And therefore fell on all that landSorrow: for still on either hand,As Balen rode alone and scannedBright fields and cities built to standTill time should break them, dead men lay;And loud and long from all their folkLiving, one cry that cursed him broke;Three countries had his dolorous strokeSlain, or should surely slay.
In winter, when the year burns lowAs fire wherein no firebrands glow,And winds dishevel as they blowThe lovely stormy wings of snow,The hearts of northern men burn brightWith joy that mocks the joy of springTo hear all heaven’s keen clarions ringMusic that bids the spirit singAnd day give thanks for night.
Aloud and dark as hell or hateRound Balen’s head the wind of fateBlew storm and cloud from death’s wide gate:But joy as grief in him was greatTo face God’s doom and live or die,Sorrowing for ill wrought unaware,Rejoicing in desire to dareAll ill that innocence might bearWith changeless heart and eye.
Yet passing fain he was when pastThose lands and woes at length and last.Eight times, as thence he fared forth fast,Dawn rose and even was overcastWith starry darkness dear as day,Before his venturous quest might meetAdventure, seeing within a sweetGreen low-lying forest, hushed in heat,A tower that barred his way.
Strong summer, dumb with rapture, boundWith golden calm the woodlands roundWherethrough the knight forth faring foundA knight that on the greenwood groundSat mourning: fair he was to see,And moulded as for love or fightA maiden’s dreams might frame her knight;But sad in joy’s far-flowering sightAs grief’s blind thrall might be.
“God save you,” Balen softly said,“What grief bows down your heart and headThus, as one sorrowing for his dead?Tell me, if haply I may steadIn aught your sorrow, that I may.”“Sir knight,” that other said, “thy wordMakes my grief heavier that I heard.”And pity and wonder inly stirredDrew Balen thence away.
And so withdrawn with silent speedHe saw the sad knight’s stately steed,A war-horse meet for warrior’s need,That none who passed might choose but heed,So strong he stood, so great, so fair,With eyes afire for flight or fight,A joy to look on, mild in might,And swift and keen and kind as light,And all as clear of care.
And Balen, gazing on him, heardAgain his master’s woful wordSound sorrow through the calm unstirredBy fluttering wind or flickering bird,Thus: “Ah, fair lady and faithless, whyBreak thy pledged faith to meet me? soonAn hour beyond thy trothplight noonShall strike my death-bell, and thy boonIs this, that here I die.
“My curse for all thy gifts may beHeavier than death or night on thee;For now this sword thou gavest meShall set me from thy bondage free.”And there the man had died self-slain,But Balen leapt on him and caughtThe blind fierce hand that fain had wroughtSelf-murder, stung with fire of thought,As rage makes anguish fain.
Then, mad for thwarted grief, “Let goMy hand,” the fool of wrath and woeCried, “or I slay thee.” Scarce the glowIn Balen’s cheek and eye might show,As dawn shows day while seas lie chill,He heard, though pity took not heed,But smiled and spake, “That shall not need:What man may do to bid you speedI, so God speed me, will.”
And the other craved his name, beguiledBy hope that made his madness mild.Again Sir Balen spake and smiled:“My name is Balen, called the WildBy knights whom kings and courts make tameBecause I ride alone afarAnd follow but my soul for star.”“Ah, sir, I know the knight you areAnd all your fiery fame.
“The knight that bears two swords I know,Most praised of all men, friend and foe,For prowess of your hands, that showDark war the way where balefires glowAnd kindle glory like the dawn’s.”So spake the sorrowing knight, and stoodAs one whose heart fresh hope made good:And forth they rode by wold and woodAnd down the glimmering lawns.
And Balen craved his name who rodeBeside him, where the wild wood glowedWith joy to feel how noontide flowedThrough glade and glen and rough green roadTill earth grew joyful as the sea.“My name is Garnysshe of the Mount,A poor man’s son of none account,”He said, “where springs of loftier fountLaugh loud with pride to be.
“But strength in weakness lives and standsAs rocks that rise through shifting sands;And for the prowess of my handsOne made me knight and gave me lands,Duke Hermel, lord from far to near,Our prince; and she that loved me—sheI love, and deemed she loved but me,His daughter, pledged her faith to beEre now beside me here.”
And Balen, brief of speech as lightWhose word, beheld of depth and height,Strikes silence through the stars of night,Spake, and his face as dawn’s grew bright,For hope to help a happier man,“How far then lies she hence?” “By this,”Her lover sighed and said, “I wis,Not six fleet miles the passage is,And straight as thought could span.”
So rode they swift and sure, and foundA castle walled and dyked around:And Balen, as a warrior boundOn search where hope might fear to soundThe darkness of the deeps of doubt,Made entrance through the guardless gateAs life, while hope in life grows great,Makes way between the doors of fateThat death may pass thereout.
Through many a glorious chamber, wroughtFor all delight that love’s own thoughtMight dream or dwell in, Balen soughtAnd found of all he looked for nought,For like a shining shell her bedShone void and vacant of her: thenceThrough devious wonders bright and denseHe passed and saw with shame-struck senseWhere shame and faith lay dead.
Down in a sweet small garden, fairWith flowerful joy in the ardent air,He saw, and raged with loathing, whereShe lay with love-dishevelled hairBeneath a broad bright laurel treeAnd clasped in amorous arms a knight,The unloveliest that his scornful sightHad dwelt on yet; a shame the brightBroad noon might shrink to see.
And thence in wrathful hope he turned,Hot as the heart within him burned,To meet the knight whose love, so spurnedAnd spat on and made nought of, yearnedAnd dreamed and hoped and lived in vain,And said, “I have found her sleeping fast,”And led him where the shadows castFrom leaves wherethrough light winds ran pastScreened her from sun and rain.
But Garnysshe, seeing, reeled as he stoodLike a tree, kingliest of the wood,Half hewn through: and the burning bloodThrough lips and nostrils burst aflood:And gathering back his rage and mightAs broken breakers rally and roarThe loud wind down that drives off shore,He smote their heads off: there no moreTheir life might shame the light.
Then turned he back toward Balen, madWith grief, and said, “The grief I hadWas nought: ere this my life was glad:Thou hast done this deed: I was but sadAnd fearful how my hope might fare:I had lived my sorrow down, hadst thouNot shown me what I saw but now.”The sorrow and scorn on Balen’s browBade silence curb him there.
And Balen answered: “What I didI did to hearten thee and bidThy courage know that shame should ridA man’s high heart of love that hidBlind shame within its core: God knows,I did, to set a bondman free,But as I would thou hadst done by me,That seeing what love must die to seeLove’s end might well be woe’s.”
“Alas,” the woful weakling said,“I have slain what most I loved: I have shedThe blood most near my heart: the headLies cold as earth, defiled and dead,That all my life was lighted by,That all my soul bowed down before,And now may bear with life no more:For now my sorrow that I boreIs twofold, and I die.”
Then with his red wet sword he roveHis breast in sunder, where it cloveLife, and no pulse against it strove,So sure and strong the deep stroke droveDeathward: and Balen, seeing him dead,Rode thence, lest folk would say he had slainThose three; and ere three days againHad seen the sun’s might wax and wane,Far forth he had spurred and sped.
And riding past a cross whereonBroad golden letters written shone,Saying, “No knight born may ride aloneForth toward this castle,” and all the stoneGlowed in the sun’s glare even as thoughBlood stained it from the crucifiedDead burden of one that there had died,An old hoar man he saw besideWhose face was wan as woe.
“Balen the Wild,” he said, “this wayThy way lies not: thou hast passed to-dayThy bands: but turn again, and stayThy passage, while thy soul hath swayWithin thee, and through God’s good powerIt will avail thee:” and anonHis likeness as a cloud was gone,And Balen’s heart within him shoneClear as the cloudless hour.
Nor fate nor fear might overcastThe soul now near its peace at last.Suddenly, thence as forth he past,A mighty and a deadly blastBlown of a hunting-horn he heard,As when the chase hath nobly sped.“That blast is blown for me,” he said,“The prize am I who am yet not dead,”And smiled upon the word.
As toward a royal hart’s death rangThat note, whence all the loud wood sangWith winged and living sound that sprangLike fire, and keen as fire’s own fangPierced the sweet silence that it slew.But nought like death or strife was here:Fair semblance and most goodly cheerThey made him, they whose troop drew nearAs death among them drew.
A hundred ladies well arrayedAnd many a knight well weaponed madeThat kindly show of cheer: the gladeShone round them till its very shadeLightened and laughed from grove to lawnTo hear and see them: so they broughtWithin a castle fair as thoughtCould dream that wizard hands had wroughtThe guest among them drawn.
All manner of glorious joy was there:Harping and dancing, loud and fair,And minstrelsy that made of airFire, so like fire its raptures were.Then the chief lady spake on high:“Knight with the two swords, one of twoMust help you here or fall from you:For needs you now must have adoAnd joust with one hereby.
“A good knight guards an island hereAgainst all swords that chance brings near,And there with stroke of sword and spearMust all for whom these halls make cheerFight, and redeem or yield up life.”“An evil custom,” Balen said,“Is this, that none whom chance hath ledHither, if knighthood crown his head,May pass unstirred to strife.”
“You shall not have ado to fightHere save against one only knight,”She said, and all her face grew brightAs hell-fire, lit with hungry lightThat wicked laughter touched with flame.“Well, since I shall thereto,” said he,“I am ready at heart as death for me:Fain would I be where death should beAnd life should lose its name.
“But travelling men whose goal afarShines as a cloud-constraining starAre often weary, and wearier areTheir steeds that feel each fret and jarWherewith the wild ways wound them: yet,Albeit my horse be weary, stillMy heart is nowise weary; willSustains it even till death fulfilMy trust upon him set.”
“Sir,” said a knight thereby that stood,“Meseems your shield is now not goodBut worn with warrior work, nor couldSustain in strife the strokes it would:A larger will I lend you.” “Ay,Thereof I thank you,” Balen said,Being single of heart as one that readNo face aright whence faith had fled,Nor dreamed that faith could fly.
And so he took that shield unknownAnd left for treason’s touch his own,And toward that island rode alone,Nor heard the blast against him blownSound in the wind’s and water’s sound,But hearkening toward the stream’s edge heardNought save the soft stream’s rippling word,Glad with the gladness of a bird,That sang to the air around.
And there against the water-sideHe saw, fast moored to rock and ride,A fair great boat anear abideLike one that waits the turning tide,Wherein embarked his horse and hePassed over toward no kindly strand:And where they stood again on landThere stood a maiden hard at handWho seeing them wept to see.
And “O knight Balen,” was her cry,“Why have ye left your own shield? whyCome hither out of time to die?For had ye kept your shield, therebyYe had yet been known, and died not here.Great pity it is of you this dayAs ever was of knight, or mayBe ever, seeing in war’s bright wayPraise knows not Balen’s peer.”
And Balen said, “Thou hast heard my nameRight: it repenteth me, though shameMay tax me not with base men’s blame,That ever, hap what will, I cameWithin this country; yet, being come,For shame I may not turn againNow, that myself and nobler menMay scorn me: now is more than then,And faith bids fear be dumb.
“Be it life or death, my chance I take,Be it life’s to build or death’s to break:And fall what may, me lists not makeMoan for sad life’s or death’s sad sake.”Then looked he on his armour, gladAnd high of heart, and found it strong:And all his soul became a songAnd soared in prayer that soared not long,For all the hope it had.
Then saw he whence against him cameA steed whose trappings shone like flame,And he that rode him showed the sameFierce colour, bright as fire or fame,But dark the visors were as nightThat hid from Balen Balan’s face,And his from Balan: God’s own graceForsook them for a shadowy spaceWhere darkness cast out light.
The two swords girt that Balen bareGave Balan for a breath’s while therePause, wondering if indeed it wereBalen his brother, bound to dareThe chance of that unhappy quest:But seeing not as he thought to seeHis shield, he deemed it was not he,And so, as fate bade sorrow be,They laid their spears in rest.
So mighty was the course they ranWith spear to spear so great of span,Each fell back stricken, man by man,Horse by horse, borne down: so the banThat wrought by doom against them wrought:But Balen by his falling steedWas bruised the sorer, being indeedWay-weary, like a rain-bruised reed,With travel ere he fought.
And Balen rose again from swoonFirst, and went toward him: all too soonHe too then rose, and the evil boonOf strength came back, and the evil tuneOf battle unnatural made againMad music as for death’s wide earListening and hungering toward the nearLast sigh that life or death might hearAt last from dying men.
Balan smote Balen first, and cloveHis lifted shield that rose and stroveIn vain against the stroke that droveDown: as the web that morning woveOf glimmering pearl from spray to sprayDies when the strong sun strikes it, soShrank the steel, tempered thrice to showStrength, as the mad might of the blowShore Balen’s helm away.
Then turning as a turning waveAgainst the land-wind, blind and braveIn hope that dreams despair may save,With even the unhappy sword that gaveThe gifts of fame and fate in oneHe smote his brother, and there had nighFelled him: and while they breathed, his eyeGlanced up, and saw beneath the skySights fairer than the sun.
The towers of all the castle thereStood full of ladies, blithe and fairAs the earth beneath and the amorous airAbout them and above them were:So toward the blind and fateful fightAgain those brethren went, and soreWere all the strokes they smote and bore,And breathed again, and fell once moreTo battle in their sight.
With blood that either spilt and bledWas all the ground they fought on red,And each knight’s hauberk hewn and shredLeft each unmailed and naked, shedFrom off them even as mantles cast:And oft they breathed, and drew but breathBrief as the word strong sorrow saith,And poured and drank the draught of death,Till fate was full at last.
And Balan, younger born than heWhom darkness bade him slay, and beSlain, as in mist where none may seeIf aught abide or fall or flee,Drew back a little and laid him down,Dying: but Balen stood, and said,As one between the quick and deadMight stand and speak, “What good knight’s headHath won this mortal crown?
“What knight art thou? for never IWho now beside thee dead shall dieFound yet the knight afar or nighThat matched me.” Then his brother’s eyeFlashed pride and love; he spake and smiledAnd felt in death life’s quickening flame,And answered: “Balan is my name,The good knight Balen’s brother; fameCalls and miscalls him wild.”
The cry from Balen’s lips that sprangSprang sharper than his sword’s stroke rang.More keen than death’s or memory’s fang,Through sense and soul the shuddering pangShivered: and scarce he had cried, “AlasThat ever I should see this day,”When sorrow swooned from him awayAs blindly back he fell, and layWhere sleep lets anguish pass.
But Balan rose on hands and kneesAnd crawled by childlike dim degreesUp toward his brother, as a breezeCreeps wingless over sluggard seasWhen all the wind’s heart fails it: soBeneath their mother’s eyes had he,A babe that laughed with joy to be,Made toward him standing by her kneeFor love’s sake long ago.
Then, gathering strength up for a space,From off his brother’s dying faceWith dying hands that wrought apaceWhile death and life would grant them graceHe loosed his helm and knew not him,So scored with blood it was, and hewnAthwart with darkening wounds: but soonLife strove and shuddered through the swoonWherein its light lay dim.
And sorrow set these chained words free:“O Balan, O my brother! meThou hast slain, and I, my brother, theeAnd now far hence, on shore and sea,Shall all the wide world speak of us.”“Alas,” said Balan, “that I mightNot know you, seeing two swords were dightAbout you; now the unanswering sightHath here found answer thus.
“Because you bore another shieldThan yours, that even ere youth could wieldLike arms with manhood’s tried and steeledShone as my star of battle-field,I deemed it surely might not beMy brother.” Then his brother spakeFiercely: “Would God, for thy sole sake,I had my life again, to takeRevenge for only thee!
“For all this deadly work was wroughtOf one false knight’s false word and thought,Whose mortal craft and counsel caughtAnd snared my faith who doubted nought,And made me put my shield away.Ah, might I live, I would destroyThat castle for its customs: joyThere makes of grief a deadly toy,And death makes night of day.”
“Well done were that, if aught were doneWell ever here beneath the sun,”Said Balan: “better work were none:For hither since I came and wonA woful honour born of death,When here my hap it was to slayA knight who kept this island way,I might not pass by night or dayHence, as this token saith.
“No more shouldst thou, for all the mightOf heart and hand that seals thee knightMost noble of all that see the light,Brother, hadst thou but slain in fightMe, and arisen unscathed and whole,As would to God thou hadst risen! though hereLight is as darkness, hope as fear,And love as hate: and none draws nearSave toward a mortal goal.”
Then, fair as any poison-flowerWhose blossom blights the withering bowerWhereon its blasting breath has power,Forth fared the lady of the towerWith many a lady and many a knight,And came across the water-wayEven where on death’s dim border layThose brethren sent of her to slayAnd die in kindless fight.
And all those hard light hearts were swayedWith pity passing like a shadeThat stays not, and may be not stayed,To hear the mutual moan they made,Each to behold his brother die,Saying, “Both we came out of one tomb,One star-crossed mother’s woful womb,And so within one grave-pit’s gloomUntimely shall we lie.”
And Balan prayed, as God should blessThat lady for her gentleness,That where the battle’s mortal stressHad made for them perforce to pressThe bed whence never man may riseThey twain, free now from hopes and fears,Might sleep; and she, as one that hears,Bowed her bright head: and very tearsFell from her cold fierce eyes.
Then Balen prayed her send a priestTo housel them, that ere they ceasedThe hansel of the heavenly feastThat fills with light from the answering eastThe sunset of the life of manMight bless them, and their lips be kissedWith death’s requickening eucharist,And death’s and life’s dim sunlit mistPass as a stream that ran.
And so their dying rites were done:And Balen, seeing the death-struck sunSink, spake as he whose goal is won:“Now, when our trophied tomb is one,And over us our tale is writ,How two that loved each other, twoBorn and begotten brethren, slewEach other, none that reads anewShall choose but weep for it.
“And no good knight and no good manWhose eye shall ever come to scanThe record of the imperious banThat made our life so sad a spanShall read or hear, who shall not prayFor us for ever.” Then anonDied Balan; but the sun was gone,And deep the stars of midnight shone,Ere Balen passed away.
And there low lying, as hour on hourFled, all his life in all its flowerCame back as in a sunlit showerOf dreams, when sweet-souled sleep has powerOn life less sweet and glad to be.He drank the draught of life’s first wineAgain: he saw the moorland shine,The rioting rapids of the Tyne,The woods, the cliffs, the sea.
The joy that lives at heart and home,The joy to rest, the joy to roam,The joy of crags and scaurs he clomb,The rapture of the encountering foamEmbraced and breasted of the boy,The first good steed his knees bestrode,The first wild sound of songs that flowedThrough ears that thrilled and heart that glowed,Fulfilled his death with joy.
So, dying not as a coward that diesAnd dares not look in death’s dim eyesStraight as the stars on seas and skiesWhence moon and sun recoil and rise,He looked on life and death, and slept.And there with morning Merlin came,And on the tomb that told their fameHe wrote by Balan’s Balen’s name,And gazed thereon, and wept.
For all his heart within him yearnedWith pity like as fire that burned.The fate his fateful eye discernedFar off now dimmed it, ere he turnedHis face toward Camelot, to tellArthur of all the storms that wokeRound Balen, and the dolorous stroke,And how that last blind battle brokeThe consummated spell.
“Alas,” King Arthur said, “this dayI have heard the worst that woe might say:For in this world that wanes awayI know not two such knights as they.”This is the tale that memory writesOf men whose names like stars shall stand,Balen and Balan, sure of hand,Two brethren of Northumberland,In life and death good knights.