hath stars, which gaze to learn if lovers hold The ecstasies ordained--all of Isonde And Tristram found, with raptures duly told, As on the glowing rosary of love, When came the sacred night. O, Gard! apart The mischief-making, mischief-shaken world, The brattling, sore, heart-breaking world: O, Gard! O, Joyous Gard! sequestered shrine of love: Thou flowery guerdon for a knightly life; O, Joyous Gard! love and the valiant heart Are thine: O, love, sequestrate in thy bowers Well knows its valiance!--Might this last their lives, Life far too brief, with gift of patriarch years And all life's fires enkindled.
Yet, ere long, Sir Tristram yearned to largely breathe again Sharp air inspiriting of knightlihood, And back he fared. The wildness of farewell, Which whelmed Isonde, and left her as a corse Whose resurrection bided his return, Presaged strange doom: but, conscience in his spear, Christ in his heart, and strenuous in his hope To find where fraudful, violent evil raged, Or hid in ambush off the royal roads, Repress it, cleanse the dens and shades, make straight The ways of righteous law, establish peace-- Right forth he fared.
But when the moon made good The circle of her radiance, Joyous Gard Was ware a knight had crossed the sea-way crowned With field-flowers, with his brand ensheathed in green, Its hilt enlaced with briony, his lance Wreathed with ambrosial leaves and topaz blooms. To Belle Isonde, quick questioning, his reply, Gentle, melodious as a river-fall At time of evensong, thus to her heart. "Thy Tristram went to conquer: he returns The conquered one. Of Joyous Gard, no coast But he hath ranged, and longer as he ranged More fast-bound he. Isonde! all thou shalt know. This must be Love's inheritance, its first And fairest, or, may be, its holiest, last, Secured retreat: which shall be known of us By hill and stream, forests and lawns, or hid, In yonder glittering isles: and, still more fair, The pious innocence of those who breathe Beneath our skies,--but thou shalt know, my Love! Know every whit." Then, Isonde took these robes Of azure blue, worn when his magic harp Allured the princess to his couch of pain; That argent drapery, he,--which once attired His knightliness within her father's halls-- But bade his squire remain to cleanse his arms, Dew-stained on his late journeys. Isonde, then, With wondering accents, "I shall forth with thee. Ask not, I go. Forbid, yet go I will, For thou hast said. But this uncertain quest Requires thy spear: quick dangers lurk in smiles; Worst hurts are hidden near the quiet way."-- "My spear shall rest amongst its leaves and flowers. The trust begotten shall not fail in me." But Isonde, spirit-darkened, as her lord Bewrayed by sorcery worse than that which won Dishonoured doom amidst Armida's groves, Wept long. Last, born in brightness from her tears, One thought, and, spirit-lightened--"Then, thy harp! Than its dominion, none of lance or sword So absolute." He answered. "And my harp Shall sing within thy casement to the wind-- Tuneful, apprising dwellers here, how we Amidst our pleasant pathways fare.--My harp! The goodness dwelling in the evilest soul Oft gave thee worship, when we two alone Fought fiery dangers. In her casement rest, Who best hath loved thee; while with her I search Where goodness of the good and evilest soul Lives permanent--as yonder mountain peaks Enduring clouds and vapours, rain and snow, Yea, storms of thunder, yet abide the same, Glorious in intercourse with sun and stars, Unswerving in their purple blooms what time The harvest-songs arise--faithful and fair, Beyond the reach of wrath and tears.--But forth, And know it of thyself, my soul! There wait More marvels than of Zeemerwater's lake Throughout our progress."
As they roved by thorp, Field, glade, or forest, folk beheld in them Angels of day, of England's sweetest heaven, Calm blue and clouds of silver. Everywhere, Surprised they found expectant faces greet them. Before the welcome, voices bade them tarry. And they were no man's charge. Each hamlet's heart, A central lodge, which in the nearer spring Greened round with shrubs, within the summer time Glowing with rose, and named the Stranger's Home, Stood ready on their ways. This was, in sooth, The high court of each village: only here, Plain varlets of the cot gave note of sense Of beauteous luxury. The golden ewer With milk fresh brought: the consecrated loaves On jewelled dish; the varied, rich repast, Were instant, without question of their faith, Their people, or intent. Thus, on their paths, With sunset this wayfarer's harbourage Failed never, nor its hospitalities; And often musical in welcome joy Its bowers--with rushes green already strewn-- Later, for needful rest to be o'erlaid With satin as of primrose gold. Even thus, Or as they rode, or tarried, nights and days, All prospered.
It was on their earliest rest, Our Knight, alone, soft-pacing near a lea, Beheld a hind, and strong within him rose Fresh cravings for the hunt. Waiting a spear, He gazed, and deemed the creature beautiful Above all creatures he had seen. It shone White as the spurging of the sea; her neck A chaplet circled, woven of blooms and leaves And beaded jewels: and the chaplet-blooms Faded and flowered--renewed again, they fell, Reviving brighter, and her jewels gleamed With driving splendours. When his lance was brought He marked the varlet gave it with a smile-- He knew not which--of scorn or doubtfulness; Therefore, he laid it down, and towards the hind, Stole with a fowler's step; the grazing hind Nor nearer seemed for his approach; he ran, The hind leaped gently as to seek its herd-- No further, and no nearer, was the hind, For Tristram's fleetness or its gentle pace. The swiftest horse was called: she patient cropped The closest knot of grass; the Lion-knight Used the spur hotly,--she with sportive speed Sprang as to reach her layer: in fleet pursuit, Amazed, the rider followed--last, a chasm Received the hind, nor was she seen again. When told his tale next day with pictured phrase For village wonder, good folk shook the head, "Ah, that sweet hind is EARTH'S FELICITY. When sought she flies, and comes when undesired." Nor Tristram well had ended, ere the hind Drew near most suddenly. She laid her head Close on his bosom, and the chaplet's leaves Murmuring threw odours o'er his countenance, And on it, from the jewels all the lights Seen ever shrined in gems, a dazzling gleam, So he an angel seemed. Then, Tristram felt A painful rapture of strange joyfulness, And lifted hand to stroke the hind in joy, When it withdrew: and as he rose, the hind Entered a thicket: so was lost: and folk Turned from Sir Tristram: shook their heads again, Mournfully whispering: "Thus it ever is With EARTH'S FELICITY!"
The roving pair Dwelt as within appointed residence Where'er their place, nor ever failed the view Of social weal, and faith wherein reposed The land's habitual peace.
The kindly soul Of these dominions held the dues of life Common to all: knew not of change in spirit By separation on, or under, earth. The wanderers noted, never any fane But one appointed green recess lay close, For those asleep in Christ. A palpable haunt Of living unity. Some came alone,-- As to a sacred assignation, when No questioning eyes were near; but sunset's hour Witnessed the household groups, reclining there On new-strewn rushes, mingling in their talk Past, future, present, with a joy serene. And in each Trysting Place of Life were shewn The treasuries of memories and hope, Flowering in beauty--bright on every grave. May we be so beloved when we are gone.
Flowers had their other intimations, too, Midst Joyous Gard's amenities. Distinct Their language as of written characters. The maiden pinned them on her kirtle--then, Her saucy spirit spoke,-- "None sick am I, For love or lover!" But, within her tress Place one spray blossom, thereby guessed the thorp Where her heart's hope was placed: if on her breast White flowers of favour, then the nuptial day Drew near. When come, O, white, O, rapturous dawn! A second morn of life, by them revered: Huts, meadows, hills, and streams, the heavens themselves Rejoiced upon it.
But day and every day Was musical, as duty had been joy; The pastoral labours led the dwellers forth With choral songs: song charmed the industrious hours, And evening's homeward march resounded glee, Answering the sky-lark's airy vesper hymn. Before were faintly seen the timorous stars, Through eve's last veil of light, oft were beheld The folding clouds above the western peaks Uprisen, and interspace of sky; these drew Their gaze, who breathed the calm Arcadian air, Towards this disclosure of a glittering realm Within heaven's empires; whereupon, they looked, O, with such eyes, such mirth of heart, such tongues Of happy wonder. Clearly were descried Empyrean hills, towns, groves of golden palms Waving by jasper seas--high over all, Cope of effulgence, as were earth's mid-day By sun sixfold the summer strength of ours Illumed. Thus gazing, frequent sudden phrase Snapt evening's stillness: with their upward looks Upon that radiant scene, the uplifted soul, Bright in the eye, would burn upon the lips Brightly long-lingering. Was there, now, not seen The very Kingdom where their father's bode, And their inheritance? Thus, one would point Where clustering palaces hung over plains Verdant as spring-time meads, and rulers name, Feared or renowned, residing there: and some, Claimed hamlets, scattered and recluse in vales, Loaden with shining harvests; other some, By silver winding waters found a cot, The home of household loves late lost to earth. So, till the high celestial pageant vanished. Then to those homes their own, with softened song, They turned, nor failed within their dreams to find The habitations of the just, wherein With greatest, best beloved, or best desired, Known by report or known within their lives, Sojourning until morn. The sight, the dreams Inwoven with their days, made joy of hope Their daily food, as wayside talk would show.
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When sought, four weeks o'erpast, their sea-girt towers, If change was there, no loss was there by change. The garland-daisies, large, foam-white, still culled For bridal-chaplets--this no change: if change, As when their steeds, being fetlock-deep in brine Paced heavily from the shore, the roaming Knight To Belle Isonde, "What be those flowery rays New-blooming o'er our rocky doors?" With smile She answering, "Stars of Bethlehem, my heart!"-- Such change were gain. As felt her Lion-knight When murmuring, "Ever this fair province barred From the four judgments of the Lord. More grace Than grace of Love it owns, since everywhere Symbols of gospel peace, to soothe the soul With due remembrance." Spirit-bound in peace Through summer's months of light he strayed and strayed In old loved ways, for ever new, with her His Beautiful, with her his perfect own: Together strayed, with old love ever new, Isonde and Tristram. Needs, then, no surprise, When seen the Rose of Sharon starred the steeps Beneath the castle's crystal walls, Isonde With pleading, hopeful eyes, "Here shall we live Ne'er to remove. Within these pleasant bounds No strife calls on thee; Love around us, Love Alone asks service. Tristram! Rove no more;" He might not answer, for he felt within These words were good; words not to be gainsaid By martial phrases, nor hot-brained desires For noisy fame, mastery in arms, or sway Of kingship. Thus, he gladly tarried still, Love-lured, in wandering bliss at Joyous Gard.
The winter came. Then, on the breezy brows Of distant hills, as for their sole delight, The mists would gambol: sprites of ether, coy At near approach of man, and still transformed Persistently lest they be too well known; The snow, the frost, showed on the lofty ridge, In branches, intertwined of dazzling bowers, In wreaths o'ertopping trees--the silenced rill, Glistening in moonshine--in the frozen meres For winter sports--the beauty that has care For darkest season, and, sublimest sight, They saw, with feelings as unseen before, That punctual constellation on his march, Orion. Ocean-risen, he strode the deeps Eternal; on the frosty night so near, In starry mail so terrible, nor less Appeared than monarch of the innumerous hosts Reviewed thus nightly. Tristram tarried still. The long night of the year--St. Thomas'--past, The days with lengthening light shone o'er the earth Exulting. But mid-Lent saw winter's months Wax wearisome. Whereon, he spake with one, The patriarch of the church, a hoary man, Blue-eyed, fair-skinned as youth, and soft of speech, The father of whose grandsire had report From one far-travelled who had seen the Christ, Yea, seen the Christ. And, as the sight had been Miraculous, it was held from sire to son A holy thing, which made them holy men, Lineage of one acquaint, in very truth, With one whose eyes had seen the Christ. To him, Sullen Sir Tristram, "Father, you should know The monthly signs. May these chill barren days Not soon have end?" "I wot the signs, my son, Now fourscore years and five. Then, I was young, But those young times still mine, when first I wot The signs now wot of. I have felt the breath Over the sea this morn, sweet, mellow and sweet. And on our inland waters, since an hour, One little hour, and I beheld the pearl. And clouds which sought our Cheviot when the night O' th' year was darkest, and at Christ-mass tide Went, but crept back, the mellow-breathing sea Melted them. Look! They are not. Nay, not flown, But melted by the breathing o' the sea. Its breathing brought the pearl upon the mere, Dissolved the clouds. See! where that form of light, The mountain rill, descends with silver step; Long hidden--now, full clear, and musical. Good signs be these. Wait, gentle Knight, but wait To-morrow's morn. These five-and-eighty year, The purposes divine have never erred, Nor can they now. That is thy token sure. All eyes may read. Sour days come, yet--but few. Wait, wait! thyself shalt read it plain. Of flowers The golden star, the first joy of the year, Which shines before our winter-days are gone, Or e'er the crocus breaks its pale green sheath, Primrose or daffodil in sheltered dene, Or skylark brings its music for thy love; That flower of grace abounds with us, and brings Her message with to-morrow's morn. My son Shall see it, and his heart have peace."
As told, So was fulfilled the promise; open bank, Hedge-rows, and mountain-rifts with living gold, And base of the great Keep, this firstling flower Made gorgeous.
Thus, that hopeful sight appeased, Subjected, laid in calm his feverous heart. But what, when tedious wind-cold times by-past? Winter is gone. Spring follows. On the white Succeeds the green. What, in these springing hours? Grass of the field: leaves in the woodlands; light Between grey silver clouds; the warbling becks From mountain-ways, and runnels in the meads, Springing, ever, everywhere. Spur to all hopes, This spring! What of aspiring thought? Isonde Has burden of love-fancies; Tristram's arm, Tumultuous yearnings--none to be assuaged But by the blood of evil, riotous now Within some vineyard of the Lord, where rule Of righteousness and peace had thriven of yore.
*****
By Zeemerwater, be ye sure, they sate Upon the first auspicious eve,--the hills Distinct within the crystal atmosphere, And tranquil as upon mid-day of June. This bright tranquillity, disturbed alone By plaining of the plover on the moors, Now and again, entranced, and even their mood Deepened the natural stillness. Tristram's harp, And he, alike, were silent: silent both, Master and harp: and silent, Belle Isonde: In silence near a verdant hillock sate Intent both lord and lady on a stir But new-begun by shore and o'er the mere. Good time had brought the swallows, and this eve, Their first upon their blithe return. They flew In their home-coming glee, from marge to marge, Thither and back, thither and back again, Close to the lucid, motionless wave--above, Incessant flight of glossy blue-black wings,-- Beneath, incessant flight of silver breasts. "Happy the swallows, seeking this our lodge." The soft eve's stillness undisturbed, so soft Her low-breathed accents: but the Lion-knight Loud answered,-- "Ay, the birds of heaven, wot well Their mission. They leave ocean-severed shores, Prescient to find. Ah, me! yet man, proud soul, Divinity of dust, tricks his best sense, Juggles with reason, as fastidious The best to know from better--enterprise, Such while, being guerdon unto weakly arms, Honour gilds other names." The fretful words, For Isonde had a bodeful tone. Each left The mere in silence. Ever, as was heard The plaining of the plover on the moors, It seemed the voice of her lost hopes to her The Beautiful. Yet with his words she strove To reckon hourly; took him to his sport, Roused riotous cheer within the forest, brought Its rarest prey within his range. In vain. The falcon dozed unheeded on his wrist; The music of the hounds unheard--past dame And knight, and squire, and flight of wings, his eye Made search for something far from Joyous Gard. He listened ghostly sounds from fields remote, Loud calling for retributory knight To quell the raging wrongs; his spirit burned For meed of honour midst conflicting spears. Thenceforth, a strong imagination held Possession of his soul, imperative, Insufferable, as message of the spring. Spring's strengthening sun, was as the royal eye Of his great Dragon King, watching the land, Finding him derelict: each vernal morn, Earlier uprising with more angered hues, Each noon grown fiercer. His forsaken Queen, Heart-sorrowing, one more sleepless night o'er past, Felt her dark way to climb the circling stairs Which reached the castle's eastward tower--and, here As carved in stone, his garment in the wind Of morning blown unheeded, Tristram stood Wide-staring at the opening of the day. She touched him, yet he moved not; then she spake, Nor gat reply. Wide-staring, not to her, But suddenly, as to a form in air Or other self within him, half remorse And half despair, with husky, shattered voice Not heard before. "God's witness risen again! Faithful to restoration of the earth, Once more his radiant spear of ministry Hath struck the heart of darkness. Night is dead. But night within me holds my spear from night Investing Arthur's long-forgotten lands." His Queen held bitter ruth without a tear, And wreathed around his neck her shining arms, Whispering, "Away!" Then, silver clear, "Away, My heart's lord! lord of Honour! ever liege To noblest thoughts. Go quickly. When Love bids Seek Joyous Gard again. I have but Love Which lives in thee." "The angel of my doom," Cried Tristram, "now hath given me grace." Whereon, He bent his head, upon her lips bestowed Long exiled kisses, with a smile more bright To Isonde than the day-spring, or all flowers New-wakened to its blessing. Ere came noon, She saw him dash along the common way Adventurous to the south, hastening his horse, Nor with one backward glance. "Woe me," she sighed, "The heart of man is not as woman's heart. The frays of life his need, as his desire. Hope, action, then repose, o'er which the star Of hope beams welcoming to fair new fields. Action--repose--the star--'tis triumph all-- The varied life--but what our life and hope, Unless our boon the pleasure of our lords?"
Seeking her bower, that day she waited there In woman's patience, as for some event Of promise. Twilight's fragrant hour being come, She called for Tristram's harp. This, Brengwain brought: Placed it within her lattice, chance the breeze As from the master's subtle touch, might bring Past loving thought to her remembrance. Yea, The softest strings were moved,--thoughts came--and tears-- Which drowned the parting kisses on her lips, Living in sweetness there till then. Sweet tears, Made doubly sweet; the lonely spirit drank Deep comfort from these tears. La Belle Isonde Was comforted; for hers, a faithful lord: Foremost in valiance; valiant, faithful, he Would come again, or glory in his plume, Or borne within his shield--or hurt, or whole, Would bring his glory and his harm, her hands, Her voice, might soothe or praise. "My second soul, Brengwain!" she cried; "how sinful in our griefs We lovers." Hearkening, Isonde paused as notes Changed in the wires: from sailing fancies these Wafted her thoughts to harbour of an old Tintagel evening-time: fire from her lips In passionate flashing phrase burned in the ears Of Brengwain. Catching hard her maiden's hand, "This sweet perdition, I were loth to lose Though now I lost my love. Brave times were ours Joy-blossoming to the full: o'erflown with light From the new moon, until the large begat Love-day of night: the volume of the year, Leaves of its minutes, every whit inscribed With Love's dear scriptures. In our grief we sin Most deeply; for, 'tis clear, the blossoming times Begat this term of Joyous Gard--these times, Even in their radiant blessed flight, evince Love's immortality. We have been here With loves undulled by absence, or defame, Or harsh opposing fortune. Mother of Christ! Be praised, for this forgiveness of our sin In grieving. Yet, methinks, Brengwain, the grief Of love hath never with its fire or smoke Seared or smirched thee." Quick-answering with a smile, Brengwain, "Dear Queen! Communion of sweet love, Thorough or liberal, never has been mine. Only the houselling cloth to catch the crumbs And sacred fragments of love's joys, of which, In better favour, those like thee, know well The fulness and the ecstasy." "My maid, I say thee, nay: for I have proved, ere now, Thy knowledge of love's ways." "Of that, too much: I have had lovers three, and all are gone; And each of them through love of me, some say. Yes, I can name the place, and squire. The first, Guerinus, in thy father's hall: he loved, He said, me: an folk say, he died. The time? The very hour, Sir Tristram's harp had oped The postern door, and drew thee to his lodge. Thou may'st recall it; from our sleep that night, A bird awoke us with wild storms of song. Alway, for years, 'twas with me, so that folk Called it my bird. Then, Knight of Peril's boy, The gentliest spirit in Tintagel--but,-- Arthur has said it, Love may not be bound. I have known most of straits that chasten love; Pains, trials, tears--but, somehow, all passed by Unharming. Passable, this love, methought: But, somehow, Urian died: an, then, there came Two birds: of richest plumage, as we see Glancing within the tourmaline, its hues. Last, Camelot. Bedveer was a winsome squire; But Dinadin had there my fantasy. He crossed my peace of heart, but gave it back With sickness at his games, when Lonazep Clothed honour with its glories; for a man Shall be a pretty fool, but not a fool Too much, or he fools fancy from his grace. With all the ladies' laughter, I too, laughed, To know him fallen from my bosom's throne Sheer, irredeemable, to those dark depths Of scorn, which, close beneath the throne of love, Lie for a woman's safety. But enough Of that old pain. One dashed my peace, awhile, An, so, a trouble at my heart, awhile. If Bedveer felt it--why, 'tis nature's way; No fault of mine. He passed; there came," she raised A boastful finger towards the sky--"three birds! To haunt my life, with rarest voice. You think, Spirits of lovers be these birds: so said, By most. I care not guess. An for a fault, Fault none of mine. It was thy Tristram's harp Slew these my lovers, since each heard in it, Parleying with thee, some dearer lover's voice,-- So sank--so rose--and in these spirit-birds, Thy harp's voice sang. But neither one, nor all, When lovers were alive, gave me of Love Its full communion, like thy happy lot. I have the jest, the flying kiss, the gift, The promise--'tis gay to promise--these are crumbs, Poor crumbs, which fall at thy high feast of love." "I have no queenship o'er thy tongue, pert maid. Thou, aye, art merriest when I sorrow most. Where are thy birds?" "There's my just sorrow, Queen. For since we entered bounds of Joyous Gard Never one heard or seen." "An this thy tale? Not worth its words: my mood is still unchanged." "But though my birds be gone, note that thy words, Assume no darkening queenship o'er my thoughts. Never hath grief set crow's-feet by mine eyes; Nor hast thou known in me, for any loss The shadow of black samite thrown o'erthwart My speech or visage." "Thine, indeed, the dower Of pure and simple happiness, not high Nor low, but equable as May-dawn's light Fraught with a daily blessing. Mine the extremes. Even now my heavenly hope and strong, feels tears, Hours of still patience."
Nor of less than truth, Her words. No loved one then, her knight away, But treasured with a fine idolatry The helm, or spear, of her beloved, or shield, Or tabard, or his shoon with golden clasps. Isonde had Tristram's harp. This she arrayed In colours manifold as she might see Flash round the islets, midst the shallows sleep, Or glancing through the waters: and her eye Watched it, as one will watch the face adored. Thus, during day. With eve, her trembling hands, As touching something to her lonely heart Too precious, in her casement placed the harp. Throughout the dusking hours, and far within The star-lit night, whene'er the cold sea-breeze Was busied in the strings, with listening ear And soul she would divine its noise. Perchance, To harbinger home-coming, spake that strain, Or ring his welfare--anyhow, it died And left paled beauty with her patient tears.
***** Her Knight of the inviolate spear, wrought out Three worthy quests, of which their fame still rings An undertone in household stories; quaint, Disguised, distorted, stretched beyond belief-- For ages have their jealousies, and never In hot inventions wanting--fateful strength, Their pride and poverty. The doughty deeds Ancestral, much too true to be gainsaid, Transmuted into fables of the hearth, Extravagant flourish to plain history, Magnify recent greatness. Give to lies The majesties of dread antiquity! Make heroes, marvels! for not worth it, now, Disturb the glozings of the later times. Ne'erless, these quests of Tristram, know ye well, In all the glorious cycle of the deeds Of Arthur and his Knights, worthiest were these.
Whatever won by spear, a mournful time Wore slowly by in Joyous Gard. Isonde, He midst war's labours, sorrowed by his harp, Closed in her bower, nor of the night or day Took any counsel. Three weeks, morning winds Scouring the shores of Jutland, over-sea Brought mists and fretting rains, which dull and chill, Saddened the heart forsaken: now a morn, Morning of light, brake from the unveiled heavens; Joy of the heart aroused the silent land. But Isonde, what time Brengwain on her couch Combed her long golden hair, and song-voiced said, "My Queen, has cheer of heart to-day; her hair Springs to my fingers, and gay, glancing lights Flirt through the shadows," Isonde no reply Vouchsafed her maiden. Widowed of her Love She kept its vigils, and, high noon being come, Heavily leaning upon Brengwain's arm, The eastward farewell-tower she sought: nor yet Spake she her maid, but sighed in bitterness. When Brengwain, sighing too, "O, lack-a-day! Sharp, sobbing winds again. Methinks, 'tis plain, That lovers' eyes and lovers' sighs make more Love, than the rhyme tells. O, contrarious world. Love pines, yet grows." "So once 'twas whispered me: An I wit where, an when, by whom. Ay, ay, Love's simplest words--heart's gospel of a truth-- O'er faith and passions keep the golden seat Within the halls of memory. Brengwain, list. Again, to my soul's longing--list, the lark Above yon field. Of all the birds be mine The homely, heavenly lark. He sings by love, Or singeth not: love gives him wing and song, To which spring flowrets open. I was called The Beautiful, when one there was who sang And soared above me. Beauty! 'tis a plume: But lacks of song. Ah me, he singing soared High in heaven's light, and as a crimson flower My heart would open, and as silver rain Drink his full music. O, what joy divine Held those old hours, for me! What his--the bird's, On singing wings of love, nearing the sun-- What joys were his! And yet his myrtle breath Told me in language sweeter than his song, His joy of joys to nestle by my side. Ah, sighing fancies, Brengwain, trouble still, But I'll no more." "Angling again, sweet Queen! But will, or no will: say you not, or say: Love's instant comes to all. Whatever hues Or shapes in the embroidery of your talk, Little things please, and sudden give delight-- And o'er them all the primacy of love, To keep, or sparsely give, or yield entire. So, thou art not thyself: nor is this mood Thine own. And when Love orders otherwise, Thou wilt be very that; the instant's child: Its very child of Love. So Love ordains."
Upon the hour of Angelus--the sea, Whose shining noon of sleep the mountain breeze Shook into diamond dimples, now the sun, Descending on the hills, effulgent calm Poured over steep and lands, so, now the sea Clear mirror for the evening star--Isonde Gazed from her lattice, in her breast no calm, Nor strife of hopeful thoughts; her spirit's grief, Within her heavy, dull, encumbering hair, Declined from all its prime and life of morn, Too surely shown.
A watery tract, due south, Owned of a high-cliffed cove, the Dolphin's Nest Well named--since there oft seen at close of day, As now were seen, their natural gambollings In sparkling foam-breaks blent with iris hues. These watched she mournful, with the magic harp Close by her side; not speaking peace to her, Although its soft, slow, Lydian harmonies For her content, had made all others gay On hearing them. But note! there comes no breeze-- Rigid as sculptured image Belle Isonde, Her dew-cold cheek upon her hand--but stir Is in her tresses: from their fillet slipped, And fluctuating in the evening light Long-lingering--golden now, then dark--in change, Shadowing and gleaming, troubles they foretell Of pleasures in approach: quick, she intent On varying warble in the strings. A voice High sounding martial carols: clink of steel: The charger's nimble thunder-steps, pursued, Distraught the even music. "Praise to thee, Meek Mother of our Christ! Now yield my soul Strength in these weakest moments. Duly kept Great Love's canonical hours," wept Belle Isonde: "Prayers, lauds, humility and tears, found me Thy child obedient. Mother! hold my heart, Now that the sanctus-chimes of ecstasy Abrupt o'ertake thy child. Brengwain!" she cried, "My lord! your lord! my peerless knight! my own! Next to my God, divinity and love-- He comes." And never presage from that harp Misled. Before his radiance in the shades Augmented, and from eastern deeps his lamp Led forth the large round moon, bright Hesperus Sparkled on Tristram's casque beneath the towers Of Joyous Gard. *****
III.
A month storm struck, the city of the King, Compassed with clouds, lit by their lightnings, shook By intermittent thunders, Camelot, Felt night of fate on Logris. Arthur held Daily his council with the Table Round: But oracles of spear and hope sate there, Silent upon the gathering doom. Last, cried That dragon-voice, known not in earth or sky Save from the King in his extremity, Whereon, till these days of storm and gloom, Lions, became his sinking knights, and swift Fury from faintness, victory from dismay, "Launcelot hath fled in sickness: half my Ring Be questing after echo of a name; Our every siege is desolate, save some, And these be knights of court, of song, of love, Not of the steadfast war; the Pagan rides Full-fed with blood and rapine through our lands, And my own hurt, deep, where the heart receives All of its earthly strength, and that betrayed,-- Woe, to us men, that our divinity Suffers upon such visitations--quick, As from the godhead we descend to dust. My single valour fails. Be there not one Inheritor in soul of my best days, To tell the throne, the good of past still lives, To thwart the Pagan, of rebellion stay Its treasonous tide; that this, the land of Christ, Christ his own trust, shall still support my choice, And shake the gates of hell. Ye, hear my voice, Answer!" But answer none, save from each siege Vacant, his voice gave answer of his words, Like a weird echo from the mountain caves Of Cumbria, when the autumn day is dim, Air still, streams hushed, and dwellers in the dales Depressed from lack of light, and burdening mists. This was the time, when Launcelot soul-perplexed, Eclipsed in mid-most noon of his wild love For Guinevere, sharp-stricken into dark, Fled from the court and strayed a savage man. Wrath was in Arthur's words. The Ring disturbed, Dissolved, to wait seven days before despair Usurped their patience. God might send, perchance, Auxiliar to the sunshine which must come Favour of armed help.
That day was peace-- Brightest above the Ocean Pleasaunce: then, Tristram partook his largest rest. His harp, Long while, within the casement, as they sate, Our lovers in repose in Isonde's bower, Rejoiced their hearts; and Tristram, thick in voice, Had spoken, ending thus, "In all my pains Each thorn has had its rose; but this the day, Flower of the times of Joyous Gard, which springs Surely from perils manifold, and foul, Unspeakable, on my late quest; such root In suffering have our joys: and, now, methinks, This day-flower blown and withered, we must hold Fast to our pleasure's life, thy hand with mine Love-leagued, intent on gentliest ways, so thwart Opposing fate." A marvellous stillness fell On the harp's seven-fold strings, still tremulous To the low-breathing breeze. Anon, they hear Miraculous carol, winging over-sea; Far, far away, yet sounding as beneath The lattice eaves; now high in heaven, yet clear As on the lattice ledge; a song of bird All of all song of birds that on the spray Warble at eve and morn, or in the bush, When summer-fragrant, through the darkness sing, Or hovering o'er the grassy field. They knew The harp was mute, and heard the song. Brengwain Was ware, in bower beneath, the harp was mute, And knew the song, and cried in joy, "My bird! O Lover-birds, which of your spirits now, From Ireland comes, or Camelot, who loved My younger year? But welcome any one. O, faëry bird! O, wingèd soul of Love! O, hither to me, hither; let me hear The parable within thy wings. Woe, me, In dread of hurt, my bird of love comes not." Advised by Brengwain's accents, Tristram rose And strook his harp. As unto music, strings Of instrument will answer music, came Unto the harper's song the bird and perched-- A feathered flame of flickering hues, as tame To hand and tongue--on the harp's golden crest, To make the bower a shrine of song and fire Impetuous, delirious. Eye and ear O'erwrought, Isonde sank, as from ecstasy Of love or sorrow. Towards the friendly bird The Knight stretched forth his hand--two eagle's wings, Outspread--two plumes of flame--one shrilling note, Dread as the heart of battle--and no bird, No flame, no song. Upon the floor there lay A missive, as of thunder born, which claimed The Lion-knight.
Seven days, thereafter, sate For last resolve, in clouded pomp, the King With Table Round in council. Arthur's heart Resigned in his despair, cried, "My one speech! Launcelot fled in his sickness: no help comes: Go find me Tristram! He wots well a man Must make himself a bridge, to make him chief." A proud voice smote the silence of the hall: In every empty siege rang clashing swords, And every knight leaped up as newly dubbed Christ's warrior: Tristram answers! "Here be I. The ancient oracle of Lyonesse Finds me, her Knight, as ever, spear and bridge." Then, Arthur questioned, "Wilt thou aid our throne, Our faith, our throne's estate?" "'Neath sun and stars, In watches on the weald, by shore, on sea, With arms, or prayers, or song, until returns My brother Launcelot, or unto the death. Behold!" And Tristram held his hand aloft; And Arthur cried aloud, "He gives his oath!" Then Tristram led forth knights, and squires, with bands Of yeomen--eagles, lions, serpents--strong, Swift, subtle--virtues fresh-imbreathed, and clad Gaily as if for love-quest; and the day, As fortune-changed, victorious golden showers Dispensed, of light descending bountiful. Two years, from eastern to the western coast, Up through the length of Logris, he the main Held of the Table Round, of valiance, light, Honour, each splendour won for it afore By Launcelot and the Dragon King. Such deeds Adventurous, dreadless, desperate from the spear Of aid-in-need, and sword of Pagan-dread, Clanged through these years, they were of highest fame In the Pendragon era; all bygone, But ushered, like to shades of heathen feats, The morning of this virtuous valiance. Never wide Logris, ere those years, or since, In cleanliness of law and peace so shone. This was the very halcyon time, foretold When Arthur's golden baby-fingers played Within the hoar of Merlin's locks, when one, A diademed maiden, paced from Camelot Companionless, by outlying loneliest ways, Through city and by thorp, at dusk and dawn Unto her northern island-halls--there came Unharmed, unquestioned, unreproached, alone.
Our chronicles in England's ancient tongue Set forth, that Tristram on Midsummer's day In this his final, royallest Logrian quest, Encountered one of lean and sinewy frame, Strong-jointed, one whose visage told he fared In soul more hardly than in three-score fights-- The frenzied Palomide; who, lance in rest, Or e'er he charged, cried, "Tristram of the Gard Joyous! best joy be thine. I, from my soul, Bless thee, although I strike. Since last thy hand Gave hospitable grace to mine--whereon Odin reproved me--gracious Hand of Light Hath overshadowed me from Breidalblick-- Balder's--from whose fair faith was drawn thy Christ's. And silver May, and roses of thy June, In thicket and in by-ways of the woods, For me have blown their fragrance, and my spear Hath sped on quests of love alone--such grace Balder bestows, though I none less forlorn; Which makes me bless thee, Tristram. This day mine; Thine, too. I shall go back to Joyous Gard, Its chambers in lament for loss of thee, But more rejoicing in the sun-god's knight, Who brings its pleasures to the flower from tears-- From tears and dust of dolour. Both are blest: Since thou shalt be my conquest, and, thereby, Death shall approve thee perfect knight. Isonde! Isonde! Isonde!" That word; then, their career. Each gave attaint, naming the Beautiful! Isonde!--What powers of air now countervail That name, its influent virtues? Both demeaned Their course so ill, not any knight of youth In Logris had achieved such meed of shame. Their steeds from errant bridles swerved, each spear Struck wide, and had not war-horned hands been theirs Defiled in dust had lain as well as foiled. Each at the other gazed aghast, nor spake. Some moments. Then, the pagan, spear in rest, Voice charged with madness,-- "By great Balder's glance! Whence women beautiful, and cowards brave; By his bright shining voice! heard in my soul, To hasten doom; by his divinity! Who highest stands to-day on Himmelberg, Heaven's hill of endless summer; by his glance, And utterance! this his own career approved, Shall, quickly, have his own victorious meed. Divinity in arms as well as peace! He subjects thee, and Christian, to his faith." The Knight of Upsal's golden dome drave hard, Met by Sir Tristram in mid-course; the attaint, Well-given, direct, full-forced, both men of proof Were swept from horse. Mounting, dark Palomide Breathed heavily, as of the heat o'erborne, Or thoughts of awe and wonder. "Now, my god! Patron-prophetic of new light to come, Thyself earth's Greatest Light, O help thy son, Thou Greatest Light for men! unless appears The Light Divine, indeed--the Light no veil Of flesh could bear. But no, first, fairest god! None may usurp thy beauteous powers: no more, Than in mid-winter--when thyself wast slain, Balder! to rise beyond the verge of spring-- One Light, in dead mid-winter, should appear Refulgent beyond spring, or summer's prime, Summer within the soul, high summer more Than summer of heaven's hills. No, God of smiles! Of sanctity, and might! in thee, by things Immutable, I swear, to make this course Thine own. Death to that other faith. Now, aid Thy son! Thine inspiration in mine arm Unto the zeal of hate, quick in my spear, Quickly responds."
On this attaint his lance, As in the noontide shone a shaft of gold; Its point shot arrowy beams, which backward sprang, Clothing his helm with radiance of seven suns. And Tristram's lance nor failed, struck home; but fierce, So fierce the glory and the fury, both Unhorsed, lay earth on earth. Sir Tristram kept That spear-sleep two long hours: awakening, then The pagan where he fell, lay earth on earth, Still, as deep-drunken of the draught of death. And through that night, that soft midsummer's night, Sorrowing he sate, for solace of his woes Harping beside the spear-struck Palomide; Sorrowing unto his harp to lose one lost In love. And, lo! as rose the sun, the eyes Of Palomide opened, and amazed he spake:-- "Large comfort in the house of death, my soul Gained to attend thy music. Now, new light Making new day, I see! and likewise know My sun-god entered now the road of Night Leading to Death in deep mid-winter. List, There, as before! methought, as, then, thine harp Played, that its music sprang, or music woke In heaven. Ah, such soul-healing harmonies: Earth's voices silent, she, transported heard Angels in their ethereal choirs, and song Wherein a name divine--that of thy Christ!-- Spake the soul's everlasting peace."
To this, Tristram astound, as hearing dead lips speak, Could make no answer; and to charm those tears, Which knightly hearts must yield to knightly woe, He bade the pagan rise and prove his sword: So, forthwith, end their valour's play. But this, Refused with high, majestic voice, restored Palomide, as again avowed his love For Belle Isonde, and what the worship he Had gotten by her. "Now, since death may come, As from her hands, through thee her favoured peer, I take the doom. Blest be thy stroke which brings Deep night to me: for day without her grace Is worse than dark, and death's dark with its peace Most gracious gift, from thy hand as from hers. Strike, noblest brother of hall or tourney, strike! There--I unlace my corslet--strike!--And why This gentleness? that tear? Nay, by thy faith! Thou conquerest better than with arms of steel. Upon my waking sense now comes my dream-- Frost, and bright snow, the constellated spheres; In them, the music, and the angel-song Which smites earth's serpent-sorrow. Now, no more Her children lack their comfort: now, no more Our souls know winter-death: but winter deep Contains of heavenly joy the living spring. Thy gentleness!--O, thou of sweetest voice And sentence, with the utterance of thy harp Making one music, magical as notes Blown from the vernal heights when broke the east Through Asgard's bowers, thy Queen disclaims my love; Make it thine own! And, now, the sacrifice, The victory, and the dedication, here Shall be complete. I have foregone my hope: My hope but not my love; on that, no more; I here renounce my heathen heart: from hence, That of the Cross be mine."
When nine days spent, Recovering from the ardours of the fight, Together for King Arthur's court they rode. Upon their way, so high the pagan felt The new ascension of his spirit, that nought Might now delay such sacred rites required To enclose him in Christ's fold. Thus, Palomide Bowed at the feet of Cardoyle's suffragan, The solemn blessing of the water heard, And known the sprinkling of the holy dew, Upon his soul arose the Light Divine From sacrament of baptism, and the man Became of Christ, and evermore was Christ's.
Mighty the noise of joy at Camelot, To learn the gain of Faith. Once more, had bloomed The rose of chivalry--to win the soul For Christ. Here, seen one of those iron hearts, Whereby upheld the ritual and the shrines, Golden on Upsal's plain, arrayed in weeds Novitiate. Noise of sportive joys rang round The halls and homes and fields of Camelot, Mightily, on this gain of Christ's white Faith. Here, four calm weeks knight-royal Tristram stayed, Until accomplished in their order due, Within the quarters of the moon, those rites, The church's discipline and secret cell, By Palomide: who, then, at morn received-- Bathed all the chancel with the virgin light New-risen in east--so, purely he received The housell from Dubricius' holy hands; Now, of the church of Christ made one--as one, Evermore, of his Christ, was Palomide.
Then, to his service Tristram; leaving there, Detained till next year's jousts at Pentecost, The convert knight, who, such time, made acquaint Of court, of courtly ways, and of that bond, Kept in the Table Round, to keep the flame Divine of purpose in the spirit quick, Bright, serviceable for all needs. His heart Marvelled to learn the cycle of the year Was consecrate through every month and day: Noted with various mood and various rite, The church, upon the numbers of man's life Its own emblazoned clear. Most at Christ's-mass, His marvel; in the deep dead-winter set The living lamp of fervent righteousness, Unto whose season looked the festival Dedicate to St. Michael and his host The angels: with a heart elate he hailed Felicitous Epiphany: but shared The spiritual gloom which overcame the Court Through saddened Lent, till, with rejoicing lauds, Sunday of Golden Palms rose bright to greet The church triumphant--sorrowing thence, awhile, Till agony divine made Golgotha Dark in the day-shine; sorrowing but this while, For soon the psalms of victory ascend, The Grave destroyed, Death quelled, and made the spring Of Life Eternal--thence, the fair time led To Pentecost.
This, now drawn nigh; from hall-- Where held in talk with Guinevere, her friend Vivien, the sparkle of whose eye bewrayed The flock of love she leagued with; Mordred--he, Rarely within the Court or sun's light seen, But lurking in outlying bowers, or slunk In council-chamber shadows--Palomide, Called thence by mandate of the King, first saw Accomplished every apostolic seat Of Arthur's Table Round: and rising tiers, Wherein sat kings, earls, princes, barons and knights, Seven score and ten, and in the Dragon-throne Arthur himself, august, supreme in peace; Within our bosoms still a light and hope; And over him his shield emblazed with powers And glories, thirteen golden crowns, with words, "More crowns, more virtues."
Gentleness and power, Such ne'er so crowned before in east or west, Nor since, wherever risen or fallen the state, Or stands the empire: as o'er Brimham's heights, Where, like some city's skeleton, the rocks Lie ranged, upon their central eminence One proudly peers, of balance all so fine A babe's hand stirs it, but ten mailed men Of no more strength to move, so is he moved By kindness, unremoved by fear or force. Painfully breathed the faith's new Knight to view The sight magnifical, beyond desire Or dreams for earth, or for his warrior's heaven, Foregone. And as he gazed deep silence lay On all the sieges of the Table Round, Attending Arthur's voice, which closed a strain Of stately, heart-strong, slow, religious speech, Filling the previous hour.
"We fight the fight We may not hope to win. Hope, not less ours: For with our hallowed arms we may deter Invading evil, nay, decrease the bands Co-operate against our Lord the Christ. Honour enough in heathen times to be Preparers of the way." As Arthur spake, In chastened tones these humble words and strong, A murmurous wonder sprang throughout the Ring-- For, lo, with crown celestial, Arthur crowned. They saw the rarest of all holy sights; In mid-air, o'er his head, of crimson hues The thrice-woven mystic sign, presenting seven Rays silver-tipt, o'er each a silver star Hovering.
The lustrous miracle dissolved, Thick-beat the Christian heart of Palomide, When he regarded one of angel-face, Upright, within the siege called Perilous. The light upon that face, as when the priest Bestows his benediction, and the fane Grows luminous on assurance to the soul Of Holy Life there breathed, nor pausing there But passing o'er Death's deepest deeps to make The sepulchre a court of light. "And say, Who may that be?" he asked. "And who the dame That gives him sunny countenance and cheer Beyond our brethren of the Table Round?" Said Launcelot, sighing, "Galahad, my son; Knight of the Lord! To be the knightly saint First in our calendar. Our best beloved. More than our grace is his."
Then, in his voice Thick trouble, Launcelot spake in undertones:-- "No man hath guided him unto his quest,-- No man. Alone, eye-witness hath he been Of God his excellent glory. Ministries From heaven have counselled him--may be, in dreams-- Certes, within the brightness of the east At dawn, when best he loves to rise for prayer. Beholding him at matins, glorified By presences invisible, divine, The effulgence of his purposed, pious quest Gleams on his visage, and we bow the head In worship of it. But five hours agone, The oracular presences have been: he goes With morrow's morn to find the Holy Grail, And others go to seek."
The large tears rose, The first-born Christian tears of Palomide, With this report, which simply, briefly told The spiritual mission of that radiant youth, Whom rival ne'er dispraised, nor slander soiled, Snow-white unto this hour. The large tears fell. He wept for very gratefulness: but, soon, At his exclusion from pursuit, where faith Should sanction valour. "Woeful knight, am I. Galahad gains the glory: none is mine; Evil my heritage. Then, my resolve Shall seek its direst shape; by it, win fame, Which glory shall approve!" Pain at his heart Bound further utterance: silent, he beheld Wondering, that sight magnifical, first time-- Last time for him, for all men. Nevermore, In scarlet richly furred--those robes of peace-- Each in his siege: no more, shall be convoked, In their ascending circles and degrees, Knights, barons, princes, earls and royalties, The noble fellowship of the Table Round.
Galahad gone, the belts of brave and strong Dissevered, most to search lands west and east, And some by stoutness, some by patience, some By pious, penitential labours, some By perilous adventure,--Palomide, Consecrate for his famous quest, set forth For that strange creature, spawned of Night, sin-scarred, The Questing Beast, abhorred of men, whose tongue Is as a sword, its breath as of hell-fire, And which may not be slain: but, he it caught Bound it in bands, preserved man from its hurt. Since then, broke loose, it rangeth everywhere, Preying upon man's name, and body, and soul: Yet, praise to him, that for some while he kept That shameful scourge of Scandal from our land.
IV.
Sir Launcelot healed in spirit, restored to court, Tristram, the peerless of the Table Round, Retired, and Launcelot, now its Dragon-knight, Resumed his place, his powers. Thence, free to north, Hastened the knight-of-help, to her, Isonde, Of love and soul his star, that as herself, And far beyond herself, loved him.
But ne'er Came whole from fray a knight with cloven helm: And many broils are grievous howe'er won: And blows abate at length the pride of war: And Tristram, spent in spirit and frame, drew home, Though gems and praise his guerdon. "Faith, my sweet! This latest month, forsaking halls and cot, I took chance wayside Cross for nightly host. Brave cheer, but icy, when the ruddy lips Of bleeding wounds crave for a care like thine." Long was his healing, and his chastened soul Would get fresh hurt at tidings from without: But drank with grateful joyousness, as from The four fair springs of Paradise, the love, The peace, the trust, the beauty, living here Within the heavenly homes of Joyous Gard.
***** ***** But no sad thought, Whilst Joyous Gard is ours--ours,--as 'tis theirs, Our lovers'. Hasten not, then, as ye hear, Gentles! With Tristram's growing strength, his all Was all love might desire; seclusion far From wranglings of the world; health, waiting still On action: every season of the day Diverse in aspect of delight.
Most sweet, The sharp and quickening odours of the sea: Most beautiful, in languid hours to watch The folding, fleecy, foam-clouds o'er the reefs, Rising and wreathing, floating, falling--still To climb and swirl, and heave and sink, and rise, For ever; dear, to stray where every step Woke fragrance; seeking tangled forest-paths, With bird and rill harmonious; thorough fields, Which lacked the frequent step, to silent heights Unreached aforetime; or, awearied, learn Love's rest was claimed by yonder shy green shade. And then, the eager stir, when woodland ways Rang merry as of old with Tristram's horn. Like to his spear, his eye and voice were powers For judgment; oft, between, there came the chase In airy fields; his pride might not abate Its wings; he crowned past glory as the lord Of sport; he won the eagle to his lure, And made it tractable as falcon-gentle-- Kingliest of sports.
No wonder, here the Knight Desired to linger: rather, wonder why Depart? The peaceable humanities Of this dominion, silently and strong Wove those invisible gossamer threads which bind Man's spirit to his home, his friends, his fields, Fast to the uttermost, and unto death. Touched was his heart, to witness all that war Boasted as glorious boon, accomplished here In tenderness, simplicity, and trust. The choral voices of the bands of toil Gladdened each morning; in their homes, their lives Defrauded by no rueful memories Had cloudless cheer: hope rested confident Upon the change called death--made present, past With future, one--one placid whole--the gift Angelic of the Father of our prayers. Thus every simple heart became a room For beautiful and pious thoughts.
Said they, "All we behold leads unto Life. This seen; By night, by day, on every side, this seen-- And where we cannot see, Christ is our trust." And these humanities, and hopes well told Each Stranger's Home, lawn-girdled, at this time Roofed with its jasmin, glittering with its stars, The hermitage for all way-worn; of peace, The flowery shrine. Whenever they would near God's acre, now rose-hedged, some new surprise, As Love had mysteries there, awaited them; And if they missed revisiting, some man, Or woman, or child, would beckoning lead them there-- "For, wherefore to your servants were ye sent But, as of old, angels, to re-assure? And here the holiest ground whereon to stand For this." Nay, but themselves were re-assured In happiest faith. With spring, the primrose spread Moonlight of memories o'er every grave; In autumn, central there one letter bloomed Delectable in gold--the father priest, Last gone from every household, his earth's dust Spake to them brightly, then. The live-long day, The fields of duty were in song; at eve, Garlanded labourers homeward-bound with pomp And noisy joys excelling those of war, The Sanctuary of Remembrance reached, their notes Rang gentler cadence with soft canticles, Or circumfluent sounds of murmured psalms. Bound, then, themselves for home, La Belle Isonde, And he, her other heart, the Hesper Rose Within the pensive shadows of the eve Along their path, to them displayed its prime; That bloom of gold withdrawn from gold of day, Shone in the hour of hope's nativity To lovers dearest, as they hand in hand Through devious ways, with gentle pace, and speech Softer than the communion of the leaves, Once more, enraptured sought their ocean-bowers. In Isonde's eyes, this while, the noon of love Was cloudless, clear, and full. Throughout these days, It were as time had shed his plumes and passed All unrecorded by the living sense; And none of Isonde's fears but perished then, Light-slain, flower-shrouded, sepulchred in song.
In this the closing restful time, came one Who told it, Mark back to his Christ-less throne Had crept: but there, sore-wearying, missing knight, Defence and glory: missing wife of grace And charms of gentleness. But then the churl, Abashed in loss of welcome, nerveless spoke In short his errand, like to one who sings His verse with all the words of all its thoughts, Yet lacks the master-key of melody, Foliage at once and flower of human voice. Thus, aught of Mark or Mark's estate, were but Dead-birth of news, its swaddling-clothes its shroud: Silence on its nativity, no tears, No sigh of sympathy, no smile of hope, Buried, forgotten, soon as known--the Gard Untroubled kept its golden, deep repose, Cornwall its craven sorrows.
Later, brought Upon a sobbing eve, which wept the loss Another love-day gone, far other news, By one sea-travelled, haggard, soiled and weak. A requiem wail of many grieving hearts, Was in that stranger's voice, and of the tomb Its stillness, coldness, when his homely word Disburdened.--Isonde of the Lily Hands, The virgin-wife, in Brittanie long left, Was taken of the Christ she served. There went To Tristram's heart a venomed arrow home, His own the sharpening and its dolorous wound. Green Brittanie now mourned its vestal gone; One never much unhappy: for to miss The love of one who loved not her, sustained Her faith in love more perfect. Any hope Was, he might love more throughly, and, thereby, Be finer Knight of Honour and of Love. One never much unhappy: hers, the gift Unconscious, to enjoy the flowers which spring Within the present: these, avert the sense From past--flowers of the best grow now, the flowers Fairer from by-gone winds and rains--nor she Took usury of the future which despoils These flowers. Minds modern wisely have foregone This boon.
A very woman she, whose time Was filled with mild and beautiful devoirs, Whereby, redemption of our kind from coarse Mad revels of man's passionate strengths. But, then; She was a king's daughter! Ay, ay, but saints Can clothe in satin, be saints still, though oft In satin sinners lost, and of desire, Wanting the satin, thereby, born some sin. Yet, saints are saintly still. Midst courtly blooms First-placed, she as a violet reserved, Its place best known from hidden perfumes. She, Nun of the shade: a virtue clothed in robes And sheen of cheerfulness; sun-ray of home, Brightening its rooms with labours of its grace; A sportive angel chasing tediousness From household hours: midst trials, holding still The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, Of greatest price within the sight of heaven. Those fragrant fingers done their courteous toils, The spirit's duties ended, farewell said, For good and all her gentle sleep she took, Handmaiden of her Christ unto the end. The greenest grass in Brittanie, to-day Grows o'er the dust of Lily Hands. But, brief. Tongues light have mocked her--named her, a slight flower, Crushed by the martial foot of life--some, less-- A weed. There is a plant, most known as weed, Beneath the cruellest step sends forth a breath-- The incense of a sacrifice--say that Of Lily Hands, and higher laud we ask not.
This vestal wife, her Lion-spouse long mourned Within the sadness of a cave, still shown Beneath a headland's yellow cliff. He kept Vigils of sorrow, smart with tears, and scourged With worse than serpent-thongs, remorseful thoughts. Nor after--as in midnight of his woe-- But he, in awe and reverence of a love That veered not on his own transgression, bent His head on mention of her name.
But, Love, Heard once from Palomide, is free. Yes, free, In bondage to Love's will; for Palomide Free, had to yield the worship of his soul To Belle Isonde. Lamenting, Launcelot owned Thraldom in liberty of love. For truth, For right, law's righteousness, the foremost spear Launcelot's; he mourned the flower of Astolat, Consumed by passion of his fame; he mourned, Yet, clave to Guinevere. And as these things Accorded with the counsel of the King To Launcelot, "Love is free within himself, Nor ever will be bound: for when 'tis bound Then loseth Love itself, and is no Love!" So, I may say no more, who am Love's liege, Than that it has been writ, and not gainsaid, These things were done, were spoke, in unison With times and passion; and his anguish laid By lengthened, sorrowing showers, he sought the sun, Tristram--forsook his cavern-hermitage-- His one-love faith, his first, one, only, kept Rigorous, as vowed, unto his death.
Three years, Nothing of death or glooms of doubt, decay Or change, his spirit less and less required The melancholy, busy ways of men-- But life of joyaunce, as of summer leaves Dancing within the prodigal sunshine, vowed To liberties of mirth. In Joyous Gard These three years passed. Then came a change, indeed. Not now, as in past time, may Cornwall's head Plead and be scorned, its recreant woes despised.
Regal Carduel--there, the Dragon King Held loud unwonted festival: convened The beauty and the valour of his realms For tournament, with minstrels from Norroy, From Cumbria's hills; but famousest from Wales, Led by Taliessen's carol of the joy Launcelot returned from honoured quest--such joy, As though no Tristram missed, nor wanted more: As though, some long-lost planet rode again Brighter, with rarer fortune-gifted beams Within the Table's firmament of fame. Deep in these pastimes, Arthur's hand received A hurried missive.
Mark would holpen be; Craved grace in his old craven way. "My throne, Besieged: my good lands everywhere burnt up With pagan hoofs of fire: doubly down-borne: Forsaken: O, friend-royal! in my need, 'Neath punishment for sins, I say not how, Nor when--but thou--forgetting thy past wrongs From Cornwall, best will know--let thy large love Be strength unto me." And the gentle King Felt ruth within him for the dole of Mark: Led to his chamber, with his counselling Knights. Thence Arthur, after long debate, retired With those three, chief in wisdom: hoar Lywarch Who winnowed purpose from the husk of words And moved in safety, or so stood, prepared In watch and arms: the ruddy Cynon--fierce To charge, pursue and slay: and dark Aron Matured in guile for backward march, whene'er The storms and lightnings of his charge had failed To foil the pagan. All concurred: from heart And hard advisings, answer there was one, None other--and one name--none other choice: Answer and name were--Tristram. Thereupon, Arthur a loving treaty made with Mark, Arch-villain-royal. And, since by Table Round Tristram won safety in his Logrian home, So now, its will, clothed with word paramount-- The Dragon King's--his Lion-knight was called To Camelot, with lady of his heart, La Belle Isonde.
"News-bringer, friend!" quoth he, "Ruin rings in thy voice: yet, we shall go: Soon be in readiness." With coldness spake Sir Tristram, but a tear in either eye, More truly than nine prayers at nocturns thrice Repeated, told, within his soul, the deeps Of sorrow opened. "How my spirits yearn For Palomide, Knight of the Faith. Methinks, His great renunciation and his quest Were good for me: his new-tuned voice, perchance, Might comfort me. But, friend, I take my barge For yonder fane, whose worship, oftentimes, More rapture hath bestowed than may belong To earth's delight: my spear has done its last War-service, and those holy hours demand The dedication of what best hath served The wantonness of valour. O, good spear! I may not reckon our companionship In field, by wayside, midst the hosts, alone, In tumult of the lists: the past is woe To measure: but the future hath its hope. On the high-altar, placed by priestly hands, We separate, seeking peace by diverse ways. On my return.--But Brengwain, tend our lady. Nay, best beloved, loosen thine arms: two hours, And I am here again, a truer knight Than thou hast found me yet. Nay, thou, Isonde, Angel that ever sanctified my strength-- In this contention of thy passion, be Thy better self. Forsake me not. Again, My mission is but thine. Sustain her, friends, On my short absence."
Looking in her eyes He saw Love's day-star darkening. "Now, with speed, For my last rites at Joyous Gard." His lance, By this, was in his hand. Failing in voice, Isonde, with silent signal to her grooms, Waved their attendance. Tristram saw the sign. "Bring me my harp!" he cried. "Naught more my need."
His barge unmoored; within the stem was laid His battle-spear, ere this enwreathed with flowers As it had budded, blossomed with a growth Sweeter than any summer, when it lived, And birds had hiding in its leaves, amidst The groves of Ferniehurst. Close by the helm He sate and strook his harp: the barge moved off: Thridding the verdant islets towards the fane Where surpliced priests were waiting. Here, with prayers He brought his lance, and with it spoils of war, Jewels and wedge of gold. Then, to the Gard As music-drawn, his boat sped swiftly back, Whilst Tristram strook his harp--the sharp-cut wave Singing beneath her prow to hear his song.
Belle Isonde, when her lord approached, restored From that heart-faintness which attends the smart Of unexpected trouble, had woven her hair In fine new fancies, one broad plait around Her argent brow, whereon composure slept, Whilst o'er her face a pensive smile, as light On moving water, came and went; not glad, But grateful, and in golden patience held To undergo what must be. No less he; Sustained by spiritual solace from the lips Of holy pastors lately left. None word, Of fear, or doubt, sad child, spake Tristram, none; But solemn-sweet his voice: "Heart's queen! Mine own! We go from Joyous Gard. My spear has turned From noise and stroke of war: by priestly hand Received, 'neath yonder fane it lies, shall lie, In consecrated peace: henceforth, my sword Suffices for my travails, and my harp Conjoined for praise. The bedesman, we away On all our mornings lighted by this sun, Across these waters of the Joyous Gard, Will sound his orisons for our twain souls To keep the peace begotten here, till peace Heavenliest strikes through the nights of death. My heart! The stream of earthly happiness, which glides With never-ending curves, from us departs Surely--but none less sure, its waters flow; Whereon, let us have heart's content and cheer. Their shining feet are hurrying shining hours, Surely, to lovers everywhere. Our love, Our own,--sufficient solace that for us: Since none hath given, no one can take away; And in its strength divine let us remain Submissive: trusting in the God of Love, Abide His will."
Within the dark they sped Which followed that same day. Morn's windy light Rose on them far beyond the hills. Their throngs Of dame and knight were grieved they could not hail Once, if for ever, dazzling in the dawn All diamond and gold, the Joyous Keep, And, green from shore to hills, and silver-laced With ringing becks, Love's principality. But they not long forlorn--so soon the sun Breathed warmly on their way, and woke the flowers. Love's-liking takes to flowers: these, be at once Colour, remembrance, and a music heard Within the spirit, melodies more sweet Than voice or instrument: thus, hills and seas Unseen upon their travel, faithful flowers Attended, in their shining ministries; By road and leafy copse, by dales and fells, The month known by their blazonries--as told Daffodils spreading sunshine by the brooks-- That air from lily-o'-the-valley's bells, Within their early summer shrines of green All silver-hung, blown wide abroad--nor less, By golden salvers of marsh-marigold Prepared for elfin tribes, high feast and dance Now near with genial airs--these, kept the life Of Joyous Gard still rich in every heart By all their travels.
Arthur, still in north, Received them in Carduel's palace-hall, With royal, simple courteousness. His throne Stood empty: central on the floor, rush-clad, On velvet carpet placed the golden chair Wherein sate Arthur: with him, Table Round-- Scant in its company--and courtly suite Reclined on cushions, those of saffron-hue These, bloom of rose--when all with voice to each Of Joyous Gard's fresh-exiled lovers here, "Welcome of heaven to thee!"
A jocund week, With joust for morning, sports and minstrelsy From noon till midnight, nocturns then forgot, Matins displaced by madrigals, till noon Was hot again on their carousals,--aye, Mad merriment, as when midsummer's sun Keeps all the heavens from night--and not as though The sun of Love, midst shades, now made descent Into life's winter. Yet, one might have seen, That to Isonde or Tristram, none the sports Made of their happiness: that oft the light, Which tells the soul, went out from Tristram's face: And that within her eyes, new-queened Isonde, For Love's bright day-spring, or the full of noon, Its evening star shone dim.
The gay time closed, Arthur unto his Table Round, "This while, A brother sorrows, prison-bound--nought less, In castle close-beset: and there be griefs More sore, of which his clouded hints portend, More than were kind to name. Whene'er the weak Beseech us in their needs, 'tis ours to learn How they may be upheld." Few spake thereon, And these, in reverence to their King, resigned Will and suggestion: sought for his command, His own good-will. The issue was abrupt, And without words. Their King spake not: nor moved: His loving, large, and wondrous eyes were laid On Tristram: noting which, the Table Round Arose in silence, and in silence bowed Before the Dragon King: then, turning, bowed In silence before Tristram, as he sate Within his siege, so noble in his port, Such lofty purpose luminous in his eyes, He scarce seemed second to the kindly King. Sir Tristram, answering,--"I have read your minds, Most worthy fellowship! Our will as one, Hath ever been and must remain. Your will, My own, I follow to the end."
Next morn, Submissive, he at matin-song, what time Caerleon's prelate-lord, who ever placed The land's sin on the Court, the doubled sin Of Court on King: sonorous, merciless, "Thy sin shall find thee out!" of Homily His burden:--"Keep Thy sheep from wolves!" of Prayer His burden,--Light of Christ's Church dawning then On Britain, he repealed the doom so dark O'er Cornwall's throne: Mark's bridal sacrament Received original powers, and Tristram's might Was pledged.
But not from either realm withdrawn The spiritual voices in their tears and prayers: Nor secret ministers within the hours Stayed in their swift fulfilment. Belle Isonde Brought to Tintagel's ribald towers a heart Void of desire for those delights of Mark Which filled his days, 'midst idle, sportive dames, Knights of the drinking horn, and squires of worth In wantonness. With him the Lion-sword Brought, self-enjoined, a charge, eftsoons proclaimed, Accepted and pursued: four years its edge, As to amend its aught of wrong, should serve Even as King Mark might ask.
That merriest month, Flower-crowned, which laughed above their southward march, Died not before the warm rose-breath of June, Ere Tristram sped to danger-haunted fields. He fought; subdued; returned. Sent forth again, Again his sword, sole comrade of his quest, From peril's womb brought forth the babe of peace, Purged evil darkness till its tracks and dens Gave home and passage, as in lands of light O'erlooked by Camelot. From time to time, Arm-wearied grown, or weak from dolorous wounds, Still to Tintagel he would turn. These times, Resting, awaiting healing of his hurt, His harp oft in his hand would sing the tale Of enterprise and hope, of late complete, With tones of flame and flashing melodies To the court's pleasure. Ah, but to the Queen, Raptures and pride. His valorous deeds o'er-rode Her loving fearfulness, now dangers gone And gladness prospers. But with healing, flight-- Whither, in Mark's deranged seven-cornered realm, Outrage and rapine wildest: given to sleep The strings of music--splendours of new dawn Flared from his brand, upon the lawless night Enkindling righteousness: and, then, his harp, And that majestic voice of melody, Exulting, gave the conquest to Christ's faith, Never to be undone: heart-taught by him Homes shone with gospel-light, and food divine He placed on humblest lips for daily use, Fair golden sentence of the Mountain set In silver song.
These plighted years fulfilled, His last return bestowed his chiefest joy Next to his joy in love. Swart Palomide, Drawn to Tintagel suddenly, as found Trail of the Questing Beast anear the throne, Met him beneath the portal, in his arms Bound him, with speech of praise and prophecy,-- That, in this mission, better were performed, Than if seven thunders spake, the great intent Of chivalry--its dedicated fire, Impassioned heart, and sacrifice: he told, What meed his gracious Honour should secure, Then in his fame flown wide, even as the wind Searching each quarter, and thereafter known, When claimed of the divine deliverer Death, In tongues unborn, and in the leagues of love First champion: and, as love begetteth love, His name should never fail, for hearts would burn To hear the purport of his life, whereon Love's birth would be assured--in which he erred not.
Palomide's fervency of loving speech, O'ercame Mark's knight, who slowly spake, held hard The hand that clasped his own; gazed on the earth-- Beginning and the end--as in his thought-- Thus gently told: "Dear brother-knight, my heart Hath its desire. Thy words have more content Than tourney-trophies, and the light of smiles From ladies when the fresh wound wins the fight. But, here, no more. The longing of my soul Shall now be satisfied. Something remains. Unto the sun-rise limits of Mark's land I have made clean its ways--and now, myself, Blameful, unworthy, weakest child of sin, Heedless of faith whene'er my spear most strong; Frailest in times of strength; most foul, whene'er Virtuous in practice,--I must go, be cleansed, Renounce the way and instruments of war-- Of which," he touched his sword, "this last remains-- And in a fit humility acquire Initiation to the paths of peace."
The promise of his penitence was kept At Caerleon's altar. Hallowing of the sword, That sword whose lightnings seemed to smite more quick Than either edge, was done with crowded rites Of prayer, and praise, and song. Good Bedwin's hand, Chief priest of blessing, who had Arthur's trust And conscience in his keeping, took the blade, And midst triumphant psalms, dense fragrant wreaths From silver censers, nine times murmured vows, Laid it within a shrine, where sacred light Fell fullest through the chancel panes, resigned To peace. The arch-priest's hand upraised, thereon, Was benediction; soft as Hermon's dew, His language over the deliverer's head, Left Tristram consecrate to peace,--its powers, Benignities, its patience, hope; his arms, His rest and spiritual sustenance evermore.
In this our tale, we must confess its truth, As speaks the heart unto itself when heard The sacring bell. Erring, some pens have told The sorrowful end of this puissant love, Most sorrowful at best report. From wounds,-- Erring, they say it,--laid in Brittanie Was Tristram in the care of Lily Hands, (As she outlived her lord): the maiden-wife, He bade forthlook upon the sea and say Came there from westward, any ship in sail? And when espied--the sail or black or white? If white!--wot Lily Hands--the freight she brings Is Belle Isonde, who comes to cure the wounds Defeating other skill.--The sail was white.-- That moment's hate o'ermastered love. Isonde Of Lily Hands recked not the healing craft, Her lord's one need. As she beheld it shine, A star upon the sea, she cried--"A sail! The sail, be black!" Whereon, the knight as struck By treacherous glaive, groaned, and the draught of death Took instantly. La Belle Isonde arrived-- They fable--when were told the news, she sank, And seeing her dead lover, died. Ah, well! In truth, we know, Isonde of Britannie Close by her home, kept sweetest sleep and last Beneath the still green billows of life's haven-- Would we were there, sigh some--and we must speak By our antique report, when Launcelot spake As brother of Sir Tristram in his faith And chivalry, best knowing--and the worst Stricken when Tristram passed.
There came a day, Recognisant of Tristram--shadows lie Deepest upon that day--though glories gild, As those of love must ever do, death's dark, The dark of death remains. There came a day, Recognisant of Tristram. Cornwall's scath Flown from before his saviour-sword, remote, Sea-banished, now, unheard: his valourous deeds Had worship from the realm. War's iron cries Were tuned to festal-songs; the battle spear Clanged in the merry tourney: found of grace, Sorrow put on the garments of delight And ruin wreathed itself in smiles and flowers: And foremost in the fire of revelry And storm of lauds, Tintagel on that day.
Proudest was Palomide. His brother-knight To praise, was his best glory. But, behold, Caerleon's consecrated sword he wears, Sought by his hand unconscious, when his mood Lost light of the day's joy. He had to speak To the enquiring wonder of Mark's eye,-- "This sword, you see, once thy arch-knight's, now mine, Redeemed with golden booty earned in wars With godless spoilers of Christ's land, best serves To hasten me, may best serve on my quest."
As yet unsaid, and best unsaid; if said, Then briefest.--Mordred during these last days Came to Tintagel with adulterous news From Camelot, with greetings no less vile From temptress Vivien: unction to Mark's spirit, Dearest through evilness. This northern snake Crept into covert corners of the bowers Whispering the Caiaphas prophecy--"One man Should die for all men's good!" 'Tis said, this while, Arthur was chilled even at high noon; his halls Were filled with bodeful murmurs--but men talk Of travail of the event, when the event Comes to the birth, and, more its marvel, more Certain the signs of travail. All must wot This whispering serpent's tale: if so, why then Must Palomide! And Mark bade Mordred mark His sword, and spoke its tale, which stopped the hiss, And woke the dread. Thence, Mordred's secret eyes-- And Mark had mirth of Mordred for his fear-- Held to the sword, as if foreboding ill. So works the Will Divine: the evil thought Near to an ending, lives: the good secure, Or seeming, perishes: the evil lives, Acts ruin far from present place or time, Until,--until,--the perfect end doth come, Whereby the Will Divine is justified.
Within the pleasaunce of La Belle Isonde, Eve's light found Tristram harp in hand. He sang, Of spirit purified, known by his theme, And singing softly smote the mystic strings: His instrument was as a second voice True daughter of his spirit: voice, spirit, harp, Were blended in exalted song. He sang; In full assembly of the dames and knights, Sang to Isonde alone. But each ear won, All needs must hearken: or, in silent groups, Laid on the grass: or, gathered midst the trees For silence of the shadows: or, on flowers With hushed and perfumed footsteps moved. Isonde, Though hers the lay, the ears of all being won They needs must hearken.--Palomide alone Stood solitary, dull in vision,--entranced Most woefully,--for, woe, when evil charm Flies not from music--and his battle-spear All unremembered, slanting 'gainst a yew, Within the failing light grew black. Not so, King Mark. Nor, as his guests beguiled: nor, still, Bound by a sorcerous spell, like Palomide, But in a neighbouring aisle obscure of elms, Hearing the harmonies, the furies rose Tormenting thought and sense: and as he paced Delirious, wilder still the furies raged; Such force hath sweetest song on evil minds.
Before La Belle Isonde, the king's knight sang, Sang like to one whose earthly love foregone, A holier hath arisen. War's perils past, Fled from his tongue: the present held him not, Nor with its loves, or glories. Now, his eye, Held by the evening star, his voice had ranged From Belle Isonde: his spirit's wing sustained On the still rapture of imagination Sailed to far times, and unto these he sang, Clear to his inner vision as to hope. "Those times all splendour-clad, and sweet, and sure As is yon star: that retinue, I see, Radiant in its approach, when with their powers A gentle hand shall rule: that Queenly rule, Odour of peace on all its functions, spreads A morning sweetness through these realms: that power Ascends to undreamed heights of glory!" Heard That rising note, Mark heard no more, but heard A whispering as of Mordred's serpent-tongue:-- "More hath he been than King: much more, than King. Thrice, hath he purged my lands: thrice, kept my crown Firm on my forehead. Happy are my homes: My burghs and thorpes increase--and through his might. So easy, then, for him to be the King, Displacing Mark--Mark, the anointed King! Is he, forsooth, not prophesying now Of his great self? Ay, truly, let one churl Cry 'King' of him, and all breaths would conspire To puff the purple from me, and himself Make King! Or she, my wife, sole sovereign Queen, Make her, awhile, till he soon found to be Sole King!--And I, King Mark, think thus!"--And one Needs die! And I think thus!" Blind, murder-drunk, Cornwall, from out the darkened aisle of elms, Reeled: stretched his arms abroad, as if to find Support in failing strength, and seeking, grasped The spear of Palomide. A crimson light Broke o'er Mark's maddened brain; and as his thought He heard and saw--no more--that instant fell Tristram, the Light of Honour, by the king Spear-stricken through the heart.
La Belle Isonde Beheld that face--which as the morning shone-- Bloodless and disinherited of light: Those clear, large eyes--whose purest life was drawn Ever from her, and were to her as life-- Dead-staring at the sky. Nor on the king She looked, nor any dame, nor any knight, But from her height of life and joy at once Sank into the irrevocable dark. The starless night possessed those eyes of love-- And stooping, sinking, gently, like to one Grown suddenly weary, silently her lips Partook from his the sacrament of death. As all must die, the question is--how best It were to die?--Methinks, hers no ill speed.
Above all mourners, one, that other heart Of Tristram in his chivalry, was struck Once and for ever--Launcelot. Not for him The sparkling sorrow, and its cloud is gone. Death to his spirit's valiance was the news, To every hope the night of death, a night Without a morning. And unchanged, or changed To finer knightly true-love in his heart, This season of his woe unto the last. The voices and the silences which haunt Man's closing years, now with him, left him not, Immediate, dread companions of his time Till time was none for him. His trembling heart Shook paradise from Joyous Gard, those months He sought our lovers' joys with Guinevere, The swerving Queen. Sir Tristram's way of love, Was twin unto his own; he might not gain, Nor did he gain the rarer ecstasies, But his to walk the self-same road, and end In rarer bitterness. His silent pain, Showed outward to his fellowship how keen Its edge. His majesty was dimmed--the form, The power, and the informing soul--though long Puissance of his nobleness maintained Within his voice. He asked, and Arthur gave, His choicest troop of barons, harnessed black, With black recognisances, helm and shield, For honour of the burial; as required, So gave the Dragon King. But Mark was known Unchastened by remorse. Acquainted naught With knightly temper, he the peaceful dead Held stronger in his hate: a hardened soul Unto its own perdition Mark's, nor feared Launcelot's dismay, nor sorrowing wrath of those Within his own Tintagel. Mark deferred The natural obsequies. Let them be named-- And the cold, contumelious sneer replied In language of his heart: he fain had laid Their bodies within ground unconsecrate: Naught, in his wild despite by word or deed, Too baleful in effect. When Launcelot asked He might attend death's fitting rites, and praised The dead, Mark's wan lips twitched. "Like as they played, Play you with fancies in thy love. By tale, Your flattering thoughts, which please yourselves, I know; Fine loves, I know them well. Now, barter these-- 'Love's foliage in the hyacinth tress; its rose 'Upon the cheek, and violet in the eye!' Love's passion-flowers like these, pray, barter me For boorish truth. I have a chosen love Which clips, and hurts, and cries with pain's delight Plain, lusty love is mine. Yet, in thy phrase, Take these death's lilies, and their virtuous dust Through which the worm glides noiseless--his high feast Asks for no minstrel-jangle, for his grace The abbot's lips are mouldering 'neath the shroud, And wassail waits him in the warrior's heart Whose wonted throbs, the thunders of the tilt Once answered--to the royal worm yield these Thy lovers with all proper pomp." The knight, Palsied by shame, so near his hallowed dead, His not the hand to slay the crowned shame. Silent, some seconds' space: wherein, his mind Weighed this dark hate of Mark, and therefrom drew A purpose late beyond his hope. "Fair king, My love is apt to parley with thy hurt. Say, in thy graciousness, with these my knights, May I provide a burial for the twain Beyond Tintagel's bounds?" Sharp, hissing came With curl o' the lip this answer. "Ay, my halls Are purer for that speech. But, speedily. The charnel vapours reached my bower this morn: Let them not taint the merry morrow here." And turning sharp on heel, that was the last Amazed Sir Launcelot saw of Mark, or Mark Spake of his bright Queen dead, and Tristram dead.
A weeping haste of preparation lacked Help of Tintagel's court, loth to offend The tarnished crown they loathed; but, more of strange, Lacked help of Palomide. He paced the bowers Astonied, as it seemed: dull in his sense To all the current trouble; yet, alert, Listening half-bent, his head aside, to hear Of footsteps, as with Clustfain's ear which heard The dew-drop falling from the grass in June Throughout the region of high summer's reign; Listening, as for a sound within a sound, A spirit listening, in foot-steps to hear The spirit-step, as of the thing itself.
And when the sun in large cloud-glories robed Descended for his rest in ocean's halls, Out from Tintagel, with funereal hymns, And pageant clad in sable samite, went, To seek their rest, the still forms of Isonde And Tristram, on the bier; as in their lives Nearest and best beloved, in white of death Upon one bier.
Across the eastward plain The pageant, with its pace of woe and tears Wound slowly. Mark upon his topmost tower Beholding, regal-robed and diademed-- A sight of horror--hate within the sun-- Glory within its glories, passion-struck, In the mid-tempest of his mood, his face Worked fiercely, with a pall of crimson glooms-- His face and flickering splendour of his robes Wore horrors of the radiance of hell: But paled that face, one moment, ere he lost Those lovers, until passion in his soul Rose higher, the pageant nearing Cadon's woods: Now, reached; now, entered; and now, hid--and, then, The hate found voice. "For Vivien, now, my soul! For Vivien!" Last words these for him. A cry Behind, "Whelp of the Questing Beast!" One flash, White-circling, and the royal miscreant head, And bulk of frame into the stagnant fosse Fell heavily. A sable form erect, With eyes of fire, stood in the place of Mark. Lifting on high a dripping sword, it waved-- Caerleon's consecrated sword it was That waved adieus towards the hidden train Winding through Cadon's groves. All night was heard In Isonde's bower a piteous, pleading cry, Broken with shriek for Mordred. But, as doom Expected least had come, the doom most feared Escaped. Sleuth-hound of empire, Mordred, sped Those hours to Camelot.
With rising morn, Rode forth a knight distraught, on whom no man Dared lay his hands. A furlong from the keep, He sharp drew rein, turned in his selle, upraised His mailed fist and cried: "I've slain the whelp! Now for the sire!" Then, frenzied Palomide, With haste of hope, dashed on his Perilous Quest.
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