Of Palomide

*

An Arthurian Miscellany
Yes, I am minstrel for this evening hour

Sweet Esther. Seat thee there, my heart, beneath

Those liberal golden showers, which Spring suspends,

Laburnum's bloom, close by the garden gate.

And with that glory we have purple, too--

The lilac hedge--indisputable gleams

Of Love it brings to us: soft, fragrant airs,

Creep from the verdant covert--ah, that breath!--

The perfume of the violet of the shade

Which blesses hearts to whom it nothing owes--

It gives us memories lingering of true-love.

--Yea, here, not otherwhere, I am your bard,

Your scald, your troubadour: for this our tale

Requires free air--such air as ever breathed

The valiant, loving, master-knights of old.

We shall have music, too, above, around--

The lavrock rains it from the blue; yon larch

Is vocal with the thrush.

We may believe

In full accord each listening heart shall beat

With each event in field or bowers, for we

Are of the lineage we sing.

But, hark,--

Queen of my song! Think of our happy years,

And take my verse as of their happy growth

A genial portion, for as well as wars,

Of Love I sing: and let the cynic girl,

And laughing casuist boy, on either side

Sit by thee in a truce of posy.

Our other friends of grace and older days,

May listen as they choose amongst the trees.

Friends are for judgment, Esther. Thou, bride-queen,

First, best-beloved, thine all of this, my song.

Of Table Round he was the pearl, the flower,

In Arthur's peerage he was perfect knight,

Tristram: so named of sorrow, since his birth

Drew o'er his mother's eyes the veil of death.

Yet, never name so ill was worn, for blithe

As in his minstrel mirth was he in war.

Soonest of all his fellowship he shed

The sable plume of sorrow from his soul.

Sage Merlin told on his nativity,

The stars ordained of song and power ruled clear

Within their heavenly houses. These, the words:--

"His hours of life are mingled gold and gloom,

"But hours of gloom o'ercome by golden hours,

"With better speed than fortunes other knights.

"The hours' conclusion--sudden--it may come

"Only from hands o'erburdened with the grace

"And largess of his love: whene'er the time

"A loyal and affectionate spear shall slake

"Within his heart, thirst for his foeman's blood."

As brave as Launcelot, lacking half his blame,

Heart-noble as the King, without the taint

Which clings to power, he suffered, strove, and shone

The clearest Light of Honour to his times,

And Knight of Love--of Arthur's martial Ring

The Light of Honour, and the Knight of Love.

Yet, now he lies within Ierne's bowers

For heal of hurt--ah, yet to find more hurt,

As his more bliss, than comes from spear, or sword,

Or leech with magic herbs. Strange, errant life

His heretofore. Or ere of youth its rose

Blanched on his cheeks, his father's second bride,

Whose love towards Tristram was a love sharp-set

To find her sons of birthright dispossessed

By a forerunner pleasing to all hearts,

Twice poisoned she the chalice with intent

On Tristram's life,--whereby, she woke the furies.

Her fairest son, her eldest born, athirst

Partook the drink and languished on her knee

Till death in mercy stilled his pain: the king,

Had drunk the second, but her conscience moved

Seized the envenomed cup and spake her guilt:

Whereon, she doomed to expiate by fire

The crime of that device, --but saved from thence,

'Twas famed through Lyonesse, his native realm,

In garnished story and domestic song

How Tristram gained a pardon for the queen--

Made her, save twain, his truest fere in life.

That same year, Tristram crossed to France; learned there

All curious arts of sport, for which renown

Through many a century at the jocund feast,

And hot carouse which crowns the hunting day,

Rang loud for him. Moreover, thence he brought

Rarest of cunning on the harp. 'Tis told,

No mortal ever could withstand the strain!

That bird and beast, yea, fish within the lake

Were charmed on hearing. Tuneful as benign,

He was a wondrous harper: known full soon

Through Britain's island precincts, for the youth

As in his knightly prime, wide-wandering sought

Adventurous exploit. But chiefly this,

Marked his long alien residence; with growth

Of hardihood there was a growth of soul:

With aptitude and clemency in arms,

There was repose of aspect and a low

Affectionate tenderness of voice, which drew

This fair memorial of him: "Each estate

Did love him wheresoever he did go."

Returned to Lyonesse, on Tristram came

A change of spirit: better say, were changed

Its hope and object. Looking on his life

Amidst the mirth and courtliness of France

Restless, unsatisfied, remorseful, he

As wakening from a futile March-day's dream

Yearned for the full-orbed blazon of a knight.

Hence, grew his story: hence, his name in song

His fame, as lord of honour: as the peer,

Peerless in honour and the parleying heart.

First Lyonesse to feel his passion's power

By spear and song--wherein, betimes, were won

Such reverence of his might, such awe, such love,

The kingdom in its peace through all his days

Slept, wotting that his harp still sang, his lance

Was ever-ready. That emprise now closed,

He, at his father's solitary court,

Bemoaned the slowly creeping, vacant months

As Honour lost, because not newly won:

Ill shown in dull despair.

Now, reached him news

From Cornwall's bounds: its royal head, king Mark,

His father's brother, a slight, suspicious man

One who would give offence for love of harm,

And find offence housed in a kindly deed,

Whose crown was trembling ever in the storm

Of foes once named as friends, one friendship lost,

Born in the honest flowering time of youth.

Ungracious, slanderous, and a viper act,

Which stung and menaced in his scorn that friend

Anguis, imperial head of Ireland's realm,

From Castlehaven, throughout her breadth of green

To Giant's Causeway: whence retributive,

Before Tintagel's gate now stood the knight

Sir Marhaus, next in fame to him who stood

Chiefest, Sir Launcelot, of the Table Round.

There, in his rocky keep, his royal home,

Tintagel, Mark was kept as is a dog

Kept to his kennel by the keeper's thong.

More than his idle graceless time mourns now

Young Tristram--as at Honour's death. Spake then,

To save him from himself, with coyest words

The step-dame queen. In subtle playfulness

She bade him see that Honour was with him

As Love with knights of fame, and honour-sick

None other cure could come save on that field,--

Whence Honour might arise, when heard the call

Of one strong heart--the stricken Cornish realm.

So said, so heard, so done with quickest speed

That thence three days Tintagel knew the youth,

Tristram.

He, brought within its audience hall,

Beheld a shape--low-statured, quivering, thin,

Bedecked with mis-shaped yellow weeds and crowned.

"The court fool!" thought he: but he heard it named--

The king. And that was Mark. Well might surprise

O'ercome the court as in the silence breathed

Expectancy, beholding there these twain

Contrasted, met by love's election, bound

To weave the sweetest, mournfullest, most strange

Of all love's histories: that eager, young,

Bright son of valour and of song: and he

Their stunted king, whose age a wrinkled skin,

Dry, brown as parchments of a ducal house,

Concealed, but in whose deep-set slinking eyes

A heart of fraud lay clear.

On his first watch,

Ensconced within the fosse, the prince beheld

Sir Marhaus ride up from the beach, a god

A very god of battle and of doom

Resplendent in the early sun--and life

Went from his spirit, and he dwelt apart

One abject week. But dawn of Pentecost

Brought grace of strength in heart, and Tristram bore

The menace of the warrior peaceably.

Next day, defiance: and the youth implored

Mark make him knight. Then Mark, amidst his court

Fools in their craven laughter, drew his brand

Muttering--"Shall impotence attend the act?

"Our chapel all devoid of holy rites

"In this extremity, we lack the priest

"For sacrament--Nay, the anointed King

"Suffices!" Tristram knew a feeble blow

From scathless blade, the consecrating words

With fluttered accents "In the name of God,

"And His archangel, Michael, and His hosts

"Militant, we do dub thee Knight. Arise!--

"Thus, nephew, hath the valiance of thy tongue

"Brought honour towards thee--but its darling home

"Is in the dangerous quest. Now, show how keen

"My spur to worthy deed. Sir Marhaus calls.

"Answer be thine: and honour in thee show

"Clear, double-edged, twin to thy sword." Upsprang,

The youth responsive, "By the Evangelists!

"Sir Tristram now is born," with rising voice

Hailing thus soon his quest. "O, ladies bright,

"Sweet proxies of the beauteous sisterhood

"Irradiating the soul of this dark world

"Refining, cleansing, cheering powers: pray, learn

"These first words of my knighthood: hear the scope

"Of its intent. Know well, ye ladies bright,

"My way in life, shall take your smiles for flowers:

"My way in life, for stars shall seek your eyes;

"The ladies are my charge, and with the law

"And order of the state make up my being.

"My way in life, is towards the Table Round."

Next morning, saw great Marhaus driven to ship,

Discomfited and wounded unto death.

So soon--for which high festival was held

By Mark--so soon, Sir Tristram's life arrayed

With smiles more sweet than flowers, and moved beneath

A heaven of ladies' eyes more bright than stars,

And felt years nearer to the Table Round.

But toils, and woes, and wounds are knighthood's price,

And Tristram reckoning with his foeman's lance

Deep hurt received beyond the leech's cure.

One, then, of astral lore, enquiring whence

The knight whose skill bestowed the dolorous wound

And answered Ireland--"Unto Ireland speed,

"The healing power awaits thee there." Where come,

The knight, as in Love's providence, was lodged

Close by the castle--now the mourning days

For Marhaus ended--where King Anguis held

Free-hearted, courtly state--since heard a voice

That soon an errant, knightly spear of worth

Should fill the vacant quest for Ireland's weal.

One mist-clad, breathless noon, as was his wont,

To allay the fierceness of his pain and win

A new and pleasant voyage for his thoughts,

He harped upon his bed. His memory strayed

O'er blissful times bygone: insensibly,

As half in dream he lay, his hand awoke

A strain once sung in France: a strain whereon

Birds, brooklets, leaves and sudden showers would sing

And every heart in hearing would be merry.

Too great its charm for Amicie of Gand;

The minstrel passing with a love unsworn,

Reft of his comforting melody she kept

Her bower and sorrowed to her death.

That lay,

Harped Tristram now, and as he harped the dusk

Slid from the face of the high jubilant noon.

Commingling noises grew i' th' air, from streams,

Near winged choirs, the tremulous woods and reeds.

The chambers of his lodge brake into laughter.

Up to the castle rose the magical strain,

Swept round its walls, assailed its ports and towers,

Where found one cedarn casement garlanded

With odorous flowers tangled in sprays of green

Wide open to receive the new-born joy,

Entering, it passed through galleries, chambers, halls,

Caught kitchen churls, peers, matrons dull of sprite--

And lo, from forth yon ivied postern steps

The fairest star of maidenhood on earth!

In azure robes; a golden girdle binds

Their fullness close beneath the bosom's rise:

Her tresses, snooded with rare blooms of spring,

Inwardly darkle, as our richest thoughts

Within the soul wanting fit words for day--

Towards the sun, stirring with a shining life

Each several hair--like fine thoughts finding voice

For conquest of the world and praise--such they

To sight of men, these tresses which must shew

The inner nature of her sensitive being.

So comes she, gliding with soft musical grace,

Her countenance as a dawn of early May

Which beautifies the world o'er which it smiles.

The drawbridge crossed--she, down the budding lane,

Into his lodge, into his very room,

When to the faded eyes of Tristram shone

A spirit from sweet mercy's heaven, down-drawn

By his great strain to heal--to solace him

Through many changeful years to come.--I wit,

Ye all know who the starry maiden was,--

La Belle Isonde!

The spirit gazed--and fled--

Nor word--nor sign--but soon a helpful band

Of servitors down-speeding from the keep,

Bore him up thither. There, in chamber cool

Sweetened by every flower and fragrant bush

That in her pleasaunce 'neath her lattice grew,

Isonde was constant in her duteous love,

With divers aids medicinal to bate

His malady. A gainless task of tears,

Until her mother furnished potent draughts

Educed from shrubs and herbs and mandrake roots

By wizard operation--art, forsooth,

Which mightier ends for both, hereafter, brings.

Thence day by day, his fever ebbed; his eyes

Won their young light again.--O, happy he,

To feel the world grow lovelier morn and even:

Eve sweeter than the morn, the morn more sweet

Than the past eve with all its peace and stars--

And Isonde anxious, passionate and quick

On feeblest sign or sound in this her proud

Triumphant labour of a crescent love.--

O happy Tristram! Happy Belle Isonde!

This time, a rumour wandered through the Isle,

Achievements were at hand of dread and death,

Since Palomide, the sable heathen knight

From Upsal's plain, warfarer in his love--

For Belle Isonde drew many subject hearts

From far-off lands to her sea-circled home--

Randing the realm adventurous, on report

Of harbourage of a strange, unproven knight,

Named as the Nameless, now with restless foot

Haunted the castle's purlieus. Humblest hearts

Can judge of lordliest; simple village maids

Spelled lightly, rightly of the matter's growth

And what should follow: wedded island folk

Wot wisely, too, these crossing loves would shew

War's blood-red blossoms,

Nor less so it happed.

For one fair dame, the Lady of the Lands,

King Anguis was beholden to let cry

A tournament. Our maiden Beautiful

Bethought of this, with ample news beguiled

A short spring eve. But this her story told,

In warlike phrase with silver laughs between,

None answer gave the Nameless, and Isonde

Might not behold beneath the gathering shades

Earnest of fray which gleamed within his eyes

Whilst she had spoken. Through that wasteful night,

Waking, or dreaming as one half-awake,

Within his ears resounded dash of steeds,

Blasts of the tromp: before his eyes, the glare

Of lightnings from the shield. The vacant dark

Shook with accursed taunts, wide flashed the stroke

Of sword blades unaccomplished: bitter taste

There was of bitterness far worse than death,

Taste of discomfiture most rash, most foul,

And unredeemable. On him attended

The sprites of horror known of sleepless minds

Which make a tempest of the silent hours.

At earliest dawn with dumb voice cried his soul

And through that day: "I must acquit myself.

"The shame within me, daughter of disease,

"Not of my nature, may no longer lodge

"Within a heart to honour dedicate

"And love." Whereon, he gently spake Isonde,

Who light o' heart conspired to prove at full

His growing vigour, as a knight from far,

Mistimed, who seeks the lists with errant spear.

That tourney-day being come: advanced the jousts;

The court, the vassal-throngs inspired by sight

Of marvellous chevisaunce which made that field

As lustrous in the scroll of chivalry

As famed Caerleon's jousts what time the King

Arthur, achieved his crown against six kings--

Isonde in worship of her nameless lord

Ordained and well-arrayed him all in white

And privily brought him forth. To churls and court,

'Tis told, he seemed an angel from the skies

Descended on a cause of solemn right.

His face, fresh from the beauty of Isonde,

Shone sunbright through the tourney's dusty air,

Whilst he displayed anew to ruthless fray

The blazon of his shield, first in renown

Henceforth in herald's lore, the argent lion.

Instantly, veered opinion of the day.

As silent as his airy, snow-white plume

Waved o'er his helm, the silence of the throng

Waiting his onset. Three long wood-wroth hours

The trumpet's urgent call found him to fore,

Rousing the stormy glories of the list.

The keen fang of his spear--his yearning sword--

Made a huge crimson vintage to redeem

His mischance from the stroke of Marhaus: none,

Prince, baron, peer, whoever couched the lance,

Or lifted brand against him, but o'erthrown

Amidst such wreck of harness as ne'er graced

Cadwor, Geraint, Owaine, those knights elect

For battle, leaders of the Table Round,

Paid homage to his dire puissance, while

Swart Palomide down-beaten was forsword

Of Belle Isonde, unknighted for a year.

The Lady of the Lands, and her demesne

Our knight forewent, again that they should fire

The eagles and the buzzards of the lists.--

So fared the Light of Honour on that day.

How many months, how many dulcet months--

Nay, curious gentles, ask me not how long

Within the verdant kingdom Tristram held

Bondsman to love: each jot of knightly will

Meshed in Belle Isonde's wondrous, affluent hair:

His heart intoxicate with joy to note

Her gentle goings.

Then came sudden close.

Secret, imperative, a missive brief

Called on him to depart. "At once?--and whither?

"And why?" enquired La Belle Isonde, a tear,

The virgin tear of her surpassing love,

Shining within her eye. 'Twas, thereupon,

His name he told--his history--his estate--

And somewhat of his heart--which made Isonde

Tremble as on the forecast of an hour

When love would glorify all ensuing hours.

Thus, farewell on their lips had more than words

For comfort: words more of the living soul

Than common day-speech: and with confidence

In love's presiding spirit to bring all good

In near good time, the maiden to her bower,

Tristram before a frolic, singing wind

Sailed to his aim, Tintagel's surge-beat towers.

That mandate was for service.--This achieved,

Tintagel found a guest much changed from him

Tristram, ere known of reland's court. Isonde,

Dwelt angel of his spirit everywhere;

Ever upon his lips as in his heart;

Till Mark, infected by his mood and praise,

Longed for the royal maid. Her knight soul-racked

Held silence, kept apart,--but much too late.

For by great Honour, worship of his soul,

His fealty held a covenant with Mark, whereby

Mark's word became a law unto his soul.

Thus, when Mark spoke his charge, Sir Tristram took

That charge, and loyally sought Ireland's court

To bring the starry maiden thence, Isonde,--

To set her lustre in Mark's clouded throne,

Her light of joy upon his rayless crown.

Once more, as from the stars, decreed of heaven,

Fortune within misfortune came, now dressed

In war's most dread attire. Ierne's lands,

Within, without, torn, pillaged by ill friends

Worse than her foes,--tormented now by both--

Through these with prowess, diligence, and skill

Tristram, one long twelve months, that year one war,

Subdued where'er he wandered. Never still,

That lion-heartedness which made the realm

A threshing-floor for the fury of his spear,

Till foes were whirled from thence as chaff--ill friends

Curbed, chastened, law-bound in the peace--else, smitten

Dead, ta'en of death where most intent on death.

For this the king, the queen, the realm's estates

Welcomed him to their halls with joyous pomp,

Music, and garlands, and triumphant praise

As ne'er before rang through the hearts and homes

Of haughty, laurelled Ireland. Thus it came,

Our knight-ambassador had gift to mould

His graceless charge into command of grace.

When he must name his boon, he to the king

Full-gazing, calm in aspect, but with voice

Solemn as one renouncing for all years

His best delight,--"From Cornwall have I charge

"To bring thy daughter, that she be its queen."

Grief smote the court. Belle Isonde's violet eyes--

O, what a heaven of pleading love shone there,

Lovelier, more pitiful, within that shower

Of sacred tears,--spoke to his heart,--but he

Full meekly left the hall.

Whilst king and maid

Fulfilled their sudden woe with weeping sobs

And piteous choking words, around them stole

A breeze of golden sounds--the harp's most high

Immutable language, gentliest tones and strong

To turn the mind from all its dear resolves,

To win from every mood, to every mood,

From smiles to sighs, from mourning unto festal

Merriment. They were soothed, went forth and reached

A myrtle shade, wherein their knight-guest harped;

And ere the lustrous moon which shone that night

Shed half her silver fire within the dark

Sir Tristram sailed the sea; La Belle Isonde

His charge with nuptial gifts, herself the gift

Beyond the price of gifts, for Cornwall bound.

Of all the marvels told in prose or song

Of what there happed in Pendragonian times,

Of things mysterious, loving--now appears

That most mysterious, loving, absolute.

The queen, sweet mother of La Belle Isonde,

Disquiet for her daughter's weal, in hours

Secret, when natal stars benignant reigned,

Brewed her a drink which held and amorous charm,

And thus to Isonde's gentlewoman spake:--

"Brengwain, give heed, that blessings close thy care.

"See on the bridal-eve that Cornwall's king

"Partake of this quick draught with our Isonde.

"Therewith, be sure, a love shall grow between

"As never known in any royal house.

"Be wary and be prompt!"

The vessel driven,

Storm-caught by night, leagues to the south below

Tintagel, shelters in these flowery isles

Which front the rocky, bare, wave-smitten end

Of Cornwall: and to Tristram's glad surprise

In eye-shot of his native Lyonesse,

Since drawn beneath the ocean waves, its towers,

Fields, palaces, and wealth of mighty life,

Where then his name lived as a guardian spell.

Of sullen brightness, noon, o'erdrowsing all,

As by some sultry toils o'erborne, when he

In fretful humour with these sterile hours

Made speed below--a dolorous haste, to find

The destiny of darkness in the sun--

Searching for cheer. There, Brengwain's cabin door,

Which to and fro swung sleepily, provoked

His questing eye--but ere his outstretched hand

Could reach it, well, too well, he was aware

Half-hidden in a store of silken gifts

There lay a golden flasket. Passing in,

Drawn by the shining object, sense and spirit

Were captive. Carven curiously around,

Beneath, above, the flasket's gold with mystic,

Woven, unintelligible signs, which seemed

Of power and beauty mingled--such as lie

Within the stellar houses, that a man

Unquestioning of astral force is won

To observation, with a dread surmise

Destiny operates in their moving lights:

As lie in flowers, from stigma unto leaf

In form and colour,--so that we exclaim

"O, lovely flower!" all unaware, true joy,--

Of magic resident, the soft mute spell

Kindling the soul,--for science none of man,

May separate the beauty from the signs.

This carven, golden flasket Tristram brought

To Belle Isonde, whose vision strayed from isle

To isle, last rested on the foamless deep.

"Methinks, the best of cheer our servants hold.

"This flasket, sure, has bounteous nourishment

"Worthy its glistering shell," said Tristram. "I,

"Found it in hiding under Brengwain's care."

Isonde turned from the sea, to find her sight

Caught by the flasket, as though she would read,

Yet failed to read or guess, the hieroglyphs

Wreathed everywhere throughout the carven gold.

"Oft have you urged me to demand a boon--

"And since that much," continued he: "nay all,

"Of my poor heart shall part for ever from me

"When we shall part; one hour I would remember,

"Last shining rubric in our passing love--

"To other hours as diamond is to sand--

"One radiant hour, when you vouchsafed my boon--

"Let me partake this well-kept draught with thee."

To this Isonde, with moise uplifted eyes,

Wherein the light of love obscurely shone,--

"Yea, be it so, with all this heart of mine

"Which goes with thee whenever thou shalt go."

He oped the carven flasket and poured forth,

With gentle hand, the treasured wine, which gleamed

Golden and danced--a brisk, bright life was in it

To hold the sight and woo the taste. They pledged.

The pleasing trouble working in the wine

Worked swiftly in each heart. Their pledge had been

Of that love-drink designed, as you have heard,

By Ireland's queen.

The hair of Belle Isonde,

Moved over her a moving haze of gold:

Upon the midnight of her sorrowing soul,

So spake her eyes, love's day-star brightly rose,

And Tristram saw her beauty, heard her voice,

As, ere now, he had never heard or seen.

He gave the kiss of Rimini--she received--

And love between them, there was evermore.

Unto these twain, in spirit and in sense,

As day is fulfilled of the sun, as night

Is fulfilled of the stars, and spring is fulfilled

Of the primrose and lark, the summer fulfilled

Of the rose--so their love with all of beauty

Of passion and all of pleasure was full

Filled by this mystical flasket of wine,

This golden, and carven, and mystical

Flasket of wine.

Here, as one liege to Love,

I ask the favour of all lovers' thoughts,

I ask the favour of all lovers' shades,

The magic, not the sin, as hath been named,

Known by Francesca from Sir Launcelot's kiss,

I call upon it and the poet's heart

Which made it music: on that name not less,

Poet and lover, whose one word of song

Was Laura--any soul of love reply,

And absolution for this hour is given

Ample as ocean, certain as its tide.

But never yet mere summer-sport was love.

Proportionate sacrifice it shall exact

For every sprinkling of its meed of grace.

Even as they dallied with love's aloe bloom

The south wind stirred. When, promptly, Tristram's voice

Commands the sea-browned mariners hoist sail,

Which answering, as with inborn will, the ship

Speeds from those flowery isles to reach their home

Tintagel. Forth, from paradise of love,

With sharpest speed to sorrow. Known next morn,

Stranded beneath Dunrabin's rocky hold:

A nest of ruffians with more ruffian lord

Whose mirth was misrule, one elect of evil,

Known as they hound and drew to dungeons deep

This company late frolic o'er bright seas

Sailing to greet their welcome; nor released

Until the guardian-knight evinced his force,

His passion, and his faith, in divers broils

For pleasure of that miscreant chief--pleased first,

But better pleased, anon, to yield a free

Acquittance through a horror of that sword,

That spear, which flamed before him night and day

Slaying his peace, awakening memories

Of murderous years for reckoning ere death's coast

In view.

With gladness from the keep they went.

But whither? Deep in trackless, unkenned ways,

The constant light to which the sphered harp

Of Arthur sings, highest in heaven, sole guide

On all their march--awaited many an eve

For safe direction. Strangely thus they fared

Three fell, bewildered weeks: Tristram ordained

Each breaking morn, or bright or dim, to break

Upon some high adventure, so his love

Should bear the harrying stress of years of dole,

Before he gave his star into the dark

Of other keeping. Fortune then or helped

Or marred, by leading them to friendly paths,

Wher, King Mark apprised, in hast despatched

Barons and squires, for dignity and pomp

Of chivalry, and to regale their spirits

A minstrel troop approved by voice and lute.

These brought unto Tintagel's rest the twain,

With such a pageantry of arms, such storm

Of musical merriment as its hoary walls

Never afore had wot of.--Five long days,

Horns in the forest, lances in the joust

Gave brave delight throughout the sunshine hours:

At eventime, beneath the summer's heaven,

Soft-stringed instruments with varying song

Made ravishing cheer: and ere the ancient hold

Lost feeling of its younger years, King Mark

Was richly wedded with all nobleness

To Tristram's love, Isonde.

But high emprise and Tristram form one name.

Behold at eve, a sombre eve, sad child

Of golden day, before the gate there stands

None other than the paynim Palomide.

Love, or in heathen or in Christian breast,

Works the same bale or bliss. He, hither drawn

Because Love will not have it otherwise.

Had Belle Isonde been hidden deep within

Matted recesses of the Mercian woods:

Or, midst the fens of Sessoin been immured:

Or, lodged within Avilion's cypress bowers:

There, had this Palomide this instant been

And not before Tintagel's gate. Urbane,

Obsequious, captivating sight and ear

The castle's latest comer: framed by Love

For all Love's needs, its pleasure or its end.

Boastful and threatening, one of bloody will,

When thought Isonde might like enough be wooed

By force, or pride in force, which she inspired;

He now shows tender, odorous, subtle-breathed

As breeze which creeps along a hawthorn lane

In white mid-May: a very lady's page

For low obedience in her flowery pleasaunce,

Or in the chase, or in the jocund hall--

Wherein lie waiting birth, new labours sore

For Tristram, and a warp in life.

Till Yule,

Till Passion-tide, here rested Palomide.

Nor wist then Mark, the paynim yet should part,

Since now it was his kingdom's beauteous time,

Which kept the guest and drew from neighbour-realms

Knights errant, pilgrims, minstrels, gallant throngs

From courts and halls; when spring with cope of blue,

Spring with its voice of music, and its coat

Of many colours, told to earth once more

Gone was another winter's silver strength

Except for memory's keeping.--Then, arose

Sounds of dismay amidst Tintagel's bowers.

Brengwain was fled: nor had the general cry

Abated, till obsequious Palomide,

On promised boon, in seven days brought the maid

For Cornwall's queen.

Boon chosen at twilight time,

Rich with the breath of pansy and young leaves

Dew-drenched. That time, Upsala's knight of craft

Beneath Belle Isonde's balcon then required

Her promised favour.--Later, in the shades

Walking the inner court, Sir Tristram saw

One broad high lattice open, thereby knew

His fond bird's cage unclosed. Rejoiced in heart,

Wotting his love awaited sweet "Good night!"

He blithely sang, for whisper of "Good night."

No answer: not a chirp: he climbed to find

No bird--no bird--and yet the oaken door

Thrice-barred within. What o' the bird? No guess--

It has been snared.

Grievous were it to learn

This new wayfaring, and its labour sore.

The queen was gone, as wrapped into the dark

By darksome powers: and Palomide and squire

Gone,--lost as shades within the shadow of night.

Manifold terrors haunted Tristram's quest:

The wolf, the wild-worm, dwellers of the waste,

On open ways, and lurking in the brake

Bandits and heathen swords. That haggard search

Compassed a life of warlike hardihood:

For his great anguish was a constant spur

Which took rest from him at the golden noon,

Whilst midnight lacked in him her sleepy dues.

Belle Isonde's knight pursued them with the sense

Of passion feverously vigilant,

Which keeps the trail once found. He overtook

Palomide, near a willow-shaded fount

Reposing: challenged him to horse--and drave

So vehemently, Mark's treasonous guest o'erwhelmed,

Swooned from the saddle.

"I falter not. I, of the Aser line:

"But with report in Odin's iron land

"Of one whose beauty known as of the sun,

"To whom as frosted lights all other maids,

"Upon myself I took this quest of love.

"Hence, Ireland found me. Hence, found I your queen,

"Whose look inspires more than the sacred mead

"Our pontiff-chief, 'neath Upsal's dome of gold,

"Dispenses at the wreathed shrine when she

"Iduna, mother of your laughing Spring,

"Restorer of the flowers of youth to mortals

"And to the gods, claims every heart to drink

"Life's joy and hope. It was Iduna's month

"I raught your queen. To perish in my love,

"Far sweeter than upright amid the slain

"The battle-virgins' favour mine. Nay, strike!

"Strike!--And the pearl-roofed mansion of our skies,

"Wide-shining Breidalblick, receives new guest

"For Balder to console." With woe at heart,

Fresh knight of worth, had life within him slain

By hapless love, Sir Tristram led her back

Unscarred, unstained, through many a perilous way,

His queen to weak and wily Mark.

Then love

Took pity on the Lion Knight, his wounds,

His woeful enterprise, that inward fire

Consuming, to behold his Beautiful,

Bride of his heart, bride Beautiful of him

Who masked all meanness with a kingly name.

Mysterious Love, working through fortunes ill

Bestowed its own soft truce, drew him afar

In peaceful sequestration. Honour's wound,--

A rueful gash and from a venomed blade

Earned in his recent quest--rejecting cure

From potent simples, needs he must repair

Forthright to Howell's court in Brittanie,

Whose daughter in the science of the leech

Bore high repute--but ah, she bore for him

Enchantment in the music of her name,

Which was none other than his queen's--Isonde--

King Howell's daughter--named of the Lily Hands.

Ah, how with Tristram, whose great passionate heart

Here finds the vital word of his best life,

Isonde, clothed with such loveliness, the maid

Might be twin-sister to his Beautiful?

Ah, this, Love's ordination, soon surmised.

What with her delicate charms, whose influence worked

Confederate with the beauty of his queen:

Gifted devotion through his venomous ill,

And that her name gave to his heart of love

Presence and power; and her observance meek,

Yet quick, varying in mood with varying need

Throughout his long recovering hours--these all

Blending their sway, co-operating, brought

Tardy acknowledgment from grateful gaze

To language; thence to reason's deeds. The maid

Became his virgin spouse.

Leavened by his will

She sowed life's graces throughout Brittanie.

Rich in the knight she loved, thence came her boon

Of sunniest years--most joyous, placid years--

Most bright and placid known to Tristram yet.

And, it may be, that their deep peacefulness

Obtained security from tearful prayers

La Belle Isonde sent to her lowering heaven,

When told of Tristram's nuptials. Lorn, but true,

Knowing his love for her, she prayed for him

And his fair consort: did not set her heart

Against him, but at evensong and prime

Prayed that his heart be hardly 'gainst her set,

And that a new love, wider, holier love,

Enrich him with its tokens most divine.

These prayers and tears might have reward to keep

The distant wedded twain as under charge

Angelic: albeit, tears and prayers of her

To whom their answer had undone her more

Than aught beside--plagued, darkened all her hours,

Drained life, and ta'en the light of hope from death.

Heavily leaning upon Brengwain's arm,

La Belle Isonde steps gently towards the grove,

Her fairest pleasaunce, a most inward grove,

Her noontide haunt: behind a lilac bush

Hears rustling garments, noise of flying feet,

And walking round beholds two maids, one churl,

In flight for private entrance to the keep.

Curious, half-roused from out her trance-like mood,

She vainly asks the purpose of that flight:

Then loiters dreamful in the winding paths,

Her eyes in search amidst the border-flowers

For something lost. "Dull and despoiled these walks,

"Sweet Brengwain," murmurs she, pale queen. "All's changed

"Since heart's-ease died. Would evening's hour were come,

"Then we might hear our nightingale. An yet,

"Our nightingale, methinks, has lost his note

"These many weeks. All's dead-dull now. Our blooms

"Were brighter upon Michelmas, of yore--

"But, then, all were together. Didst thou say,

"That upon noon may come an instant night?"

--"No, no."--On this they reached a shrivelled shape

Lain on the grass: a creature ragged, sick

Unto the very death; found seven days since

At break of morn by Severn's hermit saint.

Thence to Tintagel brought for friendly care--

And here at noon laid in the sun whose beam,

Perchance, may stir the tides of life anew.

The queen's hand tightened on her maiden's arm,

Regarding him as one with winter-thoughts

Regards the ruin of the summer's green

No more returning: upon her he looked,

A mystic knowledge gleaming in his eyes,

As they beheld a something more than seen

By earthly vision--wondrous, unspeakable.

Confused in spirit, unsatisfied, the queen

Drew back, and in a winter-wailing tone,--

"Methinks, that form a-many weeks has drunk

"Of sorrow like to mine, and some fair dame

"Saddens upon his absence. Let us go."

Yet sought she not her inward grove, but strayed

Forlorn, with earthward searching look: then paused:

Cried in a voice of pain. "That bunch of leaves--

"Those withered leaves--beneath yon thorn--think you,

"Were once my once-dear flower?--Sweet Brengwain, say,

"Now being apart, and here no listening walls,

"When Tristram back from Brittanie, was't one

"Or two his fellows, played upon my pride

"And drave him to the woods?"--"Sir Palomide,

"Sir Kay, two men, but one in evil mind."--

"Ay, ay! And they would woo, and I would win

"In fancy, having lost so much in life

"Wearing the name of queen. But, they be gone?--"

"In truth, Sir Tristram gone, for them to stay

"Had been perdition unto court and king,

"So fierce thy spirit"--"Well! Ah, but not well--

"For him my sun, and I thus desolate.

"So weak, too, from these suffering, palsying months.

"Fever and pain their tabernacle long

"Have made this quivering frame--Thou, surely, sweet,

"Hast seen our knightly star of late--or wast

"In dream I learned of it?"--"Yea, but in dream.

"Yet, guided as by dream, I found his haunt,

"A forest, guarded by an iron keep,

"Where, two years gone, the heathen Palomide,

"For gain of thee, foughten his angriest fight

"With Tristram; who, that victory won, his rest

"Took with the castle's dame. He, as he healed,

"Taught her most featly and most prettily

"To harp. He left her wiser in that art

"Which wisely she has kept. Thus, led by me,

"Her music found thy knight and drew him forth,

"Captive of harmony, unto her home,

"Wherein his soul gat peace. But for three days,

"Misfortunes crossed her--then, the lady's touch

"Failed at the fount of melody and health,

"And by the demon of his madness borne

"Into the icy dawn and shroud of mists,

"Tristram--nor rested, as I wot, until

"The forest's thorn-embrangled inmost heart

"Held him lone guest of sorrow as before,"--

"--O woe, O misery! Of all mankind,

"Lovers have sharpest doom--not one hath joy

"Of those that thou hast named.--Brengwain, be sure,

"That withered man no long time since hath been

"Somewhat a pleasure to the sight--aye, aye--

"With nobleness of frame and might of limb.

"My dream-wrought mind! The heart's-ease.--O, this heart!

"Brengwain, be we all dying? Dimly sense

"Recalls the darling flower.--That withered man,

"His former life within me as a dream

"Floats dimly. Strange--that withered man, near death,

"Seems, like the flower, familiar once; again,

"My cozening memory fails--the flower--the flower--

"His face?" She paused, self-questioning--"His face,

"Is as the face of one whom I have seen

"In many places." Here a hopeless moan

Spake from her heart. Silence some moments--then,

"Hist, Brengwain. Hast thou ever loved?"--"Yea, queen."

"And does Love wander wild, as I have talked?"

"I never knew my state in love, sweet queen.

"Your words are very words of love. My ease

"Of heart would perish in a night. Ay, lover

"Be nought of lover on a syllable.

"'Tis like nought else."--"Ah, Brengwain, now I think--

--"How sweet to feel one's memory hold again--

"Did I not question thee--or should have done--

"Upon Love's instant?"--"Yestermorn, we spake--

"And now thou bringest me again to talk on't:

"Whenas, I least would have of hope--in years,

"Years long, long past--of love and lover--one

"And both would shine.--O, those sweet years long past--

"More beautiful than in the spring o' love."

--"Such things then come again. I, too, have found

"That love may in a moment shew new season.

"I ne'er was told--but know--its summer dies

"With all its sighing autumn in an hour:

"Then the cold, deathly winter--deathly cold,

"And long."--Brengwain cried out.--"However long,

"It yields to spring on the instant of a smile.

"There is the word you asked for, my sweet queen."

--"Months, months, I deem, have passed. And may that instant

"Come here?--to me?"--"It may."--"What time, sayst thou?

--"For life, sweet queen."--"Nay, that was not thy word.

"I said months, months--you spake of an instant--ah,

"That instant of spring birth, may not the months

"Black, icy months in which we now be bound,

"Strangle it? Ware you, Brengwain, that of love

"Only one thing is certain unto all:

"Being not, it shall not be, though angels crave it:

"And being, as certain as it once was not

"Time comes it shall not be. There's all."--"Nay, nay!

"Within the radiance of that instant's life

"The past is as the past of night at dawn,

"Forgotten: the present, glory; and the future

"Secure, serene." Thus Isonde with her maid

Along the pleasaunce-walks with frequent sighs,

Talked as is need of those of highest place

In grief with faithful servitors--the heart

Being everywhere in everyone the same--

And fellowship of sorrow makes us one.

Listless, a few steps onward: then, the queen

Looked on the shrivelled shape again, which lay

With close-shut eyes, and motionless.--"How still

"He lies, as now in the extremity

"Of quiet death," whispered La Belle Isonde.

But scarcely had she wandered three spears' length

Beyond the man, when her full heart brake forth.

"O, Brengwain, Love is very life, I see.

"We'd better love a withered man like that

"Than have no love at all. And, yet, my knight

"Was glorious as an angel: ever the same

"Unto my soul, as when in Ireland's jousts--

"Our Tristram! Grace of arms! Our Lion Knight!

"Our Light of Honour!"--In her passion's pause

She heard a cry. "Hark, Hodain finds me here,

"With voice I ever loved next to his lord's."

She turned. She saw with wild amaze her hound

Leaping around the man--nor hand, nor brow,

Nor cheek it left unkissed: and then recalled,

Hodain had never left her save for one,

But for that one would ever leave her side,--

He who had given the hound. Nor could she speak,

Nor move, La Belle Isonde: and on her, lo,

The man's eyes opened: knew she wept: and tears

Can cleanse the foulest wound--and at the sight

His soul healed, and his life gat strength--upsprang

Sir Tristram--caught her--pressed her heart to heart.

And voice was gone from both: and best for both

A sobbing silence.--Thus, again, the pair

Came to each other: thus the Spring o' Love

Vanquished the winter in an instant's space.

Long,

She hung upon him as a wilding flower

Hangs on a castle's ruins beautiful

And beautifying. After parley sweet--

How long they might not know, since Time's fleet wing

Swept past so softly then--with knightly step

Tristram withdrew to seek his bower. He gone,

The queen with questioning melodious voice

To Brengwain. "Hath the season changed? Your eye

"Speaks wickedly. You may lack grace o' love,

"Yet, let me kiss thee. Thou wert ever kind,

"And hast forgiveness.--Of a truth, the light

"Grows lovelier in the day: and my heart sings

"Sweetlier unto me than might any bird.

"The scant flowers smile! and, look, that willow branch

"Beckons to yonder thorn: and whispers,--hark,--

"In every bush, to bid hearts'ease upraise

"Its eye of blue again. Yet tell me, truly,

"Brengwain, dear soul, has it for once been so

"These many, many months?"--"Yes, lovelier far

"To lovers with Love's summer in their souls,

"And nought to cross them."--"Thou art envious, pert,

"Petulant. A surly maid. Must ever lack

"Love's grace. Go! Lead me to my bower. Pray, let

"Thy face wear the true colour of thy heart,

"Show not the shine of happiness you know not,

"But take its proper sable." Haughtily,

Strode Belle Isonde as more than queen that hour:

Triumphing royally in her knight returned.

Tintagel's knight now here, a double pride

Guerdon'd Mark's liberal pains. 'Twas vastly strange

The history of the madman: then 'twas fine

Self-satisfaction to bestow his care

On soul so desolate, whereon rang praise

Full-voiced from Cornwall's nest of dissolute peers.

And when the lion knight in time assumed

The lion's port, between the four broad seas

What potentate could claim such arm of faith,

And iron will for functions of the field?

Not long, this blithe content. Barons and squires--

Mark's revelling, craven, shrewd and rare, long-pledged

Companions whilst Sir Marhaus held his gate--

Their owlish spirits could not brook the light

Of Honour shining in their purlieus. Soon,

Mark's double pride was flustered into hate.

Whispering of Honour night and noon, wrought heat

Of spirit, but when barbed hints and looks,

Slanting at queen and lion-knight, were caught

By Mark in jealous phrensy, men might wot

Fate then abridged a noble life.--Soon done,--

Within Tintagel's dungeons--or, her waves

Were ready to receive and hide the dead.

But no--fear rules the raging heart--there lived

Camelot's peerage, first estate of arms:

The vengeance, when to Launcelot's heart went up

The cry of Tristram's blood--therefore, his doom,

Away, exiled from Cornwall's boundaries,

Despised, affronted, roving knight-of-green,

For twice five years. Worse news had never struck

Sir Tristram's soul--and with a voice of tears,

He mourned of his large worship shown to Mark,

Much known to all, but much untold, unknown.

Sleepy neglect forbore to speak of much

And envy hath its silence.

That o'erpast,

The fields of Logris called, awaiting him

With other thoughts and hopes, with other fields

For fame. The knight-of-green's adventurous hand

Still strenuous through the righteous wrath of love--

Since Belle Isonde within his bosom lived

As all of love in love's own powers and flame

Exceeding, and impelled to deed sublime,

Chastening or hallowed, or by arms or song,

Achieved.

But for herself, the Beautiful,

Rest none for her--and of her hot unrest

Brengwain would find for her its errant cause:

And on report of Logris, as domain

Renovate by his roaming enterprise,

Through perils, here not to be rehearsed, but dire,

She found the steerage of his path, and last,

Found him, the knight, in slumber near a spring--

Sate softly by his side, and kept her heart

In patience till he woke, when she resigned

Letters of grace from her, his ladye-love.

The Dragon King, that time, from Camelot

Let cry a solemn three days' tournament

For Maidens' Castle. Mindful, Tristram held

The news in keeping. Upon loneliest hours,

Gladdened his spirit with the fire of hope

Bethinking of the promise of that day.

This told he Brengwain, with request "Sweet dame

"An thou wilt thither with me?"--"Ay, my lord,

"Or whither thou mayst lead, if going I save

"My lady's heart from sorrow, or yield her joy

"To know thy worship."--"Sorrow none for us,

"When heart doth write these letters brought by thee,

"And letters have the welcome of such heart

"As tells thee now its joy. Thither, with me

"The gainest way which brings us to behold

"The famous fellowship of the Table Round,

"Brave emulation in the Table Round,

"The sun and centre of the Table Round,

"Arthur, and in her throne queen Guinevere."

O, vanity of Love! He spoke the maid;

He brought the maid to Maidens' Castle jousts--

For why? Scarce heard as whisper in his heart;

It was, that seeing nobleness of knights

And ladies beautiful beyond men's praise,

Proclaim his valour, Brengwain soon should bring,

For hearing of Isonde, report with wit

Particular to time, display, and deed.

But when this of the maiden, seen and heard,

Her heart sank, never having yet conceived

Such glory, beauty, power. All those three days,

Her heart, as in a marvellous vision endured

Such terror for his weal, and, O, such pangs

Of sudden amazing joy, when she beheld

Time after time, his argent lion flare

Before the lists--then the career, the clash,

And prouder for the shock ride forth, his faith

His honour, valour, crowned again. Yea, fear

Darkened her whilst his prowess kept each day.

Was one so terrible, lord of the jousts,

Crimson from helm to stirrup, truly knight

So debonnair, so gentle in his grace,

Single and simple in his love, as known?

Found in such thought, a giant knight rode in,

Claiming to break a lance. With sea-like voice,

Scornful he cried: "From Cornwall's court I come--

"Confess its queen, Isonde, excelling aught

"Of any dame of any knight; announce

"My purpose! Save her rightful king, shall none

"Exceed my worship: none divide my claim,

"And here, by me, the lion shall be quelled."

Then Brengwain knew who came as from the shades,

Knight of the King of Terrors,--Palomide,

As he no less in darkest passion came,

With sable panoply on sable steed,

As ever in his quest, to drive to doom

All valour that stood thwart his love, or dulled

His worship of Isonde. This Brengwain knew,

And knowing swooned. Her wakening eyes surveyed

In fear the lists below--so long her swoon

The knights had evenly proved two careers,--

Now came the third. Or e'er he placed his lance

In rest, Sir Tristram raised him on his steed,

Stretched forth his arms, as though in previous fray

He had been idler, and his limbs of might

Ached for due action. Then, the thunderous course--

On which, midway, the shattering shock spread wide

The splinters of the spears. With speed of flame

Tristram laid hands upon his foeman's shield

Burst every strap--upon his charger's mane

Laid prone the knight of Upsal's head, then swift

With shield smote, stunned him--hurled the shield to earth--

Caught at his helm, brake all its brazen bands,

With helm showered wrathful perilous blows--so, bruised,

Bloody, as dead, the peer of Odin sank

Unhorsed, last tribute to that day of deeds,

Since none, of fifty unbreathed knights, none now

Dare trace the field. The last dread day had closed--

Tristram each day of all those three dread days,

Master of the degree.

Yet with default.--

In fortune's frolic, shorn of fortune's grace.--

He came not to dismount, as no knight came

Master of the degree, ere comes a knight

On lusty stammel steed with chiming pace,

Clad in carnation-coloured arms, all o'er

Beset with golden sprays: upon his helm

Spruce sprays of gold in bloom, with shield's device

One golden blooming spray, and nuts of gold.

His open visor shows a countenance

Lightening with crafty humours, which distrain

The glooming heart of Brengwain, as a torch

Acquires with light within a cave the space

Of darkness it is conquering. Hark, the steed

Caracoles blithely to its master's wit,

Which tells that in the knight's appointments lie,

Of silver sound some scores of hidden bells

Ringing unto the caracole. Then rose

From knight, and clown, and laughing voice of dame--

"Now, comes the singing-tilt of Dinadin."

The sturdy stammel steed of Dinadin

Sprang as to get a forward grip of earth,

Whereon it held. The lion like the wind,

Or whirlwind towards him--missed in his attaint--

Flew back from spear of Dinadin, as he

By naught but violence of his whirlwind speed

Were blown from saddle. Ere the foiled knight rose,--

Ringing alway, as though the chivalry

Of Camelot had voice in scornful song,

Dinadin forth had sped, had flown the lists,

With cry, "I ask no blood." So is it told,

These tilting times lacked not their special play

To ease the crimson passions of the joust.

Brengwain returned with news, she interwove

Such praise of Dinadin within her speech

And of the singing-tilt, her mournful queen

Impassioned bade her exorcise his name

From history of that jousting--but when all

The puissance, the courtesy of those days

Was heard, rightway that simple heart of love

Swooned in her ecstasies of joy.

No need

In her estate for wonder. Lovers' news

At any time are powers--in misery,

As fallen now upon the Beautiful,

Love's loving news dash down the heart grown weak,

Through abstinence of joy with suffering.

Suffering? Ay, Mark ere this had made well-known

Beyond surmise, his mean, malignant self.

His ruthless humour grew with passing weeks.

None, in the misrule of his court might blame

Or warn him: one and all in love alike

And wisdom scant. Last, in his scornful hate

Bestowed on Belle Isonde, her lord displayed

Polluted taste, a riotous wantonness,

As though each sorry portion of his guilt

Of foulness, was more precious from the foil

Of foulness to the sweetness of his queen:

As, though her hurt and sorrow from his guilt,

Gave to it pleasure's daintiest sting.

With arm

Free to his twofold cause, now Tristram fared

Once more the Knight of Love: high Honour's beam

Bare through shy noisome ways, till on an eve

Fog-darkened, weary, and misled, he found,

Deep in the quaking lands of Rueful Dale,

Lodgment within a hold of mystery.

There for a season cloistered, bondsman held

Of wiliest witch that ever wore the form

And beauty of a woman--Morgan le Fay--

His faith was brought to proof. Ah, but his love

Moved not from Belle Isonde. The dazzling witch,

Her wiles, her potions, glamour in her gaze,

Stirred not his fealty.

Abrupt the end,

Blasting enchantment, drawing the far sound

Of the world's voices full upon his soul:

Sanguine that end and sudden, when in mail

The lady's paramour, her confrere tried

In love's expedients and designs of death,

Sought to conclude with Tristram in her grove,

Whose leaves and blossoms had sweet nourishment

From hearts beneath--brave, bounteous, and renowned

Lured hither, buried here. The mailed man

With words of shame, shamed her--Morgan le Fay--

As stings to rouse the peer--unsheathed his brand

As for immediate outrage. Then, the knight

Held breath in anguish. "Surely this be stain

"Upon the virtues of the dame"--that thought

Illumined him with honour's light, he saw

Only a slanderous, intrusive churl--

Leapt on him: from his gauntlet's nerveless grasp

Wrenching the blade, he clove him to the breast.

Cloven the charm. One thought, one stroke--the life

Of bestial churl--and cloven was the charm.

A wakening stroke: a judgment flash had been

The swift white lightning of his flying sword:

And blood of evil broke the evil spell,

And strong and clear of inward vision now,

Still Knight of Honour, Tristram stood. His bane

Furnished new trophy for his trust in love.

Led by that faith in Love, his venturous way

Straight tended to the fair Memorial Stone

Near Camelot, long years desired as place

Dedicate to the sacrifice of love,

Best place for heart sick-sorrowing.

Gazing there,

O'er its white marble, crossed with crimson streak,

Significant of radiant loves there slain,

There resting--old and memorable words

Of Merlin, from the bud of prophecy

Burst into blossom.

Hither, rode this time

Sir Launcelot of the Lake: and now was fought,

Unknown of each, that fight of spear and sword,

These gone, the struggle hand to hand, each gripe

Keen as the fang of death. Had bard been there,

That crested hour were more than Roncesvalles

In battle-blast of song. Then each confessed

Name to each other, and in knightly love

Paced to the hallowed stone, where kneeling, both

Made covenant of faithfulness and gave,

Last token of consummate knightlihood,

Matchless degree unto each other. Thus,

Blossomed the words of Merlin's wintry years.

Beside that white Memorial Stone, there met

"The two best knights in all King Arthur's days

"And truest lovers known in any land."

Now Launcelot's mind, wot that an hour was born

Pre-eminent for worship: that on him

Was laid the charge of glory to induct

Tristram into that final avenue

Which brings the knight to be true child of fame.

Hence, unto Arthur's court he drew his fere,

Saluted with a jubilance as ne'er

Before that day in Camelot, or known

After, in Pendragonian times. Once there,

Arthur with pomp and honours brought our knight

To seek the Table Round. With him, approached

Guinevere, in her lustre, damsels, peers,--

Soft-shining Pleiades of beauty, bands

Chivalrous, whose appointments, gleaming shewed

Various device of shield. Then Guinevere

Cried, "Welcome!" answering, "Welcome!" cried the dames:

"Welcome!" the damsels: thrice the silver cries

Against the clanging "Welcome!" of the knights.

Uprose, the trumpet-greeting of the king,

Whereon the signet of his tongue fulfilled

The vehement joyaunce:--"Welcome! to our court,

"One of earth's best and gentlest knights, be thou!

"Great hunter of the heathen!--from three realms

"Thrusting their fierce invading hosts. In chase,

"Bearer of chiefest prize! The bugle horn,

"Of all its choicest measures: terms of sport,

"By hawk, and hound, and spear, beginner thou!

"Of all the mystery by river's marge:

"Of all the mystery in woodland ways,

"Pursuit in air, field, holt, thou president!

"Knight of most worship! we confess and laud

"Thee for thy dues: and, as excelling other claim,

"Thou music's great magister! Voice nor hand,

"Like thee hath stirred the spirit's melody,

"Whence are begotten thoughts assuming oft

"Wilful predominance, we lose the sense

"For that indwelling music whence evolved.

"Then, welcome! Gentlest knight--of noblest deed,

"Of song, master and lord! Of noblest deed,

"Love, courtesy, liege vassal, and yet lord

"Puissant! Welcome!"

This being heard, with haste

The martial Order ranged the Table Round.

And Arthur looked on every seat there void,

And one siege lacked its living knight,--that knight

Foiled by young Tristram in his virgin fray

Of knighthood 'neath Tintagel's walls--the siege

Of Marhaus. Whereupon, the Order's king

Declared the morrow's business, when the tromp,

Brought towards the dragon-throne--imperial work

Of marvellous device from Merlin's hand,

Which raised high o'er its royal seat the head

Vengeful, with flickering tongue and blood-red eyes,

And wound behind the king with folds of steel

Rough-sparkling, and flat underneath his feet

Laid broad its tail endued with arrowy sting;

So Arthur sate as there upon his throne

Protected by the beast, his dragon-helm

Bickering, as though in wrath, himself a fear,

Dragonish to every foe of law or faith;

Around him, on this throne, by sound of tromp

Gathered the pageantry of Table Round,

With priests and saintly servitors in choirs,

At spring of day. Then to the minister porch.

By hoar, divine Dubricius, there received:

Hence led to the high altar, midst the noise

Of instrument and song in psalmody

Of praise, and incense fumes, with fragrant wreaths

Filling the temple; there, intoned the mass,

Succeeded by the service of the sword,

The oaths of chivalry, the sacred charge--

With benediction, whereupon heaven's hosts

Raise their hosannas for the goodly time

The knight shall strive for on the earth appears--

And welcome of that hour, his good fight fought,

He join the bands celestial. Arthur, then,

With state illustrious, adjudged the knight

Worthy the vacant siege, with accolade

Of resonant voice confirmed, invested him

With due insignia of the Table Round.

Closed these solemnities, through knightly throngs,

Whose panoply of bright incessant flashed

Fresh splendours into morn, there mingled groups

Of fair and sweet, like blooms of garden blown

By gentle winds. All day, there intervened

High tournament of young, and brave and gay,

With minstrel sport which winged the golden hours

With laughing joy.--Such martial nobleness,

Such consecrating pomp, such merriment,

Closed with proud feasting, used the Dragon King

When Tristram entered siege of Table Round.

This was the spring, with music overflown,

Flower-starred, and odorous as any spring

That smiled across the Logrian isle, or since,

Or ever shall when we are all forgotten.

Days pleasantly grew into weeks, the weeks

To months, which slid apace with shining feet

Until within the autumn time there slept

A sabbath's lustre upon Camelot.

A day of peace and praise.--What thunderous noise

Travels the vale in hast towards Camelot?

Mark and his knights!--who reck not of the day,

Its dedication, nor the faith whose peace

Enwraps this evening's hour. With pagan sneer

Riding at morn, he cried,--"This day, fools know,

"Adopts the sun: and, so, but shine the sun

"To us ripe time to speed our enterprise.

"Matins to-morrow of the sword and spear."

Hence, came the hoofs of these hard-breathing steeds

Of Cornwall and his troop, led by himself

Clanging to Camelot; with grace received

By Arthur and the Order of the Ring,

At close of evensong.

At large, had Mark

Heard of Sir Tristram's worshipful estate,

The Dragon King's esteem, Sir Launcelot's love,

Regard of Guinevere, and Logrian fame

Blown by the wind throughout the land's resorts.

Whereon, his wrath turned from his queen awhile.

Despite the lion's lance, and of its sword

Mindless, he brought his retinue to seek

Favour of evil in the tournament.

Short-coming there, his evil confidence

Full store possessed of foul dishonouring tales

Particular in poisonous hint--or, last,

None better than this heart of fraud, was schooled

In mission of the hidden steel.

But, lo,

What change upon that self-same sabbath's night,

And days succeeding! Cornwall had receipt

Of bounteous, general greeting, courteousness,

Simplicity of elegance in act,

Imperial consideration, meek,

Mutual, cementing ranks from churl to queen,

That in the sharp air of the chivalrous court

The habit of Mark's mind endured a change--

Passion of peace, of gentleness the power

Known now in Mark, and Arthur had his vow

Within Tintagel pure and lofty life

Should be sustained. A vow, his noblest given,

Soon secretly unsworn, although its gloss

Held Cornwall still as one redeemed to eyes

Unsharpened by suspicion, blind in trust.

Within the noiseless chariots of the clouds,

The spirits of night drave to the setting sun,

And brought for him an hour unsought, prepared

By evil minds. Within a lonely glade,

Rambling in thought, Mark was aware of twain

Conversing as in grief, who won delight

On his approach. Mordred and Vivien these,

And he their prey. That nephew of the king

Mordred, within the court a secret tongue,

Moving with creeping step and humbled face,

Alive to everything: the fiend in need,

Acknowledging the heaven he had foregone

And sought to discompose: Mordred, a name

Of shame and death:--Vivien, of wanton gaze,

On Merlin, late withdrawn to hermit cell

As done with life, but prescient that his life

Would strangely suffer from a damsel's wiles;

Prescient a seeming silent tongue would strike

Ruin on glory of the state--a step

Noiseless was creeping upon Arthur's fame,

Nor long to speed him to the silent shores--

Merlin, whose spring of three-score years was gone

And all his mighty summer, now a seer

Hoary, a memory clothed with posy--

On him intent Vivien, the winsome fair,

Patient his fated, long-deferred return

Awaiting--but, meanwhile, kept her in play:

With frivolous, perilous thoughts in ward, ne'er found

Idling in toils of blame: or fishing she,

Or mending of her nets, was always found.

Now, her resolve dight her in crimson gleams:

Soft blush of wilding rose at morn, this hour

Of eve brought cramousie, for love's desires

Fancy's best fashion, and to Cornwall's eyes

An amourous trouble. Either spake to Mark

In interchange of comment: Mark replied--

Of scandals of the court, of knights, of dames

And wrongs of Mark.--Disloyal speech conceived

Of hate, had brood of murderous thoughts: delight

Of death, came of this intercourse.

Days died,

Days rose, and rising now, bright broke the day

Mark shall depart, when faithful to the vow

Kept unto knights and dames, he asks a boon

As sealing vow: that, for Tintagel's aid,

In pure and lofty life there be conjoined

Sir Tristram--boon upcast on Arthur's wish--

"Let men be in accord, all will be well:

"Without they are accorded, nought is well."

But Launcelot feared for Tristram, feared King Mark,

His dungeons and his secret ministers,

So spake against the temper of his king.

Clear, resolute--drew his anointed sword,

Thrice waved it o'er his head as sacred sign,

Thrice kissed its hilt, as token of the cross,

Therewith, to pledge his worship and his soul,

Should harm befall Sir Tristram on such choice,

Affliction should befall to Cornwall's land

Beyond the scath of heathen or of plague.

Nor trusting to his minatory words,

Nor awe, as told the pallor of the kings,

Launcelot besought his first beloved of knights,

In knightly faith and Love's obeisance, wait

Here in the circuit metropolitan:

Oft, honour calls to hold the kingdom's fame

'Gainst paynim prowess: here, due residence

For faith and valour; else, let Tristram seek

Emprise promiscuous amidst the wilds

Of lands beyond the seas--only, with Mark

Forbear to go. Not to Tintagel--no.

On which with slow, half-weeping voice replied

The heart-struck knight of war, "My brother, mine,

"By all that makes our Order as the stars

"Of honour unto dark humanity:

"By all the worship shewn in pageants played,

"Or stiff-fought fields, for favour or defence

"Of ladye-love, my brother, I must go!

"More than to leave the lists of Logris, more,

"Than here renounce the glory-lighted realms

"By paynims held, is to lose thee. Yet still,

"I go. Their wish is mine: its home is here

"And resting place." Gently, with head abased,

He laid his palm above his heart. "Here, home

"Of all the kingly wish: though well you wit,

"Upon an issue of mine own I go.

"Angels are with us all: but none, the chief

"Gabriel, Archangel, bearer of the divine

"Decrees, may ever bind or loosen love.

"The sorrow in my loss of thee foregone,

"This heart exults with joy. Thou knowest love.

"So bound, so burdened, yet so light of heart,

"Always our case when ladye-love in view.

"Yet,--nay--without the sight of Belle Isonde,

"My spirit may not endure." And from that hour,

Till darkness brought him light, he knew not Mark,

From his own eye, or from the voice of friend,

But kept his faith in king, and served him well,

Soul-blind through his o'er-quickened sense of love.

The winter gone, a damsel from Isonde--

Brengwain, it was, once more--reached Camelot

At glow-worm time, when midst the evening shades,

First seen its lamp of love. Hers, news of joy:

Letters for Arthur, Launcelot, Guinevere,--

Letters affecting Mark, Isonde, their weal,

And Tristram's; unto most, a resonant joy.

But twain found in her news a hate disguised,--

Arthur and Launcelot. These apart communed,

Shadows upon the common joy: whence came

An answer royal, one of kindly words

Yet bearing thought, as of Sir Tristram's weal

Doubtful but heedful.

Now it was, the worm

Disclosed his fang before the open day.

Sting, poison went together and at once.

Mark's answer, as with haste of wings, arrived,

The first jar in the music of his life,

Puissant, pure, high-hearted, gentle, proud

And guileless Arthur:--"As we are, we are.

"I bid thee intermit thee with thyself,

"And wife and knight: as for myself, the power

"I ever had, have now, will ever have

"To rule and keep a wife."

The house of hell

There threw its lurid light on hidden ways

Known not to Arthur's generous, trustful mind--

Which knew alone what honour's sun revealed,

Fair, simple paths on which none went astray.

And as Mark's words of searching fire would burn

Ceaseless within his brain, as clouds on clouds

Rolling and gathering, darkening evils came

In deepening folds, O, that imperial soul

Felt, O, such sadness! O, such loneliness!

Slackened his spirit, that he may nor write,

Nor think reply to Cornwall: and his throne

Suffered besieging sorrows, till that fray

Adder-begotten, and of Mordred's work,

Roared through the misty noon, and Arthur's realm

With evening sank in silence by the sea,

And Arthur's saintly soul found final peace.

But, now, a counter-stroke from Dinadin--

Returned from lengthy embassage--gay sprite.

Ay, certes, as his name rings when ye read

Or hear, his nature tallied with his name.

He was the merry-making knight within

The Table Round--all hurry, sparkle, song.

And, now, an apparition from the halls

Dedicate to victorious mirth, made fly

Arrows of scornful laughter, and re-lit

The courtly joyaunce. Jaunty muse being his,

Half-pique, half-love, with speedy offspring fit,

In homage to the royal grief--the child,

A ballad to King Mark: its name, a shaft

That pierced, "Mark is my mark." Whereon, he called

His harper Elyot, taught him harp this lay--

Ordained him other harpers,--but, enow,--

Sir Dinadin within his ballad verse

Retorted on Mark's shame a sixfold shame

In phrase so forceful still it lives renowned,

"Worst lay that ever harper sang with harp."

When Elyot reached Tintagel there to harp

The waspish lay, Sir Tristram then had cleansed

Cornwall from foes once more. Once more, not one

In Cornwall's buffoon chivalry gave word

Of courage; and the scourge of sword and fire

By Sessoin's raging bands, the dread White Horse,

Christ's bane, the pagan's iron pride, for long

Kept still the music of Sir Tristram's hand--

The lion knight, once more, in fate of arms

Tintagel's help; through strengths of love and faith

The bastion of her towers.

Great Sessoin's lord

He met in view of either host: when sate

The seigniories of knights to taste the fray;

In midst of Cornwall's powers, its king: with him,

His queen, the Beautiful, unto the gaze

Of Sessoin's peerage a most marvellous light

Of loveliness. Each knight her every grace

Computed at war's value: favouring smile,

Well-worth a spear-thrust: and that shining cloud

Which dimmed her diadem, that affluent hair

Dazzling, one lock of it well-worth the price

Of venturous quest from Candlemas to Yule:

No soul of Sessoin's barbarous horde but owned

Presence of one of those fine beings rare

Amidst the cloudy centuries they gild,

Well-worth the hazard of a kingdom's rule.

Prompt at the hour of tierce, Sir lias rode,

His purport shown in sable panoply,

Straight to the tourney's eastern gate, and there

Paused. La Belle Isonde's beauty on his tongue

Silenced the challenge. But by herald's voice

Drawn from his fantasy, his sanguine ire

Re-doubled, lias shouted o'er the lists--

"Fair knight, at thy pavilion this dawn

"With my spear point, good iron of Poictou,

"I touched thy shield. Thou knows't my purpose--death!"

"I answer to the utterance," Tristram cried.

"Our orisons are told, but with the dirge

"My tears will be required for thee. Fair knight,

"Now thy devoir."

But Tristram wist not, yet

True danger was to come. This Sessoin's lord,

Man in the height of arms was he: inspired

By passion of the war, he was enriched

With skill and hardiment. On this third bout,

Both spears were splintered, both knights fell unhorsed.

But fallen not their spirits: with their swords

They fought as there had been a flaming fire

Encompassing. They fenced, they foigned--keen, quick,

Stout strokes of nimblest play: traced, traversed, hot

As wild stags full of autumn blood provoked

In lordship of the hind. Hauberk and helm

Hewn roughly: shorn, huge cantles of their shields--

Their doughten deeds surpassed all learned from voice,

Or scroll, of fairy land or chivalry.

Now crimson fall the sands of Tristram's life.

Faint from the heat and anguish of the fray

His head droops o'er his shield: the draught of death

Proposed for lias, Tristram's parting soul

Longs to partake, as o'er his eyes descend

Shades, closing all the bright and noisy scene,

This dread imperial debate, transact

For Mark and Cornwall, and the lists of love,

Late glorious, with the queen of every heart

Presiding. Then, a mocking laughter sprung

From galleries westward, keener than the edge

Of sword or glaive to Tristram, as he felt

His knighthood was the gazing stock of fools,

Who judge not of event but of the chance.

Awakening sounds.--His soul creeps from the swoon

To feebly grasp at life. Uncomforted,

And cold, he wots that hosts with revelling jeers

Witness his yielding strength: whilst others mourn

Doom falling darkly on their lion knight.

On Isonde's throne, he there beholds a face

Pale, with its eyes afire, and o'er it hang

Cumbrous and dun her tresses in the bright

Slant sunshine. Harken, Love's power, once again!--

He notes upon her rose-bereaved, worn cheek,

Flashing a sacred and peculiar light,

Tears of wild sorrow, whereupon his soul

Drank courage from them, cast aside the robes

Of palsying faintness, fear and pain.--More brief

Than this brief verse, such fury in his change,

Sir Tristram's finish of the fight. His sword

Flew on his foe: a score of blows for one

Confused the lord of Sessoin: from their force

The shield brake on his arm--his hauberk pierced,

Oped entrance to his heart, his helmet cloven

Brought death on death--to the beholder's gaze

lias seemed smitten everywhere at once.

For all of this, despiser of true worth,

Worship of arms, renown, fidelity,

Mark, when he heard the song of Dinadin

Mark would have slain his champion-knight, sole stay

Of throned authority, the warden spear

Of his dominion. And when Elyot's lay

Was harped and sung before the languid court,

Mark blazed in angered words--but softly ends,

"Name him who sends thee, and we bide our time

"For chastisement." But Elyot as he heard,

Bore heedless gaiety of look, and thrummed

An under-note, and gazing on the ground,

Spake as a harper in the privilege

Of song accorded everywhere. "The name

"I serve beneath?--One you affect, sweet king--

"Sir Dinadin, most debonair of knights,

"My lord, my gentliest lord is Dinadin.

"An, wit ye well, I am a minstrel, sire,

"One who must sing the songs made by his lord

"As he must wear the arms his lord doth wear."

Thus, Mark the king, the king but newly saved,

Clothed in fair silken raiment, and his word

Soft as the chime for vigils, but within

Dead spirit cased in thrice-proof mail of self

Played the knave-king. For, this time, Tristram lay

Close chamber-prisoned, sore with many wounds

Begat from lias, known when careful leech

Found harness of the war to bring more hurt

Than it might save from. Silken, chiming Mark,

His trailing step now haunts the corridors

'Tween the sick room and feasting hall, morn, noon,

And midnight--kindly in his watch, with heed

In all required for Tristram's tourney-hurt

And fever--till his time was come. Then, haste--

When time was come.

Knights, dames, intent on mirth,

Warily brought was Tristram, one still eve,

Through dense dusk woods, lone fields, by moorland heights

And craggy pass: lodged in a lonesome keep,

Fore-fronting sea, with rear of splintered cliffs,

Flanked, south and north, with black, sharp, high-heaped rocks,

With torrent of its own, whose ceaseless shout

Would drown the noise of battle though hard by.

Thus safely brought and lodged, from potion sooth

Three nights, two days, he fell on sleep, and then

Awoke in darkness.--Well, was Tristram, here,

Withdrawn from notice of his fellowship:

In changeless night imprisoned: this his grave,

Deep in the heart of the wild water's cry,

Far-hid from any quest, or guess of friend.

Nothing of Tristram, now, from Mark but pride

Through this event. He, dungeoned to await

The hour when Mark should end his earthly hours,

Awoke Mark's pride in other hate and love:

Outspoken at the feast when courtly tongues

Talked Camelot--and, there--now, here--now, round--

Flew whispers, with eye-wantonness, when named

One maiden. Hearing it, the lips of Mark

Stirred with pale spasms, and from them, as would spring,

From covert a wild creature of the woods,

Out of the secret shadows of his mind

To light sprang Vivien's graceless name; wherewith,

Such travail of his love-sick thoughts, with throes

Of husky utterance, waving arms, and cheeks

Red with the haste of passion, came to birth

The burden of his blind adulterous hopes.

"Vivien! ah, Vivien! Fondling once of hers,

"Amidst the butterflies of Arthur's court,

"Was he, your king.--Vivien! her eyes--stars, stars,

"My liegemen, stars--whose random beams abase

"The tempered glances of our dames--her eyes,

"Like planet-stars would ever seek for me

"As her sole sun: to tell by luminous look,

"Excelling orders, princedoms, royalties,

"Which whirled around in rainbow-throngs, your king

"Within her love's respect." Mark's shrunken form

Grew with the fever of his mood: his laugh

Metallic, coarse, now owned a softened tune,

As Vivien's name had learned it music. "Ah,

"Vivien might not of me, nor I of her:

"But time will come. Fair ladies, you may smile.

"The evening lustre poured from Vivien's eyes

"Brightens above our dusk of absence: morn

"Near, and to be awakened by those eyes,

"Both wait in patience. Ay, my speech is plain.

"'Tis told, that Vivien found a leman since,

"And wons with him in hoar Broceliande.

"Soon be that ended. Many loves your king

"May have, whilst lacking her." He paused to hear

A little, hidden, quavering, feminine laugh--

As comes the intermittent note of bird

From thicket ere its month of song arrives,

This mocking trill--and in Mark's pause, its voice,

"The queen! the queen!" Mark answered challenge quick,

Vociferous, "Queen! Which queen? Of Camelot,

"Or this Tintagel? or, one yet to be?"

Foul mirth ran round the borders of his court,

Whereon, he adds, "'Tis for one's gain at times

"To clear the mind: it makes our fellows wise."

To other talk Mark turned, with sad conceit

His tongue had done good work, and not invoked

The fates in altered Belle Isonde. No word

She uttered; murmured only in her heart,

"He is immured and sigheth unto death!"

The worst was now begun. With lengthening speech,

The tresses of La Belle Isonde, their bright

Heavily deepening into shade, their shades

Darkening, informed her bosom, now the lodge

Of torments. Mark had slain her loyalty,

And tolled the advent of his deadliest fear:

Removed the crown from off her heart: disrobed

Her thoughts of hallowed passiveness: of queen,

Dismantled every august privilege:--

No more of queen for her to grace the throne,

Nor on her soul for reverence--nevermore.

Shorn of her comeliness, of smiles, she rose

Speechless, but, as she passed the door, sounds fell

Unconscious from her lips--"Asp of a King!"

Shuddering, the court held silence, and its head

Paled, cowering as he wot the sudden glaive

Gleamed on his last of life. Thenceforth, his queen

A soul upon cross-currents of dark thoughts,

Which loathed the present, shunned respected right.

Mute-wandering ceaselessly, alone,

A silent presence, she, within his halls--

Cold, waning in her silence, till arose

At midnight, from her ruffled dreams, fierce words

With shrilling shrieks, and with the shrieks the flame

Of phrensy brake upon her countenance:

Her eyes, stabbed at a king within the air:

Her hands, tore at its heart: her shrilling tongue

Declared the blood, the fury, the content.

Nor waiting dawn, king Mark made speed for France,

Fearing her phrensy kindling--what, where, who?

He knew not: or, her scorpion words had sting,

Instant to strike, when, where, or how? he knew not.

A shapeless terror, proper chastisement

Of dastard souls of cruelty, had cleansed

Tintagel of that heart of fraud, its king.

Some six weeks thence, the angered peril past

For Belle Isonde, her steps fresh-sought her groves,

A queen of sorrow in Tintagel's towers,

With sole and solemn rule. Within these weeks

Mark had been judged: his first offence and chief

Against the spiritual powers: next, wedded pledge

Broken with bruited boastfulness by Mark,

On which, that pious light Dubricius

Pronounced him excommunicate and signed

The writing of divorcement, by his king

Delayed not from Tintagel. Thus, Isonde,

The sundering words of awe made free--gat gain

Of freedom with no heart in it.

There was--

Believe it, hearts of love, even as ye hear--

A brightening of the star of Jupiter

Upon the vigil of Epiphany,

Sir Tristram's star,--since at his meal that eve

His unseen warder spake him kindly. Who,

But knows the blessing of the word in season?

For Tristram, more was this than lavrock's song

On darkling hours which sings the sun's approach.

The gentle language of an uncouth voice

Brought to his mind his last bright yesterday,

Awakened hopes of daylight, with mirage

Of glories of the tournament. And soon

The angel of his Christian valiance cheered

His heart late sorrowful as of the dead

Within the sepulchre. He sank in dreams

Where fields of noblest guerdon, realms of peace

Prosperous in halls and lists gave starry fame

To worth in arms: and, clearer than of dreams,

Obtained a star more fair than stars of power,

A visionary form, in smiles and grace

A heavenly womanliness, o'erhung, it seemed,

With golden mists as of resplendent hair,

Clothed with like radiance.

Less than seven days thence,

The dungeoned Tristram knew of nought beside,

Than, loosed from chains and the loud cataract's cry,

Borne from his hideous hold on kindly arms,

Strange freedom claimed him. With that travel soothed,

He sank on sleep. Orion rose and fell,

Day came, and ruled with lordly light, and passed--

When wakening, lo, he found himself on sea,

The star of love lightening the evening hour,

The star of love shining above his head:

Isonde the Beautiful, his guardian now,

As she with woman's guile, in this quick time,

Had caused these things to be, and un-queened queen,

Guardian, and free from grim Tintagel's walls.

Bluff next morn's wind, but sailors of renown

Manned the good ship, so that her prow still kept

A forward voyage: and when eve brought calm,

Her large full moon revealed the isles, whereby,

On lucid waves life-love was born, as born

Love's queen, well-known, on azure orient seas

Saluted by the hours whose odorous dance

Thereon rings through the world to-day--mope, doubt,

Or moan, whoever, and how many list.

--No time for loitering now. Love's plumes are spread

To reach its fairest bowers by northern shores.

Swift through the waters, now direct to east

The vessel speeding through that night--next day--

And Tristram's old strong life began to flow

Responsive to the spring-tide's rising wave,

Each moment fledged with song, or song-like talk

Of past delights: and while the westering sun

Shot crimsoning radiance over all the deeps,

On that supremest of emotion's hours--

Tristram grew restless--saw, anew, his joy

Of Isonde with its rich original powers

Move in the shining mazes of her hair:

Light of all light the blossom, in her eye,

Whose glamour henceforth through all fate to hold,

Till sudden death-mists compassed both their lives.

Moulting his sorrows, on a stronger wing

His freshened spirit gloried as it rose.

Boldness, with deepening dusk--and when the moon

Silvered the myriad-wrinkled seas, and far

The cliffs of Dovre stood out clear, he drew

The master from his place: his spear-hands took

The helm, put ship about, and set her head

Against the pole-star. Then, wind-favouring night

Breathed from the south: before it eager sprang

The ship through star-lit hours: next day: next eve--

And when the Great Bear through heavens crystal-bright,

Eternal, wheeled above their eyes, the ship

Veered, as if witting home, to larboard up

Dull Humber's stream--with day-spring touched the land--

Logris was won.

Ere long, these news being brought

To Camelot, thence upon the court's desire,

Sealed by the ordinance of the Dragon King,

Launcelot with haste passed through the land to greet

These twain self-banished, yield them royalty

Of courtesy: which done, as lovers know,

He led them to his famous Joyous Gard.

Northwards, by long and pleasant paths he led

Isonde and Tristram. Then, approaching near

His fair possession's borders, he with sighs

Bade both farewell, distrustful that its view,

And their large joy in love's estate, might work

His passion to excess.

'Twas primrose time:

Exhilarating then the pomp of spring,

But close in loving intercourse the twain

Fare softly onwards, heeding none the tracts

Of flowery gold, which skirting either side

Lead from their path to fairy lawns wherein

Blue breaks of passionate forget-me-not

Peer bright as spring's own heavens: unconscious, too,

Of Joyous Gard itself, till by the shore

Within the sun it rises from the sea

Irradiant. Like some broad, voluminous shape

Of vapour, which upon an autumn eve

Towers in the western skies, with lustre clad

Of varying sunset hues up from its base

To high arial battlements, no less

Of marvellous and of glorious to their sight

The keep of Joyous Gard. Then, unawares,--

As though invisible this lordliest keep

Till now--redoubled wonder in them. Hope,--

Sir Tristram won great hope in heart at this,

Remembering what the household legends held:

That Joyous Gard possessed a conscious life

For care of its indwellers: oft at noon

Fleeting, at midnight it would re-appear

Begirt and crowned with stars, but on the morn

Its station lay concealed. He cried in joy,

"This truly is the home of love, of us

"Expectant. Hid from eyes of enmity,

"Hosts in their search discomfited may learn

"Love's bowers sequestered lie in keep of air.

"Love's choicest home, henceforth it shall be ours."

Intrusted to the care of Joyous Gard, our song

Must linger with the happy exiles here.

Brave Joyous Gard! or lands, or keep, or town

Be named as Joyous Gard.

Look forth,--

Know Launcelot's province! Seaward, roughly-edged,

Range beyond range of black volcanic scars,

Thence, westward, verdant undulating lands

Stretch to the folding hills and half-way climb

Their slopes: within the upper, keener air

The moorland's growth, the crags, green combs, grey screes,

The tarn, the eagle--here the loneliness

Of hills, their terrors, loveliness and glooms.

Three furlongs from the strand, the little town

Named Joyous Gard lies in a little dell,

Through which the breathings of the sea come fresh

Morning and evening. Little town, it looks

Up to the Keep, whose station off-shore, east,

Some three-score fathoms. Cunning its approach

From narrow beach--a frith of pebbles, laid

Between the sharp-cut rocks, whence went the way

Suddenly shelving towards a sinuous path

Hidden at ebb of tide,--access but one,

Which found the portals cavernous and dark.

Above the sea, the steeps high-climbing clothed

With grass, moss, wilding flowers, unto the tall

Columnar cliffs, tower-crowned.--Ah, of these towers!

Along the gaunt, brown pinnacles a growth

Of sparry crags, or unto fancy's eye

The blossoming of the brown, gaunt cliffs, along

Whose crests it glittered, or beneath the sun,

Or during star-lit hours.--Mysterious Keep!

One foot within deep waters, one on land,

Terrible in its beauty, of more fame

Than its haught kindred, lone Tintagel, or

Mount of Defence, when billows of the war

Rolled in from the Atlantic.

This the work,

In happier years of Merlin, august voice

Prophetic, from whose accents souls of hope

Still trust the Beatific Time to see.

This Gard, once named as Dolorous, now of Joy,

Was edified by him in nights but seven:

A silent, unseen labour of seven nights:

Thence holding near affinity with night,

Its majesties, its glories, and its powers,

Its attributes of peace and mystery.

The sea-mists first would gather o'er its towers,

Last leave them. At such times, the landsmen cried,

"Lo, Joyous Gard hath disappeared once more!"--

"Lo, Joyous Gard floats on our waves again!"

But the deceit of absent-mindedness

Augmented wonders: as we frequent pass

Some scene and see it not--those of the fields

In eye-shot of the Keep, on many a day

Would reap or delve, come, go, with earth-bent head,

Then, some time, looking up,--"Ah, me," would cry.

"This be a blessed hour! The Gard of Joy,

"Missed this long while, returns to us." Should one,

A chance wayfarer, walk that road and vow

Before his travels it had been this while,

They would embrace the man: with fairy gifts

Deem him endowed, and hospitality

Enforce with words of worship--simple race,

As further we to learn.

Miles twain o'er sea,

Out towards the orient, running south and north,

A long, low-crested line of reefs stayed off

The wind-wrought surges--with nor-easter days,

Shattered thereon in cloudlike splendours,--thus,

A slumbrous, inner, ocean-lake retained,

Peculiar watery province of the Gard,--

Beset with isles, which, here and there a home,

Made bright scenes brighter, each with crescent holt

Of gracious lady-birch, in autumn time

Midst sunlight very bowers of trembling gold.

Upon the furthest northern holm, a fane,

Conspicuous shrine of spiritual power,

Eye, soul of Joyous Gard's humanities,

Caught with one glittering point, whilst valleys slept

And yet the inland heights were darkness, caught

Morn's earliest light shot o'er the eastern seas,

As eager for new promise from that east,

Well-spring of sacred light.

O, Joyous Keep!

O, Royal Gard! O, happy those its charge!

Bright spirits are their ministers: for them,

Quietly ocean's waves fall and flow,

Retire and flow again. If on the sea,

Within the storm if any sorrow rang,

It reaches not these towers: the tempest's cry

Sounds as a murmuring rill, or when the winds

Mourn in the beechen groves: all beauteous things

Of sea-birth flourish in the tranquil wave,

Or moving through the crystal deeps, or far

Beneath in clusters grow, a wealth of flowers

As earth's flowers do in air.

Once hither come,

La Belle Isonde and Tristram, bowers apart

Are duly given them: his outlooking west

Abroad upon the lands and warder hills:

Hers eastward, with the sea lake and its isles,

A pleasaunce all her own. O, Joyous Gard,

What fervent, dainty times, alive with cheer

Of gentle change, which is the salt of life,

For these our exiled lovers lingering here.

Days grow to weeks: the weeks mature to months--

Which find them still true acolytes of love,

Enquiring of its secrets, which would own

Elysian birth-right of felicities

Robed in dawn-splendours. Then, their wanderings--

Whither? Ah, could we follow them, to learn

The life of those meek dwellers in their land,

And of its leafy privacies, and what

Of grandeur and of awe its mountains hold.

These quick delights, with island journeys, kept

Love-life in pulse and flame of sense and soul

True as the alternation of the tides.

Their talk, heart-eloquence upon the lips,

Its temper fashioned by each scene, most gay

Towards eventime, with fancies rainbow-winged

In flight at objects far or near, as framed

For their peculiar pleasures. So the months

Slid by delectably.--Then martial rouse

Brake from a brawling trumpet off the shore,

Sounded by squire of Arthur, from whose tongue,

Rough as a war-cry, through these northern lands

Under the ordinance of the Dragon King

A tournament was cried at Lonazep:

And with him, warlike as his precept, rode

Swart Palomide.

It was a raw, cross day,

As now and then will creep from Jutland's dunes,

Possess the broad north sea, invade the isles.

Mist, like a vast unrisen cloud clung close

And hid the wave: the forest-herds, the fields,

Homesteads and mountain falls, as of the mist

Drank silence, save when wet winds drave across

Sharp as the sword of frost, with groans beneath

As of the trouble of a soul. Such sounds,

Such stillness here, when Odin's knight was led

Hither, as he was ever, by Isonde,

And took his lodgment in the town--soul-sick

And wearying of his weary, forlorn quest,

More grieved to learn within such doleful lands

Lived Belle Isonde.

"She must draw me unto death;"

He thought. "Within this home of trampling clouds

"It cannot be otherwise. An if she die,

"Death, and the quickest, were most sweet for me."

At evening, sea-blown midnight took the town,

Sealed hope in darkness, and for his resolve

A demon-phantom travelled on the mist,--

To his perdition, held his soul in thrall.

"An she must die, I shall die first, and now."

Yet held he back his hand: maybe, the morn

Less palled with cloud, he might behold the keep

Wherein Isonde: the view, it might endear

The dagger-thrust. But with the morning came

Winds from the hills, and clove the Jutland gloom,

Which opening, rolling, closed again, but cleft,

Ceaselessly hither, thither, rolled, till day

Pierced through the mist-clouds' heavenward heights of gold:

Wind, cloud and light, not dallying as at eve

Desiring best to minister to joy:

But strong, and bright, and swift each strove--whilst men

Drew anxious breath as well they wot the fray

Of fierce etherial hosts on their behoof

For night or liberty of sunshine,--last,

Lightness and brightness. Paynim Palomide,

Beholding with astonied countenance

Mists moving, now revealing, now concealing,

The knight divined a new world was being born.

When last the life, the Joyous edifice,

Flashed various colours o'er the ghostly cliffs,

And at their feet the clinging earth showed rich,

As void it never was that season's month

Of wilding blooms, all floating on a sea,

Which held their shadows as a thought of bliss

Held in a lover's bosom, Palomide,

This mighty and imperial Joyous Gard,

Of glorious things of earth most glorious this,

Unto his knightly soul: and to his heart,

To hold his heart's-hope in her loveliness

The fitliest pile.

When Tristram gat report

How Upsal's knight was near, in rueful mood

Still questing for Isonde, he sped his squire

With welcome.--Nay. That essay much too bold.

To enter in the lodgment of his foe

None may, endued with warrior's wariness.

Whereon, the knight of Joyous Gard himself

Brings his own welcome. Still, the paynim's voice

Wavering, eludes. "Another time, perchance,

"An this may be,--not now." To which demur,

Replying without sentence, Tristram's eyes

Quickened with light of blameless Honour, threw

Upon his countenance the strength and shine

Of the heart's morning, whilst he gently caught

The wanderer's left mid-finger, softly led

Forthright to Joyous Gard. Even thus was he,

Whom iron scarce might hold, even by a touch,

Lightest of any, taken that one way

He needs must go by reason of his love

For Belle Isonde.

O, marvellous Joyous Gard,

For Palomide! The chambers of the keep;

Arial towers; their strength invincible;

The sea-domain, its fair innumerous isles,

With frequent waving woodlands clothed, more fai

Than those which beautify thy native streams--

Were all, as Odin for thy quest bestowed

The brightest residence of Himmelberg,

That paradise above the crossing swords,

Of spirits doughtiest in Valkyrian deeds.

O, Joyous Gard! miraculous realm of joy

For Palomide! Or, in the morning hunt

Ranging the greenwoods: thorough sylvan del

Musical as a rebeck from the rills

Glinting amongst their shingles--over glades,

Green velvet breadths whereon the rings were seen

Of fairy revels: joyous travail now

For steed, and hound, and man to press right on,

Right up the boulder-sprinkled slopes, and last,

The game with slackened pace, hard breathed, finds last

The roaring, rocky, eagle-haunted gorge

Where closed abrupt the chase,--a gainless toil,

For mirthful wonder,--nature's mind well shown

To give her creatures heritage of peace

And stern security from outward harm.

--Or, on the homeward way, when he would find,

Or seek, drawn by the prompting of Isonde,

Beautiful spirit of that rare demesne,

Felicities in every opening view;

Grace, hiding in the green haunts of the fern;

Cool sweetness breathed from mossy water-slips;

Beneath the delicate shadows of the woods,

Coverts, wherein the elves, preparing soon

For dancing frolics pleasing to their queen

Cynthia, and court of countless laughing lights:

Smooth, shining pools, the water-lilies' home,

Seen with her own eyes some few months agone,

Large, silver shallops, which returned once more

Spring would sail in them.--Or, Sir Tristram's voice

Deep-toned and clear, bade pause their steeds, to note

The clarion of a torrent from the cliff,

Answering its brethren lost in distant caves;

Or, mighty stag-horned oak which stood supreme

With lordship of seven leagues of pastoral vale;

Or, now it was an eagle in high air

Majestical, peremptory king, and calm

Throned in empyreal sapphire, ruling thence,

Proud power predominant, the peaceful bounds

Of these fair liberties of Joyous Gard.

In every title of the law of peace.

To roam at eve, fulfilled some new delights.--

Gentles, the high noon of the season this,

The guardian hills assume their regal pomp,--

Their shoulders, length and depths down to the fields,

Robed with imperial purple. Season this,

To feel the blamiest blisses of the heights.

None lost by them. When sunk the autumn day,

Leaving an after-glow on wave and shore,

A brightness brightening where day-shadows fell,

Found was our company on heather slopes

Entranced, mute-gazing at the seaward view.

The landskip, sparkling emerald, lay beneath,

Netted with silver brooklets from the hills,

Sprinkled with lodge and hamlet, each the sign

Of home and hospitality; green bowers

Unchanged since spring: far-scattered sea-lake isles:

The castle's crowning, quivering, diamond gleam

Above the calm, clear, interfluent wave

Wherein, as beautiful, the upper-world

Lay shadowed: and, yet visible, afar,

As streamers on the quiet, black-frost night,

Restlessly wreathing foam-fringe, opal hues

Embosomed in white lustrous clouds:--all this,

Brought thoughts, and deep emotions, more than speech

Could utter; left a happiness behind

Deeper than any gift of loud delight.

Such rovings ended, oft their steps attained

By rocky ways one large, round mountain-mere

Named Zeemerwater. Well, you wot, a name

Of blended tongues; as those who named it felt--

"This water is so excellently fair,

"Translucent, still--its virtues shall be known,

"Hereafter, threefold-named whenever man

"Shall mention it." And virtuous is that truth.

O, water! water! water! threefold peace,

And loveliness, and crystal light, still thine.

Yea, when the dread nor-easter sounds--sole voice

Whose anger reached the homes of Joyous Gard

Or troubled dwellers in its halcyon years,

Never this mountain lake bereft of peace--

A fluctuating silver smile--nor more--

Deranged its passionless tranquillity.

Hereby, those friends at eventime would rest.

Tristram lain at the feet of Belle Isonde,

Fondling his lyre by that lone mystic mere,

Their former joys re-blossomed: Palomide

Naught grieved, yea glad, for his own heart allowed

The magic of the music, since for him

Radiant-winged memories arose--Isonde,

Still smiling on him through the lattice-green

Within her Irish home. To hear that strain,

Flowers by the marge cast off the sleepy dew,

Spread wide their petals as they felt fresh day,

Yielded their morning incense, stirred their heads

As amourous of the kisses of the wind:

Then, softly-sailing murmurs told the bees

Were on their noontide honied quest.--But, list!

Floating athwart the surface of the wave

Arial symphonies--now heard--now gone,

When Tristram pauses. On his new-touched string--

A coil of low, sweet harmonies reply

As from flower-hidden fountains flowing. Now,

Unwinding o'er the waters, hither steal

Mixed melodies--more rigorous when the strain

Augmenting: rising, falling--climbing high

As lark may sing in air,--along the shore

Now ranging audibly--and two-fold noise

Swept through the music--in the woven tones

Were tears and laughter.

"Of Christian praise; of chimes for even-song,

"Or matins.--Only from this town o'er which

"The waters keep an endless silver night,

"Will issue, answering to my harp's sad soul

"Commingling notes of ancient joys and woes,

"Or, of themselves upon midsummer's day.

"This heard I first within our keep: since then,

"Sought by me frequent, to my harping hand

"Ever these waters, or the sky above

"Have answered: and, as I have known, ye hear,

"Who now have token of the elements

"And ask the tale." And oft rehearsed that tale.

Day's-travels done: the mere attained: the harp

Sorcerous, drew spring around,--each listener's heart--

As in the rose-lipped shell we hear its own

Melodious memories--each listening heart

Acquiring from the mingled sounds its own

Harvest of love and pleasure from past years.

Then would the old tradition speak once more.

Yet why his invocation?--Still the truth

For lover as for saint, that happiness

Most sweet within the shadow of sorrow and pain.

Hovering above the wave these threnodies,

Entangled in bright festal songs, woke ruth,

Woke piteous ruth, sharpening the sense of joy--

As echoes sad from lands afar, whereon

Thought might but briefly brood. For here be none

Of trouble, or of dread, or hopes which feed

On life,--alone a passive happiness,--

Prime of the best bygone, with dews and light

Best future e'er may give, its nourishment.

The stars arisen, from Tristram's hand would fall

Pathetic silence: symphonies, and moans

Subsiding, as the sound of evening bells

Borne on the wind away--nor rose again--

But gently sank and died; and last, were heard

Voices as if in prayer, upon the hills,

Which sent the friends with pensive pilgrim-pace

To seek their castled bowers of sleep.

Seven times,

Had ocean duly hymned his orisons

Throughout the sacred, greater Morning Hours,

With trumpet-voice,--unheard within the keep,

So strong the silken toils of slumber held,

Strangers to any care, who dwelt therein--

But, now, its walls, in answer to the sun

An orient blaze,--now, from the reefs out-rolled

Midst dazzling vapours of their spray, the voice

Majestical, was heard, to wake the choirs,

Rivulets, torrents, birds and quivering leaves,

The early ritual in the holy fane,

All notes of morning praise--now, heard the voice

By busied folk in Joyous Gard, alert

For progress unto Lonazep ere noon.

That pleasure-travel over, they arrived,

La Belle Isonde, Sir Tristram, Palomide,

Damsels and squires, late but not last, to find

Logris from all her quarters sent her knights,

With chiefest of the Table Round,--and, there,

The Dragon King himself. But on the view

Of Isonde every fault forgiven, as told

The king's heart in sonourous greeting, heard

By every knight with new flame in the blood,

By dames in mute dismay. The fairest forms

Upon her presence were despoiled of grace,

And grace of loveliness,--yet each in pride,

Or ruth, confessed, from knowledge or report

The realm of sun-bright names could name but one

Who should excel, or rival--Guinevere,--

Halting mid-way upon her journey hither,

Cold, petulant, in Cardoyle's perfumed bowers.

The morning of the gentle tournament

Informed what zeal in this twofold emprise

Of arms and beauty, now to be adjudged.

Well seen, our Logris never has before

Completed such a radiant company.

On regal seat, o'er-canopied, the King--

Power-president of the Table Round. In form

Still stately,--yet, no wavering of that hand,

Noblest in Britain's kingly lines, which formed

His age for nations to revere: though hope

O'erclouded in his eye, his saintly soul,

Kept its auroral powers of light: even as,

Before the face of battle, now his face

Shone beautiful at promise of the jousts.

Close by the throne, high o'er the canopy,

Heavily hung in drowsy crimson folds

The Dragon Standard, yet to throw its flames

On this field's valour. Eager was the morn

With country swarms, afoot or roughly horsed,

From near and far: which loved to see their king,

To feel the battle-throes--when fought the knights,

An' they without the barriers: curious these--

But those for tourney-raptures longing, shewed

Proud in deport, with glittering arms, and plumes

Gay-coloured, tossing on the rider's course,

And shields of rich recognisance--their squires

Bedight as fanciful as maids. And, here,

Within the balcon, either side the King,

Of fair and dark, of grace and graciousness

Such affluence as had left in silent glooms

Half the land's lady-bowers, whose martial halls

Have maintenance of princes, for these days

Of their inheritance of loveliness

Defrauded.

Chiefly in attire, this morn,

The dames' contention. Vivien held her worth

Must overmatch the beauty of Isonde.

So seen, and seen but enhance the day,

She moved a fragrance breathed from orient bowers

Thrown wide beyond her footsteps: gay-beseen,

Apparrelled as the meads, white, green, and gold,

King cups and daisies, gleaming in the grass,

When June's rose-breath o'ertakes the bloom of May,--

Symbolled in golden favours of her knights,

Bright silks and pearls,--the subtle witch of taste,

In visage and address demeaned herself

Confident, gladsome, in her pride, as she

Authentic daughter of the diamond keep.

As she, so everywhere the balcon's freight,

Odours diffused, and with the shine of robes

Unparagoned in royal rooms, bewitched

Wide o'er the barriers. Women's best gift to men,

Joy--from their delicate favours self-bestowed

Insensibly in use,--but open guile

Scarce less delectable,--although their speech

Failed in its music, distance-lost, their eyes

Might shower no splendours, to the common folk

Outside the lists, the perfumed airs, and hues

Of restless vestures told that women's gift

Still prospered. Faces fair, with dimpling smiles,

Wantoned in tissues of all varied sheen:

Those auburn, robed in sombre-shaded silks

Withdrawn from Mecca: others dark, arrayed

In crimson Sendal: but no place of note

Held back its tribute,--gleaming garments sent

From the enchanted looms of Provenal:

Its lace of gold from Brittanie, as bright

As fringe of evening clouds: from pastoral Raines,

By maiden hands these lissome vestures woven,

Whose web had caught the love-light from their eyes,

Vibrating with each motion: but, or dark,

Rose-red, or brown, or what apparel chosen,

La Belle Isonde excels, though she appear

In simple radiance of her native charms,

Enrobed in lily-satin: as a star

Shone beauty's sceptred hand: and when at length

Unwimpling--noon brake full upon the morn,

And murmurs from all tongues announce the spell

Wrought by the living lustre of her hair

And glory of her countenance.

But now,

The voice of Lonazep affirms the hour

Due for the tourney. Beauty now requires

Worship of arms. Knightly confessions made

Of ladye-love, the herald's trumpet rang

Dressing each lance to rest; and this for death

Or honour. Palomide for death.

First seen,

First feat was his. Well-skilled, with slanting spear

He entered helm and brain. It was the prince

Blown oversea from Armorica fell

First sacrifice, whereby, the sable knight

As earnest of his passion, potency,

And deft exploit, this chiefest feat in arms

Writ in the laws of chivalry, performed.

All done in his obeisance to his queen;

A service, in his trust--marked but by one,

Since vailed with samite his recognisance,

So none might read his heart. Thenceforth, that day

No might or craft withstood him. Or the crown,

Its lords, the balcon's beauty, knights arraigned

For judgment, were as general lookers-on,

Marvelling alike, as every thrust and stroke

Won worship for the paynim. His the brand

Tempered within the secret icy springs

Of Nifleheim, inscribed with magic runes,

Fulfilled within this tourney: but fulfilling,

Hereafter, higher duty, subaltern

To Tristram's chivalry of faith. His lance,

Won on a summer's noon beside the Ure,

From an o'er-boastful baron of the court,

So well, so often, had he proven its strength,

That, by his gods, he sware, the strong tree's life

Lived in that spear, and wroth thus foully rent,

Inexorable sought the kind's heart-blood

Which shore it from its home. That sword and spear,

The lightning, and the thunder, and the death

Of battle rendered to the stricken lists.

Strength grew with his puissant labour. Knights,

All men of proof, the passion of his spear

O'erwhelmed or e'er their steeds gat time to fetch

Their course upon a second joust: or quelled,

Stout though their arms and dazzling, by the swift

Edge of that two-edged sword. Thus, when was heard

The chime of vespers from a chapel near

Sounding to prayers, closing that royal play,

The lists in every steel-scourged quarter shewed

Ruin of harness, iron, silver, gold,

Blood-tarnished havoc, without soul to give

Life to the purposes of morn. Ne'er since

Those jousts in circuit of the northern king,

When Norroy challenged Camelot, and red

Ran Trent, ne'er in the loud seven years between,

Carnage like this--but named I leave untold

Not in despite, but pity, as I leave

Those brightest, best of my own years, laid now

In nameless sleep.

Yet this puissant worth,

Foreseen by jocund Dinadin, who sang

His news as combatants rode forth, or fought,

Or fell. He noted Palomide at morn

Mounting, make search for Belle Isonde, who found,

As her laugh rang, he took it to his heart

A tuneful answer, and his visage showed

Effulgence, as the torse were on his brows--

The stranger's trophy. Dinadin wot well

Whence fared with fiery courage Palomide

From knowledge of the morn, and these his news--

In winding, rhyming riddle ever sang

With burden "'Tis his day, Love: 'tis his day!"

The pageant ended, with a railing voice

Disguised in dulcet numbers, o'er the lists

Sir Dinadin proclaimed, as to defect

Of Odin's Knight. "The worship he hath won,

"Faith, is begotten of the Queen Isonde!

"Isonde in Joyous Gard, no prize had been

"Thine, pagan. Queen Isonde, makes this thy day."

The mirth hereon, not more than on the beach,

Weak-murmuring, sliding back within its wave

The latest ripple of the flowing tide,

Nor more the sound of mirth,--since Palomide

Now knight-of-hearts through valour: but they all

Held breath, as he with reverence towards the king

Unhelmed, performed his homage to Isonde.

"I own the day not mine, great warrior-king.

"My service lies where named: through it, I vaunt--

"Heard of the mightiest of thy Table Round--

"I never did so much: nor ever shall

"In all life's battle-days: and no knight here

"May reach beyond my valiance--and its queen

"She hath been named." Sir Launcelot, straight replied,

"Ye have done marvellously well these jousts:

"How Love has led ye through, I understand:

"Well have I known, Love is a goddess great:

"For were my lady here, as she is not,

"My parlance had not been amongst these dames

"But where the spear and sword debate, whereon,

"Pray, wit ye well, such worship Palomide

"Should not have borne from us." Even so, that day

The paynim bore from all, from all received,

His due degree.

This weight of honour earned

To his despite in fealty to Isonde

Pressed hard on Tristram's soul. Day gone, his steps

Forsook his bright pavilion, sought the dark

For comfort of its cold and silence. Naught,

Answered his hot desires: within the air

The war-horse neighed, he heard the tourney-spears

Ring in attaint, with moans from one defoiled.

Asking the stars for peace, he saw in them

Immortal memories of sorrow--none

Within the twinkling hosts but heart of fire

Restless, even as his own in agonies

Born of another's glory.

When morn shone

For scenes of honour's throes and beauteous birth

Of valiance,--discomposed, of clouded face,

Thoughts fever-mad, he turned from Lonazep

But that Sir Dinadin crossed him. Ever free,

From peevish cares, and heart-whole, Dinadin;

This was the very spirit for the morn

So dark in Tristram. With his dancing eyes,

Loud, fluting voice, as one who scorns a foe

New-fallen, in utter praise he spake and sang

Of Palomide:--Unconquerable in selle;

Matchless in knighthood: proven Valkyrian spear:

Pure, golden branch of chivalry: O, sword,

Surpassing rare Excalibur: swart prince,

Outbraving Arthur's Ring, from heathenesse:

For bounty, sufferance, largeness, courtesy,

Pre-eminent star! "My Tristram! Lion-knight!

"Where be his hiding!--Ah, mine eyes have found.

"Shy, sighing truant."--Tristram moaned. "Fool-knight,

"Silence, fool-knight! A war-worn man you see.

"But anguish of the soul since yester-eve,

"More than the doughtiest arms, this arm subdues.

"I am un-knighted; now, must seek my own.

"Far Lyonesse! the martial pilgrim's shoon

"Through ways of danger, pain, and penitence

"Shall seek thee now. The conscience of my love

"Attainted in this land, my pride abates

"Flight and desire. But when I shall be known

"By the loud breakers at my royal place,

"Their boy-loved tones of battle-cheer, perchance,

"Will re-awaken knighthood in me. Go."

To which Sir Dinadin his whistle blew,

Shrill as when falconer shall provoke his bird

To higher flight, and for Sir Tristram's ear

This sally to his deepening hurt. "Dear lord,

"Be such thine orison? A dame of cheer,

"Known well to all, hath vowed the soaring lark

"Singing, bestows her music of delight,

"On which her heart will sing--and this, forsooth,

"Because her lord was song. A dame, you deem,

"Of foolish cheer. Then, pray her better wit!

"Ah, sleep is still within thine eyes; the worse,

"Wanting sleep in fair season. O, thou art,--

"Late lion-spear, and lion-sword,--become

"A sullen weed beside a stagnant pool:

"A peacock parting with its plumes to magpies:

"The royal beast that fled with fear to hear

"Tromp of his doom in the loud ass's bray?"

Black wrath in Tristram had that instant slain

The scorner, but his hand unsatisfied

Felt at the baldrick where his blade should hang.

O'erborne by wrath, devoid of arms, he raised

His fist of mail, when Dinadin great in voice,

"There--there, the hopeful anger! None of rest,

"My new-awakened lord, till passion's powers

"Have slaked thy thirst for honour and renown,

"And made this day red-bright."

But now there calls

The brazen beume; three strenuous blasts, whereon,

The Dragon King, princes, dukes, knights, and squires

Have dressed themselves unto the tourney-field,

Whose golden galleries either side the throne,

Ennobled with all beauty of the lands

Seen yester-morn, shed airs of Persian groves

Athwart the lists, as drew from western woods

Soft breezes for their curious messengers.--

Blow, blow ye fragrant breezes! from your bowers

Bring hither healing calm for fevered hearts,

Else storm of death, forboded by these clouds

On Tristram's brow, shall make, O, Lonazep,

Thy name a terror from this day.--And she,

A sweet child of the dawn, in loveliness

Appears to worshipful eyes again, her powers

Unworn, wherever seen her countenance,

Or heard that harp-toned voice. And Vivien strove--

Enchantments of her grace and elegance

Consummate in their virtues wrought, nor failed.

Hers, liberal light of smiles--hers, fashioned quaint

Carnation raimnet, here and there a star,

Emblem of passion and desire attained

Suddenly, unexpected--as Ninon

Avers most good in loves like hers--nor failed.

For Mordred's voice affirmed--that wary bird,

Fast kept in Vivien's net--when he beheld

The prodigal glory of untempered knights,

Surcoat and harness, helm and shield a-blaze

With favours, make a garden of the field,--

"This day is Vivien's!"

Other powers, Isonde's:

Whose grace for Tristram, fell no more aslant

On other knight: but in meridian shone

Full on her very Tristram. Heart of Love!

O, vehement Honour! Kindled all their fires,

Tristram his pageant played so wondrously,

The battle-proven Arthur, and his peers,

Barons--whose long life-sport had been the wars:

Those dames, familiar with the nimblest feats

Achieved for empery of their favours; folk,

Who always love the roughest shock, and blow

The ruddiest and most fell, joined common voice

Lauding the Knight of Lyonesse. His course--

Each, every blow, and turn, and thrust--his strength,

His long-breathed valour--like were marvelled at.

Through that wide-wasting holiday of blood

He drave as though the valiance of a realm

Intrusted to his shock: smote, as the jousts

Were called for him alone: throughout that day

His one hand held the torment of deep wounds,

Sweet mercy of quick death the other held,

His heart, forgiveness on the pleading voice--

Such grace has ever heart of love! That day,

Sore-travailled, he nor changed nor brand, nor lance,

Nor martial weeds: first to begin was he,

He last to end: unresting he, like death

The reaper, through the lists went first and last.

A piteous field in its high revelry!

Or seen the mighty in their agonies,

Or those, the flowers of morn--now spread, wan-hued,

To beautify these direful jousts. The spear,

Approved of Love and Honour, through him smote

Recognisant of both; their sword, nor swerved,

But struck and striking answered in each blow

As to the grave confessing: midst all praise

None might appraise his Honour and his Love,

None the puissance of that arm elect,

Nay, nor its gentle knightliness: its deeds,

Attended by acclaim of truthful words,

Doubled the deeds Sir Palomide had done.

Which great acclaim, woke frenzy in that knight;

Perplexity, and sorrow of soul--despair

So wild and sightless, as in dreams he hove

Apart the tourney: but three times drawn back

By fiend begotten of disordered thoughts,

Three times had slain Sir Tristram treasonously.

Three times o'ermatched his jealousy of hate,

By jealousy of love in Launcelot,--once,

Spared by the pity in Sir Tristram's spear;

Twice, in its pitying sorrow; thrice, forgiven

In sorrowing pity by his spear and sword,

And vailed from common ken the knight's reproach

By Tristram in his honour's courtesy,

Which sought some utterance in its knightly speech,

Resting upon his last essay. "This time,

"Launcelot, in thee puts forth its brightest flower.

"Above the lists, our heavens are pure and fair:

"So shines thy knightliness of heart on me.

"Well is it, when we love. The dust of life

"Shines golden,--accident, or strife, or pain

"Be golden blessings--or we lose or thrive,

"If in the light of love.--But happier far,

"Attended by the vigilance of one

"Whose love is as this knightly love of thine.

"'Tis of the angel-hosts."--But there was snapt

His rising speech, as oft his harp when load

With note too fine for human ears--for spake,

Abrupt, with hurried tremble in his voice,

The knight of knights, the knight of Guinevere,

First name and disrepute of knightlihood,

The knight, whose heart had grown grey before his beard,

All, all through Love--with hurried, trembling voice,

Launcelot, distraught, remorseful as he heard,

Yet dazzled by the glory as he heard

Words all too kind, and glory in his soul

Kindling thereon, fulfilled in haste of speech,

"None may contest thy day. This day is thine,

"By the divinity of love, whose faith

"We serve. Another day the jousts be mine,

"Mine, then, thy present grace--which worthiest, they,

"The angel-hosts, may judge. Nearest our king,

"I see thy inspiration. Wanting one,

"Now hid in Cardoyle's bower,--she claims my heart

"In worship. By St. Michael, unto me

"The rarest covenant of beauty made

"Between earth's dust and immortality,

"Is she, thy fair Isonde: well-worth this field

"O'erwrought with jeopardy. With this reserve--

"Wanting of one--none in our royal halls

"Compare with thy Isonde.--But whose large form

"Sweeps like an eagle on the jousts?" This while,

As clouds in breaking up, go down the wind

On different ways, the folk of all estates

Were so departing, but in haste returned

When rode a knight from south, as one kept late

And yet must keep his pledge.

Entered the lists,

Nimbly he drew his rein before the king;

Displayed the blazon of his shield--a sword

Within a heart. The black indented shield,

The sword, the bleeding heart, spake terrible

The will of him their bearer. With slow hand,

The knight availed and showed his face, a face

Full-earnest, but a peach-bloom face: his height

And thews of giant brood: but when he spake,

Greeting the throne of Arthur, he was known,

Scarce more than eunuch-voiced. His name, it fell

From Belle Isonde's white, tremulous lips,--the Knight

Of Peril,--and it was as winds had caught

Her words, so swiftly, widely noised his name.

"Good news; good news; great news; to end the day.

"Fair Knight of Peril, he will give us news

"Of stiffer service than have known these jousts:

"An' brave Sir Tristram, he must answer them."

But Isonde's fear now gone, as to herself,

Her royal kinsfolk heard her murmur thus:--

"Truly, thou art a god of breathing gold

"To those within Tintagel: but not that

"Shall save thy body from the iron's law

"Striving with flesh, and ruling these our days."

Amazement troubled either gate, when seen

The Knight of Peril his obeisance make

Before the Beautiful, then turn in scorn

Whilst to the herald's challenge he confessed,

"Vivien!" For three-score heart-beats in the lists

Deep silence of surprise, when once again

Spoke Peril's Knight, "Here, an' so help me God,

"St. Martin, and my ladye! I acquit

"My pledge given Cornwall's king,--from France returned,

"To Cornwall's joy returned--before seven days

"Brought hence shall traitor-Tristram's heart appease,

"As naught else may, his sleepless wrath. On Love,

"I call--known queenly as I am named, as known

"Alike by kings, knights, squires; an' call on them,

"Now, to approve my pledge." For Vivien's ear,

Mordred aloud,--"Christ's mercy, how the folk

"Be tamed! Where, be their eager, hungry shouts

"For Tristram? Still the morning's counsel holds

"Best for these after-hours: an' holds my faith,

"This yet be Vivien's day--sweet Vivien's day!"

Fire sprang from Tristram's eyes as he bade speed

Divide the sunshine of the falling noon

Between them. Nor, the smiles of Belle Isonde,

Nor Arthur's waving hand of grace, assuaged

The risen tide of anger, as with tones

Learnt from the torrents of the hills, our Knight

Of Lyonesse,--"I hear thee call on Love.

"Love answers from the dust. Dire Anteros,

"Hath claimed thee! Now, to Lonazep hath brought

"Tintagel's ribald shame for doom--with laud

"Of honour. Of thy kindred, sadly known,

"None hold with men of worship: thou, too, known

"As light-o'-love, a curse to honest dames:--

"Of thine and thee, that brand--but, now, their brand,

"Ever-remembered from this hour to be,

"Drawn by this spear. Weakling, you deem, in me

"A knight-forewearied by this battailous day,

"Of which, due-born of thunder, shall its fame

"Run through the confines of these realms. My arm

"Upstayed by honour still--but, say thee sooth,

"Need none, for yonder smirking squire, this eve

"Unlace thy harness." Then, they made their course:

So well demeaned--they clashed--and in mid-lists

Both spears were burst--yet in his selle each knight

Unmoved--composed as they had toyed with straws.

Whereon in wrath, as though his word were broke,

His lance so breaking, Tristram leaped to ground;

"I have no second spear," he hoarsely cried,

In drawing of his sword, "Behold this blade!

"Though thine the armour of Bordeaux thrice-proven,

"Such cunning shall its lightning-edge now wreak,

"As folk shall wot the vagaries of thy life

"Rehearsed in death--their marvel, and my praise--

"Direct dishonour unto thee." He smote

Tintagel's champion, sharp, inscrutable blows--

The poignant sword-light was beheld, nor more,

Besides arms falling into hasty ruins.

Then, Tristram's supple wrist and subtle play

Carved tediously the flesh of Peril's Knight,

Morsel by morsel, as to the seventh death

For sacrifice: last, with three diverse blows

He hewed his body that his heart leaped out,

And horror fell on all estates to know

Fulfilment of such wrath, on which the king

Hand-screened his eyes, and with his right held forth

The peace-commanding sceptre. So that day,

Crowned by Sir Tristram with red-hilted sword,

Its proud degree his own.

What time morn's light,

A spring of yellow broom before the rose

Flames fuller season, and contrary sprites,

Eager for day, or wearying of the dark,

These brightest and those saddest, early risen,

Cry, "Lo, the day appears!" the Dragon King

Walked midst the knights' pavilions, where he heard

Sir Tristram's harp, awakened by the dawn.

Said he, whilst passing--"That is as the voice

Of some rare lady sounding in mine ears."

Whereon, the harper, hearing this, bespake

His knightly fellow. "Arthur hearkened. Thou,

"So hearkening, if of love were thine to hear,

"So hearkening, I had said, fair knight, to thee,

"My Lady Isonde's voice spake from the strings

"When at her matins within Joyous Gard,

"The peace of happy sleep still held by prayer

"Asleep within her heart. But thou, fair knight,

"Hast not love's hearing." Unto which, the man,

"An' I may speak, more truly may I speak

"Than harped voice. This day, thy Belle Isonde

"Shall little gain of peace, and gaining not,

"Make this a dolorous day for thee. And this,

"Through shallow peace of Joyous Gard."

These jousts,

Last, first in fame, at Lonazep, were named

The Jewel Tournament; when dames desired,

And damsels deemed the time was opportune,

To shew their treasures--heirlooms, fulgent spoils

Of heathen thrones, offerings through blood and pain,

From foreign realms, by knighthood hither borne--

Compacted wealth in gems: and, furthermore,

Consecrate to the Table Round, this day.

Of this, I name but of the sacred twelve,

Who then appeared. The aged Geraint, whose lance

Reposed against the throne, since oft that throne

In bygone times of dread attained repose,

Alone from Geraint's spear; and Caradoc,

Of the three faithful lovers of the Ring,

An exiled star for long, who now returns

From that green burgh, down-sloping to the main,

Where ladye-love, most dear, dwells in her halls,

To whom not long ere he returns: Owaine,

Bewitched with pomp and blazonry of arms

Lightest in heart among the warrior-three;

With secret Aron, solitary, renowned

For artful valour: and, of lute-like tongue,

Gilded Gawaine, born on the southern downs

Amidst the primrose, and as boy and man

His nature wanton, but a heartening spear

When fortune at her rudest; crowning all,

Gleamed Launcelot's cross of red, and eager-eyed

Sir Tristram's argent lion, he himself

In silver panoply, to show his cause

Pure, single honour. Adversaries fierce

For martial meddle, drew to Lonazep,

Children of wild repute, their courage known

To Arthur's Table: spears from heathenesse,

Beyond the four salt floods: from Calydon,

Beneath whose lofty, bare-stemmed, bush-topped pines

Dwell serpents of the fiend: and knightly blooms,

New-sprung since Marhaus, from Ierne's shores

With gold-fringed lips, alike for love alert,

Or dauntless battle-cry: and swarthy-faced,

Their hate devised upon their shields, knights ten

From Marches of North Galis: nor had failed

The liberties of Richmondshire to send

Her company of valour: nor had failed

Deira's wolvish lords. For knightly cheer,

And to outbrave report of byegone jousts,

All shewed as new as Lonazep's first day,--

Knights in the gorgeous housing of their steeds

And harness of the war, and carven twain

New curiously gilded galleries

Contained the dames, whose silent Tournament

Of Jewels resounded throught their times as loud

As tourney feats--since well it might--that shew

Of gem-besprinkled raiment, lustrous gems

Kindling upon white fingers, bosoms, arms,

Or pendant from the shell-like pale pink ear,

Accessory unto other charms,--what charmed

Before, now doubly charms--each dame more fair

Than on each former day, as beauty here

Flourished on valour.

Chief, La Belle Isonde,

Enriched with hues known of that earliest spring

Beheld by her in Joyous Gard: loose-robed

In silken amethyst from hem to throat,

Topaz and chrysoprase her gems, of flowers

Of souvenance and promise fairest sign

And of young greening days,--these in her hair

A shining chaplet--those, a beating light

Upon her bosom. Vivien in her sport,

Showed none of native colours: such, her maid

Amidst the rural throngs ordained to wear--

False yellow, whereby lost her gaysome charms

Of sun-brown cheeks, those founts of fire, dark eyes,

And golden jewels drowned in yellow folds--

Nor worse, nor better, than when amber clouds

With evening stars between, their mutual glow

Lost in each other: but that fallen star,

Vivien, with thought on Tristram still, enrobed

In ample sendal of the emerald's sheen,

Bedashed with gems of liquid light as dews

In morning grass, and of that light there hung

A princedom, shining in each ear. Around,

Those in the worship of herself, or those

In worship of the knight on whom her guiles

Were now adventuring, jasper on their brows

Figured in circlets of bright flexile gold,

Or in the necklace wavering: no attire

Amidst the sunny flock, but there beheld

Of green of meads and mountains, chrysolite

And beryl, sparkling in some quaint device.

Others, who angled for themselves, displayed

More varied shews, and none bewitching more

Than mutable, flying colours, worn by those

Unstable in opinion--opals, chief,

With faltering hues which never ceased to gleam:

Those pledged to knights, well known their firm intent,

Those pure, in samite fair, as washed in white

Chalcedony attired, with silver bloom

Of pearls, as lacking gems: maids, in desire,

Marked by their violent colours--many a heart

In the hot blaze of garnets told its own

Consuming passion: milder loves, wore gems

Sea-green, or of the Lydian stone, whose gloom

Gave fairer lustre to the fairest fair--

And amethyst, which cheeks of rosy-red

Makes lovelier, as the violet lain beside

The fragrant maiden's-blush. Those crystal stones,

Imperial diamond, reserved shone sole

O'er Arthur's brows, and twain from Central Ind,

Whose price were empires, cunningly were set

Eyes in the Dragon of the Throne.

These shews,

I name, aware, nor ever in this realm before,

Nor since, so beauty in victorious pride

Adorned: fires answering fires, as on the hills

The beltane flames, through all the galleries

The jewels blazed that day, a light of fame

Which beamed through centuries of this realm, nor yet

Paled in its colours.

Ere these jousts began,

A private word reached Lonazep: therewith,

A golden ring, assurance whose the word

For Launcelot; whereupon, he called his squire;

Armed--sought the tourney--well-surmised by all,

Queen Guinevere had made him new of heart.

So ere devoir was paid to Belle Isonde,

Sir Tristram knew his love must have debate

With Launcelot's love, all knew dread time was near

When love debateth love. Four hours, the storm

Of thunder-hoofs, of martel, spear and sword,

With crimson showers of death, raged through the lists.

And Table Round held glory in account.

No more the heathen number in their hosts

That score of martial manhood,--prey of lance

Thrust through the gates of endless sleep. How vain,

In valour's morn, Ierne's chivalry

Shewed blazonry of beauty on its shields,

With lightsome war-cry, "Rashness cancels fear!"

The dark encounter answers, "Death." The tromp

Which sounds the onset is the tromp of doom

To savage Calydon, Deiras wolves,

And knighthoods from North Galis and the vales

Which lie around the Ure.--But not without

Their rigorous recompense. Owaine was reached

By Gallcoit's northern lance: and Caradoc

Gat Irish favour from Prince Gwittart's brand,

For which his ladye-love must be his leech,

Else his an early burial; with these two,

Gilded Gawain's life-stream shines i' the sun,

An' so the more his frolic spirit darkens:

Whilst Aron hurt by Andegavion's knight,

Pleads for the sacrament. Amidst this toil

Of tourney-festival, Sir Launcelot won

Surpassing honour; Tristram's knightly star

Ascending still--his service sadly shewn

In noble peers o'erthrown, and praise which rang

Louder than martial welcomes. As he went,

His yester-noblenesse he crowned with feats

Excelling all that day, as did that day

Excel the valiance of the opening jousts.

Then met the twain; and from the noon-song hour

Till nearing time of vespers, these twain held

Their joyous meddle. Still within their strength,

Although the strength within their blows had been

Even as their strength of love: who might prevail

None might propose: nor either of those dames,

Guinevere nor Isonde, in these their knights

Suffered reproach of valour: nor could tongue

Diminish aught of glory each attained.

These brother-hearts of chivalry, so left,

As now attained;--since sable Palomide,

Poisoned in soul, disloyally designed

Once more, a covert stroke on Tristram's life--

Wher, espied by Launcelot, stern he bade

His knightly brother's sword surcease, and called

With voice fired by death's passion. "Son of Lok!

"Base pagan! Of the northern serpent born.

"Defouled with falseness and a treasonous will,

"These lists require thee! I, within the lists!

"Assail with thy best courage, or my mail

"Sufficeth to repulse thee: with best arms

"Defend thee, or my stroke shall cleave thy steel,

"An' give thy soul to night. Thy foe, these hours

"Hath worship of his valour won beyond

"Our martial brotherhood of Camelot.

"An' two long, deathly days, thine honour won

"So hardly, he hath shorn and made as naught.

"Ride forth, avenge its wrong on me--his foe

"These jousts: on me, or ere my knightly fere

"Exclude my service. Pagan, son of Lok!

"Abide my challenge." Whilst Sir Launcelot spake,

A breeze arose, and now and then of dust

A cloud passed sighing through the tournament,

Opening the standard-folds above the king

Wherein the Dragon moved.

Sir Tristram claimed

This last adventure,--but with change of cheer,

The lustre of his armour changed--not morn's

But evening's light it shewed--approaching gloom,

Leading to shades of stillness, which the eye

Of Arthur marked, with anguish in his heart.

And when the knight of Odin rode the lists

In ebon harness, no applausive noise

Rang welcome--silence of eventful change

O'ercast the tourney,--on his sable steed,

Lord of dark silence rode the pagan knight.

He paused. His urgent spear within its rest

Swayed to and fro, as if from playful thoughts.

None such were his. That, is the spear of hate!

Gentle its motion, yet it yearns for strife,

Sealed with dark death's assurance. Now a cloud

Surged o'er the barriers: and the eddying dust

Hung round the knight, as when is seen that cliff

Mist-robed, above the Leeza's reedy marge,

Solitary of its mountain-girdled vale,

The Pillar named. On mid-October noon

So clothed its heights with hoary, tumbling mists,

That cliff, reverberate, with its thunder-voice

Gives answer to the tempest: such the tone

Proceeding from the cloud that clothed the knight.

"I here require thee, by thy knighthood's faith,

"Bestow my boon!" As message from the breeze

That word sprang through the tourney's purlieus,--heard

With hard heart-sickness. Otherwise, hath heard

The Dragon of the Standard. On the staff

The silken folds heave heavily--now seen

The Dragon's angered head--now sailing wings

Beheld--but spent the breeze, it hides itself

Within its former sleepy lair--and, now,

Lifting, unfolding, gleaming, high it swirled

Above the throne, then with sharp sound shot out

Its battle-roaring grandeurs o'er the lists.

As menacing clang of sword upon the shield

Ere fray begins, Sir Tristram's voice. "What boon,

"Is thine to claim?"--"The boon of thine own vow

"Besought by Cornwall's queen. I ask thy spear."

O, woe, such treasonous wiles, the viper-brood

Of Palomide's crossed love! Woe, to our knight,

Questioning the message with sore-stricken heart.

As one submerged, in losing hold of life

His inner eye surveys a tract of years,

Their long-lost incidents in shapes and hues,

Alive with old significance: so, now,

The paynim's speech, a wave of death, shut out

As sunk in midnight dark the tourney-scene,

And clear before Sir Tristram's inner sight

Appeared a time and place late-past--one bower,

In Joyous Gard. The noon-tide casement trick't

With jasmin sprays--the sunbeams in the room

Sundered in stars--that amorous hour now his.

He felt the sharp, sweet kisses of the sea;

Within his heart the favours of that time,

Of love and knightliness,--for Palomide

Was there, the guest: and she, the Beautiful

Whose voice more soft than ocean's murmurous caves,

More musical than chime of Angelus,

From its far island fane, to tell the hour

Of praise and love--a voice more than its words

Sweet as they were; to Tristram's dreamful ear

A sound of dear melodious memories,--

Was heard--now silent--now with fervency,

Spake suddenly, "To honour this fair time,

"Thy graciousness, thy hospitality,

"Thy valorous gentleness, good Tristram, yield

"Our guest a boon! a loving boon of worth.

"The corner stone, the flowery capital,

"The heart and beauteous visage of thy faith

"Chivalrous, may not lack its worship here.

"A boon! a boon!"--"Aught but thyself, my soul."

Answers her knight. "What claim'st thou, Palomide?"--

"No boon this hour desires but its own bliss.

"When fortune veers and mischance mine, then thou

"The imperfections of a troubled will

"May help. Or then, the boon, perchance, thy spear."

O, mischief hiding in a living wish!

O, bounteous spirit, whose joy provides the sting

To slay thee, undisguised! The fates now call.

That reverenced hour slid by, its fair delight

Drunk by each heart as from the chalice of life

Its richest wine: and since that reverenced hour

To this, nought of its words, which now arose

With ghostly call for Tristram's doom.--The scene

In sight and sound, lived with him crystal-clear

As to the spirit of a drowning man;

And Palomide was ware the lion-lance

Drooped in surrender for his craven boon,--

The liberal, love-gift boon, made deadly boon--

Which made his time for gain.

He spurred his steed:

With "Isonde!" on his lips, he spurred his steed

To Tristram's death, whose soul enwrapt in love

Played with its lineage of fair joys which bound

That hour of Joyous Gard--that hour now here.--

Isonde!--Her name rings music since the morn--

Writ crimson by him through the day--the hour

Isonde's! There came the inspiration!--Quick,

Answering the hastening of the brazen hoofs,

Rising upon his stirrup vehemently,

Tristram bestowed his boon.--"Thou hast my spear!"

O'erthwart the tournament's blood-sloken space

Forthright the spear, which in its passage sang

As on a lurid morn, the seven witch-elms

Above the pass of norland Atfors

Sing in the storm, or e'er, foredoomed, it smites

Field, wood and thorpe within the dales below.

Sharp-singing, underneath the Dragon's roar,

The spear, midway his course, caught Palomide

As with the cumulative strength of all

Its green and growing years, by him received

As fate's own shaft: nor armour of defence,

Nor warding gauntlet's art availed--the shaft

Bestowed death's twilight. He down-driven to earth,

Not answering to the herald's second call,

The haught day's fortune, given as diadem

Of Lonazep's three days, was then proclaimed;

And these twain martial brethren, as in love

In arms, Launcelot and Tristram, these receive

The day's degree, the diadem-degree.

Even as the praise and wonder of the world

Their ladies' beauty: thus, to them assigned

Honour of valour, eminent o'er knights

And Table Round. But, with his helmet doffed,

Launcelot unto the king:--"Of all the knights,

"Good king, we number in our honour's guild,

"My brother-peer select, the perfect flower.

"That grace, I may not here dispute, divide,

"Abridge--since, ye may learn it from the folk,

"Had not this Palomide disturbed our fray

"With infidel guile, on which no sentence more,

"Since his the leech's inquest for his harm--

"My royal brother, Knight of Lyonesse,

"Sir Tristram, had maintained throughout this day

"On me, his jewelled honour. And, therewith,

"My soul accords--as gladsome as nine jousts

"Her glory, yielding Tristram the degree."

Was it the breeze, or came it from her heart

That quickening of Belle Isonde's hair, when heard

The speech of Launcelot? Straightway, she uprose

As to approve his finding, when uprose

Rejoicing thunders from the barriers. Not

Sir Tristram's valour, nor Sir Launcelot's free,

Full-hearted graciousness, but sudden view

Of this the lion's inspiration, queen

Of chivalry and beauty, brought that joy

Thus mightily on the lists. Then, Hesper's lamp

Westward, now lightening the grey gates of even,

Closing the tourney, all the knightly throng

Blew unto lodging, and their diadem-prize

And praise were given our peer. And thus was kept

The tourney-tryst of Lonazep.

But thoughts

More foul than Palomide's: and hearts more smooth--

Though humorous in delight--than Belle Isonde's

Or Tristram's: and excelling Launcelot's eyes

In searching evil--there were thoughts abroad,

And laughing hearts, and eyes of piercing ken,

That earnest day.

At opening of the jousts,

Sir Dinadin tricked out with dress and paint

As grim and grinning gargoyle, lent his mirth

Within and out the barriers: oft the gems,

Twinkled to note his travestie of sport,

Obeisance, pageant, essay: oft their lights

Brake into tinkling laughter-rills, whenas,

Curt sentence dropt among them acid-sweet

With double-ending rhymes. But, now, as eve

Lifting within high heaven her star of peace,

No singing-tourney prowess might be his,

Angered, on Tristram's thrice-approved degree,

He poured the venom of the day, more keen

Through his unshaken humours; which, thrice-told

Nor moved the lion-knight,--he cried,--"You go

"To hear the fool-talk, make one in fools'-play.

"Go.--Thinking good most evilly, since, unknown

"Things with their sober faces,"--"Dinadin!

"The bells of Dagonet you have usurped

"Throughout this tourney, nor have rung them well.

"Too much of fool upon thy tongue. Shall I

"Call thee fool-Dinadin? Which were more truth,

"Than thy devisings of a courtly throng

"Now gathering from the borders of the field

"Of death and honour. All day, hast thou been

"In trouble as the pot upon the fire,

"And, now, ye bubble hot phrase meaningless

"In such thy mood."--"List, an' I speak ye calm.

"And slow my voice, and clear, to speak proud words

"Of burning glory. These twain days, men know,

"Thy valour as the valour of seven. Ay, more;

"The ghostly memories of our mighty wars

"Will perish on the lips, whenever heard

"These jousts of Lonazep. But was all glory,

"All this day? Mordred,--ye would note,--I trow,

"Of many colours were his company

"In petticoats. Ye noted. Him I heard,

"Hissing his single phrase maleficent,

"Of fray in which he hath defect.--'My King,

"'Your King, in suffering shame obscure, unnamed,

"'Abates not in his general laud and smile.

"'Approving best hot revelry in arms,

"'He keeps vile lust of blood keen in his Ring.

"'Weeds of the carnage his surpassing boast.

"'Ah me, how blind men be: none wot he keeps

"'The secrecy of monarchs, who have tamed

"'The fierce blood of their kindred, and must keep

"'The salt taste of the blood full-well provoked

"'Within his the belt of valour. Blood!' Dames heard;

"An' those who wore their pledges heard.--God's peace,

"Adding one to one ye marvelling cry, 'five!'

"Forgotten three slides in, an'darkens faith.

"Mordred is more than Mark, much more--much less,

"Than Vivien. This day, sheen of gems and smiles--

"Around her feet the shades. Sly sorceress!

"Mark,--Mordred--other shrouded forms, I see,

"(The carrion on her way) who work her wish--

"Dominion. As o'er Merlin, laid in sleep

"Beneath the white thorn in Broceliande

"Her prey in body and soul--she, o'er these days,

"Valiance and blaze of lauds of Lonazep

"A death-cloud permanent, as death o'er life,

"O'er pride and puissance of Logris.--Knight!

"May sleepers in the sepulchre awake

"Before the judgment tromp? An' be it so:

"Her little, little laugh shall stir the dust

"Above her face-cloth, when these faded realms

"Be truly heathenized. Last, for myself.

"The present has its own.--Go, priests to church;

"Knights to repair their hurt, or some to seek

"Opinion of the dames,--fool-Dinadin,

"One happy hour secures for every day,--

"Less than man's hope, somewhat above his worth,

"Thinks he, yet ever finds, as now he goes

"Assured again of choicest meats and drinks--

"Or cloud, or shine, fool-Dinadin, to dine."

But here, sweet gentles, pause. The sun, you see,

Bestows wide glories on eve's gathering clouds:

With ministry of beauty, prophecies,

As known from ancient Palestine, as writ

Within our Book of Life, not clouds, but morn

Fair, shall ascend upon our slumbers. So,

This holding true, we end the golden tale

Of Joyous Gard, of Palomide, his worth,

His consecration, ere again our flowers

Their loveliness and incense both withdrawn,

Or shines within the dusk, that one sole star

Of Love, of lovers all approved their star.