RAPUNZEL

The Prince,being in the wood near the tower, in the evening.ICOULD not even thinkWhat made me weep that day,When out of the council-hallThe courtiers pass'd away,—The Witch.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!Rapunzel.Is it not true that every dayShe climbeth up the same strange way,Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay,Over my golden hair?The Prince.And left me there alone,To think on what they said:'Thou art a king's own son,'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'The Witch.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!Rapunzel.When I undo the knotted mass,Fathoms below the shadows passOver my hair along the grass.O my golden hair!The Prince.I put my armour on,Thinking on what they said:'Thou art a king's own son,'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'The Witch.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!Rapunzel.See on the marble parapet,I lean my brow, strive to forgetThat fathoms below my hair grows wetWith the dew, my golden hair.The Prince.I rode throughout the town,Men did not bow the head,Though I was the king's own son:He rides to dream, they said.The Witch.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Wind up your hair!Rapunzel.See on the marble parapet,The faint red stains with tears are wet;The long years pass, no help comes yetTo free my golden hair.The Prince.For leagues and leagues I rode,Till hot my armour grew,Till underneath the leavesI felt the evening dew.The Witch.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Weep through your hair!Rapunzel.And yet: but I am growing old,For want of love my heart is cold;Years pass, the while I loose and foldThe fathoms of my hair.

The Prince,being in the wood near the tower, in the evening.

ICOULD not even thinkWhat made me weep that day,When out of the council-hallThe courtiers pass'd away,—

The Witch.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!

Rapunzel.

Is it not true that every dayShe climbeth up the same strange way,Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay,Over my golden hair?

The Prince.

And left me there alone,To think on what they said:'Thou art a king's own son,'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'

The Witch.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!

Rapunzel.

When I undo the knotted mass,Fathoms below the shadows passOver my hair along the grass.O my golden hair!

The Prince.

I put my armour on,Thinking on what they said:'Thou art a king's own son,'Tis fit that thou should'st wed.'

The Witch.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!

Rapunzel.

See on the marble parapet,I lean my brow, strive to forgetThat fathoms below my hair grows wetWith the dew, my golden hair.

The Prince.

I rode throughout the town,Men did not bow the head,Though I was the king's own son:He rides to dream, they said.

The Witch.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Wind up your hair!

Rapunzel.

See on the marble parapet,The faint red stains with tears are wet;The long years pass, no help comes yetTo free my golden hair.

The Prince.

For leagues and leagues I rode,Till hot my armour grew,Till underneath the leavesI felt the evening dew.

The Witch.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Weep through your hair!

Rapunzel.

And yet: but I am growing old,For want of love my heart is cold;Years pass, the while I loose and foldThe fathoms of my hair.

The Prince,in the morning.IHAVE heard tales of men, who in the nightSaw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven,Who followed them until they reach'd the lightWherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven;But who went backward when they saw the gateOf diamond, nor dared to enter in;All their life long they were content to wait,Purging them patiently of every sin.I must have had a dream of some such thing,And now am just awaking from that dream;For even in grey dawn those strange words ringThrough heart and brain, and still I see that gleam.For in my dream at sunset-time I layBeneath these beeches, mail and helmet off,Right full of joy that I had come awayFrom court; for I was patient of the scoffThat met me always there from day to day,From any knave or coward of them all:I was content to live that wretched way;For truly till I left the council-hall,And rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun,My gleams of happiness were faint and few,But then I saw my real life had begun,And that I should be strong quite well I knew.For I was riding out to look for love,Therefore the birds within the thickets sung,Even in hot noontide; as I pass'd, aboveThe elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung.Now some few fathoms from the place where ILay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair,The marble corners faint against the sky;And dreamily I wonder'd what lived there:Because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen,No belfry for the swinging of great bells.No bolt or stone had ever crush'd the greenShafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tellsOf the Norse torches burning up the roofs,On the flower-carven marble could I see;But rather on all sides I saw the proofsOf a great loneliness that sicken'd me;Making me feel a doubt that was not fear,Whether my whole life long had been a dream,And I should wake up soon in some place, whereThe piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam;Not born as yet, but going to be born,No naked baby as I was at first,But an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scornCould turn from nothing: my heart almost burstBeneath the beeches, as I lay a-dreaming,I tried so hard to read this riddle through,To catch some golden cord that I saw gleamingLike gossamer against the autumn blue.But while I ponder'd these things, from the woodThere came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold,Who strode straight up to where the tower stood,And cried out shrilly words, whereon behold—The Witch,from the tower.Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!The Prince.Ah Christ! it was no dream then, but there stood(She comes again) a maiden passing fair,Against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood,Bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair.I read my riddle when I saw her stand,Poor love! her face quite pale against her hair,Praying to all the leagues of empty landTo save her from the woe she suffer'd there.To think! they trod upon her golden hairIn the witches' sabbaths; it was a delightFor these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare,Stood on the roof upon the winter night,To plait her dear hair into many plaits,And then, while God's eye look'd upon the thing,In the very likenesses of Devil's bats,Upon the ends of her long hair to swing.And now she stood above the parapet,And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow,Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead setUpon the marble, more I do not know;Because before my eyes a film of goldFloated, as now it floats. O unknown love,Would that I could thy yellow stair behold,If still thou standest the lead roof above!The Witch,as she passes.Is there any who will dareTo climb up the yellow stair,Glorious Rapunzel's golden hair?The Prince.If it would please God make you sing again,I think that I might very sweetly die,My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain,My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.Now I remember what a most strange year,Most strange and awful, in the beechen woodI have pass'd now; I still have a faint fearIt is a kind of dream not understood.I have seen no one in this wood exceptThe witch and her; have heard no human tones,But when the witches' revelry has creptBetween the very jointing of my bones.Ah! I know now; I could not go away,But needs must stop to hear her sing that songShe always sings at dawning of the day.I am not happy here, for I am strong,And every morning do I whet my sword,Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower,And still God ties me down to the green sward,Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.Rapunzelsings from the tower.My mother taught me prayersTo say when I had need;I have so many cares,That I can take no heedOf many words in them;But I remember this:Christ, bring me to thy bliss.Mary, maid withouten wem,Keep me!I am lone, I wis,Yet besides I have made thisBy myself:Give me a kiss,Dear God dwelling up in heaven!Also:Send me a true knight,Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright,Broad, and trenchant; yea, and sevenSpans from hilt to point, O Lord!And let the handle of his swordBe gold on silver, Lord in heaven!Such a sword as I see gleamSometimes, when they let me dream.Yea, besides, I have made this:Lord, give Mary a dear kiss,And let gold Michael, who looked down,When I was there, on Rouen townFrom the spire, bring me that kissOn a lily! Lord do this!These prayers on the dreadful nights,When the witches plait my hair,And the fearfullest of sightsOn the earth and in the air,Will not let me close my eyes,I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,That my weak heart will not holdAt some things that I behold.Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,That swell out the little bonesOf my bosom; till a tranceGod sends in middle of that dance,And I behold the countenanceOf Michael, and can feel no moreThe bitter east wind biting soreMy naked feet; can see no moreThe crayfish on the leaden floor,That mock with feeler and grim claw.Yea, often in that happy trance,Beside the blessed countenanceOf golden Michael, on the spireGlowing all crimson in the fireOf sunset, I behold a face,Which sometime, if God give me grace,May kiss me in this very place.Evening in the tower.Rapunzel.IT grows half way between the dark and light;Love, we have been six hours here alone:I fear that she will come before the night,And if she finds us thus we are undone.The Prince.Nay, draw a little nearer, that your breathMay touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm;Now tell me, did you ever see a death,Or ever see a man take mortal harm?Rapunzel.Once came two knights and fought with swords below,And while they fought I scarce could look at all,My head swam so; after, a moaning lowDrew my eyes down; I saw against the wallOne knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast,Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies redIn the golden twilight, as he took his rest,In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead.But the other, on his face, six paces off,Lay moaning, and the old familiar nameHe mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoffOf some lost soul remembering his past fame.His helm all dinted lay beside him there,The visor-bars were twisted towards the face,The crest, which was a lady very fair,Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place.The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay,Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the lightThat blazed in the west, yet surely on that daySome crimson thing had changed the grass from brightPure green I love so. But the knight who diedLay there for days after the other went;Until one day I heard a voice that cried:Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sentTo carry dead or living to the king.So the knights came and bore him straight awayOn their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing,His mother had not known him on that day,But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fairWrought wonderfully.The Prince.Ah, they were brothers then,And often rode together, doubtless whereThe swords were thickest, and were loyal men,Until they fell in these same evil dreams.Rapunzel.Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence?The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleamsBetween the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a senseOf fluttering victory comes over me,That will not let me fear aright; my heart,Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee;I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part;Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go.The Prince.I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staffThe crimson banner; let it lie below,Above it in the wind let grasses laugh.Now let us go, love, down the winding stair,With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword!I wrought it long ago, with golden hairFlowing about the hilts, because a word,Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreamingOf a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair;Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming,A half smile on the lips, though lines of careHad sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow;What other work in all the world had I,But through all turns of fate that face to follow?But wars and business kept me there to die.O child, I should have slain my brother, too,My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass,Had I not ridden out to look for you,When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers passFrom the golden hall. But it is strange your nameIs not the same the minstrel sung of yore;You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name.See, love, the stems shine through the open door.Morning in the woods.Rapunzel.OLOVE! me and my unknown name you have well won;The witch's name was Rapunzel: eh! not so sweet?No! but is this real grass, love, that I tread upon?What call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet?The Prince.Dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, O love!And ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung,Kiss both your parted lips; and I will hang above,And try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung.He sings.'Twixt the sunlight and the shadeFloat up memories of my maid:God, remember Guendolen!Gold or gems she did not wear,But her yellow rippled hair,Like a veil, hid Guendolen!'Twixt the sunlight and the shade,My rough hands so strangely made,Folded Golden Guendolen.Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard,Framed her face, while on the swardTears fell down from Guendolen.Guendolen now speaks no word,Hands fold round about the sword:Now no more of Guendolen.Only 'twixt the light and shadeFloating memories of my maidMake me pray for Guendolen.Guendolen.I kiss thee, new-found name! but I will never go:Your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again,But all my golden hair shall ever round you flow,Between the light and shade from Golden Guendolen.

The Prince,in the morning.

IHAVE heard tales of men, who in the nightSaw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven,Who followed them until they reach'd the lightWherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven;But who went backward when they saw the gateOf diamond, nor dared to enter in;All their life long they were content to wait,Purging them patiently of every sin.I must have had a dream of some such thing,And now am just awaking from that dream;For even in grey dawn those strange words ringThrough heart and brain, and still I see that gleam.For in my dream at sunset-time I layBeneath these beeches, mail and helmet off,Right full of joy that I had come awayFrom court; for I was patient of the scoffThat met me always there from day to day,From any knave or coward of them all:I was content to live that wretched way;For truly till I left the council-hall,And rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun,My gleams of happiness were faint and few,But then I saw my real life had begun,And that I should be strong quite well I knew.For I was riding out to look for love,Therefore the birds within the thickets sung,Even in hot noontide; as I pass'd, aboveThe elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung.Now some few fathoms from the place where ILay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair,The marble corners faint against the sky;And dreamily I wonder'd what lived there:Because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen,No belfry for the swinging of great bells.No bolt or stone had ever crush'd the greenShafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tellsOf the Norse torches burning up the roofs,On the flower-carven marble could I see;But rather on all sides I saw the proofsOf a great loneliness that sicken'd me;Making me feel a doubt that was not fear,Whether my whole life long had been a dream,And I should wake up soon in some place, whereThe piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam;Not born as yet, but going to be born,No naked baby as I was at first,But an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scornCould turn from nothing: my heart almost burstBeneath the beeches, as I lay a-dreaming,I tried so hard to read this riddle through,To catch some golden cord that I saw gleamingLike gossamer against the autumn blue.But while I ponder'd these things, from the woodThere came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold,Who strode straight up to where the tower stood,And cried out shrilly words, whereon behold—

IHAVE heard tales of men, who in the nightSaw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven,Who followed them until they reach'd the lightWherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven;

But who went backward when they saw the gateOf diamond, nor dared to enter in;All their life long they were content to wait,Purging them patiently of every sin.

I must have had a dream of some such thing,And now am just awaking from that dream;For even in grey dawn those strange words ringThrough heart and brain, and still I see that gleam.

For in my dream at sunset-time I layBeneath these beeches, mail and helmet off,Right full of joy that I had come awayFrom court; for I was patient of the scoff

That met me always there from day to day,From any knave or coward of them all:I was content to live that wretched way;For truly till I left the council-hall,

And rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun,My gleams of happiness were faint and few,But then I saw my real life had begun,And that I should be strong quite well I knew.

For I was riding out to look for love,Therefore the birds within the thickets sung,Even in hot noontide; as I pass'd, aboveThe elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung.

Now some few fathoms from the place where ILay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair,The marble corners faint against the sky;And dreamily I wonder'd what lived there:

Because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen,No belfry for the swinging of great bells.No bolt or stone had ever crush'd the greenShafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tells

Of the Norse torches burning up the roofs,On the flower-carven marble could I see;But rather on all sides I saw the proofsOf a great loneliness that sicken'd me;

Making me feel a doubt that was not fear,Whether my whole life long had been a dream,And I should wake up soon in some place, whereThe piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam;

Not born as yet, but going to be born,No naked baby as I was at first,But an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scornCould turn from nothing: my heart almost burst

Beneath the beeches, as I lay a-dreaming,I tried so hard to read this riddle through,To catch some golden cord that I saw gleamingLike gossamer against the autumn blue.

But while I ponder'd these things, from the woodThere came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold,Who strode straight up to where the tower stood,And cried out shrilly words, whereon behold—

The Witch,from the tower.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel,Let down your hair!

The Prince.

Ah Christ! it was no dream then, but there stood(She comes again) a maiden passing fair,Against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood,Bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair.I read my riddle when I saw her stand,Poor love! her face quite pale against her hair,Praying to all the leagues of empty landTo save her from the woe she suffer'd there.To think! they trod upon her golden hairIn the witches' sabbaths; it was a delightFor these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare,Stood on the roof upon the winter night,To plait her dear hair into many plaits,And then, while God's eye look'd upon the thing,In the very likenesses of Devil's bats,Upon the ends of her long hair to swing.And now she stood above the parapet,And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow,Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead setUpon the marble, more I do not know;Because before my eyes a film of goldFloated, as now it floats. O unknown love,Would that I could thy yellow stair behold,If still thou standest the lead roof above!

Ah Christ! it was no dream then, but there stood(She comes again) a maiden passing fair,Against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood,Bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair.

I read my riddle when I saw her stand,Poor love! her face quite pale against her hair,Praying to all the leagues of empty landTo save her from the woe she suffer'd there.

To think! they trod upon her golden hairIn the witches' sabbaths; it was a delightFor these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare,Stood on the roof upon the winter night,

To plait her dear hair into many plaits,And then, while God's eye look'd upon the thing,In the very likenesses of Devil's bats,Upon the ends of her long hair to swing.

And now she stood above the parapet,And, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow,Beneath that veil her smooth white forehead setUpon the marble, more I do not know;

Because before my eyes a film of goldFloated, as now it floats. O unknown love,Would that I could thy yellow stair behold,If still thou standest the lead roof above!

The Witch,as she passes.

Is there any who will dareTo climb up the yellow stair,Glorious Rapunzel's golden hair?

The Prince.

If it would please God make you sing again,I think that I might very sweetly die,My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain,My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.Now I remember what a most strange year,Most strange and awful, in the beechen woodI have pass'd now; I still have a faint fearIt is a kind of dream not understood.I have seen no one in this wood exceptThe witch and her; have heard no human tones,But when the witches' revelry has creptBetween the very jointing of my bones.Ah! I know now; I could not go away,But needs must stop to hear her sing that songShe always sings at dawning of the day.I am not happy here, for I am strong,And every morning do I whet my sword,Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower,And still God ties me down to the green sward,Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.

If it would please God make you sing again,I think that I might very sweetly die,My soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain,My heavy body on the beech-nuts lie.

Now I remember what a most strange year,Most strange and awful, in the beechen woodI have pass'd now; I still have a faint fearIt is a kind of dream not understood.

I have seen no one in this wood exceptThe witch and her; have heard no human tones,But when the witches' revelry has creptBetween the very jointing of my bones.

Ah! I know now; I could not go away,But needs must stop to hear her sing that songShe always sings at dawning of the day.I am not happy here, for I am strong,

And every morning do I whet my sword,Yet Rapunzel still weeps within the tower,And still God ties me down to the green sward,Because I cannot see the gold stair floating lower.

Rapunzelsings from the tower.

My mother taught me prayersTo say when I had need;I have so many cares,That I can take no heedOf many words in them;But I remember this:Christ, bring me to thy bliss.Mary, maid withouten wem,Keep me!I am lone, I wis,Yet besides I have made thisBy myself:Give me a kiss,Dear God dwelling up in heaven!Also:Send me a true knight,Lord Christ, with a steel sword, bright,Broad, and trenchant; yea, and sevenSpans from hilt to point, O Lord!And let the handle of his swordBe gold on silver, Lord in heaven!Such a sword as I see gleamSometimes, when they let me dream.Yea, besides, I have made this:Lord, give Mary a dear kiss,And let gold Michael, who looked down,When I was there, on Rouen townFrom the spire, bring me that kissOn a lily! Lord do this!These prayers on the dreadful nights,When the witches plait my hair,And the fearfullest of sightsOn the earth and in the air,Will not let me close my eyes,I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,That my weak heart will not holdAt some things that I behold.Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,That swell out the little bonesOf my bosom; till a tranceGod sends in middle of that dance,And I behold the countenanceOf Michael, and can feel no moreThe bitter east wind biting soreMy naked feet; can see no moreThe crayfish on the leaden floor,That mock with feeler and grim claw.Yea, often in that happy trance,Beside the blessed countenanceOf golden Michael, on the spireGlowing all crimson in the fireOf sunset, I behold a face,Which sometime, if God give me grace,May kiss me in this very place.

Yea, besides, I have made this:Lord, give Mary a dear kiss,And let gold Michael, who looked down,When I was there, on Rouen townFrom the spire, bring me that kissOn a lily! Lord do this!

These prayers on the dreadful nights,When the witches plait my hair,And the fearfullest of sightsOn the earth and in the air,Will not let me close my eyes,I murmur often, mix'd with sighs,That my weak heart will not holdAt some things that I behold.Nay, not sighs, but quiet groans,That swell out the little bonesOf my bosom; till a tranceGod sends in middle of that dance,And I behold the countenanceOf Michael, and can feel no moreThe bitter east wind biting soreMy naked feet; can see no moreThe crayfish on the leaden floor,That mock with feeler and grim claw.

Yea, often in that happy trance,Beside the blessed countenanceOf golden Michael, on the spireGlowing all crimson in the fireOf sunset, I behold a face,Which sometime, if God give me grace,May kiss me in this very place.

Evening in the tower.

Rapunzel.

IT grows half way between the dark and light;Love, we have been six hours here alone:I fear that she will come before the night,And if she finds us thus we are undone.

The Prince.

Nay, draw a little nearer, that your breathMay touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm;Now tell me, did you ever see a death,Or ever see a man take mortal harm?

Rapunzel.

Once came two knights and fought with swords below,And while they fought I scarce could look at all,My head swam so; after, a moaning lowDrew my eyes down; I saw against the wallOne knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast,Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies redIn the golden twilight, as he took his rest,In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead.But the other, on his face, six paces off,Lay moaning, and the old familiar nameHe mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoffOf some lost soul remembering his past fame.His helm all dinted lay beside him there,The visor-bars were twisted towards the face,The crest, which was a lady very fair,Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place.The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay,Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the lightThat blazed in the west, yet surely on that daySome crimson thing had changed the grass from brightPure green I love so. But the knight who diedLay there for days after the other went;Until one day I heard a voice that cried:Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sentTo carry dead or living to the king.So the knights came and bore him straight awayOn their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing,His mother had not known him on that day,But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fairWrought wonderfully.

Once came two knights and fought with swords below,And while they fought I scarce could look at all,My head swam so; after, a moaning lowDrew my eyes down; I saw against the wall

One knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast,Yet seem'd it like a line of poppies redIn the golden twilight, as he took his rest,In the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead.

But the other, on his face, six paces off,Lay moaning, and the old familiar nameHe mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoffOf some lost soul remembering his past fame.

His helm all dinted lay beside him there,The visor-bars were twisted towards the face,The crest, which was a lady very fair,Wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place.

The shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay,Perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the lightThat blazed in the west, yet surely on that daySome crimson thing had changed the grass from bright

Pure green I love so. But the knight who diedLay there for days after the other went;Until one day I heard a voice that cried:Fair knight, I see Sir Robert we were sent

To carry dead or living to the king.So the knights came and bore him straight awayOn their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing,His mother had not known him on that day,

But for his helm-crest, a gold lady fairWrought wonderfully.

The Prince.

Ah, they were brothers then,And often rode together, doubtless whereThe swords were thickest, and were loyal men,Until they fell in these same evil dreams.

Ah, they were brothers then,And often rode together, doubtless whereThe swords were thickest, and were loyal men,

Until they fell in these same evil dreams.

Rapunzel.

Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence?The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleamsBetween the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a senseOf fluttering victory comes over me,That will not let me fear aright; my heart,Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee;I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part;Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go.

Yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence?The white moon groweth golden fast, and gleamsBetween the aspens stems; I fear, and yet a sense

Of fluttering victory comes over me,That will not let me fear aright; my heart,Feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee;I breathe so fast that my lips needs must part;

Your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go.

The Prince.

I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staffThe crimson banner; let it lie below,Above it in the wind let grasses laugh.Now let us go, love, down the winding stair,With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword!I wrought it long ago, with golden hairFlowing about the hilts, because a word,Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreamingOf a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair;Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming,A half smile on the lips, though lines of careHad sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow;What other work in all the world had I,But through all turns of fate that face to follow?But wars and business kept me there to die.O child, I should have slain my brother, too,My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass,Had I not ridden out to look for you,When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers passFrom the golden hall. But it is strange your nameIs not the same the minstrel sung of yore;You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name.See, love, the stems shine through the open door.

I, Sebald, also, pluck from off the staffThe crimson banner; let it lie below,Above it in the wind let grasses laugh.

Now let us go, love, down the winding stair,With fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword!I wrought it long ago, with golden hairFlowing about the hilts, because a word,

Sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreamingOf a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair;Betwixt green leaves I used to see it gleaming,A half smile on the lips, though lines of care

Had sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow;What other work in all the world had I,But through all turns of fate that face to follow?But wars and business kept me there to die.

O child, I should have slain my brother, too,My brother, Love, lain moaning in the grass,Had I not ridden out to look for you,When I had watch'd the gilded courtiers pass

From the golden hall. But it is strange your nameIs not the same the minstrel sung of yore;You call'd it Rapunzel, 'tis not the name.See, love, the stems shine through the open door.

Morning in the woods.

Rapunzel.

OLOVE! me and my unknown name you have well won;The witch's name was Rapunzel: eh! not so sweet?No! but is this real grass, love, that I tread upon?What call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet?

The Prince.

Dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, O love!And ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung,Kiss both your parted lips; and I will hang above,And try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung.

He sings.

'Twixt the sunlight and the shadeFloat up memories of my maid:God, remember Guendolen!Gold or gems she did not wear,But her yellow rippled hair,Like a veil, hid Guendolen!'Twixt the sunlight and the shade,My rough hands so strangely made,Folded Golden Guendolen.Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard,Framed her face, while on the swardTears fell down from Guendolen.Guendolen now speaks no word,Hands fold round about the sword:Now no more of Guendolen.Only 'twixt the light and shadeFloating memories of my maidMake me pray for Guendolen.

'Twixt the sunlight and the shadeFloat up memories of my maid:God, remember Guendolen!

Gold or gems she did not wear,But her yellow rippled hair,Like a veil, hid Guendolen!

'Twixt the sunlight and the shade,My rough hands so strangely made,Folded Golden Guendolen.

Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard,Framed her face, while on the swardTears fell down from Guendolen.

Guendolen now speaks no word,Hands fold round about the sword:Now no more of Guendolen.

Only 'twixt the light and shadeFloating memories of my maidMake me pray for Guendolen.

Guendolen.

I kiss thee, new-found name! but I will never go:Your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again,But all my golden hair shall ever round you flow,Between the light and shade from Golden Guendolen.

Afterwards, in the Palace.

King Sebald.ITOOK my armour off,Put on king's robes of gold;Over the kirtle greenThe gold fell fold on fold.The Witch,out of hell.Guendolen! Guendolen!One lock of hair!Guendolen.I am so glad, for every dayHe kisses me much the same wayAs in the tower: under the swayOf all my golden hair.King Sebald.We rode throughout the town,A gold crown on my head;Through all the gold-hung streets,Praise God! the people said.The Witch.Gwendolen! Guendolen!Lend me your hair!Guendolen.Verily, I seem like oneWho, when day is almost done,Through a thick wood meets the sunThat blazes in her hair.King Sebald.Yea, at the palace gates,Praise God! the great knights said,For Sebald the high king,And the lady's golden head.The Witch.Woe is me! GuendolenSweeps back her hair.Guendolen.Nothing wretched now, no screams;I was unhappy once in dreams,And even now a harsh voice seemsTo hang about my hair.The Witch.Woe! that any man could dareTo climb up the yellow stair,Glorious Guendolen's golden hair.

King Sebald.

ITOOK my armour off,Put on king's robes of gold;Over the kirtle greenThe gold fell fold on fold.

The Witch,out of hell.

Guendolen! Guendolen!One lock of hair!

Guendolen.

I am so glad, for every dayHe kisses me much the same wayAs in the tower: under the swayOf all my golden hair.

King Sebald.

We rode throughout the town,A gold crown on my head;Through all the gold-hung streets,Praise God! the people said.

The Witch.

Gwendolen! Guendolen!Lend me your hair!

Guendolen.

Verily, I seem like oneWho, when day is almost done,Through a thick wood meets the sunThat blazes in her hair.

King Sebald.

Yea, at the palace gates,Praise God! the great knights said,For Sebald the high king,And the lady's golden head.

The Witch.

Woe is me! GuendolenSweeps back her hair.

Guendolen.

Nothing wretched now, no screams;I was unhappy once in dreams,And even now a harsh voice seemsTo hang about my hair.

The Witch.

Woe! that any man could dareTo climb up the yellow stair,Glorious Guendolen's golden hair.

AND if you meet the Canon of Chimay,As going to Ortaise you well may do,Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and sayAll that I tell you, for all this is true.This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief,Who, under shadow of the English name,Pilled all such towns and countries as were liefTo King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blameIf anything escaped him; so my lord,The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance,And other knights, good players with the sword,To check this thief, and give the land a chance.Therefore we set our bastides round the towerThat Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king,High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour,Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring,When first I joined the little army thereWith ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each dayWe sweated armed before the barrier;Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh?Your brother was slain there? I mind me now,A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him!I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the browWith some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dimAbout the eyes, the spear of Alleyne RouxSlipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well!Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too?Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell:For spite of all our bastides, damned BlackheadWould ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride,We could not stop him; many a burgher bledDear gold all round his girdle; far and wideThe villaynes dwelt in utter misery'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this wayBy Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by,Down comes this Teste Noire on another day.And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn,Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short,As I said just now, utterly forlorn,Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought.So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trapDay after day, till on a time he said:John of Newcastle, if we have good hap,We catch our thief in two days. How? I said.Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again,Hoping to take well certain sumpter mulesFrom Carcassonne, going with little train,Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools;But if we set an ambush in some wood,He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spearsTo Verville forest, if it seem you good.Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hearsThe dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth;And my red lion on the spear-head flapped,As faster than the cool wind we rode north,Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed.We rode a soft pace on that day, while spiesGot news about Sir Geffray: the red wineUnder the road-side bush was clear; the flies,The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shineIn brighter arms than ever I put on;So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that wayNext day at sundown: then he must be won;And so we enter'd Verville wood next day,In the afternoon; through it the highway runs,'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick,And underneath, with glimmering of suns,The primroses are happy; the dews lickThe soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms,Lest they should glitter; surely they will goIn a long thin line, watchful for alarms,With all their carriages of booty; so,Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God.What have we lying here? will they be cold,I wonder, being so bare, above the sod,Instead of under? This was a knight too, foldLying on fold of ancient rusted mail;No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs,And see the quiet gleam of turquoise paleAlong the ceinture; but the long time blursEven the tinder of his coat to nought,Except these scraps of leather; see how whiteThe skull is, loose within the coif! He foughtA good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.No armour on the legs too; strange in faith!A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah!This one is bigger, truly without scatheHis enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now,What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?'Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow,Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small,This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord,These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall.Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?Often, God help me! I remember whenI was a simple boy, fifteen years old,The Jacquerie froze up the blood of menWith their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town,Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boyAs I was then; we gentles cut them down,These burners and defilers, with great joy.Reason for that, too, in the great church thereThese fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out,The church at Beauvais being so great and fair:My father, who was by me, gave a shoutBetween a beast's howl and a woman's scream,Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look!Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dreamLike a man just awaked, my father shook;And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones,And very hot with fighting down the street,And sick of such a life, fell down, with groansMy head went weakly nodding to my feet.—An arrow had gone through her tender throat,And her right wrist was broken; then I sawThe reason why she had on that war-coat,Their story came out clear without a flaw;For when he knew that they were being waylaid,He threw it over her, yea, hood and all;Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'dBy those their murderers; many an one did fallBeneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'dTheir circle, bore his death-wound out of it;But as they rode, some archer least afear'dDrew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit.Still as he rode he knew not she was dead,Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist,He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled?Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'dThe beating of her heart, his heart beat wellFor both of them, till here, within this wood,He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell;After these years the flowers forget their blood.How could it be? never before that day,However much a soldier I might be,Could I look on a skeleton and sayI care not for it, shudder not: now see,Over those bones I sat and pored for hours,And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could seeThe small white bones that lay upon the flowers,But evermore I saw the lady; sheWith her dear gentle walking leading in,By a chain of silver twined about her wrists,Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to winGreat honour for her, fighting in the lists.O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrowInto men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharpThat joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrowFor ever, like an overwinded harp).Your face must hurt me always: pray you now,Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some painTo hold you always, pain to hold your browSo smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop,Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feelFar merrier? there so high they will not stop,They are most sly to glide forth and to stealInto my heart; I kiss their soft lids there,And in green gardens scarce can stop my lipsFrom wandering on your face, but that your hairFalls down and tangles me, back my face slips.Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wineOnce at a feast; how slowly it sank in,As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twineWithin that cup, and slay you for a sin.And when you talk your lips do arch and moveIn such wise that a language new I knowBesides their sound; they quiver, too, with loveWhen you are standing silent; know this, too,I saw you kissing once, like a curved swordThat bites with all its edge, did your lips lie,Curled gently, slowly, long time could affordFor caught-up breathings: like a dying sighThey gather'd up their lines and went away,And still kept twitching with a sort of smile,As likely to be weeping presently;Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while!Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand;I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the woodWith all my spears; we met them hand to hand,And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,We caught not Blackhead then, or any day;Months after that he died at last in bed,From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray;That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last;John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now,No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past;Perchance then you can tell him what I show.In my new castle, down beside the Eure,There is a little chapel of squared stone,Painted inside and out; in green nook pureThere did I lay them, every wearied bone;And over it they lay, with stone-white handsClasped fast together, hair made bright with gold;This Jaques Picard, known through many lands,Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old.

AND if you meet the Canon of Chimay,As going to Ortaise you well may do,Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and sayAll that I tell you, for all this is true.

This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief,Who, under shadow of the English name,Pilled all such towns and countries as were liefTo King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blame

If anything escaped him; so my lord,The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance,And other knights, good players with the sword,To check this thief, and give the land a chance.

Therefore we set our bastides round the towerThat Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king,High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour,Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring,

When first I joined the little army thereWith ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each dayWe sweated armed before the barrier;Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh?

Your brother was slain there? I mind me now,A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him!I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the browWith some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim

About the eyes, the spear of Alleyne RouxSlipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well!Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too?Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell:

For spite of all our bastides, damned BlackheadWould ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride,We could not stop him; many a burgher bledDear gold all round his girdle; far and wide

The villaynes dwelt in utter misery'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this wayBy Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by,Down comes this Teste Noire on another day.

And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn,Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short,As I said just now, utterly forlorn,Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought.

So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trapDay after day, till on a time he said:John of Newcastle, if we have good hap,We catch our thief in two days. How? I said.

Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again,Hoping to take well certain sumpter mulesFrom Carcassonne, going with little train,Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools;

But if we set an ambush in some wood,He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spearsTo Verville forest, if it seem you good.Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hears

The dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth;And my red lion on the spear-head flapped,As faster than the cool wind we rode north,Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed.

We rode a soft pace on that day, while spiesGot news about Sir Geffray: the red wineUnder the road-side bush was clear; the flies,The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shine

In brighter arms than ever I put on;So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that wayNext day at sundown: then he must be won;And so we enter'd Verville wood next day,

In the afternoon; through it the highway runs,'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick,And underneath, with glimmering of suns,The primroses are happy; the dews lick

The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms,Lest they should glitter; surely they will goIn a long thin line, watchful for alarms,With all their carriages of booty; so,

Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God.What have we lying here? will they be cold,I wonder, being so bare, above the sod,Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold

Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail;No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs,And see the quiet gleam of turquoise paleAlong the ceinture; but the long time blurs

Even the tinder of his coat to nought,Except these scraps of leather; see how whiteThe skull is, loose within the coif! He foughtA good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.

No armour on the legs too; strange in faith!A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah!This one is bigger, truly without scatheHis enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;

That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now,What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?'Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow,Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,

Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small,This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord,These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall.Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?

Often, God help me! I remember whenI was a simple boy, fifteen years old,The Jacquerie froze up the blood of menWith their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.

God help again! we enter'd Beauvais town,Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boyAs I was then; we gentles cut them down,These burners and defilers, with great joy.

Reason for that, too, in the great church thereThese fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out,The church at Beauvais being so great and fair:My father, who was by me, gave a shout

Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream,Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look!Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dreamLike a man just awaked, my father shook;

And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones,And very hot with fighting down the street,And sick of such a life, fell down, with groansMy head went weakly nodding to my feet.

—An arrow had gone through her tender throat,And her right wrist was broken; then I sawThe reason why she had on that war-coat,Their story came out clear without a flaw;

For when he knew that they were being waylaid,He threw it over her, yea, hood and all;Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'dBy those their murderers; many an one did fall

Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'dTheir circle, bore his death-wound out of it;But as they rode, some archer least afear'dDrew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit.

Still as he rode he knew not she was dead,Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist,He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled?Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd

The beating of her heart, his heart beat wellFor both of them, till here, within this wood,He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell;After these years the flowers forget their blood.

How could it be? never before that day,However much a soldier I might be,Could I look on a skeleton and sayI care not for it, shudder not: now see,

Over those bones I sat and pored for hours,And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could seeThe small white bones that lay upon the flowers,But evermore I saw the lady; she

With her dear gentle walking leading in,By a chain of silver twined about her wrists,Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to winGreat honour for her, fighting in the lists.

O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrowInto men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharpThat joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrowFor ever, like an overwinded harp).

Your face must hurt me always: pray you now,Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some painTo hold you always, pain to hold your browSo smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,

Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop,Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feelFar merrier? there so high they will not stop,They are most sly to glide forth and to steal

Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there,And in green gardens scarce can stop my lipsFrom wandering on your face, but that your hairFalls down and tangles me, back my face slips.

Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wineOnce at a feast; how slowly it sank in,As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twineWithin that cup, and slay you for a sin.

And when you talk your lips do arch and moveIn such wise that a language new I knowBesides their sound; they quiver, too, with loveWhen you are standing silent; know this, too,

I saw you kissing once, like a curved swordThat bites with all its edge, did your lips lie,Curled gently, slowly, long time could affordFor caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh

They gather'd up their lines and went away,And still kept twitching with a sort of smile,As likely to be weeping presently;Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while!

Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand;I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the woodWith all my spears; we met them hand to hand,And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,

We caught not Blackhead then, or any day;Months after that he died at last in bed,From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray;That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,

And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last;John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now,No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past;Perchance then you can tell him what I show.

In my new castle, down beside the Eure,There is a little chapel of squared stone,Painted inside and out; in green nook pureThere did I lay them, every wearied bone;

And over it they lay, with stone-white handsClasped fast together, hair made bright with gold;This Jaques Picard, known through many lands,Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old.

Sir Guy,being in the court of a Pagan castle.THIS castle where I dwell, it standsA long way off from Christian lands,A long way off my lady's hands,A long way off the aspen trees,And murmur of the lime-tree bees.But down the Valley of the RoseMy lady often hawking goes,Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,Leaning towards the western wind,Because it bringeth to her mindSad whisperings of happy times,The face of him who sings these rhymes.King Guilbert rides beside her there,Bends low and calls her very fair,And strives, by pulling down his hair,To hide from my dear lady's kenThe grisly gash I gave him, whenI cut him down at Camelot;However he strives, he hides it not,That tourney will not be forgot,Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,Whatever he says she answers not.Now tell me, you that are in love,From the king's son to the wood-dove,Which is the better, he or I?For this king means that I should dieIn this lone Pagan castle, whereThe flowers droop in the bad airOn the September evening.Look, now I take mine ease and sing,Counting as but a little thingThe foolish spite of a bad king.For these vile things that hem me in,These Pagan beasts who live in sin,The sickly flowers pale and wan,The grim blue-bearded castellan,The stanchions half worn-out with rust,Whereto their banner vile they trust:Why, all these things I hold them justAs dragons in a missal book,Wherein, whenever we may look,We see no horror, yea delightWe have, the colours are so bright;Likewise we note the specks of white,And the great plates of burnish'd gold.Just so this Pagan castle old,And everything I can see there,Sick-pining in the marshland air,I note: I will go over now,Like one who paints with knitted brow,The flowers and all things one by one,From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.Four great walls, and a little oneThat leads down to the barbican,Which walls with many spears they man,When news comes to the castellanOf Launcelot being in the land.And as I sit here, close at handFour spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand;The castellan with a long wandCuts down their leaves as he goes by,Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,And fingers twisted in his beard.Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?I have a hope makes me afeard:It cannot be, but if some dreamJust for a minute made me deemI saw among the flowers thereMy lady's face with long red hair,Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,As I was wont to see her someFading September afternoon,And kiss me, saying nothing, soonTo leave me by myself again;Could I get this by longing? vain!The castellan is gone: I seeOn one broad yellow flower a beeDrunk with much honey.Christ! again,Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,I thought I had forgot to feel,I never heard the blissful steelThese ten years past; year after year,Through all my hopeless sojourn here,No Christian pennon has been near.Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws onOver the marshes, battle won,Knights' shouts, and axes hammering;Yea, quicker now the dint and ringOf flying hoofs; ah, castellan,When they come back count man for man,Say whom you miss.The Pagans,from the battlements.Mahound to aid!Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?The Pagans,from without.Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot,Who follows quick upon us, hotAnd shouting with his men-at-arms.Sir Guy.Also the Pagans raise alarms,And ring the bells for fear; at lastMy prison walls will be well past.Sir Launcelot,from outside.Ho! in the name of the Trinity,Let down the drawbridge quick to me,And open doors, that I may seeGuy the good knight!The Pagans,from the battlements.Nay, Launcelot,With mere big words ye win us not.Sir Launcelot.Bid Miles bring up la perriere,And archers clear the vile walls there.Bring back the notches to the ear,Shoot well together! God to aid!These miscreants will be well paid.Hurrah! all goes together; MilesIs good to win my lady's smilesFor his good shooting: Launcelot!On knights apace! this game is hot!Sir Guysayeth afterwards.I said, I go to meet her now,And saying so, I felt a blowFrom some clench'd hand across my brow,And fell down on the sunflowersJust as a hammering smote my ears;After which this I felt in sooth,My bare hands throttling without ruthThe hairy-throated castellan;Then a grim fight with those that ranTo slay me, while I shouted: GodFor the Lady Mary! deep I trodThat evening in my own red blood;Nevertheless so stiff I stood,That when the knights burst the old woodOf the castle-doors, I was not dead.I kiss the Lady Mary's head,Her lips, and her hair golden red,Because to-day we have been wed.

Sir Guy,being in the court of a Pagan castle.

THIS castle where I dwell, it standsA long way off from Christian lands,A long way off my lady's hands,A long way off the aspen trees,And murmur of the lime-tree bees.But down the Valley of the RoseMy lady often hawking goes,Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,Leaning towards the western wind,Because it bringeth to her mindSad whisperings of happy times,The face of him who sings these rhymes.King Guilbert rides beside her there,Bends low and calls her very fair,And strives, by pulling down his hair,To hide from my dear lady's kenThe grisly gash I gave him, whenI cut him down at Camelot;However he strives, he hides it not,That tourney will not be forgot,Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,Whatever he says she answers not.Now tell me, you that are in love,From the king's son to the wood-dove,Which is the better, he or I?For this king means that I should dieIn this lone Pagan castle, whereThe flowers droop in the bad airOn the September evening.Look, now I take mine ease and sing,Counting as but a little thingThe foolish spite of a bad king.For these vile things that hem me in,These Pagan beasts who live in sin,The sickly flowers pale and wan,The grim blue-bearded castellan,The stanchions half worn-out with rust,Whereto their banner vile they trust:Why, all these things I hold them justAs dragons in a missal book,Wherein, whenever we may look,We see no horror, yea delightWe have, the colours are so bright;Likewise we note the specks of white,And the great plates of burnish'd gold.Just so this Pagan castle old,And everything I can see there,Sick-pining in the marshland air,I note: I will go over now,Like one who paints with knitted brow,The flowers and all things one by one,From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.Four great walls, and a little oneThat leads down to the barbican,Which walls with many spears they man,When news comes to the castellanOf Launcelot being in the land.And as I sit here, close at handFour spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand;The castellan with a long wandCuts down their leaves as he goes by,Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,And fingers twisted in his beard.Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?I have a hope makes me afeard:It cannot be, but if some dreamJust for a minute made me deemI saw among the flowers thereMy lady's face with long red hair,Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,As I was wont to see her someFading September afternoon,And kiss me, saying nothing, soonTo leave me by myself again;Could I get this by longing? vain!The castellan is gone: I seeOn one broad yellow flower a beeDrunk with much honey.Christ! again,Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,I thought I had forgot to feel,I never heard the blissful steelThese ten years past; year after year,Through all my hopeless sojourn here,No Christian pennon has been near.Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws onOver the marshes, battle won,Knights' shouts, and axes hammering;Yea, quicker now the dint and ringOf flying hoofs; ah, castellan,When they come back count man for man,Say whom you miss.

THIS castle where I dwell, it standsA long way off from Christian lands,A long way off my lady's hands,A long way off the aspen trees,And murmur of the lime-tree bees.

But down the Valley of the RoseMy lady often hawking goes,Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,Leaning towards the western wind,Because it bringeth to her mindSad whisperings of happy times,The face of him who sings these rhymes.

King Guilbert rides beside her there,Bends low and calls her very fair,And strives, by pulling down his hair,To hide from my dear lady's kenThe grisly gash I gave him, whenI cut him down at Camelot;However he strives, he hides it not,That tourney will not be forgot,Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,Whatever he says she answers not.

Now tell me, you that are in love,From the king's son to the wood-dove,Which is the better, he or I?

For this king means that I should dieIn this lone Pagan castle, whereThe flowers droop in the bad airOn the September evening.

Look, now I take mine ease and sing,Counting as but a little thingThe foolish spite of a bad king.

For these vile things that hem me in,These Pagan beasts who live in sin,The sickly flowers pale and wan,The grim blue-bearded castellan,The stanchions half worn-out with rust,Whereto their banner vile they trust:Why, all these things I hold them justAs dragons in a missal book,Wherein, whenever we may look,We see no horror, yea delightWe have, the colours are so bright;Likewise we note the specks of white,And the great plates of burnish'd gold.

Just so this Pagan castle old,And everything I can see there,Sick-pining in the marshland air,I note: I will go over now,Like one who paints with knitted brow,The flowers and all things one by one,From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.

Four great walls, and a little oneThat leads down to the barbican,Which walls with many spears they man,When news comes to the castellanOf Launcelot being in the land.

And as I sit here, close at handFour spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand;The castellan with a long wandCuts down their leaves as he goes by,Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,And fingers twisted in his beard.Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?I have a hope makes me afeard:It cannot be, but if some dreamJust for a minute made me deemI saw among the flowers thereMy lady's face with long red hair,Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,As I was wont to see her someFading September afternoon,And kiss me, saying nothing, soonTo leave me by myself again;Could I get this by longing? vain!

The castellan is gone: I seeOn one broad yellow flower a beeDrunk with much honey.Christ! again,Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,I thought I had forgot to feel,I never heard the blissful steelThese ten years past; year after year,Through all my hopeless sojourn here,No Christian pennon has been near.Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws onOver the marshes, battle won,Knights' shouts, and axes hammering;Yea, quicker now the dint and ringOf flying hoofs; ah, castellan,When they come back count man for man,Say whom you miss.

The Pagans,from the battlements.

Mahound to aid!Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?

The Pagans,from without.

Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot,Who follows quick upon us, hotAnd shouting with his men-at-arms.

Sir Guy.

Also the Pagans raise alarms,And ring the bells for fear; at lastMy prison walls will be well past.

Sir Launcelot,from outside.

Ho! in the name of the Trinity,Let down the drawbridge quick to me,And open doors, that I may seeGuy the good knight!

The Pagans,from the battlements.

Nay, Launcelot,With mere big words ye win us not.

Sir Launcelot.

Bid Miles bring up la perriere,And archers clear the vile walls there.Bring back the notches to the ear,Shoot well together! God to aid!These miscreants will be well paid.Hurrah! all goes together; MilesIs good to win my lady's smilesFor his good shooting: Launcelot!On knights apace! this game is hot!

Bid Miles bring up la perriere,And archers clear the vile walls there.Bring back the notches to the ear,Shoot well together! God to aid!These miscreants will be well paid.

Hurrah! all goes together; MilesIs good to win my lady's smilesFor his good shooting: Launcelot!On knights apace! this game is hot!

Sir Guysayeth afterwards.

I said, I go to meet her now,And saying so, I felt a blowFrom some clench'd hand across my brow,And fell down on the sunflowersJust as a hammering smote my ears;After which this I felt in sooth,My bare hands throttling without ruthThe hairy-throated castellan;Then a grim fight with those that ranTo slay me, while I shouted: GodFor the Lady Mary! deep I trodThat evening in my own red blood;Nevertheless so stiff I stood,That when the knights burst the old woodOf the castle-doors, I was not dead.I kiss the Lady Mary's head,Her lips, and her hair golden red,Because to-day we have been wed.

I kiss the Lady Mary's head,Her lips, and her hair golden red,Because to-day we have been wed.

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