This tender rhyme, and evermore the Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow thro' the court again, doubt, 'Why lingers Gawain with his golden he past, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, 'I will go back, and slay them where they lie.' And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep And heard but his own steps, and his Said, 'Ye, that so dishallow the holy own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, sleep, Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought, 'What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound again, 'Alas that ever a knight should be so false.' And spied not any light in hall or bower, And sworn me to this brotherhood ;' Here too, all hush'd below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again. Then was he ware of three pavilions Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, In one, their malice on the placid lip And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groaning laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, The circlet of the tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat. And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, throng'd into the moon. Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, and clench'd His hands, and madden'd with himself and moan'd: 'Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day? I might have answer'd them Even before high God. O towers so strong, Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Says that her ever-veering fancy turn'd To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot And only lover; and thro' her love her Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who Glanced from the rosy forehead of the yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I dawn. For so the words were flash'd into his heart I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd her He knew not whence or wherefore: 'O fool? Fool, beast-he, she, or I? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit-dis graced, Dishonour'd all for trial of true loveLove?—we be all alike: only the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble Vows! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law ! For why should I have loved her to my shame ? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. I never loved her, I but lusted for herAway-' He dash'd the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the night. Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd herself To Gawain: 'Liar, for thou hast not slain This Pelleas here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself.' And he that tells the tale Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it from the heights Again with living waters in the change Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart Seem'd; but so weary were his limbs, that he, Gasping, 'Of Arthur's hall am I, but here, Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down, And gulf'd his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay, Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired The hall of Merlin, and the morning star Reel'd in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, 'False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.' any And Percivale made answer not a word. Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, 'Black nest of rats,' he groan'd, 'ye build too high.' Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clash'd: and Lancelot, saying, 'What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and SO hard?' 'I have no name,' he shouted, 'a scourge am I, To lash the treasons of the Table Round.' 'Why then let men couple at once with 'Yea, but thy name?' I have many wolves. What! art thou mad?' But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for almsHunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarfelm That turns its back on the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 'False, And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darken'd the common path: he twitch'd the reins, names,' he cried : 'I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.' 'First over me,' said Lancelot, 'shalt thou pass.' 'Fight therefore,' yell'd the other, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who call'd out from the dark field, 'Thou art false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.' Then Lancelot, 'Yea, between thy lipsand sharp; But here will I disedge it by thy death.' 'Slay then,' he shriek'd, 'my will is to be slain,' And made his beast that better knew it, And Lancelot, with his heel upon the Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot ; say thy say.' THE LAST TOURNAMENT. DAGONET, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table back To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, And follow'd to the city. It chanced that both Brake into hall together, worn and pale. There with her knights and dames was Guinevere. Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, him Who had not greeted her, but cast himself Down on a bench, hard-breathing. 'Have ye fought ?' She ask'd of Lancelot. 'Ay, my Queen,' he said. 'And thou hast overthrown him?' 'Ay, my Queen.' Then she, turning to Pelleas, 'O young knight, Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee fail'd So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from him?' Then, for he answer'd not, 'Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.' But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce She quail'd; and he, hissing 'I have no sword,' Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her ; And each foresaw the dolorous day to be: And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; Then a long silence came upon the hall, And Modred thought, 'The time is hard at hand.' Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: Following thy will! but, O my Queen, Man was it who marr'd heaven's image thy knights "Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I May win them for the purest of my maids.' | Have founded my Round Table in the North, She ended, and the cry of a great jousts And whatsoever his own knights have With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it-and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves—and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw." |