Chapter 8

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As if each echo, which that wild horn's blastRoused from its sleep,—the solitude had castFor ages on it,—had, a silvery bandOf moving sounds of gladness, hand in handArisen,—each a visible delight,—Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white,From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,—For so they deemed the King, who came alone,—Graced with obeisance. And, "Our lord," said one,"Tenders you courtesy until the dawn,The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone,And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep,Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep."And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall,An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wallTowered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high,Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a skyWherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full:An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gullHung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dullVast monotone of ocean, that uprolledIts windy waters; and where all was old,And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt,And haunted grim of ruin: where the vaultOf heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the routOf the defiant headlands, stretching outInto the night, with their voluminous shoutOf wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then,Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men,Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led,With flaring torch, the tired King to bed,Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep.And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groansAnd dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bonesOf many men, and bodies mouldering.And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swingIts sighing surge above. And so he thought,"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraughtBy that long hunt." And then he sought to shakeThe horror off and to himself awake.But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs:And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyesOf pale, cadaverous knights regarded him,Unhappy: and he felt his senses swimWith foulness of that dungeon.—"What are ye?Ghosts? or chained champions? or a companyOf fiends?" he cried. Then, "Speak! if speak ye can!Speak, in God's name! for I am here—a man!"Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay,A wasted nightmare, dying day by day,Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strongAnd great and young, but now, through hunger long,A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:—"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaksIs only one of twenty knights entombedBy Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomedUs in this dungeon, where starvation lairs;Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares,Of many knights. And would to God that soonMy liberated ghost might see the moonFreed from the horror of this prisonment!"With that he sighed, and round the dungeon wentA rustling sigh, as of the damned; and soAnother dim, thin voice complained their woe:"Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end:Because not one of us his strength will lendTo battle for what still he calls his rights,This castle and its lands. For, of all knights,He is most base; lacks most in hardihood.A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; goodAnd courteous; withal most noble; whomThis Damas hates—yea, even seeks his doom;Denying him to his estate all rightSave that he holds by main of arms and might.Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fieldsAnd one right sumptuous manor, where he dealsWith knights as knights should, with an open hand,Though ill he can afford it. Through the landHe is far-famed for hospitality.Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly.For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance,Body to body, this inheritance:But Damas, vile as he is courageless,Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress,To fight for him or starve. For you must knowThat in this country he is hated soThere is no champion who will take the fight.Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale,The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale,Poor countenance perused him; then he spake:"And what reward if one this cause should take?"—"Deliverance for all if of us oneConsent to be his party's champion.But treachery and he are so close kinWe loathe the part as some misshapen sin;And here would rather with the rats find deathThan, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath,And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse.""May God deliver you in mercy, sirs,And help us all!" said Arthur. At which wordStraightway a groaning sound of iron was heard,Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back,And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the blackOf that rank cell astonished was with light,That danced fantastic with the frantic night.One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust,Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust;And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair,With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair:And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she."God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to seeSuch noble knights endungeoned, starving here,Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?""Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriestSince I was suckled; and of any questThis is the most imperiling and strange.—But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A changeI offer thee; through thee to these with thee,If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy,To fight for Damas and his brotherhood.And if thou wilt not—look! behold this broodOf lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,—Keen knights once,—who refused me. So decide."Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breezeThat blew delirious over waves and trees;Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth,Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,And made the world one sovereign pleasure-houseWhere king and serf might revel and carouse:Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,And Camelot's loud halls that through the duskBlazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;Or, in the misty morning, shadowyLoomed, grave with audience. And then he thoughtOf his Round Table, and the Grael wide soughtIn haunted holds by many a haunted shore.Then marveled of what wars would rise and roarWith dragon heads unconquered and devourThis realm of Britain and crush out that flowerOf chivalry whence ripened his renown:And then the reign of some besotted crown,Some bandit king of lust, idolatry—And with that thought for tears he could not see.—Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son,And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere:And with that thought—to starve 'mid horrors here!—For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court,Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sportOf fortune which had fortuned him so wellAs t' have his King to starve within a cell,In the entombing rock beside the deep.—And all the life, large in his limbs, did leapThrough eager veins and sinews, fierce and red,Stung on to action; and he rose and said:"That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe.But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail;No steed against that other to avail."She laughed again; "If we must beg or hire,Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire."And so she led the way; her torch's fireSprawling with spidery shadows at each strideThe cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide.At length they reached an iron-studded door,Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thenceThey issued on a terraced eminence.Below, the sea broke sounding; and the KingBreathed open air again that had the stingAnd scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam:And in the east the second dawning's gloam,Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaksRed as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.And so, within that larger light of dawnIt seemed to Arthur now that he had knownThis maiden at his Court, and so he asked.But she, well tutored, her real person masked,And answered falsely, "Nay, deceive thee not.Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot.For here it likes me best to sing and spin,And needle hangings, listening to the dinOf ocean, sitting some high tower within.No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave,No knights to flatter me! For me—the wave,The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm;My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charmOf ocean, redolent at bounteous noon,And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon:White ships that pass, some several every year;These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear.""An owlet maid," the King laughed.—But untrueWas she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying ofThe King, her brother, whom she did not love.—And presently she brought him where, in state,This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still,Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill,Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover hereAmong the hills of Gore. A lodge stood nearA cascade in the forest, where their wontWas to sit listening the falling fount,That, through sweet talks of many idle hoursOn moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers,Had learned the lovers' language,—sighed above,—And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love";That echoed through the lodge, her hands had drapedWith curious hangings; where were worked and shapedRemembered hours of pleasure, body and soul;Imperishable passions, which made wholeThe past again in pictures; and could mateThe heart with loves long dead; and re-createThe very kisses of those perished knightsWith woven records of long-dead delights.Below the lodge within an urnéd shellThe water pooled, and made a tinkling well,Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fellFrom rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew onCame all alone: not ev'n her brindled houndTo bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;Only her lute, about which her perfumeClung, odorous of memories, that made bloomHer absent features, making them arise,Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes,That seemed to see her lips and to surmiseThe words they fashioned; then the smile that drankHer soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sankAnd slowly waned away to deeper dreams,Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams.And so for her imagined eyes and lips,Heart-fashioned features, all the music slipsOf all his soul, himseems, into his voice,To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise,His fleet, trained fingers waken in her luteSuch mellow riot as must make envy-muteThe nightingale that listens quivering.And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill singA similar song;—whose passions burn and painIts anguished soul, now silent,—not in vainBeneath her casement, in that garden oldDingled with heavy roses; in the goldOf Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon:And still he hopes the heartache of the tuneWill clamor secret memories in her ear,Of life, less dear than death with her not near;Of love, who longs for her, to have her here:Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobsO'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbsHard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to deathA prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath,One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms!Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms,This body, hell, canst have forevermore!"And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pourInto the dull ear of her drowsy lordA vague suspicion of some secret word,Borne by the bird,—love's wingéd messenger,—To her who lies beside him; even her,His wife, whom still he loves; whom AccolonThus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:—"The thought of thy white coming, like a songBreathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.—Come! press it once again, for it is strongTo bear that weight which never yet distressed."O come! and straight the woodland is stormed throughWith wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew:And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed,Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last,Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue,Wherein the arrows of all love are cast."O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath,Like the soft South, that idly wanderethThrough musical leaves of laughing laziness,Page on before her, how sweet,—none can guess:Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death;In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.'"She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth raveFor words to tell her how she doth enslaveMy soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with loveThat loveliness, no words can tell whereof;Words, words, like roses, every path to pave,Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough!"She comes!—Thro' me a passion—as the moonWorks wonder in the sea—through me doth swoonUngovernable glory; and her soulSeems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal,Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune,Exhausting all my efforts of control."She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that graceThe fragmentary skies, and scatter space,Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom!Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face,That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom!"Oh, boundless exultation of the blood!That now compels me to some higher mood,Diviner sense of something that outsoarsThe Earth—her kiss! that all love's splendor poursInto me; all delicious womanhood,So all the heart that hesitates—adores."Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet!Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat;There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair,Shoots his soft arrows,—as the moonbeams fair,—That long have laid me supine at thy feet,And changed my clay to ardent fire and air."My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine,Has subtly filled me with a flame divine,An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urgeIn all my veins, with rosy surge on surge,To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine,Thine arms! from which I never would emerge."His ecstasy the very foliage shook;The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook;And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear,Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear,To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale:And after which, deep in the purple vale,Awoke the passion of the nightingale.IIIAs one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as litheAs the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blitheAs is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,And snag it here and there,—through which the sheenOf her white skin gleams rosy;—eyes and face,Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stoodWatching the sunset through the solitude.So Evening came; and shadows cowled the wayLike ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to prayBefore a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,Along the west, the battlemented goldOf sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,That seemed to open gates of ParadiseOn soundless hinges of the winds, and blazeA glory, far within, of chrysoprase,Towering in topaz through the purple haze.And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,Reclined in revery against the rootOf a great oak, a fragment of the west,A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,And danced and rustled. And it seemed he cameFrom Camelot; from his belovéd dame,Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder boreA mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'erWith mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard whichGlared venomous, with angry jewels rich.He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,"Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,Assures you—ah, unworthy bearer IOf her good message!—of her constancy."Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord,King Arthur: even his Excalibur,The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot,Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled landsOf meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fillWith rings of morrice every grassy hill.Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,Who begged it of the King with this intent:That, for her honor, soon would be begunA desperate battle with a champion,Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:And with the sword, Excalibur, more sureWere she that he against him would endure.Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death."He ceased: and Accolon held up the swordExcalibur and said, "It shall go hardWith him through thee, unconquerable blade,Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laidInsult or injury! And hours as slowAs palsied hours in Purgatory goFor those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!—Here, page, my purse.—And now, to her who gave,Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,To death obedient, I!—In love or warHer love to make me all the warrior.—Bid her have mercy, nor too long delayFrom him, who dies an hourly death each dayTill, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace."Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sentInto the sunset's sea of scarlet lightBurning through wildwood glooms. And as the nightWith votaress cypress veiled the dying strifeSadly of day, and closed his book of lifeAnd clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thoughtOf what this fight was that must soon be fought,Belting the blade about him, Accolon,Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.And it befell him thus, the following dawn,As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,Glad with the freshness and elastic healthOf sky and earth, that lavished all their wealthOf heady winds and racy scents,—a knightAnd gentle lady met him, gay bedight,With following of six esquires; and theyHeld on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of GoreFrom Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; soreHurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:Who had besought—for much he feared to die—This knight and his fair lady, as they rodeTo hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,That they would beg her in all charityTo come to him (for in chirurgeryOf all that land she was the greatest leach),And her for his recovery beseech.So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,And spake their message, for, right over fainWere they toward their sport,—that he would bearPetition to that lady. But, not thereWas Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;But now a sennight lay at Camelot,The guest of Guenevere; and with her thereFour other queens of Farther Britain were:Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,King Mark's wife,—who right rarely then was seenAt Court for jealousy of Mark, who knewHer to that lance of Lyonesse how trueSince mutual quaffing of a philter; whileHow guilty Guenevere on such could smile:—She of Northgales and she of Eastland; andShe of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,For sovereignty and love and loveliness,Was not in any realm to grace and bless.So Accolon informed them. In distressThen quoth that knight: "Ay? see how fortune turnsAnd varies like an April day, that burnsNow welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lainA hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,And sends despatch a courier to my lord,Sir Ontzlake, with, 'To-morrow, with the sword,Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,Decides the issue of inheritance,Body to body, or by champion.'—Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,He would arise and save his livelihood."Then thought Sir Accolon: "One might suppose,So soon this follows on her message, thoseSame things befall through Morgane's arts—who knows?—Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,This battle I myself will undertake."Then said to those, "I know the good Ontzlake.If he be so conditioned, harried ofEstate and life,—in knighthood and for loveOf justice I his quarrel will assume.My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groomPrepare my steed. Right good 'twill be againTo feel him under me."—Then, of that train,Asked that one gentleman with him remain,And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,When this was granted, mounted with his menAnd thence departed. And, ere noontide, theyCame to a lone, dismantled prioryHard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushedIn wild and woody hills. And then one woundA hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage soundThe drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, andInto a paved court rode that little band.When all the world was morning, gleam and glareOf autumn glory; and the frost-touched airRang with the rooks as rings a silver lyreSwept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armedFor battle royally. A black steed warmedA keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mailOf foreign make; accoutered head and tailIn costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deepWith lordly gold and purple; whence did sweepTwo acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:And at his thigh a falchion, battle-oldAnd triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, ofCordovan leather, baldric'd rich aboveWith new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,—Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolledA tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,—Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zealGlittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.—A squire attended him; a youth, whose headWaved many a jaunty curl; whereon a redCock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keenAs some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:And parti-colored leather shoes he hadUpon his feet; his legs were silken cladIn hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.So with his following, while, bar on bar,The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.Then to King Arthur, when arrived were theseWhere bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflameWith sweat and heat of hurry; and, "From her,Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!With tender greeting. For you well may needIts aid in this adventure. So, God speed!"Said and departed suddenly: nor knewThe King that this was not his weapon true:A brittle forgery, in likeness ofThat blade, of baser metal;—in unloveAnd treason made by her, of all his kinThe nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,Of yellow-dappled, variegated plateOf Spanish laton. And of sovereign stateHis surcoat robe of honor,—white and black,Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,—at his backThe wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,Excalibur,—a throbbing golden globeOf vicious jewels,—thrust its splendid hilt;Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,An eyelid clasped, black, of the black sea-horse,Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and forceSat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of richBronze-hammered laton; blazing upon whichA hundred brilliants glittered, thick as onA silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaidWith azure silver, whereon colors played,Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.Intense on either side the champions stood,Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steelsSpurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steersWith adverse thunder; and, in middle course,Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horseLashed, madly pawing.—And a hoarse roar rangFrom the loud lists, till far the echoes sangOf hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scathUpon their fiery fronts and in the wrathOf their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stoodA symbol of the heart beneath the hood.—The lance of Accolon, as on a rockThe storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;But him resistless Arthur's,—high from horseUplifted,—headlong bore, and crashed him down;A long sword's length unsaddled. AccolonFor one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drewThe great sword at his hip that shone like dewSmitten with morn. "Descend!" he grimly said,"To proof of better weapons, head to head!Enough of spears! to swords!"—And from his heightThe King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the deathOf the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends—A long blade leaps;—and now, a fang that rends,Another blade, loud as a battle word,Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,A shield's fierce face replies: again a swordSwings for a giant blow, and, balked again,Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,Over and over, blade on baleful blade;Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.Then Arthur drew aside to rest uponHis falchion for a space. But Accolon,As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—Fresh and almighty, and no nearer deathNow than when first the fight to death begun,Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,Made weary, ceased and for a moment stoodLeaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?"Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,"Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!"And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,That beat a flying fire from the steel.Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hateGnarled all his strength into one blow of might,And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,—And,—as the lightning flames upon an oak,—Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grassShone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knewThis sword was not Excalibur: too trueAnd perfect tempered, runed and mystical,That weapon of old wars! and then withal,Looking upon his foe, who still with stressFought on, untiring, and with no distressOf wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!"Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,The true Excalibur, that high in handNow rose avenging. For Sir AccolonIn madness urged th' unequal battle onHis King defenseless; who, the hilted crossOf that false weapon grasped, beneath the bossOf his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bitsOf shivered steel and gold made sombre fitsOf flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and coweringBeneath his shield's defense, the dauntless KingCrawled still defiant. And, devising stillHow to secure his sword and by what skill,Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:In that close chase they came where, shattered late,Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advanceHe wielded with effect. Against the fistSmote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;Sudden the palsied sinews of his foeRelaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King easedHimself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;And clasping in both arms of wiry warHis foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seenA strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,Crash down its thundering height in wild carouseAnd wrath of tempest,—so King Arthur shookAnd headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,Tearing away, that scabbard from his sideAnd hurled it through the lists, that far and wideGulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,He seized Excalibur; and grasped of bothWild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering downOn rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawnThat blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tenseA moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:"Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!What king, what court is thine? And from what partOf Britain dost thou come? Speak!—for, methinks,I have beheld thee—where? Some memory linksMe strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art—Who art thou?—speak!"—He answered, slow, then short,With labored breathing: "I?—one, Accolon,—Of Gaul—a knight of Arthur's court—anon—But to what end—yea, tell me—am I slain?"—Then bent King Arthur nearer and againDrew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:"One of my Table!"—Then asked softly, "Say,Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what wayThou cam'st by it?"—But, wandering, that knightHeard with dull ears, divining but by sightThe question asked; and answered, "Woe!—the sword!—Woe worth the sword!—Lean down!—Canst hear my word?—From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had madeMe king of all this kingdom, so she said—Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,To make our schemes miscarry!—Wait! nay, wait!—A king! dost hear?—a gold and blood-crowned king,I!—Arthur's sister, queen!—No bird can wingHigher than her ambition! that resolvedHer brother's death was needed, and evolvedPlots that should ripen with the ripening year,And here be reaped, perhaps—nay, nay! not here!—Farewell, my Morgane!—Yea, 'twas she who schemedWhile there at Chariot we loved and dreamedGone some six months.—There nothing gave us care.Each morning was a liberal almonerProdigal of silver to the earth and air:Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;On such an eve it was, that, redolent,She sat by me and said,—'My message sent,Some night—within the forest—thou, my knight!Thou and the king!—my men—the forest fight!—Murder perhaps.—But, well?—who is to blame?'...So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;With harlot lips, from which my being firstDrank hell and heaven. She, who was in soothMy heaven and hell.—But now, behind her youthShe shrivels to a hag!—I see the truth!—Harlot!—nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!—Wanton!—nay, witch! sweet witch!—what wouldst thou more?—Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieveThat death so ruins it?—Thou dost perceiveHow I still love thee! witness bear this field,This field and he to whom I would not yield!—Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!"—Then anger in the good King's gloomy eyeGlowed, instant-embered, as one oft may seeA star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be.Slow from his visage he his visor raised,And on the dying knight a moment gazed;Then grimly said, "Look on me, Accolon!I am thy King!" He, with an awful groan,Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drewUp full his armored height and hoarsely cried,"The King!" and at his mailed feet crashed and died.Then came a world of anxious faces, pressedAbout King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,Bespake that multitude: "While breath and powerRemain, judge we these brothers: This hard hourHath given to Damas all this rich estate:So it is his; allotted his by fateAnd force of arms. So let it be to him.For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slimBut that it hath this strong conclusiön.This much by us as errant knight is done.—Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:We do command Earl Damas to appearNo more upon our shores, or any islesOf farthest Britain in its many miles.One week be his, no more! then will we come,Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:If he be not departed overseas,With all his men and all his outlawries,From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,Alive and naked shall he starve and hangAnd rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.Thus much for him!... But all our favor goesToward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the KingTo take into his knightly followingOf the Round Table. Bear to him our word.But I am over weary. Take my sword.—Unharness me, for more and more I tire;And all my wounds are so much aching fire.Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fainTo Glastonbury and with me the slain."So bore they then the wounded King away,The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,The King, remembering the marauder wrongWhich Damas had inflicted on that land,Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.He, riding thither to that robber lair,Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:And found—a ruin of fire-blackened rock,Of tottering towers, that shook to every shockOf the wild waves; and loomed above the bentsTurrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.IVHate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time,Artificer of God, had coined our worldWithin the formless void, and round it furledIts lordly raiment of the day and night,And germed its womb with beauty and delight:And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might useAnd serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse....For her half-brother Morgane had conceivedUnnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved,Envious and jealous, for the high renownAnd might the King had gathered round his crownThrough truth and honor. And who was it said,"Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?—Warm in your breast a serpent, it will stingThe breast that warms it: and albeit the KingKnew of his sister's hate, he passed it by,Thinking that love and kindness graduallyWould win her heart to him. He little knewThe witch he dealt with, beautiful to view,And all the poison she could stoop to brew.She, who, well knowing how much mightierThe King than Accolon, rejoiced that herWits had secured from him Excalibur,Without which, she was certain, in the joustThe King were as a foe unarmed. Her trustSmiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent,Within her, whispered of success, that lentHer heart a lofty hope; and at large eyesPiled up imperial dreams of power and prize.And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark,Traceried and arrased,—when the barren parkDripped, drenched with autumn,—for November laySwathed frostily in fog on every spray,—She at her tri-arched casement sate one night,Ere yet came courier from that test of might.Her lord in slumber and the castle fullOf drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull:"The King removed?—my soul!—heisremoved!Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath provedToo much for him. Yet! let him lie in state,The great king, Arthur!—But, regenerate,Now crown our other monarch, Accolon!And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy sonOf gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule.Love, Love almighty; beautiful to schoolThe hearts and souls of mortals!—Then this realm'sIron-huskéd flower of war,—that overwhelmsThe world with havoc,—will explode and bloomThe amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume.And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowedTo Gueneveres and Isouds,—now allowedNo pleasure but what hour by stolen hour,In secret places, brings to flaming flower,—You shall have feasts of passion evermore!And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,No more shalt stand neglected and cast off,Insulted and derided; and the scoffOf War, the bully, whose hands of insult flingOff, for the iron of arms, thy hands that clingAbout his brutal feet, that crush thy face,Bleeding, into the dust.—Here, in War's place,We will erect a shrine of sacrifice;Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price;Where each shall lay his heart and each his soulFor Love, for earthly Love! who shall controlThe world, and make it as the Heaven whole;Being to it its stars and moon and sun,Its firmament and all its lights in one.And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred,Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love in-starred,Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thusRemain earth Love, that God encouraged in us."And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!—There lies my worry.—Yet, hath he no swordNo dangerous dagger I, hid softly here,Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his earNo instant poison to insinuateIce in his pulses, and with death abate?"So did she then determine; on that nightOf lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,And the lamenting wind wailed wild amongThe trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.So grew her face severe as skies that takeSuggestions of far storm whose thunders shakeThe distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fireA pine the moaning forest mourns as sire—So touched her countenance that dark intent:And in still eyes her thoughts were evident,As in dark waters, luminous and deep,The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweepThe clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,—Ghostly and gray,—locked in their steadfast gloom.Then, as if some great wind had swept the room,Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat.As if dim arms had made her a retreat,Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost,Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost,Poised like a light and borne as carefully,She trod the gusty hall where shadowyThe hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war.And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,Glimmering above, a dying cresset droppedFrom the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped,And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page,Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.—For she had thought that, when they found him dead,His sword laid by him on the bloody bedWould be convictive that his own hand hadDone him this violence when fever-mad.The sword she took; and to the chamber, whereKing Urience slept, she glided; like an air,Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fitOf faery song, a wicked charm in it,That slays; an incantation full of guile.She paused upon his threshold; for a whileListened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stoodCrouched o'er his couch. About her heart the bloodCaught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud,Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up,As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup.Then came rare Recollection, with a mouthSweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the SouthTrickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves;To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleavesIntricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet—Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleetTo come and go and airy anxiously.She, trembling to her, like a flower a beeNests in and makes an audible mouth of musk,Lisping a downy message to the dusk,Laid lips to ears and languaged memories ofNow hateful Urience:—How her maiden loveHad left Caerleon secretly for Gore,With him, one day of autumn. How a boar,Wild as the wildness of the solitude,Raged at her from a cavern of the wood,That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curseMurderous upon her. As her steed grew worseAnd, terrified, fled snorting down the dell,How she had flung herself from out the selle,In fear, upon a bank of springy moss,Where she lay swooning: in an utter lossOf mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see,Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,—As one who pants beneath an incubusAnd strives to shriek or move, delirious,—The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged,And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clangedAnd buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lightsLawless about her brain,—like leaves wild nightsOf hurricane harvest, shouting.—Then it seemedA fury thundered 'twixt them—and she screamedAs round her flew th' uprooted loam that heldLeaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelledContinual echoes with the thud of strife,And groan of man and brute that warred for life:How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms,Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms,And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred,Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red.And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head,With all its uncoifed braids of raven hairDisheveled, on one arm,—as white and fairAnd smooth as milk,—and saw, as through a haze,The brute thing throttled and the frowning faceOf Urience bent above it, browed with might;One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright,Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn:Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn,Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,—A shaggy bulk,—with hoofs that drove and drove.And then she saw how Urience swiftly slippedOne arm, the monster's tearing tusks had rippedAnd ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,—Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;—Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice,Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice;And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death,Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath.Then how he brought her water from a well,That rustled freshly near them as it fellFrom its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a taskThat had accompanying tears of joy and vowsOf love, and intercourse of eyes and brows,And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs,His wound dressed, and her steed still violentFrom fear, she mounted and behind him bentAnd clasped him on the same steed; and they wentOn through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.And then she felt she'd loved him till had comeFame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake:Then how her thought from these did seem to takeReflex of longing; and within her wakeDesire for some great lover who should slake;And such found Accolon.And then she thoughtHow far she'd fallen, and how darkly fraughtWith consequence was this. Then what distressWere hers and his—her lover's—and successHow doubly difficult if, Arthur slain,King Urience lived to assert his right to reign.So she stood pondering with the sword; her lipsBreathless, and tight as were her finger-tipsAbout the weapon's hilt. And so she sighed,"Nay, nay! too long hast lived who shouldst have diedEven in the womb, my sorrow! who for yearsHast leashed my life to thine, a bond of tears,A weight of care, a knot that thus I part!Thus harshly sever! Ugly that thou artInto the elements naked!"O'er his heartThe long blade paused and—then descended hard.Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord,And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet,And drip, a horror, at impassive feetPooling the polished oak. Regretless sheStood, and relentless; in her ecstasyA lovely devil: demon crowned, that criedFor Accolon, with passion that defiedControl in all her senses; clamorous asA torrent in a cavernous mountain passThat sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hourSo swept her longing tow'rds her paramour.Him whom, King Arthur had commanded whenBorne from the lists, she should receive again;Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just,As was but due her for her love—and lust.And while she stood revolving if her deed'sSecret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds,Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursedFierce in the northern court. To her, athirstFor him her lover, war and power it spoke,Him victor and so king. And then awokeDesire to see and greet him: and she fled,Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red,Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,Down from a steaming steed into her ears,"This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse:Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force,Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,Crusted with blood, a knight in armor—dead:Her Accolon, flung in his battered armsBy what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,"This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.And what remains?—From Camelot to GoreThat night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,—As old romances tell,—of Avalon;Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan:Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely faceIs young and queenly; sweeter though in grace,And softer for the sorrow there; the traceOf immemorial tears as for some crime,Attempted or committed at some time,Some old, unhappy time of long ago,That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe:Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant ofThat far-off hour awaited of her love,When the forgiving Arthur cometh andShall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land,That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old,Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold;That lifts its mountains from forgotten seasOf surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.—And so was seen Morgana nevermore,Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she boreThe wounded Arthur from that last fought fightOf Camlan in a black barge into night.But some may see her, with a palfried bandOf serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy landOf autumn glimmer,—when are sadly strewnThe red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moonHangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,—Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast

Roused from its sleep,—the solitude had cast

For ages on it,—had, a silvery band

Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand

Arisen,—each a visible delight,—

Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white,

From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,—

For so they deemed the King, who came alone,—

Graced with obeisance. And, "Our lord," said one,

"Tenders you courtesy until the dawn,

The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone,

And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep,

Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep."

And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall,

An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall

Towered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high,

Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a sky

Wherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full:

An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gull

Hung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dull

Vast monotone of ocean, that uprolled

Its windy waters; and where all was old,

And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt,

And haunted grim of ruin: where the vault

Of heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the rout

Of the defiant headlands, stretching out

Into the night, with their voluminous shout

Of wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then,

Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men,

Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led,

With flaring torch, the tired King to bed,

Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep.

And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.

Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groansAnd dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bonesOf many men, and bodies mouldering.And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swingIts sighing surge above. And so he thought,"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraughtBy that long hunt." And then he sought to shakeThe horror off and to himself awake.But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs:And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyesOf pale, cadaverous knights regarded him,Unhappy: and he felt his senses swimWith foulness of that dungeon.—"What are ye?Ghosts? or chained champions? or a companyOf fiends?" he cried. Then, "Speak! if speak ye can!Speak, in God's name! for I am here—a man!"Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay,A wasted nightmare, dying day by day,Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strongAnd great and young, but now, through hunger long,A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:—"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaksIs only one of twenty knights entombedBy Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomedUs in this dungeon, where starvation lairs;Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares,Of many knights. And would to God that soonMy liberated ghost might see the moonFreed from the horror of this prisonment!"With that he sighed, and round the dungeon wentA rustling sigh, as of the damned; and soAnother dim, thin voice complained their woe:"Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end:Because not one of us his strength will lendTo battle for what still he calls his rights,This castle and its lands. For, of all knights,He is most base; lacks most in hardihood.A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; goodAnd courteous; withal most noble; whomThis Damas hates—yea, even seeks his doom;Denying him to his estate all rightSave that he holds by main of arms and might.Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fieldsAnd one right sumptuous manor, where he dealsWith knights as knights should, with an open hand,Though ill he can afford it. Through the landHe is far-famed for hospitality.Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly.For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance,Body to body, this inheritance:But Damas, vile as he is courageless,Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress,To fight for him or starve. For you must knowThat in this country he is hated soThere is no champion who will take the fight.Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale,The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale,Poor countenance perused him; then he spake:"And what reward if one this cause should take?"—"Deliverance for all if of us oneConsent to be his party's champion.But treachery and he are so close kinWe loathe the part as some misshapen sin;And here would rather with the rats find deathThan, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath,And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse."

Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groans

And dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bones

Of many men, and bodies mouldering.

And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swing

Its sighing surge above. And so he thought,

"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught

By that long hunt." And then he sought to shake

The horror off and to himself awake.

But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs:

And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyes

Of pale, cadaverous knights regarded him,

Unhappy: and he felt his senses swim

With foulness of that dungeon.—"What are ye?

Ghosts? or chained champions? or a company

Of fiends?" he cried. Then, "Speak! if speak ye can!

Speak, in God's name! for I am here—a man!"

Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay,

A wasted nightmare, dying day by day,

Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strong

And great and young, but now, through hunger long,

A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:—

"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaks

Is only one of twenty knights entombed

By Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomed

Us in this dungeon, where starvation lairs;

Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares,

Of many knights. And would to God that soon

My liberated ghost might see the moon

Freed from the horror of this prisonment!"

With that he sighed, and round the dungeon went

A rustling sigh, as of the damned; and so

Another dim, thin voice complained their woe:

"Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end:

Because not one of us his strength will lend

To battle for what still he calls his rights,

This castle and its lands. For, of all knights,

He is most base; lacks most in hardihood.

A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good

And courteous; withal most noble; whom

This Damas hates—yea, even seeks his doom;

Denying him to his estate all right

Save that he holds by main of arms and might.

Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fields

And one right sumptuous manor, where he deals

With knights as knights should, with an open hand,

Though ill he can afford it. Through the land

He is far-famed for hospitality.

Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly.

For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance,

Body to body, this inheritance:

But Damas, vile as he is courageless,

Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress,

To fight for him or starve. For you must know

That in this country he is hated so

There is no champion who will take the fight.

Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."

Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale,

The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale,

Poor countenance perused him; then he spake:

"And what reward if one this cause should take?"—

"Deliverance for all if of us one

Consent to be his party's champion.

But treachery and he are so close kin

We loathe the part as some misshapen sin;

And here would rather with the rats find death

Than, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath,

And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse."

"May God deliver you in mercy, sirs,And help us all!" said Arthur. At which wordStraightway a groaning sound of iron was heard,Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back,And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the blackOf that rank cell astonished was with light,That danced fantastic with the frantic night.One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust,Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust;And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair,With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair:And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she."God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to seeSuch noble knights endungeoned, starving here,Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?""Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriestSince I was suckled; and of any questThis is the most imperiling and strange.—But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A changeI offer thee; through thee to these with thee,If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy,To fight for Damas and his brotherhood.And if thou wilt not—look! behold this broodOf lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,—Keen knights once,—who refused me. So decide."Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breezeThat blew delirious over waves and trees;Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth,Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,And made the world one sovereign pleasure-houseWhere king and serf might revel and carouse:Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,And Camelot's loud halls that through the duskBlazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;Or, in the misty morning, shadowyLoomed, grave with audience. And then he thoughtOf his Round Table, and the Grael wide soughtIn haunted holds by many a haunted shore.Then marveled of what wars would rise and roarWith dragon heads unconquered and devourThis realm of Britain and crush out that flowerOf chivalry whence ripened his renown:And then the reign of some besotted crown,Some bandit king of lust, idolatry—And with that thought for tears he could not see.—Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son,And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere:And with that thought—to starve 'mid horrors here!—For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court,Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sportOf fortune which had fortuned him so wellAs t' have his King to starve within a cell,In the entombing rock beside the deep.—And all the life, large in his limbs, did leapThrough eager veins and sinews, fierce and red,Stung on to action; and he rose and said:"That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe.But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail;No steed against that other to avail."

"May God deliver you in mercy, sirs,

And help us all!" said Arthur. At which word

Straightway a groaning sound of iron was heard,

Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back,

And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the black

Of that rank cell astonished was with light,

That danced fantastic with the frantic night.

One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust,

Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust;

And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair,

With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair:

And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she.

"God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to see

Such noble knights endungeoned, starving here,

Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?"

"Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriest

Since I was suckled; and of any quest

This is the most imperiling and strange.—

But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change

I offer thee; through thee to these with thee,

If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy,

To fight for Damas and his brotherhood.

And if thou wilt not—look! behold this brood

Of lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,—

Keen knights once,—who refused me. So decide."

Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze

That blew delirious over waves and trees;

Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth,

Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,

And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house

Where king and serf might revel and carouse:

Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;

Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;

His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,

And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk

Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;

Or, in the misty morning, shadowy

Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought

Of his Round Table, and the Grael wide sought

In haunted holds by many a haunted shore.

Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar

With dragon heads unconquered and devour

This realm of Britain and crush out that flower

Of chivalry whence ripened his renown:

And then the reign of some besotted crown,

Some bandit king of lust, idolatry—

And with that thought for tears he could not see.—

Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son,

And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:

And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere:

And with that thought—to starve 'mid horrors here!—

For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court,

Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sport

Of fortune which had fortuned him so well

As t' have his King to starve within a cell,

In the entombing rock beside the deep.—

And all the life, large in his limbs, did leap

Through eager veins and sinews, fierce and red,

Stung on to action; and he rose and said:

"That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!

To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe.

But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail;

No steed against that other to avail."

She laughed again; "If we must beg or hire,Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire."And so she led the way; her torch's fireSprawling with spidery shadows at each strideThe cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide.At length they reached an iron-studded door,Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thenceThey issued on a terraced eminence.Below, the sea broke sounding; and the KingBreathed open air again that had the stingAnd scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam:And in the east the second dawning's gloam,Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaksRed as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.And so, within that larger light of dawnIt seemed to Arthur now that he had knownThis maiden at his Court, and so he asked.But she, well tutored, her real person masked,And answered falsely, "Nay, deceive thee not.Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot.For here it likes me best to sing and spin,And needle hangings, listening to the dinOf ocean, sitting some high tower within.No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave,No knights to flatter me! For me—the wave,The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm;My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charmOf ocean, redolent at bounteous noon,And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon:White ships that pass, some several every year;These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear.""An owlet maid," the King laughed.—But untrueWas she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying ofThe King, her brother, whom she did not love.—And presently she brought him where, in state,This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.

She laughed again; "If we must beg or hire,

Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire."

And so she led the way; her torch's fire

Sprawling with spidery shadows at each stride

The cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide.

At length they reached an iron-studded door,

Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore

'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence

They issued on a terraced eminence.

Below, the sea broke sounding; and the King

Breathed open air again that had the sting

And scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam:

And in the east the second dawning's gloam,

Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks

Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.

And so, within that larger light of dawn

It seemed to Arthur now that he had known

This maiden at his Court, and so he asked.

But she, well tutored, her real person masked,

And answered falsely, "Nay, deceive thee not.

Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot.

For here it likes me best to sing and spin,

And needle hangings, listening to the din

Of ocean, sitting some high tower within.

No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave,

No knights to flatter me! For me—the wave,

The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm;

My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charm

Of ocean, redolent at bounteous noon,

And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon:

White ships that pass, some several every year;

These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear."

"An owlet maid," the King laughed.—But untrue

Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,

Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying of

The King, her brother, whom she did not love.—

And presently she brought him where, in state,

This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.

And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still,Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill,Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover hereAmong the hills of Gore. A lodge stood nearA cascade in the forest, where their wontWas to sit listening the falling fount,That, through sweet talks of many idle hoursOn moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers,Had learned the lovers' language,—sighed above,—And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love";That echoed through the lodge, her hands had drapedWith curious hangings; where were worked and shapedRemembered hours of pleasure, body and soul;Imperishable passions, which made wholeThe past again in pictures; and could mateThe heart with loves long dead; and re-createThe very kisses of those perished knightsWith woven records of long-dead delights.Below the lodge within an urnéd shellThe water pooled, and made a tinkling well,Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fellFrom rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew onCame all alone: not ev'n her brindled houndTo bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;Only her lute, about which her perfumeClung, odorous of memories, that made bloomHer absent features, making them arise,Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes,That seemed to see her lips and to surmiseThe words they fashioned; then the smile that drankHer soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sankAnd slowly waned away to deeper dreams,Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams.And so for her imagined eyes and lips,Heart-fashioned features, all the music slipsOf all his soul, himseems, into his voice,To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise,His fleet, trained fingers waken in her luteSuch mellow riot as must make envy-muteThe nightingale that listens quivering.And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill singA similar song;—whose passions burn and painIts anguished soul, now silent,—not in vainBeneath her casement, in that garden oldDingled with heavy roses; in the goldOf Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon:And still he hopes the heartache of the tuneWill clamor secret memories in her ear,Of life, less dear than death with her not near;Of love, who longs for her, to have her here:Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobsO'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbsHard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to deathA prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath,One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms!Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms,This body, hell, canst have forevermore!"And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pourInto the dull ear of her drowsy lordA vague suspicion of some secret word,Borne by the bird,—love's wingéd messenger,—To her who lies beside him; even her,His wife, whom still he loves; whom AccolonThus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:—

And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still,

Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill,

Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover here

Among the hills of Gore. A lodge stood near

A cascade in the forest, where their wont

Was to sit listening the falling fount,

That, through sweet talks of many idle hours

On moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers,

Had learned the lovers' language,—sighed above,—

And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love";

That echoed through the lodge, her hands had draped

With curious hangings; where were worked and shaped

Remembered hours of pleasure, body and soul;

Imperishable passions, which made whole

The past again in pictures; and could mate

The heart with loves long dead; and re-create

The very kisses of those perished knights

With woven records of long-dead delights.

Below the lodge within an urnéd shell

The water pooled, and made a tinkling well,

Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell

From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,

With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on

Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound

To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground;

No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,

Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;

Only her lute, about which her perfume

Clung, odorous of memories, that made bloom

Her absent features, making them arise,

Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes,

That seemed to see her lips and to surmise

The words they fashioned; then the smile that drank

Her soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sank

And slowly waned away to deeper dreams,

Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams.

And so for her imagined eyes and lips,

Heart-fashioned features, all the music slips

Of all his soul, himseems, into his voice,

To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise,

His fleet, trained fingers waken in her lute

Such mellow riot as must make envy-mute

The nightingale that listens quivering.

And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill sing

A similar song;—whose passions burn and pain

Its anguished soul, now silent,—not in vain

Beneath her casement, in that garden old

Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold

Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon:

And still he hopes the heartache of the tune

Will clamor secret memories in her ear,

Of life, less dear than death with her not near;

Of love, who longs for her, to have her here:

Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobs

O'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbs

Hard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to death

A prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath,

One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms!

Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms,

This body, hell, canst have forevermore!"

And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pour

Into the dull ear of her drowsy lord

A vague suspicion of some secret word,

Borne by the bird,—love's wingéd messenger,—

To her who lies beside him; even her,

His wife, whom still he loves; whom Accolon

Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:—

"The thought of thy white coming, like a songBreathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.—Come! press it once again, for it is strongTo bear that weight which never yet distressed.

"The thought of thy white coming, like a song

Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,

Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;

Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.—

Come! press it once again, for it is strong

To bear that weight which never yet distressed.

"O come! and straight the woodland is stormed throughWith wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew:And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed,Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last,Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue,Wherein the arrows of all love are cast.

"O come! and straight the woodland is stormed through

With wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew:

And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed,

Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last,

Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue,

Wherein the arrows of all love are cast.

"O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath,Like the soft South, that idly wanderethThrough musical leaves of laughing laziness,Page on before her, how sweet,—none can guess:Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death;In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.'

"O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath,

Like the soft South, that idly wandereth

Through musical leaves of laughing laziness,

Page on before her, how sweet,—none can guess:

Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death;

In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.'

"She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth raveFor words to tell her how she doth enslaveMy soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with loveThat loveliness, no words can tell whereof;Words, words, like roses, every path to pave,Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough!

"She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth rave

For words to tell her how she doth enslave

My soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with love

That loveliness, no words can tell whereof;

Words, words, like roses, every path to pave,

Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough!

"She comes!—Thro' me a passion—as the moonWorks wonder in the sea—through me doth swoonUngovernable glory; and her soulSeems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal,Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune,Exhausting all my efforts of control.

"She comes!—Thro' me a passion—as the moon

Works wonder in the sea—through me doth swoon

Ungovernable glory; and her soul

Seems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal,

Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune,

Exhausting all my efforts of control.

"She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that graceThe fragmentary skies, and scatter space,Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom!Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face,That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom!

"She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that grace

The fragmentary skies, and scatter space,

Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom!

Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,

Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face,

That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom!

"Oh, boundless exultation of the blood!That now compels me to some higher mood,Diviner sense of something that outsoarsThe Earth—her kiss! that all love's splendor poursInto me; all delicious womanhood,So all the heart that hesitates—adores.

"Oh, boundless exultation of the blood!

That now compels me to some higher mood,

Diviner sense of something that outsoars

The Earth—her kiss! that all love's splendor pours

Into me; all delicious womanhood,

So all the heart that hesitates—adores.

"Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet!Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat;There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair,Shoots his soft arrows,—as the moonbeams fair,—That long have laid me supine at thy feet,And changed my clay to ardent fire and air.

"Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet!

Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat;

There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair,

Shoots his soft arrows,—as the moonbeams fair,—

That long have laid me supine at thy feet,

And changed my clay to ardent fire and air.

"My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine,Has subtly filled me with a flame divine,An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urgeIn all my veins, with rosy surge on surge,To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine,Thine arms! from which I never would emerge."

"My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine,

Has subtly filled me with a flame divine,

An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urge

In all my veins, with rosy surge on surge,

To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine,

Thine arms! from which I never would emerge."

His ecstasy the very foliage shook;The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook;And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear,Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear,To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale:And after which, deep in the purple vale,Awoke the passion of the nightingale.

His ecstasy the very foliage shook;

The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook;

And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear,

Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear,

To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale:

And after which, deep in the purple vale,

Awoke the passion of the nightingale.

III

As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as litheAs the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blitheAs is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,And snag it here and there,—through which the sheenOf her white skin gleams rosy;—eyes and face,Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stoodWatching the sunset through the solitude.So Evening came; and shadows cowled the wayLike ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to prayBefore a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,Along the west, the battlemented goldOf sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,That seemed to open gates of ParadiseOn soundless hinges of the winds, and blazeA glory, far within, of chrysoprase,Towering in topaz through the purple haze.And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,Reclined in revery against the rootOf a great oak, a fragment of the west,A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,And danced and rustled. And it seemed he cameFrom Camelot; from his belovéd dame,Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder boreA mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'erWith mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard whichGlared venomous, with angry jewels rich.He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,"Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,Assures you—ah, unworthy bearer IOf her good message!—of her constancy."Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord,King Arthur: even his Excalibur,The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot,Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled landsOf meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fillWith rings of morrice every grassy hill.Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,Who begged it of the King with this intent:That, for her honor, soon would be begunA desperate battle with a champion,Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:And with the sword, Excalibur, more sureWere she that he against him would endure.Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death."He ceased: and Accolon held up the swordExcalibur and said, "It shall go hardWith him through thee, unconquerable blade,Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laidInsult or injury! And hours as slowAs palsied hours in Purgatory goFor those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!—Here, page, my purse.—And now, to her who gave,Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,To death obedient, I!—In love or warHer love to make me all the warrior.—Bid her have mercy, nor too long delayFrom him, who dies an hourly death each dayTill, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace."Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sentInto the sunset's sea of scarlet lightBurning through wildwood glooms. And as the nightWith votaress cypress veiled the dying strifeSadly of day, and closed his book of lifeAnd clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thoughtOf what this fight was that must soon be fought,Belting the blade about him, Accolon,Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.

As one hath seen a green-gowned huntress fair,

Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair;

Keen eyes as gray as rain, young limbs as lithe

As the wild fawn's; and silvery voice as blithe

As is the wind that breathes of flowers and dews,

Breast through the bramble-tangled avenues;

Through brier and thorn, that pluck her gown of green,

And snag it here and there,—through which the sheen

Of her white skin gleams rosy;—eyes and face,

Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase:

So came the Evening to that shadowy wood,

Or so it seemed to Accolon, who stood

Watching the sunset through the solitude.

So Evening came; and shadows cowled the way

Like ghostly pilgrims who kneel down to pray

Before a wayside shrine: and, radiant-rolled,

Along the west, the battlemented gold

Of sunset walled the opal-tinted skies,

That seemed to open gates of Paradise

On soundless hinges of the winds, and blaze

A glory, far within, of chrysoprase,

Towering in topaz through the purple haze.

And from the sunset, down the roseate ways,

To Accolon, who, with his idle lute,

Reclined in revery against the root

Of a great oak, a fragment of the west,

A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,

Skipped like a leaf the early frosts have burned,

A red oak-leaf; and like a leaf he turned,

And danced and rustled. And it seemed he came

From Camelot; from his belovéd dame,

Morgane le Fay. He on his shoulder bore

A mighty blade, wrought strangely o'er and o'er

With mystic runes, drawn from a scabbard which

Glared venomous, with angry jewels rich.

He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,

"Your Lady, with all tenderest courtesy,

Assures you—ah, unworthy bearer I

Of her good message!—of her constancy."

Then, doffing the great baldric, with the sword,

To him he gave them, saying, "From my lord,

King Arthur: even his Excalibur,

The magic blade which Merlin gat of her,

The Ladyé of the Lake, who, as you wot,

Fostered in infanthood Sir Launcelot,

Upon some isle in Briogne's tangled lands

Of meres and mists; where filmy fairy bands,

By lazy moons of summer, dancing, fill

With rings of morrice every grassy hill.

Through her fair favor is this weapon sent,

Who begged it of the King with this intent:

That, for her honor, soon would be begun

A desperate battle with a champion,

Of wondrous prowess, by Sir Accolon:

And with the sword, Excalibur, more sure

Were she that he against him would endure.

Magic the blade, and magic, too, the sheath,

Which, while 'tis worn, wards from the wearer death."

He ceased: and Accolon held up the sword

Excalibur and said, "It shall go hard

With him through thee, unconquerable blade,

Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laid

Insult or injury! And hours as slow

As palsied hours in Purgatory go

For those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!—

Here, page, my purse.—And now, to her who gave,

Despatch! and say: To all commands, her slave,

To death obedient, I!—In love or war

Her love to make me all the warrior.—

Bid her have mercy, nor too long delay

From him, who dies an hourly death each day

Till, her white hands kissed, he shall kiss her face,

Through which his life lives on, and still finds grace."

Thus he commanded. And, incontinent,

The dwarf departed, like a red shaft sent

Into the sunset's sea of scarlet light

Burning through wildwood glooms. And as the night

With votaress cypress veiled the dying strife

Sadly of day, and closed his book of life

And clasped with golden stars, in dreamy thought

Of what this fight was that must soon be fought,

Belting the blade about him, Accolon,

Through the dark woods tow'rds Chariot passed on.

And it befell him thus, the following dawn,As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,Glad with the freshness and elastic healthOf sky and earth, that lavished all their wealthOf heady winds and racy scents,—a knightAnd gentle lady met him, gay bedight,With following of six esquires; and theyHeld on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of GoreFrom Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; soreHurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:Who had besought—for much he feared to die—This knight and his fair lady, as they rodeTo hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,That they would beg her in all charityTo come to him (for in chirurgeryOf all that land she was the greatest leach),And her for his recovery beseech.So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,And spake their message, for, right over fainWere they toward their sport,—that he would bearPetition to that lady. But, not thereWas Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;But now a sennight lay at Camelot,The guest of Guenevere; and with her thereFour other queens of Farther Britain were:Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,King Mark's wife,—who right rarely then was seenAt Court for jealousy of Mark, who knewHer to that lance of Lyonesse how trueSince mutual quaffing of a philter; whileHow guilty Guenevere on such could smile:—She of Northgales and she of Eastland; andShe of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,For sovereignty and love and loveliness,Was not in any realm to grace and bless.So Accolon informed them. In distressThen quoth that knight: "Ay? see how fortune turnsAnd varies like an April day, that burnsNow welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lainA hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,And sends despatch a courier to my lord,Sir Ontzlake, with, 'To-morrow, with the sword,Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,Decides the issue of inheritance,Body to body, or by champion.'—Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,He would arise and save his livelihood."

And it befell him thus, the following dawn,

As he was wandering on a dew-drenched lawn,

Glad with the freshness and elastic health

Of sky and earth, that lavished all their wealth

Of heady winds and racy scents,—a knight

And gentle lady met him, gay bedight,

With following of six esquires; and they

Held on gloved wrists the hooded falcon gray,

And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of Gore

From Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; sore

Hurt in the lists, a spear wound in his thigh:

Who had besought—for much he feared to die—

This knight and his fair lady, as they rode

To hawk near Chariot, Morgane's abode,

That they would beg her in all charity

To come to him (for in chirurgery

Of all that land she was the greatest leach),

And her for his recovery beseech.

So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,

And spake their message, for, right over fain

Were they toward their sport,—that he would bear

Petition to that lady. But, not there

Was Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;

But now a sennight lay at Camelot,

The guest of Guenevere; and with her there

Four other queens of Farther Britain were:

Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,

King Mark's wife,—who right rarely then was seen

At Court for jealousy of Mark, who knew

Her to that lance of Lyonesse how true

Since mutual quaffing of a philter; while

How guilty Guenevere on such could smile:—

She of Northgales and she of Eastland; and

She of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer band,

For sovereignty and love and loveliness,

Was not in any realm to grace and bless.

So Accolon informed them. In distress

Then quoth that knight: "Ay? see how fortune turns

And varies like an April day, that burns

Now welkins blue with calm; now scowls them down,

Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.

For, look! this Damas, who so long hath lain

A hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,

Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,

Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep,

And sends despatch a courier to my lord,

Sir Ontzlake, with, 'To-morrow, with the sword,

Earl Damas and his knight, at point of lance,

Decides the issue of inheritance,

Body to body, or by champion.'—

Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.

Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, if he could,

He would arise and save his livelihood."

Then thought Sir Accolon: "One might suppose,So soon this follows on her message, thoseSame things befall through Morgane's arts—who knows?—Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,This battle I myself will undertake."Then said to those, "I know the good Ontzlake.If he be so conditioned, harried ofEstate and life,—in knighthood and for loveOf justice I his quarrel will assume.My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groomPrepare my steed. Right good 'twill be againTo feel him under me."—Then, of that train,Asked that one gentleman with him remain,And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,When this was granted, mounted with his menAnd thence departed. And, ere noontide, theyCame to a lone, dismantled prioryHard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushedIn wild and woody hills. And then one woundA hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage soundThe drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, andInto a paved court rode that little band.

Then thought Sir Accolon: "One might suppose,

So soon this follows on her message, those

Same things befall through Morgane's arts—who knows?—

Howe'er it be, as 'twere for her own sake,

This battle I myself will undertake."

Then said to those, "I know the good Ontzlake.

If he be so conditioned, harried of

Estate and life,—in knighthood and for love

Of justice I his quarrel will assume.

My limbs are keen for armor. Let the groom

Prepare my steed. Right good 'twill be again

To feel him under me."—Then, of that train,

Asked that one gentleman with him remain,

And men to squire his horse and arms. And then,

When this was granted, mounted with his men

And thence departed. And, ere noontide, they

Came to a lone, dismantled priory

Hard by a castle 'gainst whose square, grey towers,

Machicolated, mossed, in forest bowers,

Full many a siege had beat and onset rushed:

A forest fortress, old and deep-imbushed

In wild and woody hills. And then one wound

A hoarse slug-horn, and at the savage sound

The drawbridge rumbled moatward, clanking, and

Into a paved court rode that little band.

When all the world was morning, gleam and glareOf autumn glory; and the frost-touched airRang with the rooks as rings a silver lyreSwept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armedFor battle royally. A black steed warmedA keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mailOf foreign make; accoutered head and tailIn costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deepWith lordly gold and purple; whence did sweepTwo acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:And at his thigh a falchion, battle-oldAnd triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, ofCordovan leather, baldric'd rich aboveWith new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,—Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolledA tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,—Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zealGlittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.—A squire attended him; a youth, whose headWaved many a jaunty curl; whereon a redCock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keenAs some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:And parti-colored leather shoes he hadUpon his feet; his legs were silken cladIn hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.So with his following, while, bar on bar,The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.Then to King Arthur, when arrived were theseWhere bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflameWith sweat and heat of hurry; and, "From her,Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!With tender greeting. For you well may needIts aid in this adventure. So, God speed!"Said and departed suddenly: nor knewThe King that this was not his weapon true:A brittle forgery, in likeness ofThat blade, of baser metal;—in unloveAnd treason made by her, of all his kinThe nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,Of yellow-dappled, variegated plateOf Spanish laton. And of sovereign stateHis surcoat robe of honor,—white and black,Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,—at his backThe wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,Excalibur,—a throbbing golden globeOf vicious jewels,—thrust its splendid hilt;Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,An eyelid clasped, black, of the black sea-horse,Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and forceSat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of richBronze-hammered laton; blazing upon whichA hundred brilliants glittered, thick as onA silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaidWith azure silver, whereon colors played,Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

When all the world was morning, gleam and glare

Of autumn glory; and the frost-touched air

Rang with the rooks as rings a silver lyre

Swept swift of minstrel fingers, wire on wire;

Ere that fixed hour of prime, came Arthur, armed

For battle royally. A black steed warmed

A keen impatience 'neath him, cased in mail

Of foreign make; accoutered head and tail

In costly sendal; rearward, wine-dark red,

Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.

Blue armor of linked steel had Arthur on,

Beneath a robe of honor made of drawn,

Ribbed satin, diapered and purfled deep

With lordly gold and purple; whence did sweep

Two acorn-tufted bangles of fine gold:

And at his thigh a falchion, battle-old

And triple-edged; its rune-stamped scabbard, of

Cordovan leather, baldric'd rich above

With new-cut deer-skin, that, laborious wrought,

And curiously, with slides of gold was fraught,

And buckled with a buckle white, that shone,

Tongued red with gold, and carved of walrus' bone.

And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of gold,—

Whereon a wyvern sprawled, whose jaws unrolled

A tongue of garnet agate, of great prize;

Its orbs of glaring ruby, great in size,—

Incased his head and visor-barred his eyes.

And in his hand a wiry lance of ash,

Lattened with sapphire silver, like a flash,

A splinter of sunlight, in the morning's zeal

Glittered, its point, as 'twere, a star of steel.—

A squire attended him; a youth, whose head

Waved many a jaunty curl; whereon a red

Cock-feathered cap shone brave: 'neath which, as keen

As some wild hawk's, his green-gray eyes were seen:

And parti-colored leather shoes he had

Upon his feet; his legs were silken clad

In hose of rarest Totness: and a spear,

Bannered and bronzen, dappled as a deer,

One hand upheld, like some bright beam of morn;

And round his neck was hung a bugle-horn.

So with his following, while, bar on bar,

The blue mist lay on woodside and on scar,

Through mist and dew, through shadow and through ray,

Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.

Then to King Arthur, when arrived were these

Where bright the lists shone, bannered, through the trees,

A wimpled damsel with a falchion came,

Mounted upon a palfrey, all aflame

With sweat and heat of hurry; and, "From her,

Your sister, Morgane, your Excalibur!

With tender greeting. For you well may need

Its aid in this adventure. So, God speed!"

Said and departed suddenly: nor knew

The King that this was not his weapon true:

A brittle forgery, in likeness of

That blade, of baser metal;—in unlove

And treason made by her, of all his kin

The nearest, Morgane; who, her end to win,

Stopped at no thing; thinking, with Arthur dead,

The crown would grace her own and Accolon's head.

Then, heralded, into the lists he rode.

Opposed flashed Accolon, whose strength bestrode,

Exultant, strong in talisman of that sword,

A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,

White-pasterned, and of small, impatient hoof:

Both knight and steed shone armed in mail of proof,

Of yellow-dappled, variegated plate

Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state

His surcoat robe of honor,—white and black,

Of satin, crimson-orphreyed,—at his back

The wind made billow: and, from forth this robe,

Excalibur,—a throbbing golden globe

Of vicious jewels,—thrust its splendid hilt;

Its broad belt, tawny and with goldwork gilt,

An eyelid clasped, black, of the black sea-horse,

Tongued red with rosy gold. And pride and force

Sat on his wingéd helmet, plumed, of rich

Bronze-hammered laton; blazing upon which

A hundred brilliants glittered, thick as on

A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn:

Its crest, a taloned griffin, high that ramped;

In whose horned brow one blood-red gem was stamped.

A spear of ash, long-shafted, overlaid

With azure silver, whereon colors played,

Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.

Intense on either side the champions stood,Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steelsSpurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steersWith adverse thunder; and, in middle course,Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horseLashed, madly pawing.—And a hoarse roar rangFrom the loud lists, till far the echoes sangOf hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scathUpon their fiery fronts and in the wrathOf their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stoodA symbol of the heart beneath the hood.—The lance of Accolon, as on a rockThe storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;But him resistless Arthur's,—high from horseUplifted,—headlong bore, and crashed him down;A long sword's length unsaddled. AccolonFor one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drewThe great sword at his hip that shone like dewSmitten with morn. "Descend!" he grimly said,"To proof of better weapons, head to head!Enough of spears! to swords!"—And from his heightThe King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the deathOf the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends—A long blade leaps;—and now, a fang that rends,Another blade, loud as a battle word,Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,A shield's fierce face replies: again a swordSwings for a giant blow, and, balked again,Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,Over and over, blade on baleful blade;Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

Intense on either side the champions stood,

Shining as serpents that, with spring renewed,

In gleaming scales, meet on a wild-wood way,

Their angry tongues flickering at poisonous play.

Then clanged a herald's trumpet: and harsh heels,

Sharp-thrust, each courser felt; the roweled steels

Spurred forward; and the couched and fiery spears,

Flashed, as two bolts of storm the tempest steers

With adverse thunder; and, in middle course,

Crashed full the unpierced shields, and horse from horse

Lashed, madly pawing.—And a hoarse roar rang

From the loud lists, till far the echoes sang

Of hill and rock-hung forest and wild cliff.

Rigid the champions rode where, standing stiff,

Their esquires tendered them the spears they held.

Again the trumpet blew, and, firmly selled,

Forward they galloped, shield to savage shield,

And crest to angry crest: the wyvern reeled,

Towering, against the griffin: scorn and scath

Upon their fiery fronts and in the wrath

Of their gem-blazing eyes: each figure stood

A symbol of the heart beneath the hood.—

The lance of Accolon, as on a rock

The storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,

On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;

But him resistless Arthur's,—high from horse

Uplifted,—headlong bore, and crashed him down;

A long sword's length unsaddled. Accolon

For one stunned moment lay. Then, rising, drew

The great sword at his hip that shone like dew

Smitten with morn. "Descend!" he grimly said,

"To proof of better weapons, head to head!

Enough of spears! to swords!"—And from his height

The King clanged down. And quick, like some swift light,

His moon-bright brand unsheathed. And, hollowed high,

Each covering shield gleamed, slantwise, to'ards the sky,

A blazoned eye of bronze: and underneath,

As 'neath two clouds, the lightning and the death

Of the fierce swords played. Now a shield descends—

A long blade leaps;—and now, a fang that rends,

Another blade, loud as a battle word,

Beats downward, trenchant; and, resounding heard,

A shield's fierce face replies: again a sword

Swings for a giant blow, and, balked again,

Burns crashing from a sword. Thus, o'er the plain,

Over and over, blade on baleful blade;

Teeth clenched; and eyes, behind their visors' shade,

Like wild beasts' eyes in caverns; shield to shield,

The champions strove, each scorning still to yield.

Then Arthur drew aside to rest uponHis falchion for a space. But Accolon,As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—Fresh and almighty, and no nearer deathNow than when first the fight to death begun,Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,Made weary, ceased and for a moment stoodLeaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?"Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,"Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!"And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,That beat a flying fire from the steel.Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hateGnarled all his strength into one blow of might,And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,—And,—as the lightning flames upon an oak,—Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grassShone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knewThis sword was not Excalibur: too trueAnd perfect tempered, runed and mystical,That weapon of old wars! and then withal,Looking upon his foe, who still with stressFought on, untiring, and with no distressOf wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!"Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,The true Excalibur, that high in handNow rose avenging. For Sir AccolonIn madness urged th' unequal battle onHis King defenseless; who, the hilted crossOf that false weapon grasped, beneath the bossOf his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bitsOf shivered steel and gold made sombre fitsOf flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and coweringBeneath his shield's defense, the dauntless KingCrawled still defiant. And, devising stillHow to secure his sword and by what skill,Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:In that close chase they came where, shattered late,Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advanceHe wielded with effect. Against the fistSmote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;Sudden the palsied sinews of his foeRelaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King easedHimself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;And clasping in both arms of wiry warHis foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seenA strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,Crash down its thundering height in wild carouseAnd wrath of tempest,—so King Arthur shookAnd headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,Tearing away, that scabbard from his sideAnd hurled it through the lists, that far and wideGulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,He seized Excalibur; and grasped of bothWild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering downOn rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawnThat blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tenseA moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:"Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!What king, what court is thine? And from what partOf Britain dost thou come? Speak!—for, methinks,I have beheld thee—where? Some memory linksMe strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art—Who art thou?—speak!"—

Then Arthur drew aside to rest upon

His falchion for a space. But Accolon,

As yet,—through virtue of that magic sheath,—

Fresh and almighty, and no nearer death

Now than when first the fight to death begun,

Chafed at delay. But Arthur, with the sun,

His heavy mail, his wounds, and loss of blood,

Made weary, ceased and for a moment stood

Leaning upon his sword. Then, "Dost thou tire?"

Sneered Accolon. And then, with fiercer fire,

"Defend thee! yield thee! or die recreant!"

And at the King aimed a wild blow, aslant,

That beat a flying fire from the steel.

Stunned by that blow, the King, with brain a-reel,

Sank on one knee; then rose, infuriate,

Nerved with new vigor; and with heat and hate

Gnarled all his strength into one blow of might,

And in both fists his huge blade knotted tight,

And swung, terrific, for a final stroke,—

And,—as the lightning flames upon an oak,—

Boomed on the burgonet his foeman wore;

Hacked through and through its crest, and cleanly shore,

With hollow clamor, from his head and ears,

The brag and boasting of that griffin fierce:

Then, in an instant, as if made of glass,

That brittle blade burst, shattered; and the grass

Shone, strewn with shards; as 'twere a broken ray,

It fell and bright in feverish fragments lay.

Then groaned the King, disarmed. And straight he knew

This sword was not Excalibur: too true

And perfect tempered, runed and mystical,

That weapon of old wars! and then withal,

Looking upon his foe, who still with stress

Fought on, untiring, and with no distress

Of wounds or heat, he thought, "I am betrayed!"

Then as the sunlight struck along that blade,

He knew it, by the hilt, for his own brand,

The true Excalibur, that high in hand

Now rose avenging. For Sir Accolon

In madness urged th' unequal battle on

His King defenseless; who, the hilted cross

Of that false weapon grasped, beneath the boss

Of his deep-dented shield crouched; and around,

Like some great beetle, labored o'er the ground,

Whereon the shards of shattered spears and bits

Of shivered steel and gold made sombre fits

Of flame, 'mid which, hard-pressed and cowering

Beneath his shield's defense, the dauntless King

Crawled still defiant. And, devising still

How to secure his sword and by what skill,

Him thus it fortuned when most desperate:

In that close chase they came where, shattered late,

Lay, tossed, the truncheon of a bursten lance,

Which, deftly seized, to Accolon's advance

He wielded with effect. Against the fist

Smote, where the gauntlet clasped the nervous wrist,

That heaved Excalibur for one last blow;

Sudden the palsied sinews of his foe

Relaxed in effort, and, the great sword seized,

Was wrenched away: and straight the wroth King eased

Himself of his huge shield, and hurled it far;

And clasping in both arms of wiry war

His foe, Sir Accolon,—as one hath seen

A strong wind take an ash tree, rocking green,

And swing its sappy bulk, then, trunk and boughs,

Crash down its thundering height in wild carouse

And wrath of tempest,—so King Arthur shook

And headlong flung Sir Accolon. Then took,

Tearing away, that scabbard from his side

And hurled it through the lists, that far and wide

Gulped in the battle breathless. Then, still wroth,

He seized Excalibur; and grasped of both

Wild hands, swung trenchant, and brought glittering down

On rising Accolon. Steel, bone and brawn

That blow hewed through. Unsettled every sense.

Bathed in a world of blood, his limbs lay tense

A moment, then grew limp, relaxed in death.

And bending o'er him, from the brow beneath,

The King unlaced the helm. When dark, uncasqued,

The knight's slow eyelids opened, Arthur asked:

"Say, ere thou diest, whence and who thou art!

What king, what court is thine? And from what part

Of Britain dost thou come? Speak!—for, methinks,

I have beheld thee—where? Some memory links

Me strangely with thy face, thy eyes ... thou art—

Who art thou?—speak!"—

He answered, slow, then short,With labored breathing: "I?—one, Accolon,—Of Gaul—a knight of Arthur's court—anon—But to what end—yea, tell me—am I slain?"—Then bent King Arthur nearer and againDrew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:"One of my Table!"—Then asked softly, "Say,Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what wayThou cam'st by it?"—But, wandering, that knightHeard with dull ears, divining but by sightThe question asked; and answered, "Woe!—the sword!—Woe worth the sword!—Lean down!—Canst hear my word?—From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had madeMe king of all this kingdom, so she said—Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,To make our schemes miscarry!—Wait! nay, wait!—A king! dost hear?—a gold and blood-crowned king,I!—Arthur's sister, queen!—No bird can wingHigher than her ambition! that resolvedHer brother's death was needed, and evolvedPlots that should ripen with the ripening year,And here be reaped, perhaps—nay, nay! not here!—Farewell, my Morgane!—Yea, 'twas she who schemedWhile there at Chariot we loved and dreamedGone some six months.—There nothing gave us care.Each morning was a liberal almonerProdigal of silver to the earth and air:Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;On such an eve it was, that, redolent,She sat by me and said,—'My message sent,Some night—within the forest—thou, my knight!Thou and the king!—my men—the forest fight!—Murder perhaps.—But, well?—who is to blame?'...So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;With harlot lips, from which my being firstDrank hell and heaven. She, who was in soothMy heaven and hell.—But now, behind her youthShe shrivels to a hag!—I see the truth!—Harlot!—nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!—Wanton!—nay, witch! sweet witch!—what wouldst thou more?—Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieveThat death so ruins it?—Thou dost perceiveHow I still love thee! witness bear this field,This field and he to whom I would not yield!—Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!"—

He answered, slow, then short,

With labored breathing: "I?—one, Accolon,—

Of Gaul—a knight of Arthur's court—anon—

But to what end—yea, tell me—am I slain?"—

Then bent King Arthur nearer and again

Drew back: then, anguish in his utterance, sighed:

"One of my Table!"—Then asked softly, "Say,

Whence hadst thou this, my sword? say, in what way

Thou cam'st by it?"—But, wandering, that knight

Heard with dull ears, divining but by sight

The question asked; and answered, "Woe!—the sword!—

Woe worth the sword!—Lean down!—Canst hear my word?—

From Morgane! Arthur's sister, who had made

Me king of all this kingdom, so she said—

Hadst thou not 'risen, accurséd, like a fate,

To make our schemes miscarry!—Wait! nay, wait!—

A king! dost hear?—a gold and blood-crowned king,

I!—Arthur's sister, queen!—No bird can wing

Higher than her ambition! that resolved

Her brother's death was needed, and evolved

Plots that should ripen with the ripening year,

And here be reaped, perhaps—nay, nay! not here!—

Farewell, my Morgane!—Yea, 'twas she who schemed

While there at Chariot we loved and dreamed

Gone some six months.—There nothing gave us care.

Each morning was a liberal almoner

Prodigal of silver to the earth and air:

Each eve, a fiery dragon, cloud-enrolled,

Convulsive, dying overwhelmed with gold;

On such an eve it was, that, redolent,

She sat by me and said,—'My message sent,

Some night—within the forest—thou, my knight!

Thou and the king!—my men—the forest fight!—

Murder perhaps.—But, well?—who is to blame?'...

So with her blood-red thoughts to me she came.

To me! that woman, brighter than a flame,

And wooed my soul to hell, with love accurs'd;

With harlot lips, from which my being first

Drank hell and heaven. She, who was in sooth

My heaven and hell.—But now, behind her youth

She shrivels to a hag!—I see the truth!—

Harlot!—nay, spouse of Urience, King of Gore!—

Wanton!—nay, witch! sweet witch!—what wouldst thou more?—

Hast thou not had thy dream? and wilt thou grieve

That death so ruins it?—Thou dost perceive

How I still love thee! witness bear this field,

This field and he to whom I would not yield!—

Would thou wert here to kiss me ere I die!"—

Then anger in the good King's gloomy eyeGlowed, instant-embered, as one oft may seeA star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be.Slow from his visage he his visor raised,And on the dying knight a moment gazed;Then grimly said, "Look on me, Accolon!I am thy King!" He, with an awful groan,Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drewUp full his armored height and hoarsely cried,"The King!" and at his mailed feet crashed and died.

Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye

Glowed, instant-embered, as one oft may see

A star blaze up in heaven, then cease to be.

Slow from his visage he his visor raised,

And on the dying knight a moment gazed;

Then grimly said, "Look on me, Accolon!

I am thy King!" He, with an awful groan,

Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;

Strained to his tottering knees; and, gasping, drew

Up full his armored height and hoarsely cried,

"The King!" and at his mailed feet crashed and died.

Then came a world of anxious faces, pressedAbout King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,Bespake that multitude: "While breath and powerRemain, judge we these brothers: This hard hourHath given to Damas all this rich estate:So it is his; allotted his by fateAnd force of arms. So let it be to him.For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slimBut that it hath this strong conclusiön.This much by us as errant knight is done.—Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:We do command Earl Damas to appearNo more upon our shores, or any islesOf farthest Britain in its many miles.One week be his, no more! then will we come,Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:If he be not departed overseas,With all his men and all his outlawries,From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,Alive and naked shall he starve and hangAnd rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.Thus much for him!... But all our favor goesToward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the KingTo take into his knightly followingOf the Round Table. Bear to him our word.But I am over weary. Take my sword.—Unharness me, for more and more I tire;And all my wounds are so much aching fire.Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fainTo Glastonbury and with me the slain."So bore they then the wounded King away,The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.

Then came a world of anxious faces, pressed

About King Arthur; who, though sore distressed,

Bespake that multitude: "While breath and power

Remain, judge we these brothers: This hard hour

Hath given to Damas all this rich estate:

So it is his; allotted his by fate

And force of arms. So let it be to him.

For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim

But that it hath this strong conclusiön.

This much by us as errant knight is done.—

Now our decree, as King of Britain, hear:

We do command Earl Damas to appear

No more upon our shores, or any isles

Of farthest Britain in its many miles.

One week be his, no more! then will we come,

Even with an iron host, to seal his doom:

If he be not departed overseas,

With all his men and all his outlawries,

From his own towers, around which sea-birds clang,

Alive and naked shall he starve and hang

And rot! vile food for kites and carrion crows.

Thus much for him!... But all our favor goes

Toward Sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King

To take into his knightly following

Of the Round Table. Bear to him our word.

But I am over weary. Take my sword.—

Unharness me, for more and more I tire;

And all my wounds are so much aching fire.

Yea; help me hence. To-morrow I would fain

To Glastonbury and with me the slain."

So bore they then the wounded King away,

The dead behind, as closed the autumn day.

But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,The King, remembering the marauder wrongWhich Damas had inflicted on that land,Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.He, riding thither to that robber lair,Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:And found—a ruin of fire-blackened rock,Of tottering towers, that shook to every shockOf the wild waves; and loomed above the bentsTurrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.

But when, within that abbey, he waxed strong,

The King, remembering the marauder wrong

Which Damas had inflicted on that land,

Commanded Lionell, with a stanch band,

To stamp this weed out if still rooted there.

He, riding thither to that robber lair,

Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when, thorn on thorn,

Reddened an hundred spears one winter morn:

And found—a ruin of fire-blackened rock,

Of tottering towers, that shook to every shock

Of the wild waves; and loomed above the bents

Turrets and cloudy-clustered battlements,

Wailing with wind that swept those clamorous lands:

Above the foam, that climbed with haling hands,

Desolate and gaunt; reflected in the flats;

Hollow and huge, the haunt of owls and bats.

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time,Artificer of God, had coined our worldWithin the formless void, and round it furledIts lordly raiment of the day and night,And germed its womb with beauty and delight:And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might useAnd serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse....

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,

In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time,

Artificer of God, had coined our world

Within the formless void, and round it furled

Its lordly raiment of the day and night,

And germed its womb with beauty and delight:

And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might use

And serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse....

For her half-brother Morgane had conceivedUnnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved,Envious and jealous, for the high renownAnd might the King had gathered round his crownThrough truth and honor. And who was it said,"Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?—Warm in your breast a serpent, it will stingThe breast that warms it: and albeit the KingKnew of his sister's hate, he passed it by,Thinking that love and kindness graduallyWould win her heart to him. He little knewThe witch he dealt with, beautiful to view,And all the poison she could stoop to brew.She, who, well knowing how much mightierThe King than Accolon, rejoiced that herWits had secured from him Excalibur,Without which, she was certain, in the joustThe King were as a foe unarmed. Her trustSmiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent,Within her, whispered of success, that lentHer heart a lofty hope; and at large eyesPiled up imperial dreams of power and prize.And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark,Traceried and arrased,—when the barren parkDripped, drenched with autumn,—for November laySwathed frostily in fog on every spray,—She at her tri-arched casement sate one night,Ere yet came courier from that test of might.Her lord in slumber and the castle fullOf drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull:"The King removed?—my soul!—heisremoved!Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath provedToo much for him. Yet! let him lie in state,The great king, Arthur!—But, regenerate,Now crown our other monarch, Accolon!And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy sonOf gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule.Love, Love almighty; beautiful to schoolThe hearts and souls of mortals!—Then this realm'sIron-huskéd flower of war,—that overwhelmsThe world with havoc,—will explode and bloomThe amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume.And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowedTo Gueneveres and Isouds,—now allowedNo pleasure but what hour by stolen hour,In secret places, brings to flaming flower,—You shall have feasts of passion evermore!And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,No more shalt stand neglected and cast off,Insulted and derided; and the scoffOf War, the bully, whose hands of insult flingOff, for the iron of arms, thy hands that clingAbout his brutal feet, that crush thy face,Bleeding, into the dust.—Here, in War's place,We will erect a shrine of sacrifice;Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price;Where each shall lay his heart and each his soulFor Love, for earthly Love! who shall controlThe world, and make it as the Heaven whole;Being to it its stars and moon and sun,Its firmament and all its lights in one.And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred,Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love in-starred,Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thusRemain earth Love, that God encouraged in us.

For her half-brother Morgane had conceived

Unnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved,

Envious and jealous, for the high renown

And might the King had gathered round his crown

Through truth and honor. And who was it said,

"Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?—

Warm in your breast a serpent, it will sting

The breast that warms it: and albeit the King

Knew of his sister's hate, he passed it by,

Thinking that love and kindness gradually

Would win her heart to him. He little knew

The witch he dealt with, beautiful to view,

And all the poison she could stoop to brew.

She, who, well knowing how much mightier

The King than Accolon, rejoiced that her

Wits had secured from him Excalibur,

Without which, she was certain, in the joust

The King were as a foe unarmed. Her trust

Smiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent,

Within her, whispered of success, that lent

Her heart a lofty hope; and at large eyes

Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.

And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark,

Traceried and arrased,—when the barren park

Dripped, drenched with autumn,—for November lay

Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,—

She at her tri-arched casement sate one night,

Ere yet came courier from that test of might.

Her lord in slumber and the castle full

Of drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull:

"The King removed?—my soul!—heisremoved!

Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath proved

Too much for him. Yet! let him lie in state,

The great king, Arthur!—But, regenerate,

Now crown our other monarch, Accolon!

And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy son

Of gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule.

Love, Love almighty; beautiful to school

The hearts and souls of mortals!—Then this realm's

Iron-huskéd flower of war,—that overwhelms

The world with havoc,—will explode and bloom

The amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume.

And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowed

To Gueneveres and Isouds,—now allowed

No pleasure but what hour by stolen hour,

In secret places, brings to flaming flower,—

You shall have feasts of passion evermore!

And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,

No more shalt stand neglected and cast off,

Insulted and derided; and the scoff

Of War, the bully, whose hands of insult fling

Off, for the iron of arms, thy hands that cling

About his brutal feet, that crush thy face,

Bleeding, into the dust.—Here, in War's place,

We will erect a shrine of sacrifice;

Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price;

Where each shall lay his heart and each his soul

For Love, for earthly Love! who shall control

The world, and make it as the Heaven whole;

Being to it its stars and moon and sun,

Its firmament and all its lights in one.

And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred,

Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love in-starred,

Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thus

Remain earth Love, that God encouraged in us.

"And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!—There lies my worry.—Yet, hath he no swordNo dangerous dagger I, hid softly here,Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his earNo instant poison to insinuateIce in his pulses, and with death abate?"So did she then determine; on that nightOf lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,And the lamenting wind wailed wild amongThe trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.So grew her face severe as skies that takeSuggestions of far storm whose thunders shakeThe distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fireA pine the moaning forest mourns as sire—So touched her countenance that dark intent:And in still eyes her thoughts were evident,As in dark waters, luminous and deep,The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweepThe clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,—Ghostly and gray,—locked in their steadfast gloom.Then, as if some great wind had swept the room,Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat.As if dim arms had made her a retreat,Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost,Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost,Poised like a light and borne as carefully,She trod the gusty hall where shadowyThe hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war.And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,Glimmering above, a dying cresset droppedFrom the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped,And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page,Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.—For she had thought that, when they found him dead,His sword laid by him on the bloody bedWould be convictive that his own hand hadDone him this violence when fever-mad.The sword she took; and to the chamber, whereKing Urience slept, she glided; like an air,Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fitOf faery song, a wicked charm in it,That slays; an incantation full of guile.She paused upon his threshold; for a whileListened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stoodCrouched o'er his couch. About her heart the bloodCaught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud,Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up,As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup.Then came rare Recollection, with a mouthSweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the SouthTrickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves;To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleavesIntricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet—Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleetTo come and go and airy anxiously.She, trembling to her, like a flower a beeNests in and makes an audible mouth of musk,Lisping a downy message to the dusk,Laid lips to ears and languaged memories ofNow hateful Urience:—How her maiden loveHad left Caerleon secretly for Gore,With him, one day of autumn. How a boar,Wild as the wildness of the solitude,Raged at her from a cavern of the wood,That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curseMurderous upon her. As her steed grew worseAnd, terrified, fled snorting down the dell,How she had flung herself from out the selle,In fear, upon a bank of springy moss,Where she lay swooning: in an utter lossOf mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see,Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,—As one who pants beneath an incubusAnd strives to shriek or move, delirious,—The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged,And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clangedAnd buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lightsLawless about her brain,—like leaves wild nightsOf hurricane harvest, shouting.—Then it seemedA fury thundered 'twixt them—and she screamedAs round her flew th' uprooted loam that heldLeaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelledContinual echoes with the thud of strife,And groan of man and brute that warred for life:How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms,Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms,And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred,Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red.And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head,With all its uncoifed braids of raven hairDisheveled, on one arm,—as white and fairAnd smooth as milk,—and saw, as through a haze,The brute thing throttled and the frowning faceOf Urience bent above it, browed with might;One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright,Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn:Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn,Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,—A shaggy bulk,—with hoofs that drove and drove.And then she saw how Urience swiftly slippedOne arm, the monster's tearing tusks had rippedAnd ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,—Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;—Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice,Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice;And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death,Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath.Then how he brought her water from a well,That rustled freshly near them as it fellFrom its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a taskThat had accompanying tears of joy and vowsOf love, and intercourse of eyes and brows,And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs,His wound dressed, and her steed still violentFrom fear, she mounted and behind him bentAnd clasped him on the same steed; and they wentOn through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.And then she felt she'd loved him till had comeFame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake:Then how her thought from these did seem to takeReflex of longing; and within her wakeDesire for some great lover who should slake;And such found Accolon.

"And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!—

There lies my worry.—Yet, hath he no sword

No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here,

Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his ear

No instant poison to insinuate

Ice in his pulses, and with death abate?"

So did she then determine; on that night

Of lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,

Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;

But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,

And the lamenting wind wailed wild among

The trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.

So grew her face severe as skies that take

Suggestions of far storm whose thunders shake

The distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fire

A pine the moaning forest mourns as sire—

So touched her countenance that dark intent:

And in still eyes her thoughts were evident,

As in dark waters, luminous and deep,

The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweep

The clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,—

Ghostly and gray,—locked in their steadfast gloom.

Then, as if some great wind had swept the room,

Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat.

As if dim arms had made her a retreat,

Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost,

Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost,

Poised like a light and borne as carefully,

She trod the gusty hall where shadowy

The hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war.

And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,

Glimmering above, a dying cresset dropped

From the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped,

And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page,

Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.—

For she had thought that, when they found him dead,

His sword laid by him on the bloody bed

Would be convictive that his own hand had

Done him this violence when fever-mad.

The sword she took; and to the chamber, where

King Urience slept, she glided; like an air,

Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fit

Of faery song, a wicked charm in it,

That slays; an incantation full of guile.

She paused upon his threshold; for a while

Listened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stood

Crouched o'er his couch. About her heart the blood

Caught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud,

Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up,

As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup.

Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth

Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South

Trickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves;

To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves

Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet—

Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleet

To come and go and airy anxiously.

She, trembling to her, like a flower a bee

Nests in and makes an audible mouth of musk,

Lisping a downy message to the dusk,

Laid lips to ears and languaged memories of

Now hateful Urience:—How her maiden love

Had left Caerleon secretly for Gore,

With him, one day of autumn. How a boar,

Wild as the wildness of the solitude,

Raged at her from a cavern of the wood,

That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse

Murderous upon her. As her steed grew worse

And, terrified, fled snorting down the dell,

How she had flung herself from out the selle,

In fear, upon a bank of springy moss,

Where she lay swooning: in an utter loss

Of mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see,

Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,—

As one who pants beneath an incubus

And strives to shriek or move, delirious,—

The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged,

And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clanged

And buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lights

Lawless about her brain,—like leaves wild nights

Of hurricane harvest, shouting.—Then it seemed

A fury thundered 'twixt them—and she screamed

As round her flew th' uprooted loam that held

Leaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelled

Continual echoes with the thud of strife,

And groan of man and brute that warred for life:

How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms,

Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms,

And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred,

Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red.

And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head,

With all its uncoifed braids of raven hair

Disheveled, on one arm,—as white and fair

And smooth as milk,—and saw, as through a haze,

The brute thing throttled and the frowning face

Of Urience bent above it, browed with might;

One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright,

Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn:

Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn,

Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,—

A shaggy bulk,—with hoofs that drove and drove.

And then she saw how Urience swiftly slipped

One arm, the monster's tearing tusks had ripped

And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,—

Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;—

Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice,

Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice;

And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death,

Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath.

Then how he brought her water from a well,

That rustled freshly near them as it fell

From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,

And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a task

That had accompanying tears of joy and vows

Of love, and intercourse of eyes and brows,

And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs,

His wound dressed, and her steed still violent

From fear, she mounted and behind him bent

And clasped him on the same steed; and they went

On through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west,

Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest,

Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed.

And then she felt she'd loved him till had come

Fame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home,

Tristram had brought across the Irish foam;

And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake:

Then how her thought from these did seem to take

Reflex of longing; and within her wake

Desire for some great lover who should slake;

And such found Accolon.

And then she thoughtHow far she'd fallen, and how darkly fraughtWith consequence was this. Then what distressWere hers and his—her lover's—and successHow doubly difficult if, Arthur slain,King Urience lived to assert his right to reign.So she stood pondering with the sword; her lipsBreathless, and tight as were her finger-tipsAbout the weapon's hilt. And so she sighed,"Nay, nay! too long hast lived who shouldst have diedEven in the womb, my sorrow! who for yearsHast leashed my life to thine, a bond of tears,A weight of care, a knot that thus I part!Thus harshly sever! Ugly that thou artInto the elements naked!"

And then she thought

How far she'd fallen, and how darkly fraught

With consequence was this. Then what distress

Were hers and his—her lover's—and success

How doubly difficult if, Arthur slain,

King Urience lived to assert his right to reign.

So she stood pondering with the sword; her lips

Breathless, and tight as were her finger-tips

About the weapon's hilt. And so she sighed,

"Nay, nay! too long hast lived who shouldst have died

Even in the womb, my sorrow! who for years

Hast leashed my life to thine, a bond of tears,

A weight of care, a knot that thus I part!

Thus harshly sever! Ugly that thou art

Into the elements naked!"

O'er his heartThe long blade paused and—then descended hard.Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord,And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet,And drip, a horror, at impassive feetPooling the polished oak. Regretless sheStood, and relentless; in her ecstasyA lovely devil: demon crowned, that criedFor Accolon, with passion that defiedControl in all her senses; clamorous asA torrent in a cavernous mountain passThat sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hourSo swept her longing tow'rds her paramour.Him whom, King Arthur had commanded whenBorne from the lists, she should receive again;Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just,As was but due her for her love—and lust.And while she stood revolving if her deed'sSecret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds,Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursedFierce in the northern court. To her, athirstFor him her lover, war and power it spoke,Him victor and so king. And then awokeDesire to see and greet him: and she fled,Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red,Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,Down from a steaming steed into her ears,"This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse:Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force,Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,Crusted with blood, a knight in armor—dead:Her Accolon, flung in his battered armsBy what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,"This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.

O'er his heart

The long blade paused and—then descended hard.

Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord,

And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet,

And drip, a horror, at impassive feet

Pooling the polished oak. Regretless she

Stood, and relentless; in her ecstasy

A lovely devil: demon crowned, that cried

For Accolon, with passion that defied

Control in all her senses; clamorous as

A torrent in a cavernous mountain pass

That sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hour

So swept her longing tow'rds her paramour.

Him whom, King Arthur had commanded when

Borne from the lists, she should receive again;

Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just,

As was but due her for her love—and lust.

And while she stood revolving if her deed's

Secret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds,

Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed

Fierce in the northern court. To her, athirst

For him her lover, war and power it spoke,

Him victor and so king. And then awoke

Desire to see and greet him: and she fled,

Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red,

Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,

That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.

To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,

Down from a steaming steed into her ears,

"This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse:

Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force,

Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red,

Crusted with blood, a knight in armor—dead:

Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms

By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms,

Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff,

"This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.

And what remains?—From Camelot to GoreThat night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,—As old romances tell,—of Avalon;Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan:Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely faceIs young and queenly; sweeter though in grace,And softer for the sorrow there; the traceOf immemorial tears as for some crime,Attempted or committed at some time,Some old, unhappy time of long ago,That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe:Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant ofThat far-off hour awaited of her love,When the forgiving Arthur cometh andShall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land,That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old,Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold;That lifts its mountains from forgotten seasOf surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.—And so was seen Morgana nevermore,Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she boreThe wounded Arthur from that last fought fightOf Camlan in a black barge into night.But some may see her, with a palfried bandOf serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy landOf autumn glimmer,—when are sadly strewnThe red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moonHangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,—Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

And what remains?—From Camelot to Gore

That night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,—

As old romances tell,—of Avalon;

Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan:

Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely face

Is young and queenly; sweeter though in grace,

And softer for the sorrow there; the trace

Of immemorial tears as for some crime,

Attempted or committed at some time,

Some old, unhappy time of long ago,

That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe:

Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant of

That far-off hour awaited of her love,

When the forgiving Arthur cometh and

Shall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land,

That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old,

Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold;

That lifts its mountains from forgotten seas

Of surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.—

And so was seen Morgana nevermore,

Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she bore

The wounded Arthur from that last fought fight

Of Camlan in a black barge into night.

But some may see her, with a palfried band

Of serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy land

Of autumn glimmer,—when are sadly strewn

The red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moon

Hangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,—

Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

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