Author: Madison Julius Cawein

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With triumphs gay of old romance. - KEATS.


PRELUDE.

 Why, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naught
 Save this, alas! that once it seemed I thought
 I wandered dim with someone, but I knew
 Not who; most beautiful and good and true,
 Yet sad through suffering; with curl-crowned brow,
 Soft eyes and voice; so white she haunts me now: - 
 And when, and where? - At night in dreamland.
                                             She
 Led me athwart a flower-showered lea
 Where trammeled puckered pansy and the pea;
 Spread stains of pale-rod poppies rinced of rain,
 So gorged with sun their hurt hearts ached with pain;
 Heaped honeysuckles; roses lavishing beams,
 Wherein I knew were huddled little dreams
 Which laughed coy, hidden merriment and there
 Blew quick gay kisses fragrancing the air.
 And where a river bubbled through the sward
 A mist lay sleepily; and it was hard
 To see whence sprung it, to what seas it led,
 How broadly spread and what it was it fled
 So ceasless in its sighs, and bickering on
 Into romance or some bewildering dawn
 Of wisest legend from the storied wells
 Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,
 Nodding a white poll and a grand, gray beard
 As if some Lake Lady he, listening, heard,
 Who spake like water, danced like careful showers
 With blown gold curls thro' drifts of wild-thorn flowers;
 Loose, lazy arms in graceful movement tossed,
 Float flower-like down a woodland vista, lost
 In some peculiar note that wrings a tear
 Slow down his withered cheek. And then steals near
 Her sweet, lascivious brow's white wonderment,
 And gray rude eyes, and hair which hath the scent
 Of the wildwood Brcliand's perfumes
 In Brittany; and in it one red bloom's
 Blood-drop thrust deep, and so "Sweet Viviane!"
 All the glad leaves lisp like a young, soft rain
 From top to top, until a running surge
 The dark, witch-haunted solitude will urge,
 That shakes and sounds and stammers as from sleep
 Some giant were aroused; and with a leap
 A samite-gauzy creature, glossy white,
 Showers mocking kisses fast and, like a light
 Beat by a gust to flutter and then done,
 From Brcliande and Merlin she is gone.
 But still he sits there drowsing with his dreams;
 A wondrous cohort hath he; many as gleams
 That stab the moted mazes of a beech;
 And each grave dream hath its own magic speech
 To sting to tears his old eyes heavy - two
 Hang, tangled brilliants, in his beard like dew:
 And still faint murmurs of courts brave and fair,
 And forms of Arthur and proud Guenevere,
 Grave Tristram and rare Isoud and stout Mark,
 Bold Launcelot, chaste Galahad the dark
 Of his weak mind, once strong, glares up with, then,
    - The instant's fostered blossoms - die again.
 A roar of tournament, a rippling stir
 Of silken lists that ramble into her,
 That white witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,
 The vast Brcliande and dreams again.
 Then Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, trips there,
 A waggish cunning; glittering on his hair
 A tinsel crown; and then will slightly sway
 Thick leaves and part, and there Morgane the Fay
 With haughty wicked eyes and lovely face
 Studies him steady for a little space.


I.

 "Thou askest with thy studious eyes again,
 Here where the restless forest hears the main
 Toss in a troubled sleep and moan. Ah, sweet,
 With joy and passion the kind hour's replete;
 And what wild beauty here! where roughly run
 Huge forest shadows from the westering sun,
 The wood's a subdued power gentle as
 Yon tame wild-things, that in the moss and grass
 Gaze with their human eyes. Here grow the lines
 Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines
 Urned in its tremulous ferns, rest we upon
 This oak-trunk of God's thunder overthrown
 Years, years agone; not where 'tis rotted brown
 But where the thick bark's firm and overgrown
 Of clambering ivy blackly berried; where
 Wild musk of wood decay just tincts the air,
 As if some strange shrub on some whispering way,
 In some dewed dell, while dreaming of one May,
 In longing languor weakly tried to wake
 One sometime blossom and could only make
 Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew,
 And shape a specter, budding thin as dew,
 To haunt these sounding miles of solitude.
 Troubled thou askest, Morgane, and the mood,
 Unfathomed in thine eyes, glows rash and deep
 As that in some wild-woman's found on sleep
 By some lost knight upon a precipice,
 Whom he hath wakened with a laughing kiss.
 As that of some frail, elfin lady white
 As if of watery moonbeams, filmy dight,
 Who waves diaphanous beauty on some cliff
 That drowsing purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if
 The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag
 Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,
 Triumphant mocks him with glad sorcery
 Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.
 As that bewildering mystery of a tarn,
 Some mountain water, which the mornings scorn
 To anadem with fire and leave gray;
 To which some champion cometh when the Day
 Hath tired of breding on his proud, young head
 Flame-furry blooms and, golden chapletd,
 Sits rosy, trembling with full love for Night,
 Who cometh sandaled; dark in crape; the light
 Of her good eyes a marvel; her vast hair
 Tortuous with stars, - as in some shadowy lair
 The eyes of hunted wild things burn with rage, - 
 And on large bosoms doth his love assuage.

 "He, coming thither in that haunted place,
 Stoops low to quaff cool waters, when his face
 Meets gurgling fairy faces in a ring
 That jostle upward babbling; beckoning
 Him deep to wonders secret built of old
 By some dim witch: 'A city walled with gold,
 With beryl battlements and paved with pearls,
 Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls
 Of alabaster, and that witch to love,
 More beautiful to love than queens above.' - 
 He pauses troubled, but a wizard power,
 In all his bronzen harness that mad hour
 Plunges him - whither? what if he should miss
 Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?
 Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon
 Saw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawn
 Him deep to plunge - and to what breathless fate? - 
 Bliss? - which, too true, he hath well quaffed of late!
 But, there! - may come what stealthy-footed Death
 With bony claws to clutch away his breath!
 And make him loveless to those eyes, alas! - 
 Fain must I speak that vision; thus it was:

 "In sleep one plucked me some warm fleurs-de-lis,
 Larger than those of earth; and I might see
 Their woolly gold, loose, webby woven thro', - 
 Like fluffy flames spun, - gauzy with fine dew.
 And 'asphodels!' I murmured; then, 'these sure
 The Eden amaranths, so angel pure
 That these alone may pluck them; aye and aye!
 But with that giving, lo, she passed away
 Beyond me on some misty, yearning brook
 With some sweet song, which all the wild air took
 With torn farewells and pensive melody
 Touching to tears, strange, hopeless utterly.
 So merciless sweet that I yearned high to tear
 Those ingot-cored and gold-crowned lilies fair;
 Yet over me a horror which restrained
 With melancholy presence of two pained
 And awful, mighty eyes that cowed and held
 Me weeping while that sad dirge died or swelled
 Far, far on endless waters borne away:
 A wild bird's musick smitten when the ray
 Of dawn it burned for graced its drooping head,
 And the pale glory strengthened round it dead;
 Daggered of thorns it plunged on, blind in night,
 The slow blood ruby on its plumage white.

 "Then, then I knew these blooms which she had given
 Were strays of parting grief and waifs of Heaven
 For tears and memories; too delicate
 For eyes of earth such souls immaculate!
 But then - my God! my God! thus these were left!
 I knew then still! but of that song bereft - 
 That rapturous wonder grasping after grief - 
 Beyond all thought - weak thought that would be thief."
 And bowed and wept into his hands and she
 Sorrowful beheld; and resting at her knee
 Raised slow her oblong lute and smote its chords;
 But ere the impulse saddened into words
 Said: "And didst love me as thy lips have spake
 No visions wrought of sleep might such love shake.
 Fast is all Love in fastness of his power,
 With flame reverberant moated stands his tower;
 Not so built as to chink from fact a beam
 Of doubt and much less of a doubt from dream;
 Such, the alchemic fires of Love's desires,
 Which hug this like a snake, melt to gold wires
 To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."
 So ceased and then, sad softness in her eye
 Sang to his dream a questioning reply:

     "Will love grow less when dead the roguish Spring,
     Who from gay eyes sowed violets whispering;
     Peach petals in wild cheeks, wan-wasted thro'
     Of withering grief, laid lovely 'neath the dew,
                    Will love grow less?

     "Will love grow less when comes queen Summer tall,
     Her throat a lily long and spiritual;
     Rich as the poppied swaths - droned haunts of bees - 
     Her cheeks, a brown maid's gleaning on the leas,
                    Will love grow less?

     "Will love grow less when Autumn sighing there
     Broods with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair;
     Tears in grave eyes as in grave heavens above,
     Deep lost in memories' melancholy, love,
                     Will love grow less?

     "Will love grow less when Winter at the door
     Begs on her scant locks icicles as hoar;
     While Death's eyes hollow o'er her shoulder dart
     A look to wring to tears then freeze the heart,
                     Will love grow less?"

 And in her hair wept softly and her breast
 Rose and was wet with tears; like as, distressed,
 Night steals on Day rain sobbing thro' her curls.
 "Tho' tears become thee even as priceless pearls,
 Weep not for love's sake! mine no gloom of doubt,
 But woe for sweet love's death such dreams brought out.
 Nay, nay; crowned, throned and flame-anointed he
 Kings our twin-kingdomed hearts eternally.
 Love, high in Heaven beginning and to cease
 No majesty when hearts are laid at peace;
 But reign supreme, if souls have wrought as well,
 A god in Heaven or a god in Hell.
 Yea, Morgane, for the favor of his face
 All our rich world of love I will retrace:

 "Hurt in that battle where thy brother strove
 With those five kings thou wot'st of, dearest love,
 Wherein the five were worsted, I was brought
 To some king's castle on my shield, methought, - 
 Out of the grind of spears and roar of swords,
 From the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,
 Culled from the mountained slain where Havoc sprawled
 Gorged to her eyes with carnage, growling crawled; - 
 By some tall damsels tiremaids of some queen
 Stately and dark, who moved as if a sheen
 Of starlight spread her presence; and she came
 With healing herbs and searched my wounds. A dame
 So marvelous in raiment silvery
 I feared lest some attendant chaste were she
 To that high Holy Grael, which Arthur hath
 Sought ever widely by hoar wood and path; - 
 Thus not for me, a worldly one, to love,
 Who loved her even to wonder; skied above
 His worship as our moon above the Main,
 That passions upward yearning in great pain,
 And suffers wearily from year to year,
 She peaceful pitiless with virgin cheer. - 
 Ah, ideal love, as merciless as fate!
 And, oh, that savage aching which must wait
 For its fulfillment, tortured love in tears,
 Until that beauty dreamed of many years
 Bends over one from luminous skies, so grand
 One's weakness fears to touch its mastering hand,
 And hesitates and stammers nothings weak,
 And loves and loves with love that can not speak!
 Ah, there's the tyranny that breeds despair;
 Breaks hearts whose strong youth by one golden hair
 Coiled 'round the throat is sooner strangled dumb
 Than by a glancing dagger thrust from gloom
 Of an old arras at the very hour
 One thought one safest in one's guarded tower. - 
 Thus, Morgane, worshiping that lady I
 Was speechless; longing now to live, now die,
 As her fine face suggested secrets of
 Some passion kin to mine, or scorn of love
 That dragged heroic humbleness to her feet,
 For one long look that spake and made such sweet.
 Ah, never dreamed I of what was to be, - 
 Nay! nay! how could I? while that agony
 Of doubtful love denied my heart too much,
 Too much to dream of that perfection such
 As was to grant me boisterous hours of life
 And sever all the past as with a knife!

 "One night a tempest scourged and beat and lashed
 The writhing forest and vast thunders crashed
 Clamorous with clubs of leven, and anon,
 Between the thunder pauses, seas would groan
 Like some enormous curse a knight hath lured
 From where it soared to maim it with his sword.
 I, with eyes partly lidded, seemed to see
 That cloudy, wide-wrenched night's eternity
 Yawn hells of golden ghastliness; and sweep
 Distending foams tempestuous up each steep
 Of furious iron, where pale mermaids sit
 With tangled hair black-blown, who, bit by bit,
 Chant glimmering; beckoning on to strangling arms
 Some hurt bark hurrying in the ravenous storm's
 Resistless exultation; till there came
 One breaker mounting inward, all aflame
 With glow-worm green, to boom against the cliff
 Its thunderous bulk - and there, sucked pale and stiff,
 Tumbled in eddies up the howling rocks
 My dead, drawn face; eyes lidless; matted locks
 Oozed close with brine; tossed upward merrily
 By streaming mermaids. - Madly seemed to see
 The vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,
 Collected, sought me; down the casement drew
 Wet, shuddering fingers sharply; thronging fast
 Up hooting turrets, fell thick screaming, cast
 Down bastioned battlements trooped whistling off;
 From the wild woodland growled a backward scoff. - 
 Then far away, hoofs of a thousand gales,
 As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,
 Loosed from the groaning hills, the cohorts loud,
 Spirits of thunder, charioteered of cloud,
 Roared down the rocking night cored with the glare
 Of fiery eyeballs swimming; their drenched hair
 Blown black as rain unkempt back from black brows,
 Wide mouths of storm that voiced a hell carouse
 And bulged tight cheeks with wind, rolled riotous by
 Ruining to ruinous cliffs to headlong die.

 "Once when the lightning made the casement glare
 Squares touched to gold, between it rose her hair,
 As if a raven's wing had cut the storm
 Death-driven seaward; and a vague alarm
 Stung me with terrors of surmise where hope
 As yet pruned weak wings crippled by their scope.
 And, lo, she kneeled low, radiant, wonderful,
 Lawn-raimented and white; kneeled low, - 'to lull
 These thoughts of night such storms might shape in thee,
 All such to peace and sleep,' - Ah, God! to see
 Her like a benediction fleshed! with her
 Hearing her voice! her cool hand wandering bare
 Wistful on feverish brow thro' long deep curls!
 To see her rich throat's carcaneted pearls
 Rise as her pulses! eyes' large influence
 Poured toward me straight as stars, whose sole defense
 Against all storm is their bold beauty! then
 To feel her breathe and hear her speak again!
 'Love, mark,' I said or dreamed I moaned in dreams,
 'How wails the tumult and the thunder gleams!
 As if of Arthur's knights had charged two fields
 Bright as sun-winds of dawn; swords, spears and shields
 Flashed lordly shocked; had, - to a man gone down
 In burst of battle hurled, - lain silent sown.
 Love, one eternal tempest thus with thee
 Were calm, dead calm! but, no! - for thee in me
 Such calm proves tempest. Speak; I feel thy voice
 Throb soft, caressing silence, healing noise.'

 "Is radiance loved of radiance? day of day?
 Lithe beam of beam and laughing ray of ray?
 Hope loved of hope and happiness of joy,
 Or love of love, who hath the world for toy?
 And thou - thou lov'st my voice? fond Accolon!
 Why not - yea, why not? - nay! - I prithee! - groan
 Not for that thou hast had long since thine all.'
 She smiled; and dashed down storm's black-crumbled wall,
 Baptizing moonlight bathed her, foot and face
 Deluging, as my soul brake toward her grace
 With worship from despair and secret grief,
 That felt hot tears of heartsease sweet and brief.
 And one immortal night to me she said
 Words, lay I white in death had raised me red.
 'Rest now,' they were, 'I love thee with such love! - 
 'Some speak of secret love, but God above
 Hath knowledge and divinement.'... Passionate low,
 'To lie by thee to-night my mind is': - So
 She laughed; - 'Sleep well! - for me? why, thy fast word
 Of knighthood, look thou, and this naked sword
 Laid in betwixt us.... Let it be a wall
 Strong between love and lust and lov'st me all in all.'
 Undid the goodly gold from her clasped waist;
 Unbound deep locks; and, like a blossom faced,
 Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to bud
 In breasts and face a graceful womanhood.
 And fragrance was to her as natural
 As odor to the rose; and she a tall,
 White ardor and white fervor in the room
 Moved, some pale presence that with light doth bloom.
 Then all mine eyes and lips and limbs were fire;
 My tongue delirious throbbed a lawless lyre,
 That harped loud words of laud for loveliness,
 Inspired of such, but these I can not guess.
 Then she, as pure as snows of peaks that keep
 Sun-cloven crowns of virgin, vanquishing steep,
 Frowned on me, and the thoughts, that in my brain
 Had risen a glare of gems, set dull like rain,
 And fair I spake her and with civil pain:

 "'Thine, sweet, a devil's kindness which is given
 For earthly pleasure but bars out from Heaven.
 Temptation harbored, like a bloody rust
 On a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lust
 Is love's undoing when love's limbs are cast
 A commonness to desire that makes unchaste;
 And this warm nearness of what should be hid
 Makes love a lawless love. But, thou hast bid; - 
 Rest thou; I love thee, how, - I only know:
 But all that love shall shout "out!" at love's foe.'
 And turning sighed into my hair; and she
 Stretched the broad blade's division suddenly.
 And so we lay its fire between us twain;
 Unsleeping I, for, oh, that devil pain
 Of passion in me that strove up and stood
 A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood!
 An hour stole by: she slept or seemed to sleep.
 The winds of night came vigorous from the deep
 With storm gusts of fresh-watered field and wold
 That breathed of ocean meadows bluely rolled.
 I drowsed and time passed; stealing as for one
 Whose drowsy life dreams in Avilion.
 Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went down
 High casement squares of heaven, a crystal crown
 Of bubbled moonlight on each monstrous head,
 Like as great ghosts of giant kings long dead.
 And then, meseemed, she lightly laughed and sighed,
 So soft a taper had not bent aside,
 And leaned a soft face seen thro' loosened hair
 Above me, whisp'ring as if sweet in prayer,
 'Behold, the sword! I take the sword away!'
 It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;
 Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beam
 Of moonlight in the moonlight. I did deem
 She moved in sleep and dreamed perverse, nor wist
 That which she did until two fierce lips kissed
 My wondering eyes to wakement of her thought.
 Then spake I, 'Love, my word! is it then naught?
 Nay, nay, my word albeit the sword be gone! - 
 And wouldst thou try me? rest thou safe till dawn!
 I will not thus forswear! my word stands fast!'
 But now I felt hot, desperate kisses cast
 On hair, eyes, throat and lips and over and over,
 Low laughter of 'Sweet wretch! and thou - a lover?
 What is that word if she thou gavest it
 Unbind thee of it? lo, and she sees fit!'
 Ah, Morgane, Morgane, then I knew 'twas thou,
 Thou! thou! who only could such joy allow."

 "And, oh, unburied passion of that night;
 The sleepy birds too early piped of light;
 Too soon came Light girt with a rosy breeze,
 Strong from his bath, to wrestle with the trees,
 A thewy hero; and, alas! too soon
 Our scutcheoned oriel stained was overstrewn
 Of Dawn's air-jewels; then I sang a strain
 Of sleep that in my memory strives again:

 "Ethereal limbed the lovely Sleep should sit,
 Her starbeam locks with some vague splendor lit,
 Like that the glow-worm's emerald radiance sheds
 Thro' twilight dew-drops globed on lily-beds.
 Her face as fair as if of graven stone,
 Yet dim and airy us a cloud alone
 In the bare blue of Heaven, smiling sweet,
 For languorous thoughts of love that flit and fleet
 Short-rainbow-winged about her crumpled hair;
 Yet on her brow a pensiveness more fair,
 Ungraspable and sad and lost, I wist,
 Than thoughts of maiden whom her love hath kissed,
 Who knows, thro' deepening eyes and drowsy breath,
 Him weeping bent whiles she drifts on to death.
 Full sweet and sorrowful and blithe withal
 Should be her brow; not wholly spiritual,
 But tinged with mortal for the mortal mind,
 And smote with flushings from some Eden wind;
 Hinting at heart's ease and a god's desire
 Of pleasure hastening in a garb of fire
 From some dim country over storied seas
 Glassed of content and foamed of mysteries.
 Her ears two sea-pearls' morning-tender pink,
 And strung to harkening as if on a brink
 Night with profundity of death and doubt,
 Yet touched with awfulness of light poured out.
 Ears strung to palpitations of heart throbs
 As sea-shells waver with dim ocean sobs.
 One hand, curved like a mist on dusking skies,
 Hollowing smooth brows to shade dark velvet eyes, - 
 Dark-lashed and dewed of tear-drops beautiful, - 
 To sound the cowering conscience of the dull,
 Sleep-sodden features in their human rest,
 Ere she dare trust her pureness to that breast.
 Large limbs diaphanous and fleeced with veil
 Of wimpled heat, wove of the pulsing pale
 Of rosy midnight, and stained thro' with stars
 In golden cores; clusters of quivering bars
 Of nebulous gold, twined round her fleecily.
 A lucid shape vague in vague mystery.
 Untrammeled bosoms swelling free and white
 And prodigal of balm; cupped lilies bright,
 That to the famished mind yield their pure, best,
 Voluptuous sleep like honey sucked in rest."

 Thus they communed. And there her castle stood
 With slender towers ivied o'er the wood;
 An ancient chapel creeper-buried near;
 A forest vista, where faint herds of deer
 Stalked like soft shadows; where the hares did run,
 Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun.
 For it was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;
 That rooky pile her palace whence she bore
 With Urience sway; but he at Camelot
 Knew naught of intrigues here at Chariot.


II.

 Noon; and the wistful Autumn sat among
 The lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrung
 By crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,
 To don imperial pomp at any cost.
 On each wild hill they stood as if for war
 Flaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;
 And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;
 Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,
 Who in a little fretful while, how soon!
 Would work rebellion under some wan moon;
 Pluck their old beards deriding; shriek and tear
 Rich royalty; sow tattered through the air
 Their purple majesty; and from each head
 Dash down its golden crown, and in its stead
 Set there a pale-death mockery of snow,
 Leave them bemoaning beggars bowed with woe.
 Blow, wood-wind, blow! now that all's fresh and fine
 As earth and wood can make it; fresh as brine
 And rare with sodden scents of underbrush.
 Ring, and one hears a cavalcade a-rush;
 Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows; - 
 A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goes
 Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green, - 
 Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held between
 His selle and hunter's head, and at his thigh
 A good, broad hanger, and one fist on high
 To wind the rapid echoes from his horn,
 That start the field birds from the sheavd corn,
 Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,
 That cease again when it no longer sings.
 Away, away, they flash a belted band
 From Camelot thro' that haze-ghostly land;
 Hounds leashed and leamers and a flash of steel,
 A tramp of horse and the long-baying peal
 Of stag hounds whimp'ring and - behold! the hart,
 A lordly height, doth from the covert dart;
 And the big blood-hounds strain unto the chase.
 A-hunt! a-hunt! the pryce seems but a pace
 On ere 'tis wound; but now, where interlace
 The dense-briered underwoods, the hounds have lost
 The slot, there where a forest brook hath crossed
 With intercepting waters full of leaves.
 Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves
 Thro' dimmer boscage, and the wizard sun
 Shapes many shadowy stags that seem to run
 Wild herds before the baffled foresters.
 And treed aloft a reckless laugh one hears,
 As if some helping goblin from the trees
 Mocked them the unbayed hart and made a breeze
 His pursuivant of mocking. Hastening thence
 Pursued King Arthur and King Urience
 With one small brachet, till scarce hear could they
 Their fellowship far-furthered course away
 On fresher trace of hind or rugged boar
 With haggard, hairy flanks, curled tusks and hoar
 With fierce foam-fury; and of these bereft
 The kings continued in the slot they'd left.
 And there the hart plunged gallant thro' the brake
 Leaving a torn path shaking in his wake,
 Down which they followed on thro' many a copse
 Above whose brush, close on before, the tops
 Of the large antlers swelled anon, and so
 Were gone where beat the brambles to and fro.
 And still they drave him hard; and ever near
 Seemed that great hart unwearied; and such cheer
 Still stung them to the chase. When Arthur's horse
 Gasped mightily and lunging in his course
 Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience
 Left his gray hunter dying near; and thence
 They held the hunt afoot; when suddenly
 Were they aware of a wide, roughened sea,
 And near the wood the hart upon the sward
 Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.
 Right so the king dispatched him and the pryce
 Wound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.

 As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast
 Waked from its sleep, - the quietude had cast
 Tender as mercy on it, - in a band
 Rose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,
 Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,
 From that red woodland gliding. These each knight
 Graced with obeisance and "Our lord," said one,
 "Tenders ye courtesy until the dawn;
 The Earl Sir Damas; well in his wide keep,
 Seen thither with due worship, ye shall sleep."
 And then they came o'erwearied to a hall,
 An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall
 Towered based on crags rough, windy turrets high;
 An old, gaunt giant-castle 'gainst a sky
 Wherein the moon hung foam-faced, large and full.
 Down on dank sea-foundations broke the dull,
 Weird monotone of ocean, and wide rolled
 The watery wilderness that was as old
 As loud, defying headlands stretching out
 Beneath still stars with a voluminous shout
 Of wreck and wrath forever. Here the two
 Were feasted fairly and with worship due
 All errant knights, and then a damsel led
 Each knight with flaring lamp unto his bed
 Down separate corridores of that great keep;
 And soon they rested in a heavy sleep.

 And then King Arthur woke, and woke mid groans
 Of dolorous knights; and 'round him lay the bones
 Of many woful champions mouldering;
 And he could hear the open ocean ring
 Wild wasted waves above. And so he thought
 "It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught
 By that long hunt;" and then he sought to shake
 The horror off and to himself awake;
 But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs,
 And deep in iron-ribbd cells the eyes
 Of pale, cadaverous knights shone fixed on him
 Unhappy; and he felt his senses swim
 With foulness of that cell, and, "What are ye?
 Ghosts of chained champions or a company
 Of phantoms, bodiless fiends? If speak ye can,
 Speak, in God's name! for I am here - a man!"
 Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay
 A dusky nightmare dying day by day,
 Yet once of comely mien and strong withal
 And greatly gracious; but, now hunger-tall,
 With scrawny beard and faded hands and cheeks:
 "Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaks
 Is but an one of twenty knights here shamed
 Of him who lords this castle, Damas named,
 Who mews us here for slow starvation keen;
 Around you fade the bones of some eighteen
 Tried knights of Britain; and God grant that soon
 My hunger-lengthened ghost will see the moon,
 Beyond the vileness of this prisonment!"
 With that he sighed and round the dungeon went
 A rustling sigh, like saddened sin, and so
 Another dim, thin voice complained their woe: - 

 "He doth enchain us with this common end,
 That he find one who will his prowess bend
 To the attainment of his livelihood.
 A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good
 And courteous, withal most noble, whom
 This Damas hates - yea, ever seeks his doom;
 Denying him to their estate all right
 Save that he holds by main of arms and might.
 And thro' puissance hath he some fat fields
 And one rich manor sumptuous, where he yields
 Belated knights host's hospitality.
 Then bold is Ontzlake, Damas cowardly.
 For Ontzlake would decide by sword and lance
 Body for body this inheritance;
 But Damas dotes on life so courageless;
 Thus on all knights perforce lays coward's stress
 To fight for him or starve. For ye must know
 That in his country he is hated so
 That no helm here is who will take the fight;
 Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."
 Quoth he and ceased. And wondering at the tale
 The King was thoughtful, and each faded, pale,
 Poor countenance still conned him when he spake:
 "And what reward if one this battle take?"
 "Deliverance for all if of us one
 Consent to be his party's champion.
 But treachery and he are so close kin
 We loathe the part as some misshapen sin,
 And here would rather dally on to death
 Than serving falseness save and slave our breath."

 "May God deliver you for mercy, sirs!"
 And right anon an iron noise he hears
 Of chains clanked loose and bars jarred rusty back,
 The heavy gate croak open; and the black
 Of that rank cell astonished was with light,
 That danced fantastic with the frantic night.
 One high torch sidewise worried by the gust
 Sunned that lorn den of hunger, death and rust,
 And one tall damsel vaguely vestured, fair
 With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair.
 And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she;
 "God's life! the keep stinks vilely! and to see
 So noble knights endungeoned hollowing here
 Doth pain me sore with pity - but, what cheer?"

 "Thou mockest us; for me the sorriest
 Since I was suckled; and of any quest
 To me the most imperiling and strange. - 
 But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change
 I offer thee, through thee to these with thee,
 And thou but grant me in love's courtesy
 To fight for Damas and his livelihood.
 And if thou wilt not - look! thou seest this brood
 Of lean and dwindled bellies specter-eyed,
 Keen knights erst who refused me? - so decide."
 Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze
 That blew delirious over waves and trees;
 Thick fields of grasses and the sunny earth
 Whose beating heat filled the red heart with mirth,
 And made the world one sovereign pleasure house
 Where king and serf might revel and carouse;
 Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;
 Lone forest chapels by their radiant rills:
 His palace rich at Caerlleon upon Usk,
 And Camelot's loud halls that thro' the dusk
 Blazed far and bloomed a rose of revelry;
 Or in the misty morning shadowy
 Loomed grave for audience. And then he thought
 Of his Round Table and that Grael wide sought
 In haunted holds on demon-sinful shore;
 Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar
 With dragon heads unconquered and devour
 This realm of Britain and pluck up that flower
 Of chivalry whence ripened his renown:
 And then the reign of some besotted crown,
 A bandit king of lust, idolatry - 
 And with that thought for tears he could not see:
 Then of his greatest champions, King Ban's son,
 And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:
 And then, ah God! of his dear Guenevere,
 And with that thought - to starve and moulder here? - 
 For, being unfriend to Arthur and his court,
 Well wist he this grim Earl would bless that sport
 Of fortune which had fortuned him so well
 To have to starve his sovereign in a cell. - 
 In the entombing rock where ground the deep;
 And all the life shut in his limbs did leap
 Thro' eager veins and sinews fierce and red,
 Stung on to action, and he rose and said:
 "That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!
 To rot here harder; I will fight his foe.
 But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail,
 No steed against that other to avail."

 "Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire."
 And so she led the path: her torch's fire
 Scaring wild spidery shadows at each stride
 From cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,
 That labyrinthed the rock foundation strong
 Of that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.
 At length they came to a nail-studded door,
 Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore
 Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence
 They issued on a terraced eminence.
 Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the King
 Breathed open air that had the smell and sting
 Of brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;
 For in the East the second dawning's gloam,
 Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks
 Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.
 And so within that larger light of dawn
 It seemed to Arthur now that he had known
 This maiden at his court, and so he asked.
 But she, well-tutored, her real person masked,
 And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not;
 Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot.
 For here it likes me best to sing and spin
 And work the hangings my sire's halls within:
 No courts or tournaments or gallants brave
 To flatter me and love! for me - the wave,
 The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;
 My garth wherein I walk to think; the charm
 Of uplands redolent at bounteous noon
 And full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;
 White ships that pass some several every year;
 These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear."
 "An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrue
 Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,
 Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying of
 The King, half-brother, whom she did not love.
 And presently she brought him where in state
 This swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate....

 King Urience that dawning woke and found
 Himself safe couched at Camelot and wound
 In Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it was
 That this thing secretly had come to pass.
 But Accolon at Chariot sojourned still
 Content with his own dreams; for 'twas the will
 Of Morgane thus to keep him hidden here
 For her desire's excess, where everywhere
 In Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,
 Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;
 And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wont
 To list a tinkling, falling water fount, - 
 Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramours
 At sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,
 Had caught a laughing language light thereof,
 And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!" - 
 On cool white walls her hands had deftly draped
 A dark rich hanging, where were worked and shaped
 Her fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind,
 Imperishable passions, which could wind
 The past and present quickly; and could mate
 Dead loves to kisses, and intoxicate
 With moon-soft words of past delight and song
 The heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong.
 And there beside it pooled the urnd well,
 And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fell
 From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,
 With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawn
 Came solely; with not ev'n her brindled hound
 To leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground;
 No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,
 Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;
 But this her lute, about which her perfume
 Clung odorous of memories, that made bloom
 Her flowing features rosy to his eyes,
 That saw the words, his sense could but surmise,
 Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunk
 Her deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunk
 And slowly waned away to smouldering dreams,
 Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams.
 And so for those most serious eyes and lips,
 Faint, filmy features, all the music slips
 Of buoyant being bubbling to his voice
 To chant her praises; and with nervous poise
 His fleet, trained fingers call from her long lute
 Such riotous notes as must make madly mute
 The nightingale that listens quivering.
 And well he knows that winging hence it'll sing
 These aching notes, whose beauties burn and pain
 Its anguished heart now sobless, not in vain
 Wild 'neath her casement in that garden old
 Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold
 Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon;
 And if it dies, the heartache of the tune
 Shall clamor stormy passion at her ear,
 Of death more dear than life if love be there;
 Melt her quick eyes to tears, her throat to sobs
 Tumultuous heaved, while separation throbs
 Hard at her heart, and longing rears to Death
 Two prayerful eyes of pleading "for one breath - 
 An ardor of fierce life - crushed in his arms
 Close, close! and, oh, for such, all these smooth charms,
 Full, sentient charms voluptuous evermore!"
 And sweet to know these sensitive vows shall soar
 Ev'n to the dull ear of her drowsy lord
 Beside her; heart-defying with each word
 Harped in the bird's voice rhythmically clear.
 And thus he sang to her who was not there:

     "She comes! her presence, like a moving song
     Breathed soft of loveliest lips and lute-like tongue,
        Sways all the gurgling forests from their rest:
        I fancy where her rustling foot is pressed,
     So faltering, love seems timid, but how strong
        That darling love that flutters in her breast!

     "She comes! and the green vistas are stormed thro' - 
     As if wild wings, wet-varnished with dripped dew,
        Had dashed a sudden sunbeam tempest past,
         - With her eyes' inspiration clearly chaste;
     A rhythmic lavishment of bright gray blue,
        Long arrows of her eyes perfection cast.

     "Ah, God! she comes! and, Love, I feel thy breath,
     Like the soft South who idly wandereth
        Thro' musical leaves of laughing laziness,
        Page on before her, how sweet - none can guess!
     To say my soul 'Here's harmony dear as death
        To sigh wild vows, or utterless, to bless.'

     "She comes! ah, God! and all my brain is brave
     To war for words to laud her and to lave
        Her queenly beauty in such vows whereof
        May hush melodious cooings of a dove:
     For her light feet the favored path to pave
        With oaths, like roses, raving mad with love.

     "She comes! in me a passion - as the moon
     Works madness in strong men - my blood doth swoon
        Towards her glory; and I feel her soul
        Cling lip to lip with mine; and now the whole
     Mix with me, aching like a tender tune
        Exhausted; lavished in a god's control.

     "She comes! ah, Christ! ye eager stars that grace
     The fragmentary skies, that dimple space,
        Clink, and I hear her harp-sweet footfalls come:
        Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,
     Art of her presence, of her wild-flower face,
        That like some gracious blossom stains the gloom?

     "Oh, living exultation of the blood!
     That now - as sunbursts, the almighty mood
        Of some moved god, scatter the storm that roars,
        And hush - her love like some spent splendor pours
     Into it all immaculate maidenhood,
        And all the heart that hesitates - adores.

     "Vanquished! so vanquished! - ah, triumphant sweet!
     The height of heaven - supine at thy feet!
        Where love feasts crowned, and basks in such a glare
        As hearts of suns burn, in thine eyes and hair,
     Unutterable with raveled fires that cheat
        The ardent clay of me and make me air.

     "And so, rare witch, thy blood, like some lewd wine,
     Shall subtly make me, like thee, half divine;
        And, - sweet rebellion! - clasp thee till thou urge
        To combat close of savage kisses: surge
     A war that rubies all thy proud cheeks' shine, - 
        Slain, struggling blushes, - till white truce emerge.

     "My life for thine, thus bartered lip to lip!
     A striving being pulsant, that shall slip
        Like song and flame in sense from thee to me;
        Nor held, but quick rebartered thence to thee:
     So our two loves be as a singleship,
        Ten thousand loves as one eternally."

 Babbled the woodland like a rocky brook;
 And as the ecstacy of foliage shook,
 Hot pieces of bright, sunny heavens glanced
 Like polished silver thro' pale leaves that danced.
 As one hath seen some green-gowned huntress fair,
 Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair,
 Eyes clear as hollow dews; clean limbs as lithe
 As limbs swift morning moves; a voice as blithe
 As high hawk's ringing thro' the falling dews;
 Pant thro' the bramble-matted avenues, - 
 Where brier and thorn have gashed her gown's pinched green,
 About bright breasts and arms, the milky sheen
 Of white skin healthy pouting out; her face,
 Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase.


III.

 The eve now came; and shadows cowled the way
 Like somber palmers, who have kneeled to pray
 Beside a wayside shrine, and rosy rolled
 Up the capacious West a grainy gold,
 Luxuriant fluid, burned thro' strong, keen skies,
 Which seemed as towering gates of Paradise
 Surged dim, far glories on the hungry gaze.
 And from that sunset down the roseate ways,
 To Accolon, who with his idle lute,
 Reclined in revery against a root
 Of a great oak, a fragment of that West,
 A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,
 Skipped like a leaf the rather frosts have burned
 And cozened to a fever red, that turned
 And withered all its sap. And this one came
 From Camelot; from his beloved dame,
 Morgane the Fay. He on his shoulder bore
 A burning blade wrought strange with wizard lore,
 Runed mystically; and a scabbard which
 Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.
 He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,
 "Your lady with all sweetest courtesy
 Assures you - ah, unworthy messenger
 I of such brightness! - of that love of her."
 Then doffing that great baldric, with the sword
 To him he gave: "And this from him, my lord
 King Arthur; even his Excalibur,
 The sovereign blade, which Merlin gat of her,
 The Ladye of the Lake, who Launcelot
 Fostered from infanthood, as well you wot,
 In some wierd mere in Briogn's tangled lands
 Of charms and mist; where filmy fairy bands
 By lazy moons of Autumn spin their fill
 Of giddy morrice on the frosty hill.
 By goodness of her favor this is sent;
 Who craved King Arthur boon with this intent:
 That soon for her a desperate combat one
 With one of mightier prowess were begun;
 And with the sword Excalibur right sure
 Were she against that champion to endure.
 The blade flame-trenchant, but more prize the sheath
 Which stauncheth blood and guardeth from all death."
 He said: and Accolon looked on the sword,
 A mystic falchion, and, "It shall wend hard
 With him thro' thee, unconquerable blade,
 Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid
 Stress of unworship: and the hours as slow
 As palsied hours in Purgatory go
 For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!
 My purse, sweet page; and now - to her who gave,
 Dispatch! and this: - to all commands - her slave,
 To death obedient. In love or war
 Her love to make me all the warrior.
 Plead her grace mercy for so long delay
 From love that dies an hourly death each day
 Till her white hands kissed he shall kiss her face,
 By which his life breathes in continual grace."
 Thus he commanded; and incontinent
 The dwarf departed like a red ray sent
 From rich down-flowering clouds of suffused light
 Winged o'er long, purple glooms; and with the night,
 Whose votaress cypress stoled the dying strife
 Softly of day, and for whose perished life
 Gave heaven her golden stars, in dreamy thought
 Wends Accolon to hazy Chariot.

 And it befell him; wandering one dawn,
 As was his wont, across a dew-drenched lawn,
 Glad with night freshness and elastic health
 In sky and earth that lavished worlds of wealth
 From heady breeze and racy smells, a knight
 And lofty lady met he; gay bedight,
 With following of six esquires; and they
 Held on straight wrists the jess'd gerfalcon gray,
 And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore
 From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore
 Hurt in the lists, a spear thrust in his thigh:
 Who had besought - for much he feared to die - 
 This knight and his fair lady, as they rode
 To hawk near Chariot, the Queen's abode,
 That they would pray her in all charity
 Fare post to him, - for in chirurgery
 Of all that land she was the greatest leach, - 
 And her to his recovery beseech.
 So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,
 And spake their message, - for right over fain
 Were they toward their sport, - that he might bare
 Petition to that lady. But, not there
 Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;
 But now a se'nnight lay at Camelot,
 Of Guenevere the guest; and there with her
 Four other queens of farther Britain were:
 Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,
 King Mark's wife; who right rarely then was seen
 At court for jealousy of Mark, who knew
 Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true
 Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while
 How guilty Guenevere on such could smile:
 She of Northgales and she of Eastland: and
 She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band
 For sovereignty and love and loveliness
 Was not in any realm to grace and bless.
 Then quoth the knight, "Ay? see how fortune turns
 And varies like an April day, that burns
 Now welkins blue with calm, now scowls them down,
 Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.
 For, look, this Damas, who so long hath lain
 A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,
 Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,
 Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep;
 So sends dispatch a courier to my lord
 With, 'Lo! behold! to-morrow with the sword
 Earl Damas by his knight at point of lance
 Decides the issue of inheritance,
 Body to body, or by champion.'
 Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.
 Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, and he could,
 Right fain were he to save his livelihood.
 Then mused Sir Accolon: "The adventure goes
 Ev'n as my Lady fashioneth; who knows
 But what her arts develop this and make?"
 And thus to those: "His battle I will take, - 
 And he be so conditioned, harried of
 Estate and life, - in knighthood and for love.
 Conduct me thither."
             And, gramercied, then
 Mounted a void horse of that wondering train,
 And thence departed with two squires. And they
 Came to a lone, dismantled priory
 Hard by a castle gray on whose square towers,
 Machicolated, o'er the forest's bowers,
 The immemorial morning bloomed and blushed.
 A woodland manor olden, dark embushed
 In wild and woody hills. And then one wound
 An echoy horn, and with the boundless sound
 The drawbridge rumbled moatward clanking, and
 Into a paved court passed that little band....

 When all the world was morning, gleam and glare
 Of far deluging glory, and the air
 Sang with the wood-bird, like a humming lyre
 Swept bold of minstrel fingers wire on wire;
 Ere that fixed hour of prime came Arthur armed
 For battle royally. A black steed warmed
 A fierce impatience 'neath him cased in mail,
 Huge, foreign; and accoutered head to tail
 In costly sendal; rearward wine-dark red,
 Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.
 Firm, heavy armor blue had Arthur on
 Beneath a robe of honor, like the dawn,
 Satin and diapered and purflewed deep
 With lordly golden purple; whence did sweep
 Two hanging acorn tuftings of fine gold,
 And at his thigh a falchion, long and bold,
 Heavy and triple-edged; its scabbard, red
 Cordovan leather; thence a baldric led
 Of new cut deer-skin; this laborious wrought,
 And curiously with slides of gold was fraught,
 And buckled with a buckle white that shone,
 Bone of the sea-horse, tongued with jet-black bone.
 And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold
 Barbaric, wyvern-crested whose throat rolled
 A flame-sharp tongue of agate, and whose eyes
 Glowed venomous great rubies fierce of prize.
 And in his hand, a wiry lance of ash,
 Lattened with finest silver, like a flash
 Of sunlight in the morning shone a-gash.
 Clad was his squire most richly; he whose head
 Curled with close locks of yellow tinged to red:
 Of noble bearing; fair face; hawk eyes keen,
 And youthful, bearded chin. Right well beseen,
 Scarfed with blue satin; on his shoulder strong
 One broad gold brooch chased strangely, thick and long.
 His legs in hose of rarest Totness clad,
 And parti-colored leathern shoes he had
 Gold-latched; and in his hand a bannered spear
 Speckled and bronzen sharpened in the air.

 So with his following, while lay like scars
 The blue mist thin along the woodland bars,
 Thro' dew and fog, thro' shadow and thro' ray
 Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.
 Then to King Arthur when arrived were these
 To where the lists shone silken thro' the trees,
 Bannered and draped, a wimpled damsel came,
 Secret, upon a palfrey all aflame
 With sweat and heat of hurry, and, "From her,
 Your sister Morgane, your Excalibur,
 With tender greeting: For ye well have need
 In this adventure of him. So, God speed!"
 And so departed suddenly: nor knew
 The king but this his weapon tried and true.
 But brittle this and fashioned like thereof,
 And false of baser metal, in unlove
 And treason to his life, of her of kin
 Half sister, Morgane - an unnatural sin.

 Then heralded into the lists he rode.
 Opposed flashed Accolon, who light bestrode,
 Exultant, proud in talisman of that sword,
 A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,
 Pure white about each hollow, pasterned hoof.
 Equipped shone knight and steed in arms of proof,
 Dappled with yellow variegated plate
 Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state
 His surcoat robe of honor white and black
 Of satin, red-silk needled front and back
 Then blackly bordered. And above his robe
 That two-edged sword, - a throbbing golden globe
 Of vicious jewels, - thrust its burning hilt,
 Its broad belt, tawny and with gold-work gilt,
 Clasped with the eyelid of a black sea-horse
 Whose tongue was rosy gold. And stern as Force
 His visored helmet burned like fire, of rich
 And bronzen laton hammered; and on which
 An hundred crystals glittered, thick as on
 A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn.
 The casque's tail crest a taloned griffin ramped,
 In whose horned brow one virtuous jewel stamped.
 An ashen spear round-shafted, overlaid
 With fine blue silver, whereon colors played,
 Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

 Intense on either side an instant stood
 Glittering as serpents which, with Spring renewed,
 In glassy scales meet on some greening way,
 Angry advance, quick tongues at poisonous play.
 Then clanged a herald's clarion and sharp heels,
 Harsh-spurred, each champion's springing courser feels
 Touch to red onset; the aventured spears
 Hurled like two sun-bursts of a storm when clears
 Laborious thunders; and in middle course
 Shrieked shrill the unpierced shields; mailed horse from horse
 Lashed madly pawing - and a hoarse roar rang
 From buckram lists, till the wild echoes sang
 Of leagues on leagues of forest and of cliff.
 Rigid the proof-shelled warriors passed and stiff
 Whither their squires fresher spears upheld;
 Nor stayed to breathe; but scarcely firmly selled
 Launched deadly forward. Shield to savage shield
 Opposing; crest to crest, whose fronts did wield
 A towering war's unmercifulest scath;
 Rocking undaunted, glared wan withering wrath
 From balls of jeweled eyes, and raging stood
 Slim, slippery bodies, in the sun like blood.
 The lance of Accolon, as on a rock
 Long storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,
 On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;
 But him resistless Arthur's, - high from horse
 Sell-lifted, - ruinous bare crashing on
 A long sword's length; unsaddled Accolon
 For one stunned moment lay. Then rising, drew
 The great sword at his hip, that shone like dew
 Fresh flashed in morn. "Descend;" he stiffly said,
 "To proof of better weapons head for head!
 Enough of spears, to swords!" and so the knight
 Addressed him to the King. Dismounting light,
 Arthur his moon-bright brand unsheathed, and high
 Each covering shield gleamed slanting to the sky,
 Relentless, strong, and stubborn; underneath
 Their wary shelters foined the glittering death
 Of stolid steel thrust livid arm to arm:
 As cloud to cloud growls up a soaring storm
 Above the bleak wood and lithe lightnings work
 Brave blades wild warring, in the black that lurk,
 Thus fenced and thrust - one tortoise shield descends,
 Leaps a fierce sword shrill, - like a flame which sends
 A long fang heavenward, - for a crushing stroke;
 Swings hard and trenchant, and, resounding heard,
 Sings surly helmward full; defiance reared
 Soars to a brother blow to shriek again
 Blade on brave blade. And o'er the battered plain,
 Forward and backward, blade on baleful blade,
 Teeth clenched as visors where the fierce eyes made
 A cavernous, smouldering fury, shield at shield,
 Unflinchingly remained and scorned to yield.

 So Arthur drew aside to rest upon
 His falchion for a pause; but Accolon
 As yet, thro' virtue of that magic sheath
 Fresh and almighty, being no nearer death
 Thro' loss of blood than when the trial begun,
 Chafed with delay. But Arthur with the sun,
 Its thirsty heat, the loss from wounds of blood,
 Leaned fainting weary and so resting stood.
 Cried Accolon, "Here is no time for rest!
 Defend thee!" and straight on the monarch pressed;
 "Defend or yield thee as one recreant!"
 Full on his helm a hewing blow did plant,
 Which beat a flying fire from the steel;
 Smote, like one drunk with wine, the King did reel,
 Breath, brain bewildered. Then, infuriate,
 Nerve-stung with vigor by that blow, in hate
 Gnarled all his strength into one stroke of might,
 And in both fists the huge blade knotted tight,
 Swung red, terrific to a sundering stroke. - 
 As some bright wind that hurls th' uprooted oak, - 
 Boomed full the beaten burgonet he wore:
 Hacked thro' and thro' the crest, and cleanly shore
 The golden boasting of its griffin fierce
 With hollow clamor down astounded ears:
 No further thence - but, shattered to the grass,
 That brittle blade, crushed as if made of glass,
 Into hot pieces like a broken ray
 Burst sunward and in feverish fragments lay.
 Then groaned the King unarmed; and so he knew
 This no Excalibur; that tried and true
 Most perfect tempered, runed and mystical.
 Sobbed, "Oh, hell-false! betray me?" -    Then withal
 Him seemed this foe, who fought with so much stress,
 So long untiring, and with no distress
 Of wounds or heat, through treachery bare his brand;
 And then he knew it by its hilt that hand
 Clutched to an avenging stroke. For Accolon
 In madness urged the belted battle on
 His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross
 Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss
 Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around
 Crawled the unequal conflict o'er the ground,
 Sharded with shattered spears and off-hewn bits
 Of shivered steel and gold that burnt in fits.
 So hunted, yet defiant, cowering
 Beneath his bossy shield's defense, the King
 Persisted stoutly. And, devising still
 How to secure his sword and by what skill,
 Him so it fortuned when most desperate:
 In that hot chase they came where shattered late
 Lay tossed the truncheon of a bursten lance,
 Which deftly seized, to Accolon's advance
 He wielded valorous. Against the fist
 Smote where the gauntlet husked the nervous wrist,
 Which strained the weapon to a wrathful blow;
 Palsied, the tightened sinews of his foe
 Loosened from effort, and, the falchion seized,
 Easy was yielded. Then the wroth King squeezed,
    - Hurling the moon-disk of his shield afar, - 
 Him in both knotted arms of wiry war,
 Rocked sidewise twice or thrice, - as one hath seen
 Some stern storm take an ash tree, roaring green,
 Nodding its sappy bulk of trunk and boughs
 To dizziness, from tough, coiled roots carouse
 Its long height thundering; - so King Arthur shook
 Sir Accolon and headlong flung; then took,
 Tearing away, that scabbard from his side,
 Tossed thro' the breathless lists, that far and wide
 Gulped in the battle voiceless. Then right wroth
 Secured Excalibur, and grasped of both
 Wild hands swung glittering and brought bitter down
 On rising Accolon; steel, bone and brawn
 Hewed thro' that blow; unsettled every sense:
 Bathed in a world of blood his limbs grew tense
 And writhen then ungathered limp with death.
 Bent to him Arthur, from the brow beneath,
 Unlaced the helm and doffed it and so asked,
 When the fair forehead's hair curled dark uncasqued,
 "Say! ere I slay thee, whence and what thou art?
 What King, what court be thine? and from what part,
 Speak! or thou diest! - Yet, that brow, methinks
 I have beheld it - where? say, ere death drinks
 The soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art - 
 What art thou, speak!"
             He answered slow and short
 With tortured breathing: "I? - one, Accolon
 Of Gaul, a knight of Arthur's court - at dawn - 
 God wot what now I am for love so slain!"
 Then seemed the victor spasmed with keen pain,
 Covered with maild hands his visored face;
 "Thou Accolon? art Accolon?" a space
 Exclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, "Say,
 Whence gatest thou this sword, or in what way
 Thou hadst it, speak?" But wandering that knight
 Heard dully, senses clodded thick with night;
 Then rallying earthward: "Woe, woe worth the sword!
    - From love of love who lives, for love yet lord! - 
 Morgane! - thy love for love in love hadst made
 Me strong o'er kings an hundred! to have swayed
 Britain! had this not risen like a fate,
 Spawned up, a Hell's miscarriage sired of Hate! - 
 A king? thou curse! a gold and blood crowned king,
 With Arthur's sister queen? - 'Twas she who schemed.
 And there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
 Gone some twelve months. There so we had devolved
 How Arthur's death were compassed and resolved
 Each liberal morning, like an almoner,
 Prodigal of silver to the begging air;
 Each turbulent eve that in heaven's turquoise rolled
 Convulsive fiery glories deep in gold;
 Each night - hilarious heavens vast of night! - 
 Boisterous with quivering stars buoyed bubble-light
 In flexuous labyrinths o' the intricate sphere.
 We dreamed and spake Ambition at our ear - 
 Nay! a crowned curse and crimeful clad she came,
 To me, that woman, brighter than a flame;
 And laughed on me with pouting lips up-pursed
 For kisses which I gave for love: How cursed
 Was I thereafter! For, lie fleshed in truth,
 She shrivels to a hag! Behind that youth
 Ugly, misshapen; Lust not Love, wherein
 Germs pregnant seed of Hell for hate and sin. - 
 I seek for such the proudest height of seat,
 King Arthur's kingdom, and bold fame complete? - 
 Harlot! - sweet spouse of Urience King of Gore! - 
 Sweet harlot! - here's that death determined o'er!
 And now thou hast thy dream, and dreaming grieve
 That death so ruins it? - Thy mouth to shrieve! - 
 Nay, nay, I love thee! witness bare this field!
 I love thee! - heart, dost love her and yet yield? - 
 Enow! enow! so hale me hence to die!"

 Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye
 Burnt, instant-embered, as one oft may see
 A star leak out of heaven and cease to be.
 Slow from his visage he his visor raised,
 And on the dying one mute moment gazed,
 Then low bespake him grimly: "Accolon,
 I am that King." He with an awful groan,
 Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;
 Strained to his tottering knees and haggard drew
 Up full his armored tallness, hoarsely cried,
 "The King!" and at his mailed feet clashed and died.
 Then rose a world of anxious faces pressed
 About King Arthur, who, though wound-distressed,
 Bespake that multitude: "Whiles breath and power
 Remain, judge we these brethren: This harsh hour
 Hath yielded Damas all this rich estate; - 
 So it is his - allotted his of Fate
 Thro' might of arms; so let it be to him.
 For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim
 But that it hath this strong conclusion:
 This much by us as errant knight is done:
 Now our decree as King of Britain, hear:
 We do adjudge this Damas banned fore'er,
 Outlawed and exiled from all shores and isles
 Of farthest Britain in its many miles.
 One month be his - no more! then will we come
 Even with an iron host to seal his doom;
 If he be not departed over seas,
 Hang naked from his battlements to please
 Of carrion ravens and wild hawks the craws.
 Thus much for Damas. But our pleasure draws
 Toward sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
 To take into his knightly following
 Of that Round Table royal. - Stand our word! - 
 But I am overweary; take my sword; - 
 Unharness me; for, battle worn, I tire
 With bruises' achings and wounds mad with fire;
 And monasteryward would I right fain,
 Even Glastonbury and with me the slain."
 So bare they then the wounded King away,
 The dead behind. So, closed the Autumn day.

        *        *        *        *        *

 But when within that abbey he waxed strong,
 The King remembering him of all the wrong
 That Damas had inflicted on the land,
 Commanded Lionell with a staunch band
 This weed's out-stamping if still rooted there.
 He riding thither to that robber lair,
 Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when thorn on thorn
 Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn;
 Built up, a bulk of bastioned rock on rock,
 Vast battlements, that loomed above the shock
 Of freshening foam that climbed with haling hands,
 Lone cloudy-clustered turrets in loud lands
 Set desolate, - mournful o'er wide, frozen flats, - 
 Found hollow towers the haunt of owls and bats.


IV.

 Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
 In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,
 Artificer of God, had coined one world
 From formless forms of void and 'round it furled
 Its lordly raiment of the day and night,
 And germed its womb for seasons throed with might:
 And Hell sent Hate to man to hate or use,
 To serve itself by serving and amuse....

 For her half brother Morgane had conceived
 A morbid hatred; in that much she grieved,
 Envious and jealous, for that high renown
 And majesty the King for his fast crown
 Thro' worship had acquired. And once he said,
 "The closest kin to state are those to dread:
 No honor such to crush: envenoming
 All those kind tongues of blood that try to sing
 Petition to the soul, while conscience quakes
 Huddled, but stern to hearts whose cold pride takes."
 And well she knew that Arthur: mightier
 Than Accolon, without Excalibur
 Were as a stingless hornet in the joust
 With all his foreign weapons. So her trust
 Smiled certain of conclusion; eloquent
 Gave lofty heart bold hope that at large eyes
 Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.
 And in her carven chamber, oaken dark,
 Traceried and arrased, o'er the barren park
 That dripped with Autumn, - for November lay
 Swathed frostily in fog on every spray, - 
 Thought at her tri-arched casement lone, one night,
 Ere yet came knowledge of that test of might.
 Her lord in slumber and the castle dull
 With silence or with sad wind-music full.
 "And he removed? - fond fool! he is removed!
 Death-dull from feet to hair and graveward shoved
 From royalty to 

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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: With triumphs gay of old romance. - KEATS.