Where is the Maiden of mortal strain,That may match with the Baron of Trierman?She must be lovely, and constant, and kind,Holy and pure, and humble of mind,Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood,Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood—Lovely as the sun's first rayWhen it breaks the clouds of an April day;Constant and true as the widow'd dove,Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,Where never sunbeam kissed the wave;Humble as maiden that loves in vain,Holy as hermit's vesper strain;Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs;Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned,Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground;Noble her blood as the currents that metIn the veins of the noblest Plantagenet;Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep.He had been pricking against the Scot,The foray was long and the skirmish hot;His dinted helm and his buckler's plightBore token of a stubborn fight.All in the castle must hold them still,Harpers must lull him to his rest,With the slow soft tunes he loves the best,Till sleep sink down upon his breast,Like the dew on a summer hill.It was the dawn of an autumn day,The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,That like a silvery crape was spreadRound Skiddaw's dim and distant head,And faintly gleamed each painted paneOf the lordly halls of Triermain,When that Baron bold awoke.Starting he woke, and loudly did call,Rousing his menials in bower and hall,While hastily he spoke."Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye allTouched his harp with that dying fall,So sweet, so soft, so faint,It seem'd an angel's whisper'd callTo an expiring saint?And hearken, my merry-men! What time or whereDid she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,And her graceful step and her angel air,And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair,That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; heWas chief of the Baron's minstrelsy—"Silent, noble chieftain, weHave sat since midnight close,When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,Murmur'd from our melting strings,And hush'd you to repose,Had a harp-note sounded here,It had caught my watchful ear,Although it fell as faint and shyAs bashful maiden's half-formed sigh,When she thinks her lover near."Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,He kept guard in the outer-hall—"Since at eve our watch took post,Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;Else had I heard the steps, though low,And light they fell, as when earth receives,In morn of frost, the wither'd leavesThat drop when no winds blow."—"Then come thou thither, Henry, my page,Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,When that dark castle, tower, and spire,Rose to the skies a pile of fire,And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,And the shrieks of death, that wildly brokeThrough devouring flame and smothering smoke,Made the warrior's heart-blood chill.The trustiest thou of all my train,My fleetest courser thou must rein,And ride to Lyulph's tower,And from the Baron of TriermanGreet well that Sage of power.He is sprung from Druid sires,And British bards that tuned their lyresTo Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.[17]Gifted like his gifted race,He the characters can trace,Graven deep in elder timeUpon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime:Sign and sigil well doth he know,And can bode of weal and woe,Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,From mystic dreams and course of stars.He shall tell if middle earthTo that enchanting shape gave birth,Or if 'twas but an airy thing,Such as fantastic slumbers bring,Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes,Or fading tints of western skies.For, by the blessed rood I swear,If that fair form breathe vital air,No other maiden by my sideShall ever rest De Vaux's bride!"The faithful Page he mounts his steed,And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,And Eden barr'd his course in vain.He pass'd red Penrith's Table round,[18]For feats of chivalry renown'd,Left Mayburgh's mound[19]and stones of power,By Druids raised in magic hour,And traced the Eamont's winding way,Till Ulfo's lake[20]beneath him lay.Onward he rode, the pathway stillWinding betwixt the lake and hill;Till, on the fragment of a rock,Struck from its base by lightning shock,He saw the hoary sage:The silver moss and lichen twined,With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined,A cushion fit for age;And o'er him shook the aspin-tree,A restless rustling canopy.Then sprung young Henry from his selle,And greeted Lyulph grave,And then his master's tale did tell,And then for counsel crave.The Man of Years mused long and deep,Of time's lost treasures taking keep,And then, as rousing from a sleep,His solemn answer gave."That maid is born of middle earth,And may of man be won,Though there have glided since her birthFive hundred years and one.But where's the knight in all the north,That dare the adventure follow forth,So perilous to knightly worth,In the valley of St. John?Listen, youth, to what I tell,And bind it on thy memory well;Nor muse that I commence the rhymeFar distant 'mid the wrecks of time.The mystic tale, by bard and sage,Is handed down from Merlin's age."
Where is the Maiden of mortal strain,That may match with the Baron of Trierman?She must be lovely, and constant, and kind,Holy and pure, and humble of mind,Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood,Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood—Lovely as the sun's first rayWhen it breaks the clouds of an April day;Constant and true as the widow'd dove,Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,Where never sunbeam kissed the wave;Humble as maiden that loves in vain,Holy as hermit's vesper strain;Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies,Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs;Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned,Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground;Noble her blood as the currents that metIn the veins of the noblest Plantagenet;Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.
Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep.He had been pricking against the Scot,The foray was long and the skirmish hot;His dinted helm and his buckler's plightBore token of a stubborn fight.
All in the castle must hold them still,Harpers must lull him to his rest,With the slow soft tunes he loves the best,Till sleep sink down upon his breast,Like the dew on a summer hill.
It was the dawn of an autumn day,The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,That like a silvery crape was spreadRound Skiddaw's dim and distant head,And faintly gleamed each painted paneOf the lordly halls of Triermain,When that Baron bold awoke.Starting he woke, and loudly did call,Rousing his menials in bower and hall,While hastily he spoke.
"Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye allTouched his harp with that dying fall,So sweet, so soft, so faint,It seem'd an angel's whisper'd callTo an expiring saint?And hearken, my merry-men! What time or whereDid she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,And her graceful step and her angel air,And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair,That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"
Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; heWas chief of the Baron's minstrelsy—"Silent, noble chieftain, weHave sat since midnight close,When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,Murmur'd from our melting strings,And hush'd you to repose,Had a harp-note sounded here,It had caught my watchful ear,Although it fell as faint and shyAs bashful maiden's half-formed sigh,When she thinks her lover near."Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,He kept guard in the outer-hall—"Since at eve our watch took post,Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;Else had I heard the steps, though low,And light they fell, as when earth receives,In morn of frost, the wither'd leavesThat drop when no winds blow."—
"Then come thou thither, Henry, my page,Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,When that dark castle, tower, and spire,Rose to the skies a pile of fire,And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,And the shrieks of death, that wildly brokeThrough devouring flame and smothering smoke,Made the warrior's heart-blood chill.The trustiest thou of all my train,My fleetest courser thou must rein,And ride to Lyulph's tower,And from the Baron of TriermanGreet well that Sage of power.He is sprung from Druid sires,And British bards that tuned their lyresTo Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.[17]
Gifted like his gifted race,He the characters can trace,Graven deep in elder timeUpon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime:Sign and sigil well doth he know,And can bode of weal and woe,Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,From mystic dreams and course of stars.He shall tell if middle earthTo that enchanting shape gave birth,Or if 'twas but an airy thing,Such as fantastic slumbers bring,Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes,Or fading tints of western skies.For, by the blessed rood I swear,If that fair form breathe vital air,No other maiden by my sideShall ever rest De Vaux's bride!"
The faithful Page he mounts his steed,And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,And Eden barr'd his course in vain.He pass'd red Penrith's Table round,[18]For feats of chivalry renown'd,Left Mayburgh's mound[19]and stones of power,By Druids raised in magic hour,And traced the Eamont's winding way,Till Ulfo's lake[20]beneath him lay.
Onward he rode, the pathway stillWinding betwixt the lake and hill;Till, on the fragment of a rock,Struck from its base by lightning shock,He saw the hoary sage:The silver moss and lichen twined,With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined,A cushion fit for age;And o'er him shook the aspin-tree,A restless rustling canopy.
Then sprung young Henry from his selle,And greeted Lyulph grave,And then his master's tale did tell,And then for counsel crave.The Man of Years mused long and deep,Of time's lost treasures taking keep,And then, as rousing from a sleep,His solemn answer gave."That maid is born of middle earth,And may of man be won,Though there have glided since her birthFive hundred years and one.But where's the knight in all the north,That dare the adventure follow forth,So perilous to knightly worth,In the valley of St. John?Listen, youth, to what I tell,And bind it on thy memory well;Nor muse that I commence the rhymeFar distant 'mid the wrecks of time.The mystic tale, by bard and sage,Is handed down from Merlin's age."
"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle,When Pentecost was o'er:He journey'd like errant-knight the while,And sweetly the summer sun did smileOn mountain, moss, and moor.Above his solitary trackRose huge Blencathara's ridgy back,Amid whose yawning gulfs the sunCast umber'd radiance red and dun,Though never sunbeam could discernThe surface of that sable tarn,[21]In whose black mirror you may spyThe stars, while noontide lights the sky.The gallant King he skirted stillThe margin of that mighty hill;Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,And torrents, down the gullies flung,Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on,Recoiling now from crag and stone,Now diving deep from human ken,And raving down its darksome glen.The Monarch judged this desert wild,With such romantic ruin piled,Was theatre by nature's handFor feat of high achievement plann'd."He rode, till over down and dellThe shade more broad and deeper fell;And though around the mountain's headFlow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red,Dark at the base, unblest by beam,Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream.With toil the King his way pursuedBy lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,Till on his course obliquely shoneThe narrow valley of Saint John,Down sloping to the western sky,Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.Right glad to feel those beams again,The King drew up his charger's rein;With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight,As dazzled with the level light,And, from beneath his glove of mail,Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale,While 'gainst the sun his armour brightGleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light."Paled in by many a lofty hill,The narrow dale lay smooth and still,And, down its verdant bosom led,A winding brooklet found its bed.But, midmost of the vale, a moundArose with airy turrets crown'd,Buttress, and rampire's circling bound,And mighty keep and tower;Seem'd some primeval giant's hand,The castle's massive walls had plann'd,A ponderous bulwark to withstandAmbitious Nimrod's power.Above the moated entrance slung,The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,As jealous of a foe;Wicket of oak, as iron hard,With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd,And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guardThe gloomy pass below.But the gray walls no banners crown'd,Upon the watch-tower's airy round,No warder stood his horn to sound,No guard beside the bridge was found,And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd,Glanced neither bill nor bow."Beneath the castle's gloomy pride,In ample round did Arthur rideThree times; nor living thing he spied,Nor heard a living sound,Save that, awakening from her dream,The owlet now began to scream,In concert with the rushing stream,That wash'd the battled mound.He lighted from his goodly steed,And he left him to graze on bank and mead;And slowly he climb'd the narrow wayThat reached the entrance grim and gray,And he stood the outward arch below,And his bugle-horn prepared to blow,In summons blithe and bold,Deeming to rouse from iron sleepThe guardian of this dismal Keep,Which well he guess'd the holdOf wizard stern, or goblin grim,Or pagan of gigantic limb,The tyrant of the wold."The ivory bugle's golden tipTwice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip,And twice his hand withdrew.—Think not but Arthur's heart was good!His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood,Had a pagan host before him stood,He had charged them through and through;Yet the silence of that ancient placeSunk on his heart, and he paused a spaceEre yet his horn he blew.But, instant as its 'larum rung,The castle gate was open flung,Portcullis rose with crashing groanFull harshly up its groove of stone;The balance-beams obey'd the blast,And down the trembling drawbridge cast;The vaulted arch before him lay,With nought to bar the gloomy way,And onward Arthur paced, with handOn Caliburn's[22]resistless brand."A hundred torches, flashing bright,Dispelled at once the gloomy nightThat lour'd along the walls,And show'd the King's astonish'd sightThe inmates of the halls.Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim,Nor giant huge of form and limb,Nor heathen knight, was there;But the cressets, which odours flung aloft,Show'd by their yellow light and soft,A band of damsels fair.Onward they came, like summer waveThat dances to the shore;An hundred voices welcome gave,And welcome o'er and o'er!An hundred lovely hands assailThe bucklers of the monarch's mail,And busy labour'd to unhaspRivet of steel and iron clasp.One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair,And one flung odours on his hair;His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down,One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown.A bride upon her wedding-day,Was tended ne'er by troop so gay."Loud laugh'd they all,—the King, in vain,With questions task'd the giddy train;Let him entreat, or crave, or call,'Twas one reply—loud laugh'd they all.Then o'er him mimic chains they fling,Framed of the fairest flowers of spring.While some their gentle force unite,Onward to drag the wondering knight,Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows,Dealt with the lily or the rose.Behind him were in triumph borneThe warlike arms he late had worn.Four of the train combined to rearThe terrors of Tintadgel's spear;[23]Two, laughing at their lack of strength,Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length;One, while she aped a martial stride,Placed on her brows the helmet's pride;Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise,To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes.With revel-shout, and triumph-song,Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng."Through many a gallery and hallThey led, I ween, their royal thrall;At length, beneath a fair arcadeTheir march and song at once they staid.The eldest maiden of the band,(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,)Raised, with imposing air, her hand,And reverent silence did command,On entrance of their Queen,And they were mute—But as a glanceThey steal on Arthur's countenanceBewilder'd with surprise,Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak,In archly dimpled chin and cheek,And laughter-lighted eyes."The attributes of those high daysNow only live in minstrel-lays;Nor Nature, now exhausted, stillWas then profuse of good and ill.Strength was gigantic, valour high,And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky,And beauty had such matchless beamAs lights not now a lover's dream.Yet e'en in that romantic age,Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen,As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage,When forth on that enchanted stage,With glittering train of maid and page,Advanced the castle's Queen!While up the hall she slowly pass'd,Her dark eye on the King she cast,That flash'd expression strong;The longer dwelt that lingering look,Her cheek the livelier colour took,And scarce the shame-faced King could brookThe gaze that lasted long.A sage, who had that look espied,Where kindling passion strove with pride,Had whisper'd, 'Prince, beware!From the chafed tiger rend the prey,Rush on the lion when at bay,Bar the fell dragon's blighted way,But shun that lovely snare!'—"At once, that inward strife suppress'd,The dame approach'd her warlike guest,With greeting in that fair degree,Where female pride and courtesyAre blended with such passing artAs awes at once and charms the heart.A courtly welcome first she gave,Then of his goodness 'gan to craveConstruction fair and trueOf her light maidens' idle mirth,Who drew from lonely glens their birth,Nor knew to pay to stranger worthAnd dignity their due;And then she pray'd that he would restThat night her castle's honour'd guest.The Monarch meetly thanks express'd;The banquet rose at her behest,With lay and tale, and laugh and jest,Apace the evening flew."The lady sate the Monarch by,Now in her turn abash'd and shy,And with indifference seem'd to hearThe toys he whisper'd in her ear.Her bearing modest was and fair,Yet shadows of constraint were there,That show'd an over-cautious careSome inward thought to hide;Oft did she pause in full reply,And oft cast down her large dark eye,Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh,That heav'd her bosom's pride."Another day, another day,And yet another, glides away!The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,Maraud on Britain's shores again.Arthur, of Christendom the flower,Lies loitering in a lady's bower;The horn, that foemen wont to fear,Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer,And Caliburn, the British pride,Hangs useless by a lover's side."Another day, another day,And yet another, glides away!Heroic plans in pleasure drowned,He thinks not of the Table Round;In lawless love dissolved his life,He thinks not of his beauteous wife:Better he loves to snatch a flowerFrom bosom of his paramour,Than from a Saxon knight to wrestThe honours of his heathen crest;Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown,The heron's plume her hawk struck down,Than o'er the altar give to flowThe banners of a Paynim foe.Thus, week by week, and day by day,His life inglorious glides away;But she, that soothes his dream, with fearBeholds his hour of waking near."Three summer months had scantly flown,When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone,Spoke of his liegemen and his throne;Said, all too long had been his stay,And duties, which a monarch sway,Duties, unknown to humbler men,Must tear her knight from Guendolen.She listened silently the while,Her mood expressed in bitter smile;Beneath her eye must Arthur quail,And oft resume the unfinished tale,Confessing, by his downcast eye,The wrong he sought to justify.He ceased. A moment mute she gazed,And then her looks to heaven she raised;One palm her temples veiled, to hideThe tear that sprung in spite of pride;The other for an instant pressedThe foldings of her silken vest!"At her reproachful sign and lookThe hint the monarch's conscience took.Eager he spoke—'No, Lady, no!Deem not of British Arthur so,Nor think he can deserter proveTo the dear pledge of mutual love.I swear by sceptre and by sword,As belted knight and Britain's lord,That if a boy shall claim my care,That boy is born a kingdom's heir;But, if a maiden Fate allows,To choose that maid a fitting spouse,A summer-day in lists shall striveMy knights—the bravest knights alive,—And he, the best and bravest tried,Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'—He spoke, with voice resolved and high—The lady deigned him not reply."At dawn of morn, ere on the brakeHis matins did a warbler make,Or stirred his wing to brush awayA single dewdrop from the spray,Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist,The castle-battlements had kissed,The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls,And Arthur sallies from the walls.Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom,And steel from spur to helmet-plume,His Lybian steed full proudly trode,And joyful neighed beneath his load.The Monarch gave a passing sighTo penitence and pleasures by,When, lo! to his astonished ken,Appeared the form of Guendolen."Beyond the utmost wall she stood,Attired like huntress of the wood:Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare,And eagle-plumage decked her hair;Firm was her look, her bearing bold,And in her hand a cup of gold.'Thou goest!' she said, 'and ne'er againMust we two meet; in joy or pain.Full fain would I this hour delay,Thought weak the wish—yet wilt thou stay?—No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,—Part we like lover and like friend.'She raised the cup—'Not this the juiceThe sluggish vines of earth produce;Pledge we, at parting, in the draughtWhich Genii love!'—she said and quaffed;And strange unwonted lustres flyFrom her flushed cheek and sparkling eye."The courteous monarch bent him low,And, stooping down from saddlebow,Lifted the cup, in act to drink.A drop escaped the goblet's brink—Intense as liquid fire from hell,Upon the charger's neck it fell.Screaming with agony and fright,He bolted twenty feet upright——The peasant still can show the dintWhere his hoofs lighted on the flint.—From Arthur's hand the goblet flew,Scattering a shower of fiery dew,That burned and blighted where it fell![24]The frantic steed rushed up the dell,As whistles from the bow the reed;Nor bit nor rein could check his speed,Until he gained the hill;Then breath and sinew failed apace,And, reeling from the desperate race,He stood, exhausted, still.The Monarch, breathless and amazed,Back on the fatal castle gazed——Nor tower nor donjon could he spy,Darkening against the morning sky;But, on the spot where once they frowned,The lonely streamlet brawled aroundA tufted knoll, where dimly shoneFragments of rock and rifted stone.Musing on this strange hap the while,The King wends back to fair Carlisle;And cares, that cumber royal sway,Wore memory of the past away."Full fifteen years, and more, were sped,Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head.Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought,The Saxons to subjection brought:Rython, the mighty giant, slainBy his good brand, relieved Bretagne:The Pictish Gillamore, in fight,And Roman Lucius, owned his might;And wide were through the world renownedThe glories of his Table Round.Each knight, who sought adventurous fame,To the bold court of Britain came,And all who suffered causeless wrong,From tyrant proud or faitour strong,Sought Arthur's presence to complain,Nor there for aid implored in vain."For this the King, with pomp and pride,Held solemn court at Whitsuntide,And summoned Prince and Peer—All who owed homage for their land,Or who craved knighthood from his hand,Or who had succour to demand—To come from far and near."The heralds named the appointed spot,As Caerleon or Camelot,Or Carlisle fair and free.At Penrith, now, the feast was set,And in fair Eamont's vale were metThe flower of chivalry."When wine and mirth did most abound,And harpers played their blithest round,A shrilly trumpet shook the ground,And marshals cleared the ring;A maiden, on a palfrey white,Heading a band of damsels bright,Paced through the circle, to alightAnd kneel before the King.Arthur, with strong emotion, sawHer graceful boldness checked by awe,Her dress like huntress of the wold,Her bow and baldric trapped with gold,Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare,And the eagle-plume that decked her hair.Graceful her veil she backward flung—The King, as from his seat he sprung,Almost cried,'Guendolen!'But 'twas a face more frank and wild,Betwixt the woman and the child,Where less of magic beauty smiledThan of the race of men;And in the forehead's haughty grace,The lines of Britain's royal race,Pendragon's you might ken."Faltering, yet gracefully she said—'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid,In her departed mother's name,A father's vowed protection claim!The vow was sworn in desert lone,In the deep valley of St. John.'At once the King the suppliant raised,And kissed her brow, her beauty praised;His vow, he said, should well be kept,Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,—Then conscious glanced upon his queen:But she, unruffled at the scene,Of human frailty construed mild,Looked upon Lancelot and smiled."'Up! up! each knight of gallant crestTake buckler, spear, and brand!He that to-day shall bear him best,Shall win my Gyneth's hand.And Arthur's daughter, when a bride,Shall bring a noble dower;Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide,And Carlisle town and tower.'Then might you hear each valiant knight,To page and squire that cried,'Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight!'Tis not each day that a warrior's mightMay win a royal bride.'Then cloaks and caps of maintenanceIn haste aside they fling;The helmets glance, and gleams the lance,And the steel-weaved hauberks ring.Small care had they of their peaceful array,They might gather it that wolde;For brake and bramble glitter'd gay,With pearls and cloth of gold."Within trumpet sound of the Table RoundWere fifty champions free,And they all arise to fight that prize,—They all arise but three.The knights they busied them so fast,With buckling spur and belt,That sigh and look, by ladies cast,Were neither seen nor felt."From pleading, or upbraiding glance,Each gallant turns aside,And only thought, 'If speeds my lance,A queen becomes my bride!She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide,And Carlisle tower and town;She is the loveliest maid, beside,That ever heired a crown.'So in haste their coursers they bestride,And strike their visors down."The champions, arm'd in martial sort,Have throng'd into the list,And but three knights of Arthur's courtAre from the tourney miss'd."Now caracol'd the steeds in air,Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair,As all around the lists so wideIn panoply the champions ride.King Arthur saw, with startled eye,The flower of chivalry march by,The kingdom's shield in hour of need,Too late he thought him of the woeMight from their civil conflict flow;For well he knew they would not partTill cold was many a gallant heart.His hasty vow he 'gan to rue,And Gyneth then apart he drew;To her his leading-staff resign'd,But added caution grave and kind."'Thou see'st my child, as promise-bound,I bid the trump for tourney sound.Take thou my warder, as the queenAnd umpire of the martial scene;But mark thou this:—as Beauty brightIs polar star to valiant knight,As at her word his sword he draws,His fairest guerdon her applause,So gentle maid should never askOf knighthood vain and dangerous task;And Beauty's eyes should ever beLike the twin stars that soothe the sea,And Beauty's breath should whisper peace,And bid the storm of battle cease.I tell thee this, lest all too farThese knights urge tourney into war.Blithe at the trumpet let them go,And fairly counter blow for blow:—No striplings these, who succour need,For a raised helm or fallen steed.But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm,And threatens death or deadly harm,Thy sire entreats, thy king commands,Thou drop the warder from thy hands.Trust thou thy father with thy fate,Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate;Nor be it said, through Gyneth's prideA rose of Arthur's chaplet died.'"A proud and discontented glowO'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow;She put the warder by:—'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said,'Thus chaffer'd down and limited.Debased and narrow'd, for a maid,Of less degree than I.No petty chief, but holds his heirAt a more honour'd price and rareThan Britain's King holds me!Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower,Has but her father's rugged tower,His barren hill and lee.'King Arthur swore, 'By crown and sword,As belted Knight, and Britain's lord,That a whole summer's day should striveHis knights, the bravest knights alive!'—'Recal thine oath! and to her glenPoor Gyneth can return agen;Not on thy daughter will the stain,That soils thy sword and crown, remain.But think not she will e'er be brideSave to the bravest, proved and tried;Pendragon's daughter will not fearFor clashing sword or splinter'd spear,Nor shrink though blood should flow.'"He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch bold:—'I give—what I may not withhold;For not for danger, dread, or death,Must British Arthur break his faith.Too late I mark thy mother's artHath taught thee this relentless part.Use, then, the warder, as thou wilt;But, trust me, that, if life be spilt,In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.'With that he turn'd his head aside,Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride,As, with the truncheon raised, she sateThe arbitress of mortal fate;Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed,How the bold champions stood opposed,For shrill the trumpet-flourish fellUpon his ear like passing bell!Then first from sight of martial frayDid Britain's hero turn away."But Gyneth heard the clangour high,As hears the hawk the partridge cry.So well accomplish'd was each knight,To strike and to defend in fight,Their meeting was a goodly sight,While plate and mail held true.The lists with painted plumes were strown,Upon the wind at random thrown,But helm and breastplate bloodless shone,It seem'd their feather'd crests aloneShould this encounter rue."But soon too earnest grew their game,The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame,And, horse and man, to ground there cameKnights, who shall rise no more!Gone was the pride the war that graced,Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced,And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced,And pennons stream'd with gore.Gone, too, were fence and fair array,And desperate strength made deadly wayAt random through the bloody fray,And blows were dealt with headlong sway,Unheeding where they fell;And now the trumpet's clamour seemLike the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream,Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream,The sinking seaman's knell!"Already gasping on the groundLie twenty of the Table Round,Of chivalry the prime.Arthur, in anguish, tore awayFrom head and beard his tresses gray,And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay,And quaked with ruth and fear;But still she deem'd her mother's shadeHung o'er the tumult, and forbadeThe sign that had the slaughter staid,And chid the rising tear.Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,Helias the White, and Lionel,And many a champion more;Rochemont and Dinadam are down,And Ferrand of the Forest BrownLies gasping in his gore.Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'dEven to the confines of the list,Young Vanoc of the beardless face(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race),O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled,His heart's-blood died her sandals red.But then the sky was overcast.Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast,And, rent by sudden throes,Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth,And from the gulf,—tremendous birth!—The form of Merlin rose."Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyedThe dreary lists with slaughter dyed,And sternly raised his hand;—'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear!And thou, fair cause of mischief, hearThe doom thy fates demand!Long shall close in stony sleepEyes for ruth that would not weep;Iron lethargy shall sealHeart that pity scorn'd to feel.Yet, because thy mother's artWarp'd thine unsuspicious heart,And for love of Arthur's race,Punishment is blent with grace,Thou shalt bear thy penance loneIn the valley of Saint John,And this doom shall overtake thee;Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee,For feats of arms as far renown'dAs warrior of the Table Round.Long endurance of thy slumberWell may teach the world to numberAll their woes from Gyneth's pride,When the Red Cross champions died.'"As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eyeSlumber's load begins to lie;Fear and anger vainly striveStill to keep its light alive.Twice, with effort and with pause,O'er her brow her hand she draws;Twice her strength in vain she tries,From the fatal chair to rise;Merlin's magic doom is spoken,Vanoc's death must now be wroken.Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall,Curtaining each azure ball,Slowly as on summer evesViolets fold their dusky leaves.The weighty baton of commandNow bears down her sinking hand,On her shoulder droops her head:Net of pearl and golden thread,Bursting, gave her locks to flowO'er her arm and breast of snow.And so lovely seem'd she there,Spell-bound in her ivory chair,That her angry sire, repenting,Craved stern Merlin for relenting,And the champions, for her sake,Would again the contest wake;Till, in necromantic night,Gyneth vanish'd from their sight."Still she bears her weird alone,In the Valley of Saint John;And her semblance oft will seem,Mingling in a champion's dream,Of her weary lot to plain,And crave his aid to burst her chain.While her wondrous tale was new,Warriors to her rescue drew,East and west, and south and north,From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.Most have sought in vain the glen,Tower nor castle could they ken;Not at every time or tide,Nor by every eye descried,Fast and vigil must be borne,Many a night in watching worn,Ere an eye of mortal powersCan discern those magic towers.Of the persevering few,Some from hopeless task withdrew,When they read the dismal threatGraved upon the gloomy gate.Few have braved the yawning door,And those few return'd no more.In the lapse of time forgot,Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot;Sound she sleeps as in the tomb,Till waken'd by the trump of doom."
"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle,When Pentecost was o'er:He journey'd like errant-knight the while,And sweetly the summer sun did smileOn mountain, moss, and moor.Above his solitary trackRose huge Blencathara's ridgy back,Amid whose yawning gulfs the sunCast umber'd radiance red and dun,Though never sunbeam could discernThe surface of that sable tarn,[21]In whose black mirror you may spyThe stars, while noontide lights the sky.The gallant King he skirted stillThe margin of that mighty hill;Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,And torrents, down the gullies flung,Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on,Recoiling now from crag and stone,Now diving deep from human ken,And raving down its darksome glen.The Monarch judged this desert wild,With such romantic ruin piled,Was theatre by nature's handFor feat of high achievement plann'd.
"He rode, till over down and dellThe shade more broad and deeper fell;And though around the mountain's headFlow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red,Dark at the base, unblest by beam,Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream.With toil the King his way pursuedBy lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,Till on his course obliquely shoneThe narrow valley of Saint John,Down sloping to the western sky,Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.Right glad to feel those beams again,The King drew up his charger's rein;With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight,As dazzled with the level light,And, from beneath his glove of mail,Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale,While 'gainst the sun his armour brightGleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light.
"Paled in by many a lofty hill,The narrow dale lay smooth and still,And, down its verdant bosom led,A winding brooklet found its bed.But, midmost of the vale, a moundArose with airy turrets crown'd,Buttress, and rampire's circling bound,And mighty keep and tower;Seem'd some primeval giant's hand,The castle's massive walls had plann'd,A ponderous bulwark to withstandAmbitious Nimrod's power.Above the moated entrance slung,The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,As jealous of a foe;Wicket of oak, as iron hard,With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd,And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guardThe gloomy pass below.But the gray walls no banners crown'd,Upon the watch-tower's airy round,No warder stood his horn to sound,No guard beside the bridge was found,And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd,Glanced neither bill nor bow.
"Beneath the castle's gloomy pride,In ample round did Arthur rideThree times; nor living thing he spied,Nor heard a living sound,Save that, awakening from her dream,The owlet now began to scream,In concert with the rushing stream,That wash'd the battled mound.He lighted from his goodly steed,And he left him to graze on bank and mead;And slowly he climb'd the narrow wayThat reached the entrance grim and gray,And he stood the outward arch below,And his bugle-horn prepared to blow,In summons blithe and bold,Deeming to rouse from iron sleepThe guardian of this dismal Keep,Which well he guess'd the holdOf wizard stern, or goblin grim,Or pagan of gigantic limb,The tyrant of the wold.
"The ivory bugle's golden tipTwice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip,And twice his hand withdrew.—Think not but Arthur's heart was good!His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood,Had a pagan host before him stood,He had charged them through and through;Yet the silence of that ancient placeSunk on his heart, and he paused a spaceEre yet his horn he blew.But, instant as its 'larum rung,The castle gate was open flung,Portcullis rose with crashing groanFull harshly up its groove of stone;The balance-beams obey'd the blast,And down the trembling drawbridge cast;The vaulted arch before him lay,With nought to bar the gloomy way,And onward Arthur paced, with handOn Caliburn's[22]resistless brand.
"A hundred torches, flashing bright,Dispelled at once the gloomy nightThat lour'd along the walls,And show'd the King's astonish'd sightThe inmates of the halls.Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim,Nor giant huge of form and limb,Nor heathen knight, was there;But the cressets, which odours flung aloft,Show'd by their yellow light and soft,A band of damsels fair.Onward they came, like summer waveThat dances to the shore;An hundred voices welcome gave,And welcome o'er and o'er!An hundred lovely hands assailThe bucklers of the monarch's mail,And busy labour'd to unhaspRivet of steel and iron clasp.One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair,And one flung odours on his hair;His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down,One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown.A bride upon her wedding-day,Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.
"Loud laugh'd they all,—the King, in vain,With questions task'd the giddy train;Let him entreat, or crave, or call,'Twas one reply—loud laugh'd they all.Then o'er him mimic chains they fling,Framed of the fairest flowers of spring.While some their gentle force unite,Onward to drag the wondering knight,Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows,Dealt with the lily or the rose.Behind him were in triumph borneThe warlike arms he late had worn.Four of the train combined to rearThe terrors of Tintadgel's spear;[23]Two, laughing at their lack of strength,Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length;One, while she aped a martial stride,Placed on her brows the helmet's pride;Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise,To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes.With revel-shout, and triumph-song,Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng.
"Through many a gallery and hallThey led, I ween, their royal thrall;At length, beneath a fair arcadeTheir march and song at once they staid.The eldest maiden of the band,(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,)Raised, with imposing air, her hand,And reverent silence did command,On entrance of their Queen,And they were mute—But as a glanceThey steal on Arthur's countenanceBewilder'd with surprise,Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak,In archly dimpled chin and cheek,And laughter-lighted eyes.
"The attributes of those high daysNow only live in minstrel-lays;Nor Nature, now exhausted, stillWas then profuse of good and ill.Strength was gigantic, valour high,And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky,And beauty had such matchless beamAs lights not now a lover's dream.Yet e'en in that romantic age,Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen,As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage,When forth on that enchanted stage,With glittering train of maid and page,Advanced the castle's Queen!While up the hall she slowly pass'd,Her dark eye on the King she cast,That flash'd expression strong;The longer dwelt that lingering look,Her cheek the livelier colour took,And scarce the shame-faced King could brookThe gaze that lasted long.A sage, who had that look espied,Where kindling passion strove with pride,Had whisper'd, 'Prince, beware!From the chafed tiger rend the prey,Rush on the lion when at bay,Bar the fell dragon's blighted way,But shun that lovely snare!'—
"At once, that inward strife suppress'd,The dame approach'd her warlike guest,With greeting in that fair degree,Where female pride and courtesyAre blended with such passing artAs awes at once and charms the heart.A courtly welcome first she gave,Then of his goodness 'gan to craveConstruction fair and trueOf her light maidens' idle mirth,Who drew from lonely glens their birth,Nor knew to pay to stranger worthAnd dignity their due;And then she pray'd that he would restThat night her castle's honour'd guest.The Monarch meetly thanks express'd;The banquet rose at her behest,With lay and tale, and laugh and jest,Apace the evening flew.
"The lady sate the Monarch by,Now in her turn abash'd and shy,And with indifference seem'd to hearThe toys he whisper'd in her ear.Her bearing modest was and fair,Yet shadows of constraint were there,That show'd an over-cautious careSome inward thought to hide;Oft did she pause in full reply,And oft cast down her large dark eye,Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh,That heav'd her bosom's pride.
"Another day, another day,And yet another, glides away!The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,Maraud on Britain's shores again.Arthur, of Christendom the flower,Lies loitering in a lady's bower;The horn, that foemen wont to fear,Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer,And Caliburn, the British pride,Hangs useless by a lover's side.
"Another day, another day,And yet another, glides away!Heroic plans in pleasure drowned,He thinks not of the Table Round;In lawless love dissolved his life,He thinks not of his beauteous wife:Better he loves to snatch a flowerFrom bosom of his paramour,Than from a Saxon knight to wrestThe honours of his heathen crest;Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown,The heron's plume her hawk struck down,Than o'er the altar give to flowThe banners of a Paynim foe.Thus, week by week, and day by day,His life inglorious glides away;But she, that soothes his dream, with fearBeholds his hour of waking near.
"Three summer months had scantly flown,When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone,Spoke of his liegemen and his throne;Said, all too long had been his stay,And duties, which a monarch sway,Duties, unknown to humbler men,Must tear her knight from Guendolen.She listened silently the while,Her mood expressed in bitter smile;Beneath her eye must Arthur quail,And oft resume the unfinished tale,Confessing, by his downcast eye,The wrong he sought to justify.He ceased. A moment mute she gazed,And then her looks to heaven she raised;One palm her temples veiled, to hideThe tear that sprung in spite of pride;The other for an instant pressedThe foldings of her silken vest!
"At her reproachful sign and lookThe hint the monarch's conscience took.Eager he spoke—'No, Lady, no!Deem not of British Arthur so,Nor think he can deserter proveTo the dear pledge of mutual love.I swear by sceptre and by sword,As belted knight and Britain's lord,That if a boy shall claim my care,That boy is born a kingdom's heir;But, if a maiden Fate allows,To choose that maid a fitting spouse,A summer-day in lists shall striveMy knights—the bravest knights alive,—And he, the best and bravest tried,Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'—He spoke, with voice resolved and high—The lady deigned him not reply.
"At dawn of morn, ere on the brakeHis matins did a warbler make,Or stirred his wing to brush awayA single dewdrop from the spray,Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist,The castle-battlements had kissed,The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls,And Arthur sallies from the walls.Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom,And steel from spur to helmet-plume,His Lybian steed full proudly trode,And joyful neighed beneath his load.The Monarch gave a passing sighTo penitence and pleasures by,When, lo! to his astonished ken,Appeared the form of Guendolen.
"Beyond the utmost wall she stood,Attired like huntress of the wood:Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare,And eagle-plumage decked her hair;Firm was her look, her bearing bold,And in her hand a cup of gold.'Thou goest!' she said, 'and ne'er againMust we two meet; in joy or pain.Full fain would I this hour delay,Thought weak the wish—yet wilt thou stay?—No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,—Part we like lover and like friend.'She raised the cup—'Not this the juiceThe sluggish vines of earth produce;Pledge we, at parting, in the draughtWhich Genii love!'—she said and quaffed;And strange unwonted lustres flyFrom her flushed cheek and sparkling eye.
"The courteous monarch bent him low,And, stooping down from saddlebow,Lifted the cup, in act to drink.A drop escaped the goblet's brink—Intense as liquid fire from hell,Upon the charger's neck it fell.Screaming with agony and fright,He bolted twenty feet upright——The peasant still can show the dintWhere his hoofs lighted on the flint.—From Arthur's hand the goblet flew,Scattering a shower of fiery dew,That burned and blighted where it fell![24]The frantic steed rushed up the dell,As whistles from the bow the reed;Nor bit nor rein could check his speed,Until he gained the hill;Then breath and sinew failed apace,And, reeling from the desperate race,He stood, exhausted, still.The Monarch, breathless and amazed,Back on the fatal castle gazed——Nor tower nor donjon could he spy,Darkening against the morning sky;But, on the spot where once they frowned,The lonely streamlet brawled aroundA tufted knoll, where dimly shoneFragments of rock and rifted stone.Musing on this strange hap the while,The King wends back to fair Carlisle;And cares, that cumber royal sway,Wore memory of the past away.
"Full fifteen years, and more, were sped,Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head.Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought,The Saxons to subjection brought:Rython, the mighty giant, slainBy his good brand, relieved Bretagne:The Pictish Gillamore, in fight,And Roman Lucius, owned his might;And wide were through the world renownedThe glories of his Table Round.Each knight, who sought adventurous fame,To the bold court of Britain came,And all who suffered causeless wrong,From tyrant proud or faitour strong,Sought Arthur's presence to complain,Nor there for aid implored in vain.
"For this the King, with pomp and pride,Held solemn court at Whitsuntide,And summoned Prince and Peer—All who owed homage for their land,Or who craved knighthood from his hand,Or who had succour to demand—To come from far and near.
"The heralds named the appointed spot,As Caerleon or Camelot,Or Carlisle fair and free.At Penrith, now, the feast was set,And in fair Eamont's vale were metThe flower of chivalry.
"When wine and mirth did most abound,And harpers played their blithest round,A shrilly trumpet shook the ground,And marshals cleared the ring;A maiden, on a palfrey white,Heading a band of damsels bright,Paced through the circle, to alightAnd kneel before the King.Arthur, with strong emotion, sawHer graceful boldness checked by awe,Her dress like huntress of the wold,Her bow and baldric trapped with gold,Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare,And the eagle-plume that decked her hair.Graceful her veil she backward flung—The King, as from his seat he sprung,Almost cried,'Guendolen!'But 'twas a face more frank and wild,Betwixt the woman and the child,Where less of magic beauty smiledThan of the race of men;And in the forehead's haughty grace,The lines of Britain's royal race,Pendragon's you might ken.
"Faltering, yet gracefully she said—'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid,In her departed mother's name,A father's vowed protection claim!The vow was sworn in desert lone,In the deep valley of St. John.'At once the King the suppliant raised,And kissed her brow, her beauty praised;His vow, he said, should well be kept,Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,—Then conscious glanced upon his queen:But she, unruffled at the scene,Of human frailty construed mild,Looked upon Lancelot and smiled.
"'Up! up! each knight of gallant crestTake buckler, spear, and brand!He that to-day shall bear him best,Shall win my Gyneth's hand.And Arthur's daughter, when a bride,Shall bring a noble dower;Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide,And Carlisle town and tower.'Then might you hear each valiant knight,To page and squire that cried,'Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight!'Tis not each day that a warrior's mightMay win a royal bride.'Then cloaks and caps of maintenanceIn haste aside they fling;The helmets glance, and gleams the lance,And the steel-weaved hauberks ring.Small care had they of their peaceful array,They might gather it that wolde;For brake and bramble glitter'd gay,With pearls and cloth of gold.
"Within trumpet sound of the Table RoundWere fifty champions free,And they all arise to fight that prize,—They all arise but three.The knights they busied them so fast,With buckling spur and belt,That sigh and look, by ladies cast,Were neither seen nor felt.
"From pleading, or upbraiding glance,Each gallant turns aside,And only thought, 'If speeds my lance,A queen becomes my bride!She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide,And Carlisle tower and town;She is the loveliest maid, beside,That ever heired a crown.'So in haste their coursers they bestride,And strike their visors down.
"The champions, arm'd in martial sort,Have throng'd into the list,And but three knights of Arthur's courtAre from the tourney miss'd.
"Now caracol'd the steeds in air,Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair,As all around the lists so wideIn panoply the champions ride.King Arthur saw, with startled eye,The flower of chivalry march by,The kingdom's shield in hour of need,Too late he thought him of the woeMight from their civil conflict flow;For well he knew they would not partTill cold was many a gallant heart.His hasty vow he 'gan to rue,And Gyneth then apart he drew;To her his leading-staff resign'd,But added caution grave and kind.
"'Thou see'st my child, as promise-bound,I bid the trump for tourney sound.Take thou my warder, as the queenAnd umpire of the martial scene;But mark thou this:—as Beauty brightIs polar star to valiant knight,As at her word his sword he draws,His fairest guerdon her applause,So gentle maid should never askOf knighthood vain and dangerous task;And Beauty's eyes should ever beLike the twin stars that soothe the sea,And Beauty's breath should whisper peace,And bid the storm of battle cease.I tell thee this, lest all too farThese knights urge tourney into war.Blithe at the trumpet let them go,And fairly counter blow for blow:—No striplings these, who succour need,For a raised helm or fallen steed.But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm,And threatens death or deadly harm,Thy sire entreats, thy king commands,Thou drop the warder from thy hands.Trust thou thy father with thy fate,Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate;Nor be it said, through Gyneth's prideA rose of Arthur's chaplet died.'
"A proud and discontented glowO'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow;She put the warder by:—'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said,'Thus chaffer'd down and limited.Debased and narrow'd, for a maid,Of less degree than I.No petty chief, but holds his heirAt a more honour'd price and rareThan Britain's King holds me!Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower,Has but her father's rugged tower,His barren hill and lee.'King Arthur swore, 'By crown and sword,As belted Knight, and Britain's lord,That a whole summer's day should striveHis knights, the bravest knights alive!'—'Recal thine oath! and to her glenPoor Gyneth can return agen;Not on thy daughter will the stain,That soils thy sword and crown, remain.But think not she will e'er be brideSave to the bravest, proved and tried;Pendragon's daughter will not fearFor clashing sword or splinter'd spear,Nor shrink though blood should flow.'
"He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch bold:—'I give—what I may not withhold;For not for danger, dread, or death,Must British Arthur break his faith.Too late I mark thy mother's artHath taught thee this relentless part.Use, then, the warder, as thou wilt;But, trust me, that, if life be spilt,In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.'With that he turn'd his head aside,Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride,As, with the truncheon raised, she sateThe arbitress of mortal fate;Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed,How the bold champions stood opposed,For shrill the trumpet-flourish fellUpon his ear like passing bell!Then first from sight of martial frayDid Britain's hero turn away.
"But Gyneth heard the clangour high,As hears the hawk the partridge cry.So well accomplish'd was each knight,To strike and to defend in fight,Their meeting was a goodly sight,While plate and mail held true.The lists with painted plumes were strown,Upon the wind at random thrown,But helm and breastplate bloodless shone,It seem'd their feather'd crests aloneShould this encounter rue.
"But soon too earnest grew their game,The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame,And, horse and man, to ground there cameKnights, who shall rise no more!Gone was the pride the war that graced,Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced,And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced,And pennons stream'd with gore.Gone, too, were fence and fair array,And desperate strength made deadly wayAt random through the bloody fray,And blows were dealt with headlong sway,Unheeding where they fell;And now the trumpet's clamour seemLike the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream,Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream,The sinking seaman's knell!
"Already gasping on the groundLie twenty of the Table Round,Of chivalry the prime.Arthur, in anguish, tore awayFrom head and beard his tresses gray,And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay,And quaked with ruth and fear;But still she deem'd her mother's shadeHung o'er the tumult, and forbadeThe sign that had the slaughter staid,And chid the rising tear.Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,Helias the White, and Lionel,And many a champion more;Rochemont and Dinadam are down,And Ferrand of the Forest BrownLies gasping in his gore.Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'dEven to the confines of the list,Young Vanoc of the beardless face(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race),O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled,His heart's-blood died her sandals red.But then the sky was overcast.Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast,And, rent by sudden throes,Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth,And from the gulf,—tremendous birth!—The form of Merlin rose.
"Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyedThe dreary lists with slaughter dyed,And sternly raised his hand;—'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear!And thou, fair cause of mischief, hearThe doom thy fates demand!Long shall close in stony sleepEyes for ruth that would not weep;Iron lethargy shall sealHeart that pity scorn'd to feel.Yet, because thy mother's artWarp'd thine unsuspicious heart,And for love of Arthur's race,Punishment is blent with grace,Thou shalt bear thy penance loneIn the valley of Saint John,And this doom shall overtake thee;Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee,For feats of arms as far renown'dAs warrior of the Table Round.Long endurance of thy slumberWell may teach the world to numberAll their woes from Gyneth's pride,When the Red Cross champions died.'
"As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eyeSlumber's load begins to lie;Fear and anger vainly striveStill to keep its light alive.Twice, with effort and with pause,O'er her brow her hand she draws;Twice her strength in vain she tries,From the fatal chair to rise;Merlin's magic doom is spoken,Vanoc's death must now be wroken.Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall,Curtaining each azure ball,Slowly as on summer evesViolets fold their dusky leaves.The weighty baton of commandNow bears down her sinking hand,On her shoulder droops her head:Net of pearl and golden thread,Bursting, gave her locks to flowO'er her arm and breast of snow.And so lovely seem'd she there,Spell-bound in her ivory chair,That her angry sire, repenting,Craved stern Merlin for relenting,And the champions, for her sake,Would again the contest wake;Till, in necromantic night,Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.
"Still she bears her weird alone,In the Valley of Saint John;And her semblance oft will seem,Mingling in a champion's dream,Of her weary lot to plain,And crave his aid to burst her chain.While her wondrous tale was new,Warriors to her rescue drew,East and west, and south and north,From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.Most have sought in vain the glen,Tower nor castle could they ken;Not at every time or tide,Nor by every eye descried,Fast and vigil must be borne,Many a night in watching worn,Ere an eye of mortal powersCan discern those magic towers.Of the persevering few,Some from hopeless task withdrew,When they read the dismal threatGraved upon the gloomy gate.Few have braved the yawning door,And those few return'd no more.In the lapse of time forgot,Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot;Sound she sleeps as in the tomb,Till waken'd by the trump of doom."
THIS IS THE END OF LYULPH'S TALE.