The blue mist thin along the woodland bars,
Thro' dew and fog, thro' shadow and thro' ray
Joustward Earl Damas led the forest way.
Then to King Arthur when arrived were these
To where the lists shone silken thro' the trees,
Bannered and draped, a wimpled damsel came,
Secret, upon a palfrey all aflame
With sweat and heat of hurry, and, "From her,
Your sister Morgane, your Excalibur,
With tender greeting: For ye well have need
In this adventure of him. So, God speed!"
And so departed suddenly: nor knew
The king but this his weapon tried and true.
But brittle this and fashioned like thereof,
And false of baser metal, in unlove
And treason to his life, of her of kin
Half sister, Morgane--an unnatural sin.
Then heralded into the lists he rode.
Opposed flashed Accolon, who light bestrode,
Exultant, proud in talisman of that sword,
A dun horse lofty as a haughty lord,
Pure white about each hollow, pasterned hoof.
Equipped shone knight and steed in arms of proof,
Dappled with yellow variegated plate
Of Spanish laton. And of sovereign state
His surcoat robe of honor white and black
Of satin, red-silk needled front and back
Then blackly bordered. And above his robe
That two-edged sword,--a throbbing golden globe
Of vicious jewels,--thrust its burning hilt,
Its broad belt, tawny and with gold-work gilt,
Clasped with the eyelid of a black sea-horse
Whose tongue was rosy gold. And stern as Force
His visored helmet burned like fire, of rich
And bronzen laton hammered; and on which
An hundred crystals glittered, thick as on
A silver web bright-studding dews of dawn.
The casque's tail crest a taloned griffin ramped,
In whose horned brow one virtuous jewel stamped.
An ashen spear round-shafted, overlaid
With fine blue silver, whereon colors played,
Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.
Intense on either side an instant stood
Glittering as serpents which, with Spring renewed,
In glassy scales meet on some greening way,
Angry advance, quick tongues at poisonous play.
Then clanged a herald's clarion and sharp heels,
Harsh-spurred, each champion's springing courser feels
Touch to red onset; the aventured spears
Hurled like two sun-bursts of a storm when clears
Laborious thunders; and in middle course
Shrieked shrill the unpierced shields; mailed horse from horse
Lashed madly pawing--and a hoarse roar rang
From buckram lists, till the wild echoes sang
Of leagues on leagues of forest and of cliff.
Rigid the proof-shelled warriors passed and stiff
Whither their squires fresher spears upheld;
Nor stayed to breathe; but scarcely firmly selled
Launched deadly forward. Shield to savage shield
Opposing; crest to crest, whose fronts did wield
A towering war's unmercifulest scath;
Rocking undaunted, glared wan withering wrath
From balls of jeweled eyes, and raging stood
Slim, slippery bodies, in the sun like blood.
The lance of Accolon, as on a rock
Long storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,
On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;
But him resistless Arthur's,--high from horse
Sell-lifted,--ruinous bare crashing on
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
Fresh flashed in morn. "Descend;" he stiffly said,
"To proof of better weapons head for head!
Enough of spears, to swords!" and so the knight
Addressed him to the King. Dismounting light,
Arthur his moon-bright brand unsheathed, and high
Each covering shield gleamed slanting to the sky,
Relentless, strong, and stubborn; underneath
Their wary shelters foined the glittering death
Of stolid steel thrust livid arm to arm:
As cloud to cloud growls up a soaring storm
Above the bleak wood and lithe lightnings work
Brave blades wild warring, in the black that lurk,
Thus fenced and thrust--one tortoise shield descends,
Leaps a fierce sword shrill,--like a flame which sends
A long fang heavenward,--for a crushing stroke;
Swings hard and trenchant, and, resounding heard,
Sings surly helmward full; defiance reared
Soars to a brother blow to shriek again
Blade on brave blade. And o'er the battered plain,
Forward and backward, blade on baleful blade,
Teeth clenched as visors where the fierce eyes made
A cavernous, smouldering fury, shield at shield,
Unflinchingly remained and scorned to yield.
So Arthur drew aside to rest upon
His falchion for a pause; but Accolon
As yet, thro' virtue of that magic sheath
Fresh and almighty, being no nearer death
Thro' loss of blood than when the trial begun,
Chafed with delay. But Arthur with the sun,
Its thirsty heat, the loss from wounds of blood,
Leaned fainting weary and so resting stood.
Cried Accolon, "Here is no time for rest!
Defend thee!" and straight on the monarch pressed;
"Defend or yield thee as one recreant!"
Full on his helm a hewing blow did plant,
Which beat a flying fire from the steel;
Smote, like one drunk with wine, the King did reel,
Breath, brain bewildered. Then, infuriate,
Nerve-stung with vigor by that blow, in hate
Gnarled all his strength into one stroke of might,
And in both fists the huge blade knotted tight,
Swung red, terrific to a sundering stroke.--
As some bright wind that hurls th' uprooted oak,--
Boomed full the beaten burgonet he wore:
Hacked thro' and thro' the crest, and cleanly shore
The golden boasting of its griffin fierce
With hollow clamor down astounded ears:
No further thence--but, shattered to the grass,
That brittle blade, crushed as if made of glass,
Into hot pieces like a broken ray
Burst sunward and in feverish fragments lay.
Then groaned the King unarmed; and so he knew
This no Excalibur; that tried and true
Most perfect tempered, runed and mystical.
Sobbed, "_Oh, hell-false! betray me?_"-- Then withal
Him seemed this foe, who fought with so much stress,
So long untiring, and with no distress
Of wounds or heat, through treachery bare his brand;
And then he knew it by its hilt that hand
Clutched to an avenging stroke. For Accolon
In madness urged the belted 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
Crawled the unequal conflict o'er the ground,
Sharded with shattered spears and off-hewn bits
Of shivered steel and gold that burnt in fits.
So hunted, yet defiant, cowering
Beneath his bossy shield's defense, the King
Persisted stoutly. And, devising still
How to secure his sword and by what skill,
Him so it fortuned when most desperate:
In that hot chase they came where shattered late
Lay tossed the truncheon of a bursten lance,
Which deftly seized, to Accolon's advance
He wielded valorous. Against the fist
Smote where the gauntlet husked the nervous wrist,
Which strained the weapon to a wrathful blow;
Palsied, the tightened sinews of his foe
Loosened from effort, and, the falchion seized,
Easy was yielded. Then the wroth King squeezed,
--Hurling the moon-disk of his shield afar,--
Him in both knotted arms of wiry war,
Rocked sidewise twice or thrice,--as one hath seen
Some stern storm take an ash tree, roaring green,
Nodding its sappy bulk of trunk and boughs
To dizziness, from tough, coiled roots carouse
Its long height thundering;--so King Arthur shook
Sir Accolon and headlong flung; then took,
Tearing away, that scabbard from his side,
Tossed thro' the breathless lists, that far and wide
Gulped in the battle voiceless. Then right wroth
Secured Excalibur, and grasped of both
Wild hands swung glittering and brought bitter down
On rising Accolon; steel, bone and brawn
Hewed thro' that blow; unsettled every sense:
Bathed in a world of blood his limbs grew tense
And writhen then ungathered limp with death.
Bent to him Arthur, from the brow beneath,
Unlaced the helm and doffed it and so asked,
When the fair forehead's hair curled dark uncasqued,
"Say! ere I slay thee, whence and what thou art?
What King, what court be thine? and from what part,
Speak! or thou diest!--Yet, that brow, methinks
I have beheld it--where? say, ere death drinks
The soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art--
What art thou, speak!"
He answered slow and short
With tortured breathing: "I?--one, Accolon
Of Gaul, a knight of Arthur's court--at dawn--
God wot what now I am for love so slain!"
Then seemed the victor spasmed with keen pain,
Covered with mailed hands his visored face;
"Thou Accolon? art Accolon?" a space
Exclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, "Say,
Whence gatest thou this sword, or in what way
Thou hadst it, speak?" But wandering that knight
Heard dully, senses clodded thick with night;
Then rallying earthward: "Woe, woe worth the sword!
--From love of love who lives, for love yet lord!--
Morgane!--thy love for love in love hadst made
Me strong o'er kings an hundred! to have swayed
Britain! had this not risen like a fate,
Spawned up, a Hell's miscarriage sired of Hate!--
A king? thou curse! a gold and blood crowned king,
With Arthur's sister queen?--'Twas she who schemed.
And there at Chariot we loved and dreamed
Gone some twelve months. There so we had devolved
How Arthur's death were compassed and resolved
Each liberal morning, like an almoner,
Prodigal of silver to the begging air;
Each turbulent eve that in heaven's turquoise rolled
Convulsive fiery glories deep in gold;
Each night--hilarious heavens vast of night!--
Boisterous with quivering stars buoyed bubble-light
In flexuous labyrinths o' the intricate sphere.
We dreamed and spake Ambition at our ear--
Nay! a crowned curse and crimeful clad she came,
To me, that woman, brighter than a flame;
And laughed on me with pouting lips up-pursed
For kisses which I gave for love: How cursed
Was I thereafter! For, lie fleshed in truth,
She shrivels to a hag! Behind that youth
Ugly, misshapen; Lust not Love, wherein
Germs pregnant seed of Hell for hate and sin.--
_I_ seek for such the proudest height of seat,
King Arthur's kingdom, and bold fame complete?--
Harlot!--sweet spouse of Urience King of Gore!--
Sweet harlot!--here's that death determined o'er!
And now thou hast thy dream, and dreaming grieve
That death so ruins it?--Thy mouth to shrieve!--
Nay, nay, I love thee! witness bare this field!
I love thee!--heart, dost love her and yet yield?--
Enow! enow! so hale me hence to die!"
Then anger in the good King's gloomy eye
Burnt, instant-embered, as one oft may see
A star leak out of heaven and cease to be.
Slow from his visage he his visor raised,
And on the dying one mute moment gazed,
Then low bespake him grimly: "Accolon,
I am that King." He with an awful groan,
Blade-battered as he was, beheld and knew;
Strained to his tottering knees and haggard drew
Up full his armored tallness, hoarsely cried,
"The King!" and at his mailed feet clashed and died.
Then rose a world of anxious faces pressed
About King Arthur, who, though wound-distressed,
Bespake that multitude: "Whiles breath and power
Remain, judge we these brethren: This harsh hour
Hath yielded Damas all this rich estate;--
So it is his--allotted his of Fate
Thro' might of arms; so let it be to him.
For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slim
But that it hath this strong conclusion:
This much by us as errant knight is done:
Now our decree as King of Britain, hear:
We do adjudge this Damas banned fore'er,
Outlawed and exiled from all shores and isles
Of farthest Britain in its many miles.
One month be his--no more! then will we come
Even with an iron host to seal his doom;
If he be not departed over seas,
Hang naked from his battlements to please
Of carrion ravens and wild hawks the craws.
Thus much for Damas. But our pleasure draws
Toward sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the King
To take into his knightly following
Of that Round Table royal.--Stand our word!--
But I am overweary; take my sword;--
Unharness me; for, battle worn, I tire
With bruises' achings and wounds mad with fire;
And monasteryward would I right fain,
Even Glastonbury and with me the slain."
So bare they then the wounded King away,
The dead behind. So, closed the Autumn day.
* * * * *
But when within that abbey he waxed strong,
The King remembering him of all the wrong
That Damas had inflicted on the land,
Commanded Lionell with a staunch band
This weed's out-stamping 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;
Built up, a bulk of bastioned rock on rock,
Vast battlements, that loomed above the shock
Of freshening foam that climbed with haling hands,
Lone cloudy-clustered turrets in loud lands
Set desolate,--mournful o'er wide, frozen flats,--
Found hollow towers the haunt of owls and bats.
IV.
Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,
Artificer of God, had coined one world
From formless forms of void and 'round it furled
Its lordly raiment of the day and night,
And germed its womb for seasons throed with might:
And Hell sent Hate to man to hate or use,
To serve itself by serving and amuse....
For her half brother Morgane had conceived
A morbid hatred; in that much she grieved,
Envious and jealous, for that high renown
And majesty the King for his fast crown
Thro' worship had acquired. And once he said,
"The closest kin to state are those to dread:
No honor such to crush: envenoming
All those kind tongues of blood that try to sing
Petition to the soul, while conscience quakes
Huddled, but stern to hearts whose cold pride takes."
And well she knew that Arthur: mightier
Than Accolon, without Excalibur
Were as a stingless hornet in the joust
With all his foreign weapons. So her trust
Smiled certain of conclusion; eloquent
Gave lofty heart bold hope that at large eyes
Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize.
And in her carven chamber, oaken dark,
Traceried and arrased, o'er the barren park
That dripped with Autumn,--for November lay
Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,--
Thought at her tri-arched casement lone, one night,
Ere yet came knowledge of that test of might.
Her lord in slumber and the castle dull
With silence or with sad wind-music full.
"And he removed?--fond fool! _he is removed!_
Death-dull from feet to hair and graveward shoved
From royalty to that degraded state
But purpler pomp! But, see! regenerate
Another monarch rises--Accolon!--
Love! Love! with state more ermined; balmy son
Of gods not men, and nobler hence to rule.
Sweet Love almighty, terrible to school
Harsh hearts to gentleness!--Then all this realm's
Iron-husked flower of war, which overwhelms
With rust and havoc, shall explode and bloom
An asphodel of peace with joy's perfume.
And then, sweet Launcelots and sweet Tristrams proud,
Sweet Gueneveres, sweet Isouds, now allowed
No pleasures but what wary, stolen hours
In golden places have their flaming flowers,
Shall have curled feasts of passion evermore.
Poor out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door,
No longer, sweet neglected, thou thrust off,
Insulted and derided: nor the scoff
Of bully Power, whose heart of insult flings
Off for the roar of arms the appeal that clings
And lifts a tearful, prayerful pitiful face
Up from his brutal feet: this shrine where grace
Lays woman's life for every sacrifice--
To him so little, yet of what pure price,
Her all, being all her all for love!--her soul
Life, honor, earth and firmamental whole
Of God's glad universe; stars, moon and sun;
Creation, death; life ended, life begun.
And if by fleshly love all Heaven's debarred,
Its sinuous revolving spheres instarred,
Then Hell were Heaven with love to those who knew
Love which God's Heaven encouraged--love that drew
Hips, head and hair in fiends' devouring claws
Down, down its pit's hurled sucking, as down draws,--
Yet lip to narrow lip with whom we love,--
A whirlwind some weak, crippled, fallen dove.
"Then this lank Urience? He who is lord.--
Where is thy worry? for, hath he no sword?
No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here
Sharp as an adder's fang? or for that ear
No instant poison which insinuates,
Tightens quick pulses, while one breathing waits,
With ice and death? For often men who sleep
On eider-down wake not, but closely keep
Such secrets in their graves to rot and rot
To dust and maggots;--of these--which his lot?"
Thus she conspired with her that rainy night
Lone in her chamber; when no haggard, white,
Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane,
But on the leads beat an incessant rain,
And sighed and moaned a weary wind along
The turrets and torn poplars stirred to song.
So grew her face severe as skies that take
Dark forces of full storm, sound-shod, that shake
With murmurous feet black hills, and stab with fire
A pine some moaning forest mourns as sire.
So touched her countenance that dark intent;
And to still eyes stern thoughts a passion sent,
As midnight waters luminous glass deep
Suggestive worlds of austere stars in sleep,
Vague ghostly gray locked in their hollow gloom.
Then as if some vast wind had swept the room,
Silent, intense, had raised her from her seat,
Of dim, great arms had made her a retreat,
Secret as love to move in, like some ghost,
Noiseless as death and subtle as sharp frost,
Poised like a light and borne as carefully,
Trod she the gusty hall where shadowy
The stirring hangings rolled a Pagan 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 bright, burnished by his page,
And ruddy as a flame with restless rage.
Grasping this death unto the chamber where
Slept innocent her spouse she moved--an air
Twined in soft, glossy sendal; or a fit
Of faery song a wicked charm in it,
A spell that sings seductive on to death.
Then paused she at one chamber; for a breath
Listened: and here her son Sir Ewain slept,
He who of ravens a black army kept,
In war than fiercest men more terrible,
That tore forth eyes of kings who blinded fell.
Sure that he slept, to Urience stole and stood
Dim by his couch. About her heart hot blood
Caught strangling, then throbbed thudding fever up
To her broad eyes, like wine whirled in a cup.
Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth
Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South
Trickling thro' perplexed ripples of low leaves;
To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves
Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet;--
Feet sandaled with crushed, 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
Dripping a downy language in the dusk,
Laid lips to ears and luted memories of
Now hateful Urience:--Her maiden love,
That willing went from Caerlleon to Gore
One dazzling day of Autumn. How a boar,
Wild as the wonder of the blazing wood,
Raged at her from a cavernous solitude,
Which, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse
Murderous upon her; how her steed waxed worse
And, snorting terror, fled unmanageable,
Pursued with fear, and flung her from the selle,
Soft slipping on a bank of springy moss
That couched her swooning. In an utter loss
Of mind and limbs she only knew twas thus--
As one who pants beneath an incubus:--
The boar thrust toward her a tusked snout and fanged
Of hideous bristles, and the whole wood clanged
And buzzed and boomed a thousand sounds and lights
Lawless about her brain, like leaves fierce nights
Of hurricane harvest shouting: then she knew
A fury thunder twixt it--and fleet flew
Rich-rooted moss and sandy loam that held
Dark-buried shadows of the wild, and swelled
Continual echoes with the thud of strife,
And breath of man and brute that warred for life;
And all the air, made mad with foam and forms,
Spun froth and wrestled twixt her hair and arms,
While trampled caked the stricken leaves or shred
Hummed whirling, and snapped brittle branches dead.
And when she rose and leaned her throbbing head,
Which burst its uncoifed rays of raven hair
Down swelling shoulders pure and faultless fair,
On one milk, marvelous arm of fluid grace,
Beheld the brute thing throttled and the face
Of angry Urience over, browed like Might,
One red, swoln arm, that pinned the hairy fright,
Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn;
Dug in his midriff, the close knees updrawn
Wedged deep the glutton sides that quaked and strove
A shaggy bulk, whose sharp hoofs horny drove.
Thus man and brute burned bent; when Urience slipped
One arm, the horror's tearing tusks had ripped
And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,
Which at his hip hung long a haft gold-gilt;
Its rapid splinter drew; beamed twice and thrice
High in the sun its ghastliness of ice
Plunged--and the great boar, stretched in sullen death,
Weakened thro' wild veins, groaned laborious breath.