At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
Danced like a withered2 leaf before the hall.
And toward him from the hall, with harp3 in hand,
And from the crown thereof a carcanet
Of ruby4 swaying to and fro, the prize
Of Tristram in the jousts5 of yesterday,
Came Tristram, saying, “Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?”
For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
Far down beneath a winding6 wall of rock
Heard a child wail7. A stump8 of oak half-dead,
From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,
Clutched at the crag, and started through mid9 air
Bearing an eagle’s nest: and through the tree
Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind
Pierced ever a child’s cry: and crag and tree
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous10 nest,
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
And all unscarred from beak11 or talon12, brought
A maiden13 babe; which Arthur pitying took,
Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
But coldly acquiescing14, in her white arms
Received, and after loved it tenderly,
And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
A moment, and her cares; till that young life
Being smitten15 in mid heaven with mortal cold
Past from her; and in time the carcanet
Vext her with plaintive16 memories of the child:
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
“Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence17,
And make them, an thou wilt18, a tourney-prize.”
To whom the King, “Peace to thine eagle-borne
Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse19
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn20,
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.”
“Would rather you had let them fall,” she cried,
“Plunge and be lost—ill-fated as they were,
A bitterness to me!—ye look amazed,
Not knowing they were lost as soon as given—
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
Above the river—that unhappy child
Past in her barge: but rosier21 luck will go
With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,
But the sweet body of a maiden babe.
Perchance—who knows?—the purest of thy knights22
May win them for the purest of my maids.”
She ended, and the cry of a great jousts
With trumpet23-blowings ran on all the ways
From Camelot in among the faded fields
To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights
Armed for a day of glory before the King.
But on the hither side of that loud morn
Into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose
Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off,
And one with shattered fingers dangling24 lame25,
A churl26, to whom indignantly the King,
“My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast
Hath drawn27 his claws athwart thy face? or fiend?
Man was it who marred28 heaven’s image in thee thus?”
Then, sputtering29 through the hedge of splintered teeth,
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump
Pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl,
“He took them and he drave them to his tower—
Some hold he was a table-knight of thine—
A hundred goodly ones—the Red Knight, he—
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight
Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower;
And when I called upon thy name as one
That doest right by gentle and by churl,
Maimed me and mauled, and would outright30 have slain31,
Save that he sware me to a message, saying,
‘Tell thou the King and all his liars33, that I
Have founded my Round Table in the North,
And whatsoever34 his own knights have sworn
My knights have sworn the counter to it—and say
My tower is full of harlots, like his court,
But mine are worthier35, seeing they profess36
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.’”
Then Arthur turned to Kay the seneschal,
“Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously37
Like a king’s heir, till all his hurts be whole.
The heathen—but that ever-climbing wave,
Hurled38 back again so often in empty foam39,
Hath lain for years at rest—and renegades,
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom
The wholesome40 realm is purged41 of otherwhere,
Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,—now
Make their last head like Satan in the North.
My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds,
Move with me toward their quelling42, which achieved,
The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore.
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place
Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field;
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle44 with it,
Only to yield my Queen her own again?
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?”
Thereto Sir Lancelot answered, “It is well:
Yet better if the King abide45, and leave
The leading of his younger knights to me.
Else, for the King has willed it, it is well.”
Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him,
And while they stood without the doors, the King
Turned to him saying, “Is it then so well?
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he
Of whom was written, ‘A sound is in his ears’?
The foot that loiters, bidden go,—the glance
That only seems half-loyal to command,—
A manner somewhat fallen from reverence—
Or have I dreamed the bearing of our knights
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared,
By noble deeds at one with noble vows46,
From flat confusion and brute48 violences,
Reel back into the beast, and be no more?”
He spoke49, and taking all his younger knights,
Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned
North by the gate. In her high bower50 the Queen,
Working a tapestry51, lifted up her head,
Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed.
Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme
Of bygone Merlin, “Where is he who knows?
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”
But when the morning of a tournament,
By these in earnest those in mockery called
The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,
Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey52,
The words of Arthur flying shrieked54, arose,
And down a streetway hung with folds of pure
White samite, and by fountains running wine,
Where children sat in white with cups of gold,
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps
Ascending55, filled his double-dragoned chair.
He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
Dame57, damsel, each through worship of their Queen
White-robed in honour of the stainless58 child,
And some with scattered59 jewels, like a bank
Of maiden snow mingled60 with sparks of fire.
He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again.
The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf
And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume61
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,
When all the goodlier guests are past away,
Sat their great umpire, looking o’er the lists.
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down
Before his throne of arbitration62 cursed
The dead babe and the follies63 of the King;
And once the laces of a helmet cracked,
And showed him, like a vermin in its hole,
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billowed round the barriers roar
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
But newly-entered, taller than the rest,
And armoured all in forest green, whereon
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest65,
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield
A spear, a harp, a bugle—Tristram—late
From overseas in Brittany returned,
And marriage with a princess of that realm,
Isolt the White—Sir Tristram of the Woods—
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain
His own against him, and now yearned66 to shake
The burthen off his heart in one full shock
With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript
And dinted the gilt67 dragons right and left,
Until he groaned68 for wrath—so many of those,
That ware32 their ladies’ colours on the casque,
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
And there with gibes69 and flickering70 mockeries
Stood, while he muttered, “Craven crests71! O shame!
What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
The glory of our Round Table is no more.”
So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems72,
Not speaking other word than “Hast thou won?
Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand
Wherewith thou takest this, is red!” to whom
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot’s languorous73 mood,
Made answer, “Ay, but wherefore toss me this
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?
Lest be thy fair Queen’s fantasy. Strength of heart
And might of limb, but mainly use and skill,
Are winners in this pastime of our King.
My hand—belike the lance hath dript upon it—
No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,
Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.”
And Tristram round the gallery made his horse
Caracole; then bowed his homage74, bluntly saying,
“Fair damsels, each to him who worships each
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold75
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.”
And most of these were mute, some angered, one
Murmuring, “All courtesy is dead,” and one,
“The glory of our Round Table is no more.”
Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle76 clung,
And pettish77 cries awoke, and the wan78 day
Went glooming down in wet and weariness:
But under her black brows a swarthy one
Laughed shrilly79, crying, “Praise the patient saints,
Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
The snowdrop only, flowering through the year,
Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.
Come—let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen’s
And Lancelot’s, at this night’s solemnity
With all the kindlier colours of the field.”
So dame and damsel glittered at the feast
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
With veer80 of wind, and all are flowers again;
So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
And glowing in all colours, the live grass,
Rose-campion, bluebell81, kingcup, poppy, glanced
About the revels82, and with mirth so loud
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom83 pain was lord.
And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
Then Tristram saying, “Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?”
Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
“Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
To know myself the wisest knight of all.”
“Ay, fool,” said Tristram, “but ’tis eating dry
To dance without a catch, a roundelay
To dance to.” Then he twangled on his harp,
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood
Quiet as any water-sodden84 log
Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook85;
But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
And being asked, “Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?”
Made answer, “I had liefer twenty years
Skip to the broken music of my brains
Than any broken music thou canst make.”
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
“Good now, what music have I broken, fool?”
And little Dagonet, skipping, “Arthur, the King’s;
For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
Thou makest broken music with thy bride,
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany—
And so thou breakest Arthur’s music too.”
“Save for that broken music in thy brains,
Sir Fool,” said Tristram, “I would break thy head.
Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o’er,
The life had flown, we sware but by the shell—
I am but a fool to reason with a fool—
Come, thou art crabbed86 and sour: but lean me down,
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses87’ ears,
And harken if my music be not true.
“‘Free love—free field—we love but while we may:
The woods are hushed, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning88 past away:
New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o’er:
New life, new love, to suit the newer day:
New loves are sweet as those that went before:
Free love—free field—we love but while we may.’
“Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune89,
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods,
And heard it ring as true as tested gold.”
But Dagonet with one foot poised90 in his hand,
“Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
Made to run wine?—but this had run itself
All out like a long life to a sour end—
And them that round it sat with golden cups
To hand the wine to whosoever came—
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
In honour of poor Innocence the babe,
Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
Gave for a prize—and one of those white slips
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
‘Drink, drink, Sir Fool,’ and thereupon I drank,
Spat—pish—the cup was gold, the draught91 was mud.”
And Tristram, “Was it muddier than thy gibes?
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?—
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool—
‘Fear God: honour the King—his one true knight—
Sole follower92 of the vows’—for here be they
Who knew thee swine enow before I came,
Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;
Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,
A naked aught—yet swine I hold thee still,
For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.”
And little Dagonet mincing93 with his feet,
“Knight, an ye fling those rubies94 round my neck
In lieu of hers, I’ll hold thou hast some touch
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed—the world
Is flesh and shadow—I have had my day.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
Hath fouled95 me—an I wallowed, then I washed—
I have had my day and my philosophies—
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur’s fool.
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams96 and geese
Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed
On such a wire as musically as thou
Some such fine song—but never a king’s fool.”
And Tristram, “Then were swine, goats, asses, geese
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard97
Had such a mastery of his mystery
That he could harp his wife up out of hell.”
Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,
“And whither harp’st thou thine? down! and thyself
Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,
That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?”
And Tristram, “Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,
Glorying in each new glory, set his name
High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.”
And Dagonet answered, “Ay, and when the land
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself
To babble98 about him, all to show your wit—
And whether he were King by courtesy,
Or King by right—and so went harping99 down
The black king’s highway, got so far, and grew
So witty100 that ye played at ducks and drakes
With Arthur’s vows on the great lake of fire.
Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?”
“Nay101, fool,” said Tristram, “not in open day.”
And Dagonet, “Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.
It makes a silent music up in heaven,
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear,
And then we skip.” “Lo, fool,” he said, “ye talk
Fool’s treason: is the King thy brother fool?”
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled102,
“Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!
Conceits103 himself as God that he can make
Figs
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