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[Illustration]
[Illustration: (hand-written letter)
Franz Hueffer who came into the Rossetti circle in the manner indicated
in the following letter (of which the greater part is in the writing of
the late Lucy Rossetti - daughter of Ford Madox Brown) was a
broad-headed, plodding, able German who wrote and spoke English
perfectly enough before his naturalization. He was somewhat heavy in his
enthusiasms; and Gabriel Rossetti laughed at him a good deal. On one
occasion D.G.R. let off the following "nursery rhyme":--
There's a fluffy-haired German called Huffer
A loud and pragmatical duffer:
To stand on a tower
And shout "Schopenhauer"
Is reckoned his mission by Huffer.
There was no malice in these rhymes of Rossetti's; but even his dear
friend Morris ("Topsy" as his intimates called him on account of his
shock of black hair) was not exempt from personal sallies of the
kind,--as this, when M. got alarmed about his increasing bulk:--
There was a young person called Topsy
Who fancied he suffered from dropsy;
He shook like a jelly,
Till the Doctor cried "Belly!"--
Which angered; but comforted Topsy.
Poor dear Morris! he had cause enough for alarm. Diabetes was only one
among the agencies by which his stalwart frame was disintegrated at the
age of 62.
H.B.F.
7 November 1897.]
[Illustration: (hand-written letter) May 27th/89
5 ENDSLEIGH GARDENS.
N.W.
Dear Forman,
Please excuse a very laconic presentment of the facts. Francis Hueffer,
Musical Critic of the "Times", author of the libretto of "Columba" of a
volume on the "Troubadours" of "Half a century of Music in England" etc
etc, died last Jan 7 aged 43 leaving a widow & three children, & little
indeed.]
* * * * *
EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY.
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 2378.
POEMS BY WILLIAM MORRIS
IN ONE VOLUME.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.
PARIS: THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI, AND AT NICE, 15, QUAI
MASSENA.
_This Collection is published with copyright for Continental
circulation, but all purchasers are earnestly requested not to introduce
the volumes into England or into any British Colony._
* * * * *
COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 2378.
POEMS BY WILLIAM MORRIS.
IN ONE VOLUME.
A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF WILLIAM MORRIS.
Edited with a Memoir by Francis Hueffer.
Copyright Edition.
Leipzig
Bernhard Tauchnitz
1886.
The Right of Translation is reserved.
MEMOIR
OF
WILLIAM MORRIS.
William Morris, poet, decorative designer and socialist, was born in
1834 at Clay Street, Walthamstow, now almost a suburb of London, at that
time a country village in Essex. He went to school at Marlborough
College and thence to Exeter College, Oxford, where he took his degree
in 1857. During his stay in the University the subsequent mode of his
life was prepared and foreshadowed in two important directions. Like
most poets Morris was not what is called very assiduous "at his book";
the routine of college training was no more an attraction to him than
the ordinary amusements and dissipations of undergraduate existence. But
he was studious all the same, reading the classics in his own somewhat
spasmodic way and exploring with even greater zeal the mysteries of
mediaeval lore. His fellow-worker in these studies and his most intimate
friend was and is at the present day Mr. Burne Jones, the famous
painter, at that time a student of divinity. Artistic and literary
pursuits thus went hand in hand, and received additional zest when the
two young men became acquainted with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Holman Hunt
and other painters of the Pre-Raphaelite school who came to Oxford to
execute the frescoes still dimly visible on the ceiling of the Union
Debating Hall. Of the aims and achievements of the Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood, and of the revival of mediaeval feeling in art and
literature originally advocated by its members ample account has been
given in the memoir of Rossetti prefixed to his poems in the Tauchnitz
edition. Its influence on Morris's early work, both in matter and form,
will strike every observant reader of the opening ballads of the present
collection. Later on the poet worked out for himself a distinct and
individual phase of the mediaeval movement, as will be mentioned by and
by. At one time little was wanting to make Morris follow his friend
Burne Jones's example and leave the pen for the brush. There is indeed
still extant from his hand an unfinished picture evincing a remarkable
sense of colour. He also for a short time became a pupil of the late Mr.
G. E. Street, the architect, to whose genius London owes its finest
modern Gothic building--the Law Courts in the Strand. On second
thoughts, however, Morris came to the conclusion that poetry was his
true field of action. His first literary venture was a monthly
periodical started under his auspices in 1856 and called _The Oxford and
Cambridge Magazine_. It contained, amongst other contributions from
Morris's pen, a prose tale of a highly romantic character, and was, as
regards artistic tendencies, essentially a sequel of _The Germ_, the
organ of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, begun and continued for three
numbers only, six years before. Several of the contributors to the
earlier venture, including Rossetti, also supported its offshoot.
Neither, however, gained popular favour, and after a year's struggling
existence _The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine_ also came to an untimely
end. At present both are eagerly sought for by collectors and fetch high
prices at antiquarian sales. So changeable is the fate of books.
In 1859 Morris married, after having the year before brought out his
first volume of verse entitled _The Defence of Guenevere and Other
Poems_. The book fell dead from the press, and it was not till it was
republished 25 years later that the world recognised in it some of the
freshest and most individual efforts of its author, whose literary
position was by that time established beyond cavil. That position the
poet owed in the first instance to two works published in rapid
succession, _The Life and Death of Jason_, and _The Earthly Paradise_,
the latter a collection of tales in verse filling four stout volumes.
His remaining original works are _Love is enough_, a "morality" in the
mediaeval sense of the word, and _The Story of Sigurd the Volsung_, his
longest and, in the opinion of some, his most perfect epic. In addition
to these should be mentioned the translations from the old Norse
undertaken in conjunction with Mr. Magnusson the well-known Icelandic
scholar, and comprising _The Story of Grettir the Strong_ (1869), _The
Volsunga Saga, with certain songs from the Elder Edda_ (1870), and
_Three Northern Love Stories_ (1875); and finally a metrical rendering
of _The Aeneids of Virgil_.
For a critical discussion or a detailed analysis of Morris's work this
is not the place. It must be sufficient to indicate briefly the ideas
which underlie that work and give it its literary _cachet_. Two main
currents, derivable perhaps from a common source but running in
different directions can be easily discerned. The subjects of his tales
are almost without exception derived either from Greek myth or from
mediaeval folklore. After all that has been said and written of the gulf
that divides the classic from the romantic feeling--_"Barbaren und
Hellenen_", as Heine puts it, such a conjunction might appear
incongruous. But the connecting link has here been found in the poet's
mind. He looks upon his classical subject-matter through a mediaeval
atmosphere, in other words he writes about Venus and Cupid and Psyche
and Medea as a poet of Chaucer's age might have done, barring of course
the differences of language, although in this respect also it may be
noted that the archaisms of expression affected by the modern poet
appear indifferently in the Greek and the mediaeval tales. The phenomenon
is by no means unique in literature. Let the reader compare Chapman's
Homer with Pope's, or let him open Morris's _Jason_ where the bells of
Colchis "melodiously begin to ring", and the meaning of the
afore-mentioned "mediaeval atmosphere" will at once be as palpable to him
as it was to Keats when, reading Chapman's rude verse, after Pope's
polished stanzas, he felt
like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken.
It was the romantic chord of Keats's nature, that chord which vibrates
in _La belle Dame sans Merci_, which was harmoniously struck and made
the great master of form overlook the formal imperfection of the
earlier poet. To the same element such stories as _Jason_, or _The Love
of Alcestis_ and the _Bellerophon_ in _The Earthly Paradise_ owe their
charm.
Morris's position towards mediaeval subjects did not at first essentially
differ from that of other poets of similar tendency. In his first volume
English and French knights and damsels figure prominently, and the
beautiful and frail wife of King Arthur is the heroine of the chief poem
and has given her name to the book. But in the interval which elapsed
between that volume and the _Earthly Paradise_ a considerable change had
come over the poet's dream. By the aid of Mr. Magnusson he had become
acquainted with the treasure of northern folklore hidden in the
Icelandic sagas, the two Eddas, the story of the Volsungs (of which a
masterly translation is due to the two friends), the Laxdaela saga and
other tales of more or less remote antiquity.
In the _Earthly Paradise_ the double current of the poet's fancy above
alluded to is most strikingly apparent. The very framework in which the
various tales are set seems to have been designed with that view. Guided
probably by a vague tradition of a pre-Columbian discovery of America by
the Vikings, the prologue relates how during a terrible pestilence
certain mariners leave their northern home in search of the land where
old age and death are not and where life is rounded by unbroken
pleasure. Sailing west they come to a fair country. They gaze on
southern sunshine and virgin forest and fertile champaign, but death
meets them at every step, and happiness is farthest from their grasp
when the people worship them as gods and sacrifice at their shrine.
Escaping from this golden thraldom they regain their ship, and after
many dangers and privations are driven by the wind to an island
inhabited by descendants of the ancient Greeks, who have preserved their
old worship and their old freedom. Here the weary wanderers of the main
are hospitably received, and here they resolve to dwell in peace,
forgetful of their vain search for the earthly paradise. At the
beginning and the middle of every month the elders of the people and
their guests meet together to while away the time with song and friendly
converse. The islanders relate the traditions of their Grecian home, the
mariners relate the sagas of the North, and Laurence, a Swabian priest
who had joined the Norsemen in their quest, contributes the legends of
Tannhaeuser and of the ring given to Venus by the Roman youth. Here then
there is full scope for the quaint beauty of romantic classicism and for
the weird glamour of northern myth. Without encroaching upon the field
of criticism proper the writer may state that, in his opinion, amongst
the classic tales none is more graceful and finished than "The Golden
Apples", and amongst the northern none more grandly developed and more
epical in the strict sense of the word than _The Lovers of Gudrun_ based
upon the Icelandic Laxdaela saga. The latter, unfortunately, cannot find
a place in this volume for reasons of space.
Every student of old northern literature is aware that amongst its
remains none are more interesting as literary monuments, none more
characteristic of the people from which they sprang than the two Eddas
and the Volsunga Saga. Next to the Siege of Troy and the Arthurian
legends perhaps no story or agglomeration of stories has left so many
and so important traces in international fiction as the tale of Sigurd
or Siegfried and his race, the heroic god-born Volsungs. Considering
indeed the political insignificance and remoteness in which that story
took its earliest surviving form this enormous success--if the modern
term may be applied--seems at first singularly out of proportion. But it
must be remembered that Iceland was little more than the storehouse of
these old traditions which were the common property of the
Teuto-Scandinavian race long before the Norsemen set foot on the
northern isle. Of the two modern versions of the tale which are most
thoroughly inspired by the ancient myth one, that of Wagner in his
tetralogy _Der Ring des Nibelungen_, is dramatic in form, the other,
Morris's _The Story of Sigurd the Volsung_, bears all the
characteristics of the epic. To this difference of artistic aim, the
difference of shape which the tale takes in the hands of the two poets
may be traced. In one point however they agree. Both Wagner and Morris
go back to the old Icelandic sources in preference to the mediaeval
German version of the tale embodied in the _Nibelungenlied_. From this
the German poet borrows little more than the localization of his drama
on the banks of the river Rhine, the English poet scarcely anything but
his metre--the _Langzeile_ or long-line with six hightoned, and any
number of unaccentuated syllables.
The ordinary modern reader taking up the Volsunga Saga or either of the
Eddas without preparation would probably see in them little more than a
confused accumulation of impossible adventures and deeds of prowess with
an admixture of incest, fratricide and other horrors. But on looking
closer one discovers a certain plan in this entanglement, a plan much
obscured by the unbridled fancy of the old narrators, and hardly
realised by themselves, but which, if properly sifted, amounts to what
we should call a moral or idea. To "point this moral," to consistently
develop this idea, is the task of the modern poet courageous enough to
grapple with such a subject. Two ways are open to him. Either he may
wholly abandon the sequence of the old tale, and group its _disjecta
membra_ round a leading idea as a centre, or else he may adhere to the
order and essence of the legend as originally told, only emphasising
such points as are essential to the significance of the story, and
omitting or throwing into comparative shade those incidents which by
their nature betray themselves to be arbitrary additions of later date.
Wagner has chosen the former way, Morris the latter. This fact, and the
divergent requirements of the drama and the epic, sufficiently account
for their difference of treatment. The leading idea in both cases
remains the same; it is the fatal curse which attaches to the gold or,
which is the same in a moral sense, to the desire for gold--_auri sacra
fames_.
At first sight the tale of Sigurd, Fafnir's bane, seems to have little
connection with this idea. It is briefly this. Sigurd, the son of
Sigmund the Volsung, is brought up at the court of King Elf, the second
husband of his mother, after Sigmund has been slain in battle. With a
sword, fashioned from the shards of his father's weapon, he slays
Fafnir, a huge worm or dragon, and possesses himself of the treasure
watched by the monster, including a ring and the "helm of aweing," the
latter in the _Nibelungenlied_, converted into the "Tarnkappe", a magic
cap which makes the bearer invisible and endows him with supernatural
strength. Tasting of the blood of the dragon, he understands the
language of birds, and an eagle tells him of a beautiful maiden lying
asleep on a rock called Hindfell, surrounded by a wall of wavering fire.
Through it Sigurd rides and awakes Brynhild the sword maiden, or
Valkyrie, from her magic slumber. Love naturally follows. The pair live
together on Hindfell for a season and Brynhild teaches the youth the
runes of her wisdom, a conception of woman's refining and civilising
mission frequently met with in old Germanic tales. When Sigurd leaves
her to seek new adventures they plight the troth of eternal love, and
Then he set the ring on her finger, and once if ne'er again
They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain.
From Brynhild's rock Sigurd journeys to a realm "south of the Rhine"
where dwell the kingly brothers, Gunnar, Hogni, and Guttorm, the
Niblungs, together with their sister Gudrun, "the fairest of maidens",
and their mother Grimhild, "a wise wife" and a fierce-hearted woman, as
the Volsunga Saga alternately describes her. It is through a
love-philter brewed by her that Sigurd forgets the vows exchanged with
Brynhild, and becomes enamoured of Gudrun, whom he soon after weds. So
powerful is the charm that the very name of his former love has been
wiped from Sigurd's memory, and he willingly undertakes the task to woo
and win Brynhild for his brother Gunnar. For that purpose he, by means
of his magic cap, assumes Gunnar's semblance, and after having once
more crossed the wall of wavering flame compels Brynhild to become his
bride. But, faithful to his promise, he places a drawn sword between
himself and the maid "as they lie on one bed together." On parting from
her he receives back from Brynhild his own ring given to her at Hindfell
in the days of their bliss. Sigurd then returns to Gunnar and resumes
his own form, and all return home, the King leading his unwilling bride
in triumph.
The subsequent events are the outgrowth of the tragic guilt thus
incurred. Sigurd reveals the secret of Brynhild's wooing to his wife,
and allows her to take possession of the fatal ring, which she during a
quarrel shows to Gunnar's wife. Brynhild thus informed of the fraud
practised on her, thinks of vengeance, and incites her husband and his
brothers to kill Sigurd. The deed is done while Sigurd lies asleep in
his chamber with Gudrun, or, according to the more poetic version of the
German epic, while he bends over a brook in the forest to quench his
thirst after a day's hunting. But as soon as her beloved foe is killed
the old passion never quenched rises up again in Brynhild's heart. To be
united with her lover in death she pierces her breast with a sword, and
one pyre consumes both.
With this climax Wagner very properly concludes his drama. But the epic
poet likes to follow the course of events to their ultimate
consequences, and Morris, in accordance with the Volsunga Saga, proceeds
to relate how, after many years of mournful widowhood, Gudrun is married
to Atli, a mighty king, the brother of Brynhild. Eager to become
possessed of Sigurd's treasure he invites the Niblungs, its actual
owners, to his country, and there the kingly brothers and all their
followers are killed by base treachery and after the most heroic
resistance. They refuse sternly to ransom their lives by a discovery of
the hoard which previous to their departure they have hidden at the
bottom of a lake, and which thus is irrecoverably lost to mankind.
Gudrun has incited her husband to the deed and has looked on calmly
while her kinsmen were slain one after the other. But when all are dead
and the murder of Sigurd has been revenged, the feeling of blood
relationship so powerful among Northern nations is reawakened in her.
While Atli and his earls are asleep she sets fire to the kingly hall,
and her wretched husband falls by her own hand. It is characteristic of
the Icelandic epic that after all these fates and horrors Gudrun lives
for a number of years and is yet again married to a third husband. But
to this length even Morris refuses to accompany the tale. In accordance
with the Volsunga Saga his Gudrun throws herself into the sea; but the
waves do not carry her "to the burg of king Imakr, a mighty king and
lord of many folk."
All this is very grand and weird, the reader will say, but where is the
moral, the ideal essence of which these events are but the earthly
reflex? To this essence we gradually ascend by inquiring into the
mythological sources of the tale, by asking who is Sigurd, whence does
he come, on what mission is he sent and by whom? also what is the
significance of the treasure watched by a dragon and coveted by all
mankind? This treasure we then shall find and the curse attaching to it
ever since it was robbed from Andvari, the water-elf, is the keynote of
the whole story. The curse proves fatal to all its successive owners
from Andvari himself and Fafnir, who, for its sake, kills his father,
down to Sigurd and Brynhild and the Niblung brothers. Nay, Odin himself,
the supreme God, becomes subject to the curse of the gold through having
once coveted it, and we dimly discern that the ultimate doom of the
Aesir, the Ragnaroek, or dusk of the Gods, of which the Voluspa speaks,
is intimately connected with the same baneful influence. It further
becomes evident that Sigurd the Volsung, the descendant of Odin, is
destined to wrest the treasure and the power derived from it from the
Niblungs, the dark or cloudy people who threaten the bright godworld of
Valhall with destruction. And this leads us back to a still earlier
stage of the myth in which Sigurd himself becomes the symbol of the
celestial luminary conquering night and misty darkness, an idea
repeatedly hinted at by Morris and splendidly illustrated by Wagner,
when Siegfried appears on the stage illumined by the first rays of the
rising sun. In the work of the German poet all this is brought out with
a distinctness of which only dramatic genius of the highest order is
capable. With an astounding grasp of detail and with a continuity of
thought rarely equalled, Wagner has remoulded the confused and complex
argument of the old tale, omitting what seemed unnecessary, and placing
in juxtaposition incidents organically connected but separated by the
obtuseness of later sagamen.
Morris, as has been said before, proceeds on a different principle. His
first object is to tell a tale, and to tell it as nearly as possible in
the spirit and according to the letter of the old Sagas. In this he has
succeeded in a manner at once indicative of his high poetic gifts and of
a deep sympathy with the spirit of the Northern Myth, which breathes in
every line and in every turn of his phraseology. To compare the peculiar
tinge of his language with the ordinary archaisms and euphonisms of
literary poets would be mistaking a field flower for its counterpart in
a milliner's shop window. It is true that he also hints at the larger
philosophic and moral issues of the tale. But when he refers to the end
of the gods brought about by their own guilt or to the redeeming mission
of Sigurd, it is done in the mysterious, not to say half conscious
manner of the saga itself, and the effect is such as from his own point
of view he intended it and could not but intend it to be.
Between the publication of _The Defence of Guenevere_ and that of Jason
ten years elapsed. During most of this time the poet was employed in
artistic pursuits. In 1861 he started in conjunction with a number of
friends the business of decorator and artistic designer which still
bears his name. Growing from very modest beginnings this enterprise was
destined to work an entire change in the external aspect of English
homes. It soon extended its activity to every branch of art-workmanship.
D. G. Rossetti, Madox Brown, and Burne Jones drew cartoons for the
stained glass windows to be seen in many of our churches and colleges.
Morris himself designed wall-papers and the patterns of carpets. The
latter are woven on hand-looms in his factory at Merton Abbey, which
stands on the banks of the river Wandle surrounded by orchards, and
looks as like a medieval workshop as the modern dresses of the workgirls
will allow. Another member of the firm, Philip Webb, was the first
modern architect to build houses of red brick in the style vaguely and
not quite correctly described as "Queen Anne." At present these houses
count by thousands in London and a whole village of them has been built
at Turnham Green. The members of the firm did not confine their
attention to any particular style or age or country. Wherever beautiful
things could be found they collected them and made them popular. Old
china English, and foreign, Japanese fans and screens, Venetian glass
and German pottery were equally welcome to them and through them to the
public generally. It may be said that the "aesthetic" fashion as it came
to be called will like other fashions die out, and that people in the
course of time will grow tired of "living up to" their furniture and
dresses. At the same time the idea thus insisted upon that beauty is an
essential and necessary ingredient of practical modern English life is
not likely to be without beneficial and permanent effect.
It was as artistic worker and employer of skilled labour that Morris
imbibed that profound disgust with our social condition which induced
him to adopt the principles of extreme socialism. For a long time his
views had tended in that direction, and at the end of 1884 he joined the
Socialist League, a body professing the doctrines of international
revolutionary socialism. He is the editor of its official organ, the
_Commonweal_, which contains many contributions from his pen both in
prose and verse. That the poet has not been entirely sunk in the
politician, that longing for beauty is at least the partial cause of
this desire for change at any price, is however proved by such a
sentiment as, "Beauty, which is what is meant by _art_, using the word
in its widest sense, is, I contend, no mere accident of human life which
people can take or have as they choose, but a positive necessity of
life, if we are to live as nature meant us to, that is unless we are
content to be less than men," or by such a vision of a future earthly
paradise as is expressed in the following lines:
Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his
hand,
Nor yet come home in the even, too faint and weary to stand,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Then all _mine_ and _thine_ shall be _ours_, and no more shall any man
crave
For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.
One may admire the pathetic beauty of such lines, without sharing the
poet's hope, that their import will ever be realised, in a world peopled
by men and not by angels. History teaches and personal experience
confirms that art enjoyment and art creation of the highest type must be
confined to the few, and it is to be feared that social democracy,
whatever it may do for the physical welfare of the many, will care
little about beauty, either in nature or in art. The _Demos_ will never
admire Rossetti's pictures or Keats's poetry, and the first thing the
much-vaunted peasant proprietors, or peasant communes would do would be
to cut down our ancient trees, level every hedgerow and turn parks and
commons into potato plots or it may be turnip fields. One may feel
certain of all this and yet admire the author of _The Earthly
Paradise_, "the idle singer of an empty day" when he preaches universal
brotherhood in the crossways of Hammersmith, and wrestles with
policemen, or wrangles with obtuse magistrates about the freedom of
speech. Conviction thus upheld at the cost of worldly advantage and
personal convenience and taste must command respect even from those who
cannot share it.
Francis Hueffer.
CONTENTS.
Page
From "THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS."
The Defence of Guenevere 23
A Good Knight in Prison 36
Shameful Death 41
The Eve of Crecy 43
The Haystack in the Floods 45
Riding together 51
Summer Dawn 54
From "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON." (Book XIV.)
The Sirens.--The Garden of the Hesperides.--The
Heroes do Sacrifice at Malea 55
From "THE EARTHLY PARADISE."
An Apology 82
From Prologue--The Wanderers 84
Ogier the Dane 95
The golden Apples 147
L'Envoi 168
From "LOVE IS ENOUGH."
Interludes 173
From "THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG." (Book II.)
Regin 178
FROM
"THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS."
THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE.
But, knowing now that they would have her speak,
She threw her wet hair backward from her brow,
Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek,
As though she had had there a shameful blow,
And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame,
All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so,
She must a little touch it; like one lame
She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head
Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame
The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said:
"O knights and lords, it seems but little skill
To talk of well-known things past now and dead.
"God wot I ought to say, I have done ill,
And pray you all forgiveness heartily!
Because you must be right such great lords--still
"Listen, suppose your time were come to die,
And you were quite alone and very weak;
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily
"The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak
Of river through your broad lands running well:
Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak:
"'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell,
Now choose one cloth for ever, which they be,
I will not tell you, you must somehow tell
"'Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!'
Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes,
At foot of your familiar bed to see
"A great God's angel standing, with such dyes,
Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands,
Held out two ways, light from the inner skies
"Showing him well, and making his commands
Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too,
Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;
"And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue,
Wavy and long, and one cut short and red;
No man could tell the better of the two.
"'After a shivering half-hour you said,
'God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.'
Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed,
"And cry to all good men that loved you well,
'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;'
Launcelot went away, then I could tell,
"Like wisest man how all things would be, moan,
And roll and hurt myself, and long to die,
And yet fear much to die for what was sown.
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happened through these years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie."
Her voice was low at first, being full of tears,
But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill,
Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears,
A ringing in their startled brains, until
She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk,
And her great eyes began again to fill,
Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk,
But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair!
Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk,
She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair,
Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame,
With passionate twisting of her body there:
"It chanced upon a day Launcelot came
To dwell at Arthur's Court; at Christmas-time
This happened; when the heralds sung his name,
"'Son of King Ban of Benwick,' seemed to chime
Along with all the bells that rang that day,
O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme.
"Christmas and whitened winter passed away,
And over me the April sunshine came,
Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea
"And in the Summer I grew white with flame,
And bowed my head down--Autumn, and the sick
Sure knowledge things would never be the same,
"However often Spring might be most thick
Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew
Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,
"To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through
My eager body; while I laughed out loud,
And let my lips curl up at false or true,
"Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud.
Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought:
While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd,
"Belonging to the time ere I was bought
By Arthur's great name and his little love,
Must I give up for ever then, I thought,
"That which I deemed would ever round me move
Glorifying all things; for a little word,
Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove
"Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord
Will that all folks should be quite happy and good?
I love God now a little, if this cord
"Were broken, once for all what striving could
Make me love anything in earth or heaven.
So day by day it grew, as if one should
"Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,
Down to a cool sea on a summer day;
Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
"Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way,
Until one surely reached the sea at last,
And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
"Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past
Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips,
Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast,
"In the lone sea, far off from any ships!
Do I not know now of a day in Spring?
No minute of that wild day ever slips
"From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing,
And wheresoever I may be, straightway
Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting:
"I was half mad with beauty on that day,
And went without my ladies all alone,
In a quiet garden walled round every way;
"I was right joyful of that wall of stone,
That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky,
And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,
"Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy
With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad;
Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,
"A little thing just then had made me mad;
I dared not think, as I was wont to do,
Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had
"Held out my long hand up against the blue,
And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers,
Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,
"There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers,
Round by the edges; what should I have done,
If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,
"And startling green drawn upward by the sun?
But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair,
And trancedly stood watching the west wind run
"With faintest half-heard breathing sound--why there
I lose my head e'en now in doing this;
But shortly listen--In that garden fair
"Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss
Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day,
I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,
"When both our mouths went wandering in one way,
And aching sorely, met among the leaves;
Our hands being left behind strained far away.
"Never within a yard of my bright sleeves
Had Launcelot come before--and now, so nigh!
After that day why is it Guenevere grieves?
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever happened on through all those years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
"Being such a lady could I weep these tears
If this were true? A great queen such as I
Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears;
"And afterwards she liveth hatefully,
Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps,--
Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly.
"Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps
All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth?
Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,
"Buried in some place far down in the south,
Men are forgetting as I speak to you;
By her head sever'd in that awful drouth
"Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow,
I pray your pity! let me not scream out
For ever after, when the shrill winds blow
"Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout
For ever after in the winter night
When you ride out alone! in battle-rout
"Let not my rusting tears make your sword light!
Ah! God of mercy how he turns away!
So, ever must I dress me to the fight,
"So--let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say,
See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know
Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day,
"One bitter day in _la Fausse Garde_, for so
All good knights held it after, saw--
Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though
"You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw,
This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed--
Whose blood then pray you? is there any law
"To make a queen say why some spots of red
Lie on her coverlet? or will you say,
'Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed,
"'Where did you bleed?' and must I stammer out--'Nay',
I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend
My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay
"'A knife-point last night:' so must I defend
The honour of the lady Guenevere?
Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end
"This very day, and you were judges here
Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce
When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear
"Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance,
His side sink in? as my knight cried and said,
'Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance!
"'Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head,
By God I am so glad to fight with you,
Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead
"'For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do,
For all my wounds are moving in my breast,
And I am getting mad with waiting so.'
"He struck his hands together o'er the beast,
Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet,
And groan'd at being slain so young--'at least.'
"My knight said, 'Rise you, sir, who are so fleet
At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight,
My left side all uncover'd!' then I weet,
"Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight
Upon his knave's face; not until just then
Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight
"Along the lists look to my stake and pen
With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh
From agony beneath my waist-chain, when
"The fight began, and to me they drew nigh;
Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right,
And traversed warily, and ever high
"And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight
Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand,
Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight.
"Except a spout of blood on the hot land;
For it was hottest summer; and I know
I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand,
"And burn, against the heat, would quiver so,
Yards above my head; thus these matters went:
Which things were only warnings of the woe
"That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent,
For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord;
Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent
"With all this wickedness; say no rash word
Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes,
Wept all away the grey, may bring some sword
"To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise,
Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand;
And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise,
"Yea also at my full heart's strong command,
See through my long throat how the words go up
In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand
"The shadow lies like wine within a cup
Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now
This little wind is rising, look you up,
"And wonder how the light is falling so
Within my moving tresses: will you dare
When you have looked a little on my brow,
"To say this thing is vile? or will you care
For any plausible lies of cunning woof,
When you can see my face with no lie there
"For ever? am I not a gracious proof--
'But in your chamber Launcelot was found'--
Is there a good knight then would stand aloof,
"When a queen says with gentle queenly sound:
'O true as steel come now and talk with me,
I love to see your step upon the ground
"'Unwavering, also well I love to see
That gracious smile light up your face, and hear
Your wonderful words, that all mean verily
"'The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear
To me in everything, come here to-night,
Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear;
"'If you come not, I fear this time I might
Get thinking over much of times gone by,
When I was young, and green hope was in sight:
"'For no man cares now to know why I sigh;
And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs,
Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie
"'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs
To see you, Launcelot; that we may be
Like children once again, free from all wrongs
"'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me?
What thing could keep true Launcelot away
If I said 'Come?' there was one less than three
"In my quiet room that night, and we were gay;
Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick,
Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea
"I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak,
For he looked helpless too, for a little while;
Then I remember how I tried to shriek,
"And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile
The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head
And made me dizzier; till within a while
"My maids were all about me, and my head
On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away
From its white chattering, until Launcelot said--
"By God! I will not tell you more to-day,
Judge any way you will--what matters it?
You know quite well the story of that fray,
"How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit
That caught up Gauwaine--all, all, verily,
But just that which would save me; these things flit.
"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happen'd these long years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!
"All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears."
She would not speak another word, but stood
Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears
His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood
Of his foe's lances. She lean'd eagerly,
And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could
At last hear something really; joyfully
Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed
Of the roan charger drew all men to see,
The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.
A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON.
SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_.
This castle where I dwell, it stands
A long way off from Christian lands,
A long way off my lady's hands,
A long way off the aspen trees,
And murmur of the lime-tree bees.
But down the Valley of the Rose
My lady often hawking goes,
Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,
Leaning towards the western wind,
Because it bringeth to her mind
Sad whisperings of happy times,
The face of him who sings these rhymes.
King Guilbert rides beside her there,
Bends low and calls her very fair,
And strives, by pulling down his hair,
To hide from my dear lady's ken
The grisly gash I gave him, when
I cut him down at Camelot;
However he strives, he hides it not,
That tourney will not be forgot,
Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,
Whatever he says she answers not.
Now tell me, you that are in love,
From the king's son to the wood-dove,
Which is the better, he or I?
For this king means that I should die
In this lone Pagan castle, where
The flowers droop in the bad air
On the September evening.
Look, now I take mine ease and sing,
Counting as but a little thing
The foolish spite of a bad king.
For these vile things that hem me in,
These Pagan beasts who live in sin,
The sickly flowers pale and wan,
The grim blue-bearded castellan,
The stanchions half worn-out with rust,
Whereto their banner vile they trust--
Why, all these things I hold them just
Like dragons in a missal book,
Wherein, whenever we may look,
We see no horror, yea, delight
We have, the colours are so bright;
Likewise we note the specks of white,
And the great plates of burnish'd gold.
Just so this Pagan castle old,
And everything I can see there,
Sick-pining in the marshland air,
I note; I will go over now,
Like one who paints with knitted brow,
The flowers and all things one by one,
From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.
Four great walls, and a little one
That leads down to the barbican,
Which walls with many spears they man,
When news comes to the castellan
Of Launcelot being in the land.
And as I sit here, close at hand
Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand,
The castellan with a long wand
Cuts down their leaves as he goes by,
Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,
And fingers twisted in his beard--
Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?
I have a hope makes me afeard:
It cannot be, but if some dream
Just for a minute made me deem
I saw among the flowers there
My lady's face with long red hair,
Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,
As I was wont to see her some
Fading September afternoon,
And kiss me, saying nothing, soon
To leave me by myself again;
Could I get this by longing: vain!
The castellan is gone: I see
On one broad yellow flower a bee
Drunk with much honey--
Christ! again,
Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,
I thought I had forgot to feel,
I never heard the blissful steel
These ten years past; year after year,
Through all my hopeless sojourn here,
No Christian pennon has been near;
Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on
Over the marches, battle won,
Knights' shouts, and axes hammering,
Yea, quicker now the dint and ring
Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan,
When they come back count man for man,
Say whom you miss.
The PAGANS, _from the battlements_.
Mahmoud to aid!
Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?
The PAGANS, _from without_.
Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot,
Who follows quick upon us, hot
And shouting with his men-at-arms.
SIR GUY.
Also the Pagans raise alarms,
And ring the bells for fear; at last
My prison walls will be well past.
SIR LAUNCELOT, _from outside_.
Ho! in the name of the Trinity,
Let down the drawbridge quick to me,
And open doors, that I may see
Guy the good knight.
The PAGANS, _from the battlements_.
Nay, Launcelot,
With mere big words ye win us not.
SIR LAUNCELOT.
Bid Miles bring up la perriere,
And archers clear the vile walls there,
Bring back the notches to the ear,
Shoot well together! God to aid!
These miscreants shall be well paid.
Hurrah! all goes together; Miles
Is good to win my lady's smiles
For his good shooting--Launcelot!
On knights a-pace! this game is hot!
SIR GUY _sayeth afterwards_.
I said, I go to meet her now,
And saying so, I felt a blow
From some clench'd hand across my brow,
And fell down on the sunflowers
Just as a hammering smote my ears,
After which this I felt in sooth;
My bare hands throttling without ruth
The hairy-throated castellan;
Then a grim fight with those that ran
To slay me, while I shouted, "God
For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod
That evening in my own red blood;
Nevertheless so stiff I stood,
That when the knights burst the old wood
Of the castle-doors, I was not dead.
I kiss the Lady Mary's head,
Her lips, and her hair golden red,
Because to-day we have been wed.
SHAMEFUL DEATH.
There were four of us about that bed;
The mass-priest knelt at the side,
I and his mother stood at the head,
Over his feet lay the bride;
We were quite sure that he was dead,
Though his eyes were open wide.
He did not die in the night,
He did not die in the day,
But in the morning twilight
His spirit pass'd away,
When neither sun nor moon was bright,
And the trees were merely grey.
He was not slain with the sword,
Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,
Yet spoke he never a word
After he came in here;
I cut away the cord
From the neck of my brother dear.
He did not strike one blow,
For the recreants came behind,
In a place where the hornbeams grow,
A path right hard to find,
For the hornbeam boughs swing so,
That the twilight makes it blind.
They lighted a great torch then,
When his arms were pinion'd fast,
Sir John the knight of the Fen,
Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,
With knights threescore and ten,
Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.
I am threescore and ten,
And my hair is all turn'd grey,
But I met Sir John of the Fen
Long ago on a summer day,
And am glad to think of the moment when
I took his life away.
I am threescore and ten,
And my strength is mostly pass'd,
But long ago I and my men,
When the sky was overcast,
And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen,
Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.
And now, knights all of you,
I pray you pray for Sir Hugh,
A good knight and a true,
And for Alice, his wife, pray too.
THE EVE OF CRECY.
Gold on her head, and gold on her feet,
And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,
And a golden girdle round my sweet;--
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
Margaret's maids are fair to see,
Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;
Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;--
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._
If I were rich I would kiss her feet,
I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,
And the golden girdle round my sweet--
_Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite._