Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own, the first of men.

He answer'd, laughing, "Nay, not like to me. At last they found-his foragers for charmsA little glassy-headed, hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; Read but one book, and ever reading, grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it, And heard their voices talk behind the wall, And learnt their elemental secrets, powers, And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm;

Or in the noon of mist and driving rain,
When the lake whiten'd and the pinewood roar'd,
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd
The world to peace again: here was the man.
And so by force they dragg'd him to the King.
And then he taught the King to charm the Queen
In such-wise, that no man could see her more,
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the
charm

Coming and going, and she lay as dead,
And lost all use of life; but when the King
Made proffer of the league of golden mines,
The province with a hundred miles of coast,
The palace and the princess, that old man
Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass,
And vanish'd, and his book came down to me."

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily: "Ye have the book: the charm is written in it: Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: For keep it like a puzzle, chest in chest,

With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty-fold,
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound
As after furious battle turfs the slain
On some wild down above the windy deep,
I yet should strike upon a sudden means
To dig, pick, open, find, and read the charm:
Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then ?"

And smiling, as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all day long, he answer'd her:

"Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien ! Oh ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks-thou read the book! And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself; And in the comment did I find the charm. Oh, the results are simple; a mere child Might use it to the harm of anyone, And never could undo it: ask no more: For tho' you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because ye dream they babble of you."

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: "What dare the full-fed liars say of me? They ride abroad redressing human wrongs! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. They bound to holy vows of chastity! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!"

Then answer'd Merlin, careless of her words: "You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!"

And Vivien answer'd, frowning wrathfully: "Oh ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands, Was one year gone, and on returning found Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old! What said the happy sire? A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood."

Then answer'd Merlin, "Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife: One child they had: it lived with her: she died: His kinsman traveling on his own affair, Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth."

"Oh ay," said Vivien, "overtrne a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, That ardent man? to pluck the flower in season,' So says the song, 'I trow it is no treason.' O Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?"

And Merlin answer'd, "Overquick art thou
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from the wing
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey
Is man's good name: he never wrong'd his bride.
I know the tale. An angry gust of wind
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad-room'd
And many-corridor'd complexities

Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door,
And darkling felt the sculptured ornament
That wreathen round it, made it seem his own
And wearied out, made for the couch and slept,
A stainless man beside a stainless maid;
And either slept, nor knew of other there;
Till the high dawn, piercing the royal rose
In Arthur's casement, glimmer'd chastely down,
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once
He rose without a word and parted from her:
But when the thing was blazed about the court,
The brute world howling forced them into bonds,
And as it chanced, they are happy, being pure."

"Oh ay," said Vivien, "that were likely too. What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale, And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hic Jacets of the dead!"

And Merlin answer'd, careless of her charge, "A sober man is Percivale and pure; But once in life was fluster'd with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark: Aud that he sinn'd is not believable; For, look upon his face!-but if he sinn'd, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more?"

And Vivien answer'd, frowning yet in wrath: "Oh ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend? Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, Or whisper'd in the corner? do ye know it?"

To which he answer'd sadly, "Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she watch'd him from her walls. A rumor runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him: let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man ?"

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh: "Man is he man at all, who knows and winks? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? By which the good King means to blind himself And blinds himself and all the Table Round To all the fouluess that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular name such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime: Yea, were he not crown'd King, coward, and fool."

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: "O true and tender! O my liege and King! O selfless man and stainless gentleman, Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure; How, in the mouths of base interpreters, From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul

And call'd him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,

And fought together; but their names were lost: And each had slain his brother at a blow;

She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales:
She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept
Of petulancy; she call'd him lord and liege,
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love
Of her whole life; and ever overhead
Iellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain

Above them; and in change of glare and gloom
Her eyes and neck, glittering, went and came;
Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent,
Moaning and calling out of other lands,

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more
To peace and what should not have been had been,
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn,

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,

And lost to life and use and name and fame.

Then crying, "I have made his glory mine," And shrieking out, "O fool!" the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echoed, "fool.”

LANCELOT AND ELAINE.

ELAINE the fair, Elaine the lovable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,

High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazon'd on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climb'd
That eastern tower, and entering, barr'd her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:

And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur, long before they crown'd him King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder, and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side: For here two brothers, one a king, had met

And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, And lichen'd into color with the crags:

And he that once was king had on a crown

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass,
All in a misty moonshine, unawares

Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims,
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn:
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,
And set it on his head, and in his heart
Heard murmurs, "Lo, thou likewise shalt be King."

Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights,

Saying, "These jewels, whereupon I chanced
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's-
For public use: henceforward let there be,
Once every year, a joust for one of these:
For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke :
And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year,
With purpose to present them to the Queen,
When all were won; but meaning all at once
To snare her royal fancy with a boon
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.

Now for the central diamond and the last
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court
Hard on the river, nigh the place which now
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere,
"Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move
To these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," she said, “ye
know it."

"Then will ye miss," he answer'd, "the great deeds
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,
A sight ye love to look on." And the Queen
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.
He, thinking that he read her meaning there,
"Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more
Than many diamonds," yielded; and a heart
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen
(However much he yearn'd to make complete
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon)
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,
"Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,
And lets me from the saddle;" and the King
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way.
No sooner gone than suddenly she began:

"To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame! Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, "Lo, the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!" Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in vain : "Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allow'd Of all men: many a bard, without offence, Has link'd our names together in his lay,

Lancelot, the flower of bravery: Guinevere,

The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast
Have pledged us in this union, while the King
Would listen smiling. How then? is there more?
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself,
Now weary of my service and devoir,
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?"

She broke into a little scornful laugh:
"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,
That passionate perfection, my good lord—
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven?
He never spake word of reproach to me,
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,
He cares not for me: only here to-day
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes:
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him-else
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round,
And swearing men to vows impossible,

To make them like himself: but, friend, to me
He is all fault who has no fault at all:

For who loves me must have a touch of earth;
The low sun makes the color: I am yours,
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond.
And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts:
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream
When sweetest; and the vermin voices here
May buzz so loud-we scorn them, but they sting."

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights: "And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honors his own word, As if it were his God's ?"

"Yea," said the Queen, "A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, If I must find you wit: we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch, But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, This conquers: hide it, therefore; go unknown: Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, As all for glory; for to speak him true, Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself: They prove to him his work: win and return."

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man; And issuing, found the Lord of Astolat, With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court; And close behind them stept the lily maid, Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house There was not: some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approach'd them: then the Lord of Astolat: "Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name Livest between the lips? for by thy state And presence I might guess the chief of those After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown.”

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights: "Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter ye shall know me-and the shieldI pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine."

Then said the Lord of Astolat, "Here is Torre's: Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, "Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it." Here laugh'd the father, saying, "Fie, Sir Churl, Is that an answer for a noble knight? Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel's golden hair,

To make her thrice as willful as before."

"Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, "For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre: He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go: A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike; and then I said That if I went, and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves), Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: Win shall I not, but do my best to win: Young as I am, yet would I do my best."

"So ye will grace me," answer'd Lancelot, Smiling a moment, "with your fellowship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend: And you shall win this diamond-as I hear, It is a fair large diamond-if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.” "A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, "Such be for queens, and not for simple maids." Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, et not falsely, thus return'd: "If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like."

He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she look'd, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul, Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marr'd, of more than twice her years, Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom.