The poetical works of Alfred Tennyson

And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall.
Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool!"
Wheel'd 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-sodden log

Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook:
But when the twangling ended, skipt again :
Then being ask'd, "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 ye can 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 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-

"Free love-free field-we love but while we

may:

The woods are hush'd, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning 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 tune,
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods,
And found it ring as true as tested gold."

But Dagonet, with one foot poised 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 whomsoever came-
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
In honor 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 draught 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: honor the king-his one true knight-
Sole follower 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

Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me It frighted all free fool from out thy heart:

down,

Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears,

And hearken if my music be not true.

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, mincing with his feet,
"Knight, an ye fling those rubies 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 wallow'd, I have wash'd-the world
Is flesh and shadow-I have had my day.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
Hath foul'd me-an I wallow'd, then wash'd-
I have had my day and my philosophies-
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams, and geese
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd
On such a wire as musically as thou

Some such fine song-but never a king's fool."

| Appearing, sent his fancy back to where
She lived a moon in that low lodge with him:
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king,
With six or seven, when Tristram was away,
And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than
shame

Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,
But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.

And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt
So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ;
But could not rest for musing how to smooth
And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all

And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. geese

"Nay, 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 shrill'd,
"Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!
Conceits himself as God that he can make
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk
From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs,
And men from beasts-Long live the king of fools!"

And down the city Dagonet danced away.
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues
And solitary passes of the wood

Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west.
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew.
Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,
Unruffling waters re-collect the shape

Of one that in them sees himself, return'd;
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,

Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn

But then what folly had sent him overseas
After she left him lonely here? a name?
Was it the name of one in Brittany,
Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt

Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet

name

Allured him first, and then the maid herself,

Who served him well with those white hands of

hers,

And loved him well, until himself had thought
He loved her also, wedded easily,

But left her all as easily, and return'd.
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes

Had drawn him home-what marvel? then he laid
His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.

He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,
And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red.
Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red!
These be no rubies, this is frozen blood,
And melts within her hand-her hand is hot
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look,
Is all as cool and white as any flower."
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then
A whimpering of the spirit of the child,
Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet.

He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,
And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh
Glared on a huge machicolated tower

That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd
A roar of riot, as from men secure
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.
"Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there,
High on a grim dead tree before the tower,
A goodly brother of The Table Round
Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield
Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights
At that dishonor done the gilded spur,

Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn.
But Arthur waved them back: alone he rode.
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,
That sent the face of all the marsh aloft
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud

Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all,
Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,

In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King,
"The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-
Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King

Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length, Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world—

A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs

The woman-worshiper? Yea, God's curse, and I!

Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which him- Slain was the brother of my paramour

self

Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt
Against a shower, dark in the golden grove

By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine
And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too,
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell,

And stings itself to everlasting death,
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought
And tumbled. Art thou King ?-Look to thy life!"

He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name
Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind.
And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword,
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk,
Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave
Heard in dead aight along that table-shore
Drops flat, and after the great waters break
Whitening for half a league and thin themselves
Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,
From less and less to nothing; thus he fell
Head-heavy, while the knights, who watched him,
roar'd

And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n;
There trampled out his face from being known,
And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves:
Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang
Thro' open doors, and swording right and left
Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd
The tables over and the wines, and slew
Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,
And all the pavement stream'd with massacre:
Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower,
Which half that autumn night, like the live North,
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor,
Made all above it, and a hundred meres
About it, as the water Moab saw

And drawing somewhat backward she replied, "Can he be wroug'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow

Mark?

What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
Not lift a hand-not, tho' he found me thus!
But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went
To-day for three days' hunting-as he said—
And so returns belike within an hour.
Mark's way, my soul!-but eat not thou with him,
Because he hates thee even more than fears;
Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood
Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush
Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.
My God, the measure of my hate for Mark,
Is as the measure of my love for thee."

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one-his name is out of me-the prize, If prize she were-(what marvel-she could see)Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villanously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last ?"

And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love,

Come round by the East, and out beyond them And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first flush'd

The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.

So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.

Then out of Tristram waking the red dream
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd,
Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs.
He whistled his good warhorse left to graze
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him,
And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,
Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross,
Stay'd him, "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said,
"my man

Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-
"What, an she hate me now? I would not this.
What, an she love me still? I would not that.
I know not what I would"-but said to her,-
"Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return,
He find thy favor changed and love thee not"-
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse
Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard

The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds
Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land,

A crown of towers.

Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud "Not Mark-not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Cat-like thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him-ev'n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."

Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonesse, Sailing from Ireland."

Softly laugh'd Isolt, "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me-soft, gracious, kind— Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love."

To whom Isolt, "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I-misyoked with such a want of manThat I could hardly sin against the lowest."

And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-
Well-can I wish her any huger wrong
Than having known thee? her too hast thou left
To pine and waste in those sweet memories?
O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men
Are noble, I should hate thee more than love."

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?-I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark: the true star set!-Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark-Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God."

And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sate Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and rear me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiendMark's way to steal behind one in the darkFor there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'— And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms."

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. "May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me! I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd ought so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beastsSave that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well-art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King-My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who swore, and thro' their

VOWS

The King prevailing made his realm:-I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair."

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "Vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itselfMy knighthood taught me this-ay, being snaptWe run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once-ev'n to the height-I honor'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hallHis hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes,

The golden beard that clothed his lips with light—
Moreover, that weird legend of his birth,
With Merlin's mystic babble about his end
Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool
Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man,
But Michael trampling Satan; so I sware,
Being amazed: but this went by-the vows!
O ay-the wholesome madness of an hour-
They served their use, their time; for every knight
Believed himself a greater than himself,
And every follower eyed him as a God;
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself,

Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done,
And so the realm was made; but then their vows-
First mainly thro' that sallying of our Queen-
Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence
Had Arthur right to bind them to himself?
Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the
deep

They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood
Of our old Kings: whence then? a doubtful lord
To bind them by inviolable vows,

Which flesh and blood perforce would violate:
For feel this arm of mine-the tide within
Red with free chase and heather-scented air,
Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure
As any maiden child? lock up my tongue
From uttering freely what I freely hear?
Bind me to one? The great world laughs at it.
And worldling of the world am I, and know
The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour
Wooes his own end; we are not angels here
Nor shall be: vows-I am woodman of the woods,
And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale
Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may,
And therefore is my love so large for thee,
Seeing it is not bounded save by love."

Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyselfFor courtesy wins woman all as well As valor may-but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot-taller indeed, Rosier, and comelier, thou-but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?"

He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, untilCome, I am hunger'd and half anger'd-meat, Wine, wine-and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come."

So then, when both were brought to full accord,
She rose, and set before him all he will'd;
And after these had comforted the blood
With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-
Now talking of their woodland paradise,
The deer, the dews, the fern, the fonnts, the lawns;
Now mocking at the much ungainliness,

And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-
Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and saug:
"Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bend the brier!
A star in heaven, a star within the mere!
Ay, ay, O ay-a star was my desire;
And one was far apart, and one was near:
Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bow the grass!
And one was water and one star was fire,
And one will ever shine and one will pass-
Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that move the mere."

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some order, which our King

« Předchozí Pokračovat »

Knihy