Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He look'd but once, and veil'd his eyes again.
The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume, Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed
The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly enter'd, taller than the rest, And armor'd all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle-Tristram-late From overseas in Brittany return'd,
And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White-Sir Tristram of the Woods- Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock
Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come-let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colors of the field."
So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers agaiu; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, Aud glowing in all colors, the live grass, Rose-campion, blue-bell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.
And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Dauced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool? Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, "Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all." "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp,
With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript And while he twangled little Dagonet stood,
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groan'd for wrath-so many of those, That ware their ladies' colors on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more."
So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the haud Wherewith thou takest this, is red!" to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood,
Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand-belike the lance hath dript upon it- No blood of mine, I trow; but, O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine."
And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; theu bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." And most of these were mute, some anger'd, one Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," and one, "The glory of our Round Table is no more."
Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laugh'd shrilly, crying, "Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year,
Quiet as any water-sodden log
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make." Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, "Good now, what music have I broken, fool!" And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany- And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." "Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell- I am but a fool to reason with a fool- Come, thou art crabb'd and sour; but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And hearken if my music be not true.
"Free love-free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life-the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love-free field-we love but while we may.'
"Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold."
But Dagonet, with one foot poised in his band, "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?-but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour endAnd them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever cameThe twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honor of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize-and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat-pish-the cup was gold, the draught was mud."
And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?- Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool- 'Fear God: honor the King-his one true knight- Sole follower of the vows'-for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool. thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart: Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught-yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine."
And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
"And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself
Down! and two more: a helpful harper thon, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven ?"
And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven."
And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your witAnd whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right-and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye play'd at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do you see it? do you see the star?"
"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd-the world It makes a silent music up in heaven,
Is flesh and shadow-I have had my day.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath foul'd me-an I wallow'd, then I wash'd- I have had my day and my philosophies- And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams, and geese Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd On such a wire as musically as thon
Some such fine song-but never a king's fool."
And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese,
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell."
Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool ?" Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts-Long live the king of fools!"
And down the city Dagonet danced away; But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood
Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape
Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.
So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,
In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King,
"The teeth of hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!— Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world- The woman-worshiper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour
By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too,
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where
She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.
And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King?
Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily,
But left her all as easily, and return'd. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes
Had drawn him home-what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.
He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show'd them both the ruby chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand-her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower." Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoilt her carcanet.
He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower
That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonor done the gilded spur,
Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode, Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death,
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King?-Look to thy life!"
He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd
And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Thro' open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw
Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd
The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.
So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.
Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stay'd him. "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said,
Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought- "What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would" but said to her, "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favor changed and love thee not"- Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse Last in a rocky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers.
Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.
And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark-not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his halls Who hates thee, as I him-ev'n to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."
And drawing somewhat backward, she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow
What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand-not, tho' he found me thus! But hearken! have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting-as he said- And so returns belike within an hour.
Mark's way, my soul !-but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee."
So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one-his name is out of me-the prize, If prize she were-(what marvel-she could see)— Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to last ?"
And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness-ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland."
"Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled ?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me-soft, gracious, kind— Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love."
To whom Isolt, "Ah, then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who breakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinn'd against the highest, And I-misyoked with such a want of manThat I could hardly sin against the lowest."
He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me-fear And fault and doubt-no word of that fond taleThy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away."
And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy
To see thee-yearnings ?-ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon,
O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand,
Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her?
Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress- Well-can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? Her too hast thon left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. Oh, were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love."
And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt ?-I fought his battles for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark- Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God."
And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiendMark's way to steal behind one in the darkFor there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'— And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.'
Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. "May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me! I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts— Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well-art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswearFlatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King-My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:-I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair."
Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down,
"Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark | Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself- My knighthood taught me this-ay, being snapt- We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once-ev'n to the height-I honor'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall- His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light- Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool
But Michaël trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by-The vows! Oh ay-the wholesome madness of an hour- They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows- First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen- Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep?
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord
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