OGIER THE DANE.

When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the process of this tale.

Within some Danish city by the sea,Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me,Great mourning was there one fair summer eve,Because the angels, bidden to receiveThe fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise,Had done their bidding, and in royal guiseHer helpless body, once the prize of love,Unable now for fear or hope to move,Lay underneath the golden canopy;And bowed down by unkingly miseryThe King sat by it, and not far away,Within the chamber a fair man-child lay,His mother's bane, the king that was to be,Not witting yet of any royalty,Harmless and loved, although so new to life.Calm the June evening was, no sign of strifeThe clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun,Unhappy that his day of bliss was done;Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred,'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged birdMidst its thick leaves; and though the nightingaleHer ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail,No more of woe there seemed in her songThan such as doth to lovers' words belong,Because their love is still unsatisfied.But to the King, on that sweet eventide,No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone;No help, no God! but lonely pain alone;And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sitHimself the very heart and soul of it.But round the cradle of the new-born childThe nurses now the weary time beguiledWith stories of the just departed Queen;And how, amid the heathen folk first seen,She had been won to love and godliness;And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress,An eager whisper now and then would smiteUpon the King's ear, of some past delight,Some once familiar name, and he would raiseHis weary head, and on the speaker gazeLike one about to speak, but soon againWould drop his head and be alone with pain,Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn,Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burnAmidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night,Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light,The fresh earth lay in colourless repose.So passed the night, and now and then one roseFrom out her place to do what might availTo still the new-born infant's fretful wail;Or through the softly-opened door there cameSome nurse new waked, who, whispering low the nameOf her whose turn was come, would take her place;Then toward the King would turn about her faceAnd to her fellows whisper of the day,And tell again of her just past away.So passed the night, the moon arose and grew,From off the sea a little west-wind blew,Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain;And ere the moon had 'gun to fall againThe wind grew cold, a change was in the sky,And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh;Then from her place a nurse arose to lightFresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night,The tapers round about the dead Queen were;But the King raised his head and 'gan to stareUpon her, as her sweeping gown did glideAbout the floor, that in the stillness criedBeneath her careful feet; and now as sheHad lit the second candle carefully,And on its silver spike another oneWas setting, through her body did there runA sudden tremor, and the hand was stayedThat on the dainty painted wax was laid;Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep,And o'er the staring King began to creepSweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woeThat drew his weary face did softer grow,His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side;And moveless in their places did abideThe nursing women, held by some strong spell,E'en as they were, and utter silence fellUpon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair.But now light footsteps coming up the stair,Smote on the deadly stillness, and the soundOf silken dresses trailing o'er the ground;And heavenly odours through the chamber passed,Unlike the scents that rose and lily castUpon the freshness of the dying night;Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps lightUntil the door swung open noiselessly—A mass of sunlit flowers there seemed to beWithin the doorway, and but pale and wanThe flame showed now that serveth mortal man,As one by one six seeming ladies passedInto the room, and o'er its sorrow castThat thoughtless sense of joy bewildering,That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring;Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad,As yet no merchant of the world has hadWithin his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fairOnly because they kissed their odorous hair,And all that flowery raiment was but blessedBy those fair bodies that its splendour pressed.Now to the cradle from that glorious band,A woman passed, and laid a tender handUpon the babe, and gently drew asideThe swathings soft that did his body hide;And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled,And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O noble child,Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day;For to the time when life shall pass awayFrom this dear heart, no fear of death or shame,No weariness of good shall foul thy name."So saying, to her sisters she returned;And one came forth, upon whose brow there burnedA crown of rubies, and whose heaving breastWith happy rings a golden hauberk pressed;She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said,"This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laidAt rest for ever, to thine honoured lifeThere never shall be lacking war and strife,That thou a long-enduring name mayst win,And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin."With that another, who, unseen, meanwhileHad drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile,"And this forgotten gift to thee I give,That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live,Still shalt thou win the game, and unto theeDefeat and shame but idle words shall be."Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourthSaid, "Take this gift for what it may be worthFor that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt beGentle of speech, and in all courtesyThe first of men: a little gift this is,After these promises of fame and bliss."Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went;Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bentDown on the floor, parted her red lips were,And o'er her sweet face marvellously fairOft would the colour spread full suddenly;Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she,For some green summer of the fay-land dight,Tripping she went, and laid her fingers lightUpon the child, and said, "O little one,As long as thou shalt look upon the sunShall women long for thee; take heed to thisAnd give them what thou canst of love and bliss."Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past,And by the cradle stood the sixth and last,The fairest of them all; awhile she gazedDown on the child, and then her hand she raised,And made the one side of her bosom bare;"Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fairThou know'st not now, but when thine earthly lifeIs drunk out to the dregs, and war and strifeHave yielded thee whatever joy they may,Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay;And then, despite of knowledge or of God,Will we be glad upon the flowery sodWithin the happy country where I dwell:Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!"She turned, and even as they came they passedFrom out the place, and reached the gate at lastThat oped before their feet, and speedilyThey gained the edges of the murmuring sea,And as they stood in silence, gazing thereOut to the west, they vanished into air,I know not how, nor whereto they returned.But mixed with twilight in the chamber burnedThe flickering candles, and those dreary folk,Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke,But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew.Through the half-opened casements now there blewA sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and seaMingled together, smelt deliciously,And from the unseen sun the spreading lightBegan to make the fair June blossoms bright,And midst their weary woe uprose the sun,And thus has Ogier's noble life begun.

Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear;Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear,Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope,But forasmuch as we with life must cope,Struggling with this and that, and who knows why?Hope will not give us up to certainty,But still must bide with us: and with this man,Whose life amid such promises beganGreat things she wrought; but now the time has comeWhen he no more on earth may have his home.Great things he suffered, great delights he had,Unto great kings he gave good deeds for bad;He ruled o'er kingdoms where his name no moreIs had in memory, and on many a shoreHe left his sweat and blood to win a namePassing the bounds of earthly creatures' fame.A love he won and lost, a well-loved sonWhose little day of promise soon was done:A tender wife he had, that he must leaveBefore his heart her love could well receive;Those promised gifts, that on his careless headIn those first hours of his fair life were shedHe took unwitting, and unwitting spent,Nor gave himself to grief and discontentBecause he saw the end a-drawing nigh.Where is he now? in what land must he die,To leave an empty name to us on earth?A tale half true, to cast across our mirthSome pensive thoughts of life that might have been;Where is he now, that all this life has seen?Behold, another eve I bid you seeThan that calm eve of his nativity;The sun is setting in the west, the skyIs clear and hard, and no clouds come anighThe golden orb, but further off they lie,Steel-grey and black with edges red as blood,And underneath them is the weltering floodOf some huge sea, whose tumbling hills, as theyTurn restless sides about, are black or grey,Or green, or glittering with the golden flame;The wind has fallen now, but still the sameThe mighty army moves, as if to drownThis lone, bare rock, whose shear scarped sides of brownCast off the weight of waves in clouds of spray.Alas! what ships upon an evil dayBent over to the wind in this ill sea?What navy, whose rent bones lie wretchedlyBeneath these cliffs? a mighty one it was,A fearful storm to bring such things to pass.This is the loadstone rock; no armamentOf warring nations, in their madness bentTheir course this way; no merchant wittinglyHas steered his keel unto this luckless sea;Upon no shipman's card its name is writ,Though worn-out mariners will speak of itWithin the ingle on the winter's night,When all within is warm and safe and bright,And the wind howls without: but 'gainst their willAre some folk driven here, and then all skillAgainst this evil rock is vain and nought,And unto death the shipmen soon are brought;For then the keel, as by a giant's hand,Is drawn unto that mockery of a land,And presently unto its sides doth cleave;When if they 'scape swift death, yet none may leaveThe narrow limits of that barren isle,And thus are slain by famine in a whileMocked, as they say, by night with imagesOf noble castles among groves of trees,By day with sounds of merry minstrelsy.The sun sinks now below this hopeless sea,The clouds are gone, and all the sky is bright;The moon is rising o'er the growing night,And by its light may ye behold the bonesOf generations of these luckless onesScattered about the rock; but nigh the seaSits one alive, who uncomplaininglyAwaits his death. White-haired is he and old,Arrayed in royal raiment, bright with gold,But tarnished with the waves and rough salt air;Huge is he, of a noble face and fair,As for an ancient man, though toil and eldFurrow the cheeks that ladies once beheldWith melting hearts—Nay, listen, for he speaks!"God, thou hast made me strong! nigh seven weeksHave passed since from the wreck we haled our store,And five long days well told, have now passed o'erSince my last fellow died, with my last breadBetween his teeth, and yet I am not dead.Yea, but for this I had been strong enowIn some last bloody field my sword to show.What matter? soon will all be past and done,Where'er I died I must have died alone:Yet, Caraheu, a good death had it beenDying, thy face above me to have seen,And heard my banner flapping in the wind,Then, though my memory had not left thy mind,Yet hope and fear would not have vexed thee moreWhen thou hadst known that everything was o'er;But now thou waitest, still expecting me,Whose sail shall never speck thy bright blue sea."And thou, Clarice, the merchants thou mayst call,To tell thee tales within thy pictured hall,But never shall they tell true tales of me:Whatever sails the Kentish hills may seeSwept by the flood-tide toward thy well-walled town,No more on my sails shall they look adown."Get thee another leader, Charlemaine,For thou shalt look to see my shield in vain,When in the fair fields of the Frankish land,Thick as the corn they tread, the heathen stand."What matter? ye shall learn to live your lives;Husbands and children, other friends and wives,Shall wipe the tablets of your memory clean,And all shall be as I had never been."And now, O God, am I alone with Thee;A little thing indeed it seems to beTo give this life up, since it needs must goSome time or other; now at last I knowHow foolishly men play upon the earth,When unto them a year of life seems worthHonour and friends, and these vague hopes and sweetThat like real things my dying heart do greet,Unreal while living on the earth I trod,And but myself I knew no other god.Behold, I thank Thee that Thou sweet'nest thusThis end, that I had thought most piteous,If of another I had heard it told."What man is this, who weak and worn and old,Gives up his life within that dreadful isle,And on the fearful coming death can smile?Alas! this man, so battered and outworn,Is none but he, who, on that summer morn,Received such promises of glorious life:Ogier the Dane this is, to whom all strifeWas but as wine to stir awhile the blood,To whom all life, however hard, was good:This is the man, unmatched of heart and limb,Ogier the Dane, whose sight has waxed not dimFor all the years that he on earth has dwelt;Ogier the Dane, that never fear has felt,Since he knew good from ill; Ogier the Dane,The heathen's dread, the evil-doer's bane.

Brighthad the moon grown as his words were done,And no more was there memory of the sunWithin the west, and he grew drowsy now,And somewhat smoother was his wrinkled browAs thought died out beneath the hand of sleep,And o'er his soul forgetfulness did creep,Hiding the image of swift-coming death;Until as peacefully he drew his breathAs on that day, past for a hundred years,When, midst the nurse's quickly-falling tears,He fell asleep to his first lullaby.The night changed as he slept, white clouds and highBegan about the lonely moon to close;And from the dark west a new wind arose,And with the sound of heavy-falling wavesMingled its pipe about the loadstone caves;But when the twinkling stars were hid away,And a faint light and broad, like dawn of day,The moon upon that dreary country shed,Ogier awoke, and lifting up his headAnd smiling, muttered, "Nay, no more again;Rather some pleasure new, some other pain,Unthought of both, some other form of strife;"For he had waked from dreams of his old life,And through St. Omer's archer-guarded gateOnce more had seemed to pass, and saw the stateOf that triumphant king; and still, though allSeemed changed, and folk by other names did callFaces he knew of old, yet none the lessHe seemed the same, and, midst that mightiness,Felt his own power, and grew the more athirstFor coming glory, as of old, when firstHe stood before the face of Charlemaine,A helpless hostage with all life to gain.But now, awake, his worn face once more sankBetween his hands, and, murmuring not, he drankThe draught of death that must that thirst allay.But while he sat and waited for the dayA sudden light across the bare rock streamed,Which at the first he noted not, but deemedThe moon her fleecy veil had broken through;But ruddier indeed this new light grewThan were the moon's grey beams, and, therewithal,Soft far-off music on his ears did fall;Yet moved he not, but murmured, "This is death,An easy thing like this to yield my breath,Awake, yet dreaming, with no sounds of fear,No dreadful sights to tell me it is near;Yea, God, I thank Thee!" but with that last wordIt seemed to him that he his own name heardWhispered, as though the wind had borne it past;With that he gat unto his feet at last,But still awhile he stood, with sunken head,And in a low and trembling voice he said,"Lord, I am ready, whither shall I go?I pray Thee unto me some token show."And, as he said this, round about he turned,And in the east beheld a light that burnedAs bright as day; then, though his flesh might fearThe coming change that he believed so near,Yet did his soul rejoice, for now he thoughtUnto the very heaven to be brought:And though he felt alive, deemed it might beThat he in sleep had died full easily.Then toward that light did he begin to go,And still those strains he heard, far off and low,That grew no louder; still that bright light streamedOver the rocks, yet nothing brighter seemed,But like the light of some unseen bright flameShone round about, until at last he cameUnto the dreary islet's other shore,And then the minstrelsy he heard no more,And softer seemed the strange light unto him;But yet or ever it had grown quite dim,Beneath its waning light could he beholdA mighty palace set about with gold,Above green meads and groves of summer treesFar-off across the welter of the seas;But, as he gazed, it faded from his sight,And the grey hidden moon's diffused soft light,Which soothly was but darkness to him now,His sea-girt island prison did but show.But o'er the sea he still gazed wistfully,And said, "Alas! and when will this go byAnd leave my soul in peace? must I still dreamOf life that once so dear a thing did seem,That, when I wake, death may the bitterer be?Here will I sit until he come to me,And hide mine eyes and think upon my sin,That so a little calm I yet may winBefore I stand within the awful place."Then down he sat and covered up his face,Yet therewithal his trouble could not hide,Nor waiting thus for death could he abide,For, though he knew it not, the yearning painOf hope of life had touched his soul again—If he could live awhile, if he could live!The mighty being, who once was wont to giveThe gift of life to many a trembling man;Who did his own will since his life began;Who feared not aught, but strong and great and freeStill cast aside the thought of what might be;Must all this then be lost, and with no will,Powerless and blind, must he some fate fulfil,Nor know what he is doing any more?Soon he arose and paced along the shore,And gazed out seaward for the blessed light;But nought he saw except the old sad sight,The ceaseless tumbling of the billows grey,The white upspringing of the spurts of sprayAmidst that mass of timbers, the rent bonesOf the sea-houses of the hapless onesOnce cast like him upon this deadly isle.He stopped his pacing in a little while,And clenched his mighty hands, and set his teeth,And gazing at the ruin underneath,He swung from off the bare cliff's jagged brow,And on some slippery ledge he wavered now,Without a hand-hold, and now stoutly clungWith hands alone, and o'er the welter hung,Not caring aught if thus his life should end;But safely midst all this did he descendThe dreadful cliff, and since no beach was there,But from the depths the rock rose stark and bare,Nor crumbled aught beneath the hammering sea,Upon the wrecks he stood unsteadily.But now, amid the clamour of the waves,And washing to-and-fro of beams and staves,Dizzy with hunger, dreamy with distress,And all those days of fear and loneliness,The ocean's tumult seemed the battle's roar,His heart grew hot, as when in days of yoreHe heard the cymbals clash amid the crowdOf dusky faces; now he shouted loud,And from crushed beam to beam began to leap,And yet his footing somehow did he keepAmidst their tossing, and indeed the seaWas somewhat sunk upon the island's lee.So quickly on from wreck to wreck he passed,And reached the outer line of wrecks at last,And there a moment stood unsteadily,Amid the drift of spray that hurried by,And drew Courtain his sword from out its sheath,And poised himself to meet the coming death,Still looking out to sea; but as he gazed,And once or twice his doubtful feet he raisedTo take the final plunge, that heavenly strainOver the washing waves he heard again,And from the dimness something bright he sawAcross the waste of waters towards him draw;And hidden now, now raised aloft, at lastUnto his very feet a boat was cast,Gilded inside and out, and well arrayedWith cushions soft; far fitter to have weighedFrom some sweet garden on the shallow Seine,Or in a reach of green Thames to have lain,Than struggle with that huge confusèd sea;But Ogier gazed upon it doubtfullyOne moment, and then, sheathing Courtain, said,"What tales are these about the newly deadThe heathen told? what matter, let all pass;This moment as one dead indeed I was,And this must be what I have got to do,I yet perchance may light on something newBefore I die; though yet perchance this keelUnto the wondrous mass of charmed steelIs drawn as others." With that word he leaptInto the boat, and o'er the cushions creptFrom stem to stern, but found no rudder there,Nor any oars, nor were the cushions fairMade wet by any dashing of the sea.Now while he pondered how these things could be,The boat began to move therefrom at last,But over him a drowsiness was cast,And as o'er tumbling hills the skiff did pass,He clean forgot his death and where he was.At last he woke up to a sunny day,And, looking round, saw that his shallop layMoored at the edge of some fair tideless seaUnto an overhanging thick-leaved tree,Where in the green waves did the low bank dipIts fresh and green grass-covered daisied lip;But Ogier looking thence no more could seeThat sad abode of death and misery,Nor aught but wide and empty ocean, greyWith gathering haze, for now it neared midday;Then from the golden cushions did he rise,And wondering still if this were ParadiseHe stepped ashore, but drew Courtain his swordAnd muttered therewithal a holy word.Fair was the place, as though amidst of May,Nor did the brown birds fear the sunny day,For with their quivering song the air was sweet;Thick grew the field-flowers underneath his feet,And on his head the blossoms down did rain,Yet mid these fair things slowly and with painHe 'gan to go, yea, even when his footFirst touched the flowery sod, to his heart's rootA coldness seemed to strike, and now each limbWas growing stiff, his eyes waxed bleared and dim,And all his stored-up memory 'gan to fail,Nor yet would his once mighty heart availFor lamentations o'er his changed lot;Yet urged by some desire, he knew not what,Along a little path 'twixt hedges sweet,Drawn sword in hand, he dragged his faltering feet,For what then seemed to him a weary way,Whereon his steps he needs must often stayAnd lean upon the mighty well-worn swordThat in those hands, grown old, for king or lordHad small respect in glorious days long past.But still he crept along, and at the lastCame to a gilded wicket, and through thisEntered a garden fit for utmost bliss,If that might last which needs must soon go by:There 'gainst a tree he leaned, and with a sighHe said, "O God, a sinner I have been,And good it is that I these things have seenBefore I meet what Thou hast set apartTo cleanse the earthly folly from my heart;But who within this garden now can dwellWherein guilt first upon the world befell?"A little further yet he staggered on,Till to a fountain-side at last he won,O'er which two white-thorns their sweet blossoms shed,There he sank down, and laid his weary headBeside the mossy roots, and in a whileHe slept, and dreamed himself within the isle;That splashing fount the weary sea did seem,And in his dream the fair place but a dream;But when again to feebleness he wokeUpon his ears that heavenly music broke,Not faint or far as in the isle it was,But e'en as though the minstrels now did passAnigh his resting-place; then fallen in doubt,E'en as he might, he rose and gazed about,Leaning against the hawthorn stem with pain;And yet his straining gaze was but in vain,Death stole so fast upon him, and no moreCould he behold the blossoms as before,No more the trees seemed rooted to the ground,A heavy mist seemed gathering all around,And in its heart some bright thing seemed to be,And round his head there breathed deliciouslySweet odours, and that music never ceased.But as the weight of Death's strong hand increasedAgain he sank adown, and Courtain's noiseWithin the scabbard seemed a farewell voiceSent from the world he loved so well of old,And all his life was as a story told,And as he thought thereof he 'gan to smileE'en as a child asleep, but in a whileIt was as though he slept, and sleeping dreamed,For in his half-closed eyes a glory gleamed,As though from some sweet face and golden hair,And on his breast were laid soft hands and fair,And a sweet voice was ringing in his ears,Broken as if with flow of joyous tears;"Ogier, sweet friend, hast thou not tarried long?Alas! thine hundred years of strife and wrong!"Then he found voice to say, "Alas! dear Lord,Too long, too long; and yet one little wordRight many a year agone had brought me here."Then to his face that face was drawn anear,He felt his head raised up and gently laidOn some kind knee, again the sweet voice said,"Nay, Ogier, nay, not yet, not yet, dear friend!Who knoweth when our linked life shall end,Since thou art come unto mine arms at last,And all the turmoil of the world is past?Why do I linger ere I see thy faceAs I desired it in that mourning placeSo many years ago—so many years,Thou knewest not thy love and all her fears?""Alas!" he said, "what mockery is thisThat thou wilt speak to me of earthly bliss?No longer can I think upon the earth,Have I not done with all its grief and mirth?Yes, I was Ogier once, but if my loveShould come once more my dying heart to move,Then must she come from 'neath the milk-white wallsWhereon to-day the hawthorn blossom fallsOutside St. Omer's—art thou she? her nameI could remember once mid death and fameIs clean forgotten now; but yesterday,Meseems, our son, upon her bosom lay:Baldwin the fair—what hast thou done with himSince Charlot slew him? Ah, mine eyes wax dim;Woman, forbear! wilt thou not let me die?Did I forget thee in the days gone by?Then let me die, that we may meet again!"He tried to move from her, but all in vain,For life had well-nigh left him, but withalHe felt a kiss upon his forehead fall,And could not speak; he felt slim fingers fairMove to his mighty sword-worn hand, and thereSet on some ring, and still he could not speak,And once more sleep weighed down his eyelids weak.

But, ah! what land was this he woke unto?What joy was this that filled his heart anew?Had he then gained the very Paradise?Trembling, he durst not at the first arise,Although no more he felt the pain of eld,Nor durst he raise his eyes that now beheldBeside him the white flowers and blades of grass;He durst not speak, lest he some monster was.But while he lay and hoped, that gentle voiceOnce more he heard; "Yea, thou mayst well rejoice!Thou livest still, my sweet, thou livest still,Apart from every earthly fear and ill;Wilt thou not love me, who have wrought thee this,That I like thee may live in double bliss?"Then Ogier rose up, nowise like to oneWhose span of earthly life is nigh outrun,But as he might have risen in old daysTo see the spears cleave the fresh morning haze;But, looking round, he saw no change there wasIn the fair place wherethrough he first did pass,Though all, grown clear and joyous to his eyes,Now looked no worse than very Paradise;Behind him were the thorns, the fountain fairStill sent its glittering stream forth into air,And by its basin a fair woman stood,And as their eyes met his renewèd bloodRushed to his face; with unused thoughts and sweetAnd hurrying hopes, his heart began to beat.The fairest of all creatures did she seem;So fresh and delicate you well might deemThat scarce for eighteen summers had she blessedThe happy, longing world; yet, for the rest,Within her glorious eyes such wisdom dweltA child before her had the wise man felt,And with the pleasure of a thousand yearsHer lips were fashioned to move joy or tearsAmong the longing folk where she might dwell,To give at last the kiss unspeakable.In such wise was she clad as folk may be,Who, for no shame of their humanity,For no sad changes of the imperfect year,Rather for added beauty, raiment wear;For, as the heat-foretelling grey-blue hazeVeils the green flowery morn of late May-days,Her raiment veiled her; where the bands did meetThat bound the sandals to her dainty feet,Gems gleamed; a fresh rose-wreath embraced her head,And on her breast there lay a ruby red.So with a supplicating look she turnedTo meet the flame that in his own eyes burned,And held out both her white arms lovingly,As though to greet him as he drew anigh.Stammering he said, "Who art thou? how am ISo cured of all my evils suddenly,That certainly I felt no mightier, when,Amid the backward rush of beaten men,About me drooped the axe-torn Oriflamme?Alas! I fear that in some dream I am.""Ogier," she said, "draw near, perchance it isThat such a name God gives unto our bliss;I know not, but if thou art such an oneAs I must deem, all days beneath the sunThat thou hast had, shall be but dreams indeedTo those that I have given thee at thy need.For many years ago beside the seaWhen thou wert born, I plighted troth with thee:Come near then, and make mirrors of mine eyes,That thou mayest see what these my mysteriesHave wrought in thee; surely but thirty years,Passed amidst joy, thy new born body bears,Nor while thou art with me, and on this shoreArt still full-fed of love, shalt thou seem more.Nay, love, come nigher, and let me take thine hand,The hope and fear of many a warring land,And I will show thee wherein lies the spell,Whereby this happy change upon thee fell."Like a shy youth before some royal love,Close up to that fair woman did he move,And their hands met; yet to his changed voiceHe dared not trust; nay, scarcely could rejoiceE'en when her balmy breath he 'gan to feel,And felt strange sweetness o'er his spirit stealAs her light raiment, driven by the wind,Swept round him, and, bewildered and half-blind,His lips the treasure of her lips did press,And round him clung her perfect loveliness.For one sweet moment thus they stood, and thenShe drew herself from out his arms again,And panting, lovelier for her love, did standApart awhile, then took her lover's hand,And, in a trembling voice, made haste to say,—"O Ogier, when thou earnest here to-day,I feared indeed, that in my sport with fate,I might have seen thee e'en one day too late,Before this ring thy finger should embrace;Behold it, love, and thy keen eyes may traceFaint figures wrought upon the ruddy gold;My father dying gave it me, nor toldThe manner of its making, but I knowThat it can make thee e'en as thou art nowDespite the laws of God—shrink not from meBecause I give an impious gift to thee—Has not God made me also, who do this?But I, who longed to share with thee my bliss,Am of the fays, and live their changeless life,And, like the gods of old, I see the strifeThat moves the world, unmoved if so I will;For we the fruit, that teaches good and ill,Have never touched like you of Adam's race;And while thou dwellest with me in this placeThus shalt thou be—ah, and thou deem'st, indeed,That thou shalt gain thereby no happy meedReft of the world's joys? nor canst understandHow thou art come into a happy land?—Love, in thy world the priests of heaven still sing,And tell thee of it many a joyous thing;But think'st thou, bearing the world's joy and pain,Thou couldst live there? nay, nay, but born againThus wouldst be happy with the angels' bliss;And so with us no otherwise it is,Nor hast thou cast thine old life quite awayEven as yet, though that shall be to-day."But for the love and country thou hast won,Know thou, that thou art come to Avallon,That is both thine and mine; and as for me,Morgan le Fay men call me commonlyWithin the world, but fairer names than thisI have for thee and me, 'twixt kiss and kiss."Ah, what was this? and was it all in vain,That she had brought him here this life to gain?For, ere her speech was done, like one turned blindHe watched the kisses of the wandering windWithin her raiment, or as some one seesThe very best of well-wrought imagesWhen he is blind with grief, did he beholdThe wandering tresses of her locks of goldUpon her shoulders; and no more he pressedThe hand that in his own hand lay at rest:His eyes, grown dull with changing memories,Could make no answer to her glorious eyes:Cold waxed his heart, and weary and distraught,With many a cast-by, hateful, dreary thought,Unfinished in the old days; and withalHe needs must think of what might chance to fallIn this life new-begun; and good and badTormented him, because as yet he hadA worldly heart within his frame made new,And to the deeds that he was wont to doDid his desires still turn. But she a whileStood gazing at him with a doubtful smile,And let his hand fall down; but suddenlySounded sweet music from some close nearby,And then she spoke again: "Come, love, with me,That thou thy new life and delights mayst see."And gently with that word she led him thence,And though upon him now there fell a senseOf dreamy and unreal bewilderment,As hand in hand through that green place they went,Yet therewithal a strain of tender loveA little yet his restless heart did move.So through the whispering trees they came at lastTo where a wondrous house a shadow castAcross the flowers, and o'er the daisied grassBefore it, crowds of lovely folk did pass,Playing about in carelessness and mirth,Unshadowed by the doubtful deeds of earth;And from the midst a band of fair girls came,With flowers and music, greeting him by name,And praising him; but ever like a dreamHe could not break, did all to Ogier seem,And he his old world did the more desire,For in his heart still burned unquenched the fire,That through the world of old so bright did burn:Yet was he fain that kindness to return,And from the depth of his full heart he sighed.Then toward the house the lovely Queen did guideHis listless steps, and seemed to take no thoughtOf knitted brow or wandering eyes distraught,But still with kind love lighting up her faceShe led him through the door of that fair place,While round about them did the damsels press;And he was moved by all that lovelinessAs one might be, who, lying half asleepIn the May morning, notes the light wind sweepOver the tulip-beds: no more to himWere gleaming eyes, red lips, and bodies slim,Amidst that dream, although the first surpriseOf hurried love wherewith the Queen's sweet eyesHad smitten him, still in his heart did stir.And so at last he came, led on by herInto a hall wherein a fair throne was,And hand in hand thereto the twain did pass;And there she bade him sit, and when aloneHe took his place upon the double throne,She cast herself before him on her knees,Embracing his, and greatly did increaseThe shame and love that vexed his troubled heart:But now a line of girls the crowd did part,Lovelier than all, and Ogier could beholdOne in their midst who bore a crown of goldWithin her slender hands and delicate;She, drawing nigh, beside the throne did waitUntil the Queen arose and took the crown,Who then to Ogier's lips did stoop adownAnd kissed him, and said, "Ogier, what were worthThy miserable days of strife on earth,That on their ashes still thine eyes are turned?"Then, as she spoke these words, his changed heart burnedWith sudden memories, and thereto had heMade answer, but she raised up suddenlyThe crown she held and set it on his head,"Ogier," she cried, "those troublous days are dead;Thou wert dead with them also, but for me;Turn unto her who wrought these things for thee!"Then, as he felt her touch, a mighty waveOf love swept o'er his soul, as though the graveDid really hold his body; from his seatHe rose to cast himself before her feet;But she clung round him, and in close embraceThe twain were locked amidst that thronging place.Thenceforth new life indeed has Ogier won,And in the happy land of AvallonQuick glide the years o'er his unchanging head;There saw he many men the world thought dead,Living like him in sweet forgetfulnessOf all the troubles that did once oppressTheir vainly-struggling lives—ah, how can ITell of their joy as though I had been nigh?Suffice it that no fear of death they knew,That there no talk there was of false or true,Of right or wrong, for traitors came not there;That everything was bright and soft and fair,And yet they wearied not for any change,Nor unto them did constancy seem strange.Love knew they, but its pain they never had,But with each other's joy were they made glad;Nor were their lives wasted by hidden fire,Nor knew they of the unfulfilled desireThat turns to ashes all the joys of earth,Nor knew they yearning love amidst the dearthOf kind and loving hearts to spend it on,Nor dreamed or discontent when all was won;Nor need they struggle after wealth and fame;Still was the calm flow of their lives the same,And yet, I say, they wearied not of it—So did the promised days by Ogier flit.Thinkthat a hundred years have now passed by,Since ye beheld Ogier lie down to dieBeside the fountain; think that now ye areIn France, made dangerous with wasting war;In Paris, where about each guarded gate,Gathered in knots, the anxious people wait,And press around each new-come man to learnIf Harfleur now the pagan wasters burn,Or if the Rouen folk can keep their chain,Or Pont de l'Arche unburnt still guards the Seine?Or if 'tis true that Andelys succour wants?That Vernon's folk are fleeing east to Mantes?When will they come? or rather is it trueThat a great band the Constable o'erthrewUpon the marshes of the lower Seine,And that their long ships, turning back again,Caught by the high-raised waters of the boreWere driven here and there and cast ashore?Such questions did they ask, and, as fresh menCame hurrying in, they asked them o'er again,And from scared folk, or fools, or ignorant,Still got new lies, or tidings very scant.But now amidst these men at last came one,A little ere the setting of the sun,With two stout men behind him, armed right well,Who ever as they rode on, sooth to tell,With doubtful eyes upon their master stared,Or looked about like troubled men and scared.And he they served was noteworthy indeed;Of ancient fashion were his arms and weed,Rich past the wont of men in those sad times;His face was bronzed, as though by burning climes,But lovely as the image of a godCarved in the days before on earth Christ trod;But solemn were his eyes, and grey as glass,And like to ruddy gold his fine hair was:A mighty man he was, and taller farThan those who on that day must bear the warThe pagans waged: he by the warders stayedScarce looked on them, but straight their words obeyedAnd showed his pass; then, asked about his nameAnd from what city of the world he came,Said, that men called him now the Ancient Knight,That he was come midst the king's men to fightFrom St. Omer's; and as he spoke, he gazedDown on the thronging street as one amazed,And answered no more to the questioningOf frightened folk of this or that sad thing;But, ere he passed on, turned about at lastAnd on the wondering guard a strange look cast,And said, "St. Mary! do such men as yeFight with the wasters from across the sea?Then, certes, are ye lost, however goodYour hearts may be; not such were those who stoodBeside the Hammer-bearer years agone."So said he, and as his fair armour shoneWith beauty of a time long passed away,So with the music of another dayHis deep voice thrilled the awe-struck, listening folk.Yet from the crowd a mocking voice outbroke,That cried, "Be merry, masters, fear ye nought,Surely good succour to our side is brought;For here is Charlemaine come off his tombTo save his faithful city from its doom.""Yea," said another, "this is certain news,Surely ye know how all the carvers useTo carve the dead man's image at the best,That guards the place where he may lie at rest;Wherefore this living image looks indeed,Spite of his ancient tongue and marvellous weed,To have but thirty summers."At the nameOf Charlemaine, he turned to whence there cameThe mocking voice, and somewhat knit his brow,And seemed as he would speak, but scarce knew how;So with a half-sigh soon sank back againInto his dream, and shook his well-wrought rein,And silently went on upon his way.And this was Ogier: on what evil dayHas he then stumbled, that he needs must come,Midst war and ravage, to the ancient homeOf his desires? did he grow weary then,And wish to strive once more with foolish menFor worthless things? or is fair AvallonSunk in the sea, and all that glory gone?Nay, thus it happed—One day she came to himAnd said, "Ogier, thy name is waxen dimUpon the world that thou rememberest not;The heathen men are thick on many a spotThine eyes have seen, and which I love therefore;And God will give His wonted help no more.Wilt thou, then, help? canst thou have any mindTo give thy banner once more to the wind?Since greater glory thou shalt win for thisThan erst thou gatheredst ere thou cam'st to bliss:For men are dwindled both in heart and frame,Nor holds the fair land any such a nameAs thine, when thou wert living midst thy peers:The world is worser for these hundred years."From his calm eyes there gleamed a little fire,And in his voice was something of desire,To see the land where he was used to be,As now he answered: "Nay, choose thou for me,Thou art the wisest; it is more than wellWithin this peaceful place with thee to dwell:Nor ill perchance in that old land to die,If, dying, I keep not the memoryOf this fair life of ours." "Nay, nay," said she,"As to thy dying, that shall never be,Whiles that thou keep'st my ring—and now, behold,I take from thee thy charmed crown of gold,And thou wilt be the Ogier that thou wastEre on the loadstone rock thy ship was cast:Yet thou shalt have thy youthful body still,And I will guard thy life from every ill."So was it done, and Ogier, armed right well,Sleeping, was borne away by some strong spell,And set upon the Flemish coast; and thenceTurned to St. Omer's, with a doubtful senseOf being in some wild dream, the while he knewThat great delight forgotten was his due,That all which there might hap was of small worth.So on he went, and sometimes unto mirthDid his attire move the country-folk,But oftener when strange speeches from him brokeConcerning men and things for long years dead,He filled the listeners with great awe and dread;For in such wild times as these people wereAre men soon moved to wonder and to fear.Now through the streets of Paris did he ride,And at a certain hostel did abideThroughout that night, and ere he went next dayHe saw a book that on a table lay,And opening it 'gan read in lazy mood:But long before it in that place he stood,Noting nought else; for it did chronicleThe deeds of men of old he knew right well,When they were living in the flesh with him:Yea, his own deeds he saw, grown strange and dimAlready, and true stories mixed with lies,Until, with many thronging memoriesOf those old days, his heart was so oppressed,He 'gan to wish that he might lie at rest,Forgetting all things: for indeed by thisLittle remembrance had he of the blissThat wrapped his soul in peaceful Avallon.But his changed life he needs must carry on;For ye shall know the Queen was gathering menTo send unto the good King, who as thenIn Rouen lay, beset by many a bandOf those who carried terror through the land,And still by messengers for help he prayed:Therefore a mighty muster was being made,Of weak and strong, and brave and timorous,Before the Queen anigh her royal house.So thither on this morn did Ogier turn,Some certain news about the war to learn;And when he came at last into the square,And saw the ancient palace great and fairRise up before him as in other days,And in the merry morn the bright sun's raysGlittering on gathering helms and moving spears,He 'gan to feel as in the long-past years,And his heart stirred within him. Now the QueenCame from within, right royally beseen,And took her seat beneath a canopy,With lords and captains of the war anigh;And as she came a mighty shout arose,And round about began the knights to close,Their oath of fealty there to swear anew,And learn what service they had got to do.But so it was, that some their shouts must stayTo gaze at Ogier as he took his wayThrough the thronged place; and quickly too he gatUnto the place whereas the Lady sat,For men gave place unto him, fearing him:For not alone was he most huge of limb,And dangerous, but something in his face,As his calm eyes looked o'er the crowded place,Struck men with awe; and in the ancient days,When men might hope alive on gods to gaze,They would have thought, "The gods yet love our townAnd from the heavens have sent a great one down."Withal unto the throne he came so near,That he the Queen's sweet measured voice could hear;And swiftly now within him wrought the changeThat first he felt amid those faces strange;And his heart burned to taste the hurrying lifeWith such desires, such changing sweetness rife.And yet, indeed, how should he live alone,Who in the old past days such friends had known?Then he began to think of Caraheu,Of Bellicent the fair, and once more knewThe bitter pain of rent and ended love.But while with hope and vain regret he strove,He found none 'twixt him and the Queen's high seat,And, stepping forth, he knelt before her feetAnd took her hand to swear, as was the wayOf doing fealty in that ancient day,And raised his eyes to hers; as fair was sheAs any woman of the world might beFull-limbed and tall, dark haired, from her deep eyes,The snare of fools, the ruin of the wise,Love looked unchecked; and now her dainty hand,The well-knit holder of the golden wand,Trembled in his, she cast her eyes adown,And her sweet brow was knitted to a frown,As he, the taker of such oaths of yore,Now unto her all due obedience swore,Yet gave himself no name; and now the Queen,Awed by his voice as other folk had been,Yet felt a trembling hope within her riseToo sweet to think of, and with love's surpriseHer cheek grew pale; she said, "Thy style and nameThou tellest not, nor what land of thy fameIs glad; for, certes, some land must be glad,That in its bounds her house thy mother had.""Lady," he said, "from what far land I comeI well might tell thee, but another homeHave I long dwelt in, and its name have IForgotten now, forgotten utterlyWho were my fellows, and what deeds they did;Therefore, indeed, shall my first name be hidAnd my first country; call me on this dayThe Ancient Knight, and let me go my way."He rose withal, for she her fingers fairHad drawn aback, and on him 'gan to stareAs one afeard; for something terribleWas in his speech, and that she knew right well,Who 'gan to love him, and to fear that she,Shut out by some strange deadly mystery,Should never gain from him an equal love;Yet, as from her high seat he 'gan to move,She said, "O Ancient Knight, come presently,When we have done this muster, unto me,And thou shalt have thy charge and due commandFor freeing from our foes this wretched land!"Then Ogier made his reverence and went,And somewhat could perceive of her intent;For in his heart life grew, and love with lifeGrew, and therewith, 'twixt love and fame, was strife.But, as he slowly gat him from the square,Gazing at all the people gathered there,A squire of the Queen's behind him came,And breathless, called him by his new-coined name,And bade him turn because the Queen now bade,Since by the muster long she might be stayed,That to the palace he should bring him straight,Midst sport and play her coming back to wait;Then Ogier turned, nought loath, and with him went,And to a postern-gate his steps he bent,That Ogier knew right well in days of old;Worn was it now, and the bright hues and goldUpon the shields above, with lapse of days,Were faded much: but now did Ogier gazeUpon the garden where he walked of yore,Holding the hands that he should see no more;For all was changed except the palace fair,That Charlemaine's own eyes had seen built thereEre Ogier knew him; there the squire did leadThe Ancient Knight, who still took little heedOf all the things that by the way he said,For all his thoughts were on the days long dead.There in the painted hall he sat again,And 'neath the pictured eyes of CharlemaineHe ate and drank, and felt it like a dream;And midst his growing longings yet might deemThat he from sleep should wake up presentlyIn some fair city on the Syrian sea,Or on the brown rocks of the loadstone isle.But fain to be alone, within a whileHe gat him to the garden, and there passedBy wondering squires and damsels, till at last,Far from the merry folk who needs must play,If on the world were coming its last day,He sat him down, and through his mind there ranFaint thoughts of that day, when, outworn and wan,He lay down by the fountain-side to die.But when he strove to gain clear memoryOf what had happed since on the isle he layWaiting for death, a hopeless castaway,Thought failing him, would rather bring againHis life among the peers of Charlemaine,And vex his soul with hapless memories;Until at last, worn out by thought of these,And hopeless striving to find what was true,And pondering on the deeds he had to doEre he returned, whereto he could not tell,Sweet sleep upon his wearied spirit fell.And on the afternoon of that fair day,Forgetting all, beneath the trees he lay.Meanwhile the Queen, affairs of state being done,Went through the gardens with one dame aloneSeeking for Ogier, whom at last she foundLaid sleeping on the daisy-sprinkled ground,Dreaming, I know not what, of other days.Then on him for a while the Queen did gaze,Drawing sweet poison from the lovely sight,Then to her fellow turned, "The ancient Knight—What means he by this word of his?" she said;"He were well mated with some lovely maidJust pondering on the late-heard name of love.""Softly, my lady, he begins to move,"Her fellow said, a woman old and grey;"Look now, his arms are of another day;None know him or his deeds; thy squire just saidHe asked about the state of men long dead;I fear what he may be; look, seest thou notThat ring that on one finger he has got,Where figures strange upon the gold are wrought:God grant that he from hell has not been broughtFor our confusion, in this doleful war,Who surely in enough of trouble areWithout such help;" then the Queen turned asideAwhile, her drawn and troubled face to hide,For lurking dread this speech within her stirred;But yet she said, "Thou sayest a foolish word,This man is come against our enemiesTo fight for us." Then down upon her kneesFell the old woman by the sleeping knight,And from his hand she drew with fingers lightThe wondrous ring, and scarce again could riseEre 'neath the trembling Queen's bewildered eyesThe change began; his golden hair turned white,His smooth cheek wrinkled, and his breathing lightWas turned to troublous struggling for his breath,And on his shrunk lips lay the hand of death;And, scarce less pale than he, the trembling QueenStood thinking on the beauty she had seenAnd longed for but a little while ago,Yet with her terror still her love did grow,And she began to weep as though she sawHer beauty e'en to such an ending draw.And 'neath her tears waking he oped his eyes,And strove to speak, but nought but gasping sighsHis lips could utter; then he tried to reachHis hand to them, as though he would beseechThe gift of what was his: but all the whileThe crone gazed on them with an evil smile,Then holding toward the Queen that wondrous ring,She said, "Why weep'st thou? having this fair thing,Thou, losing nought the beauty that thou hast,May'st watch the vainly struggling world go past,Thyself unchanged." The Queen put forth her handAnd took the ring, and there awhile did standAnd strove to think of it, but still in herSuch all-absorbing longings love did stir,So young she was, of death she could not think,Or what a cup eld gives to man to drink;Yet on her finger had she set the ringWhen now the life that hitherto did clingTo Ogier's heart seemed fading quite away,And scarcely breathing with shut eyes he lay.Then, kneeling down, she murmured piteously,"Ah, wilt thou love me if I give it thee,And thou grow'st young again? what should I doIf with the eyes thou thus shalt gain anewThou shouldst look scorn on me?" But with that wordThe hedge behind her, by the west wind stirred,Cast fear into her heart of some one nigh,And therewith on his finger hastilyShe set the ring, then rose and stood apartA little way, and in her doubtful heartWith love and fear was mixed desire of life.But standing so, a look with great scorn rifeThe elder woman, turning, cast on her,Pointing to Ogier, who began to stir;She looked, and all she erst saw now did seemTo have been nothing but a hideous dream,As fair and young he rose from off the groundAnd cast a dazed and puzzled look around,Like one just waked from sleep in some strange place;But soon his grave eyes rested on her face,And turned yet graver seeing her so pale,And that her eyes were pregnant with some taleOf love and fear; she 'neath his eyes the whileForced her pale lips to semblance of a smile,And said, "O Ancient Knight, thou sleepest then?While through this poor land range the heathen men,Unmet of any but my King and Lord:Nay, let us see the deeds of thine old sword.""Queen," said he, "bid me then unto this work,And certes I behind no wall would lurk,Nor send for succour, while a scanty folkStill followed after me to break the yoke:I pray thee grace for sleeping, and were fainThat I might rather never sleep againThan have such wretched dreams as I e'en nowHave waked from."Lovelier she seemed to growUnto him as he spoke; fresh colour cameInto her face, as though for some sweet shame,While she with tearful eyes beheld him so,That somewhat even must his burnt cheek glow,His heart beat faster. But again she said,"Nay, will dreams burden such a mighty head?Then may I too have pardon for a dream:Last night in sleep I saw thee, who didst seemTo be the King of France; and thou and IWere sitting at some great festivityWithin the many-peopled gold-hung place."The blush of shame was gone as on his faceShe gazed, and saw him read her meaning clearAnd knew that no cold words she had to fear,But rather that for softer speech he yearned.Therefore, with love alone her smooth cheek burned;Her parted lips were hungry for his kiss,She trembled at the near approaching bliss;Nathless, she checked her love a little while,Because she felt the old dame's curious smileUpon her, and she said, "O Ancient Knight,If I then read my last night's dream aright,Thou art come here our very help to be,Perchance to give my husband back to me;Come then, if thou this land art fain to save,And show the wisdom thou must surely haveUnto my council; I will give thee thenWhat charge I may among my valiant men;And certes thou wilt do so well herein,That, ere long, something greater shalt thou win:Come, then, deliverer of my throne and land,And let me touch for once thy mighty handWith these weak fingers."As she spoke, she metHis eager hand, and all things did forgetBut for one moment, for too wise were theyTo cast the coming years of joy away;Then with her other hand her gown she raisedAnd led him thence, and o'er her shoulder gazedAt her old follower with a doubtful smile,As though to say, "Be wise, I know thy guile!"But slowly she behind the lovers walked,Muttering, "So be it! thou shalt not be balkedOf thy desire; be merry! I am wise,Nor will I rob thee of thy ParadiseFor any other than myself; and thouMay'st even happen to have had enowOf this new love, before I get the ring,And I may work for thee no evil thing."Now ye shall know that the old chronicle,Wherein I read all this, doth duly tellOf all the gallant deeds that Ogier did,There may ye read them; nor let me be chidIf I therefore say little of these things,Because the thought of Avallon still clingsUnto my heart, and scarcely can I bearTo think of that long, dragging useless year,Through which, with dulled and glimmering memory,Ogier was grown content to live and dieLike other men; but this I have to say,That in the council chamber on that dayThe Old Knight showed his wisdom well enow,While fainter still with love the Queen did growHearing his words, beholding his grey eyesFlashing with fire of warlike memories;Yea, at the last he seemed so wise indeedThat she could give him now the charge, to leadOne wing of the great army that set outFrom Paris' gates, midst many a wavering shoutMidst trembling prayers, and unchecked wails and tears,And slender hopes and unresisted fears.Now ere he went, upon his bed he lay,Newly awakened at the dawn of day,Gathering perplexed thoughts of many a thing,When, midst the carol that the birds did singUnto the coming of the hopeful sun,He heard a sudden lovesome song begun'Twixt two young voices in the garden green,That seemed indeed the farewell of the Queen.

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