Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems
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PRELUDE
WHY, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naughtSave this, alas! that once it seemed I thoughtI wandered dim with someone, but I knewNot who; most beautiful and good and true,Yet sad through suffering; with curl-crowned brow,Soft eyes and voice; so white she haunts me now: —And when, and where? – At night in dreamland.SheLed me athwart a flower-showered leaWhere trammeled puckered pansy and the pea;Spread stains of pale-rod poppies rinced of rain,So gorged with sun their hurt hearts ached with pain;Heaped honeysuckles; roses lavishing beams,Wherein I knew were huddled little dreamsWhich laughed coy, hidden merriment and thereBlew quick gay kisses fragrancing the air.And where a river bubbled through the swardA mist lay sleepily; and it was hardTo see whence sprung it, to what seas it led,How broadly spread and what it was it fledSo ceasless in its sighs, and bickering onInto romance or some bewildering dawnOf wisest legend from the storied wellsOf lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,Nodding a white poll and a grand, gray beardAs if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard,Who spake like water, danced like careful showersWith blown gold curls thro' drifts of wild-thorn flowers;Loose, lazy arms in graceful movement tossed,Float flower-like down a woodland vista, lostIn some peculiar note that wrings a tearSlow down his withered cheek. And then steals nearHer sweet, lascivious brow's white wonderment,And gray rude eyes, and hair which hath the scentOf the wildwood Brécéliand's perfumesIn Brittany; and in it one red bloom'sBlood-drop thrust deep, and so "Sweet Viviane!"All the glad leaves lisp like a young, soft rainFrom top to top, until a running surgeThe dark, witch-haunted solitude will urge,That shakes and sounds and stammers as from sleepSome giant were aroused; and with a leapA samite-gauzy creature, glossy white,Showers mocking kisses fast and, like a lightBeat by a gust to flutter and then done,From Brécéliande and Merlin she is gone.But still he sits there drowsing with his dreams;A wondrous cohort hath he; many as gleamsThat stab the moted mazes of a beech;And each grave dream hath its own magic speechTo sting to tears his old eyes heavy – twoHang, tangled brilliants, in his beard like dew:And still faint murmurs of courts brave and fair,And forms of Arthur and proud Guenevere,Grave Tristram and rare Isoud and stout Mark,Bold Launcelot, chaste Galahad the darkOf his weak mind, once strong, glares up with, then,– The instant's fostered blossoms – die again.A roar of tournament, a rippling stirOf silken lists that ramble into her,That white witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,The vast Brécéliande and dreams again.Then Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, trips there,A waggish cunning; glittering on his hairA tinsel crown; and then will slightly swayThick leaves and part, and there Morgane the FayWith haughty wicked eyes and lovely faceStudies him steady for a little space.I"THOU askest with thy studious eyes again,Here where the restless forest hears the mainToss in a troubled sleep and moan. Ah, sweet,With joy and passion the kind hour's replete;And what wild beauty here! where roughly runHuge forest shadows from the westering sun,The wood's a subdued power gentle asYon tame wild-things, that in the moss and grassGaze with their human eyes. Here grow the linesOf pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shinesUrned in its tremulous ferns, rest we uponThis oak-trunk of God's thunder overthrownYears, years agone; not where 'tis rotted brownBut where the thick bark's firm and overgrownOf clambering ivy blackly berried; whereWild musk of wood decay just tincts the air,As if some strange shrub on some whispering way,In some dewed dell, while dreaming of one May,In longing languor weakly tried to wakeOne sometime blossom and could only makeGhosts of such dead aromas as it knew,And shape a specter, budding thin as dew,To haunt these sounding miles of solitude.Troubled thou askest, Morgane, and the mood,Unfathomed in thine eyes, glows rash and deepAs that in some wild-woman's found on sleepBy some lost knight upon a precipice,Whom he hath wakened with a laughing kiss.As that of some frail, elfin lady whiteAs if of watery moonbeams, filmy dight,Who waves diaphanous beauty on some cliffThat drowsing purrs with moon-drenched pines; but ifThe lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and dragHim crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,Triumphant mocks him with glad sorceryTill all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.As that bewildering mystery of a tarn,Some mountain water, which the mornings scornTo anadem with fire and leave gray;To which some champion cometh when the DayHath tired of breding on his proud, young headFlame-furry blooms and, golden chapletéd,Sits rosy, trembling with full love for Night,Who cometh sandaled; dark in crape; the lightOf her good eyes a marvel; her vast hairTortuous with stars, – as in some shadowy lairThe eyes of hunted wild things burn with rage, —And on large bosoms doth his love assuage."He, coming thither in that haunted place,Stoops low to quaff cool waters, when his faceMeets gurgling fairy faces in a ringThat jostle upward babbling; beckoningHim deep to wonders secret built of oldBy some dim witch: 'A city walled with gold,With beryl battlements and paved with pearls,Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirlsOf alabaster, and that witch to love,More beautiful to love than queens above.' —He pauses troubled, but a wizard power,In all his bronzen harness that mad hourPlunges him – whither? what if he should missThose cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?Ah, Morgane, that same power AccolonSaw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawnHim deep to plunge – and to what breathless fate? —Bliss? – which, too true, he hath well quaffed of late!But, there! – may come what stealthy-footed DeathWith bony claws to clutch away his breath!And make him loveless to those eyes, alas! —Fain must I speak that vision; thus it was:"In sleep one plucked me some warm fleurs-de-lis,Larger than those of earth; and I might seeTheir woolly gold, loose, webby woven thro', —Like fluffy flames spun, – gauzy with fine dew.And 'asphodels!' I murmured; then, 'these sureThe Eden amaranths, so angel pureThat these alone may pluck them; aye and aye!But with that giving, lo, she passed awayBeyond me on some misty, yearning brookWith some sweet song, which all the wild air tookWith torn farewells and pensive melodyTouching to tears, strange, hopeless utterly.So merciless sweet that I yearned high to tearThose ingot-cored and gold-crowned lilies fair;Yet over me a horror which restrainedWith melancholy presence of two painedAnd awful, mighty eyes that cowed and heldMe weeping while that sad dirge died or swelledFar, far on endless waters borne away:A wild bird's musick smitten when the rayOf dawn it burned for graced its drooping head,And the pale glory strengthened round it dead;Daggered of thorns it plunged on, blind in night,The slow blood ruby on its plumage white."Then, then I knew these blooms which she had givenWere strays of parting grief and waifs of HeavenFor tears and memories; too delicateFor eyes of earth such souls immaculate!But then – my God! my God! thus these were left!I knew then still! but of that song bereft —That rapturous wonder grasping after grief —Beyond all thought – weak thought that would be thief."And bowed and wept into his hands and sheSorrowful beheld; and resting at her kneeRaised slow her oblong lute and smote its chords;But ere the impulse saddened into wordsSaid: "And didst love me as thy lips have spakeNo visions wrought of sleep might such love shake.Fast is all Love in fastness of his power,With flame reverberant moated stands his tower;Not so built as to chink from fact a beamOf doubt and much less of a doubt from dream;Such, the alchemic fires of Love's desires,Which hug this like a snake, melt to gold wiresTo chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."So ceased and then, sad softness in her eyeSang to his dream a questioning reply:"Will love grow less when dead the roguish Spring,Who from gay eyes sowed violets whispering;Peach petals in wild cheeks, wan-wasted thro'Of withering grief, laid lovely 'neath the dew,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when comes queen Summer tall,Her throat a lily long and spiritual;Rich as the poppied swaths – droned haunts of bees —Her cheeks, a brown maid's gleaning on the leas,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when Autumn sighing thereBroods with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair;Tears in grave eyes as in grave heavens above,Deep lost in memories' melancholy, love,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when Winter at the doorBegs on her scant locks icicles as hoar;While Death's eyes hollow o'er her shoulder dartA look to wring to tears then freeze the heart,Will love grow less?"And in her hair wept softly and her breastRose and was wet with tears; like as, distressed,Night steals on Day rain sobbing thro' her curls."Tho' tears become thee even as priceless pearls,Weep not for love's sake! mine no gloom of doubt,But woe for sweet love's death such dreams brought out.Nay, nay; crowned, throned and flame-anointed heKings our twin-kingdomed hearts eternally.Love, high in Heaven beginning and to ceaseNo majesty when hearts are laid at peace;But reign supreme, if souls have wrought as well,A god in Heaven or a god in Hell.Yea, Morgane, for the favor of his faceAll our rich world of love I will retrace:"Hurt in that battle where thy brother stroveWith those five kings thou wot'st of, dearest love,Wherein the five were worsted, I was broughtTo some king's castle on my shield, methought, —Out of the grind of spears and roar of swords,From the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,Culled from the mountained slain where Havoc sprawledGorged to her eyes with carnage, growling crawled; —By some tall damsels tiremaids of some queenStately and dark, who moved as if a sheenOf starlight spread her presence; and she cameWith healing herbs and searched my wounds. A dameSo marvelous in raiment silveryI feared lest some attendant chaste were sheTo that high Holy Grael, which Arthur hathSought ever widely by hoar wood and path; —Thus not for me, a worldly one, to love,Who loved her even to wonder; skied aboveHis worship as our moon above the Main,That passions upward yearning in great pain,And suffers wearily from year to year,She peaceful pitiless with virgin cheer. —Ah, ideal love, as merciless as fate!And, oh, that savage aching which must waitFor its fulfillment, tortured love in tears,Until that beauty dreamed of many yearsBends over one from luminous skies, so grandOne's weakness fears to touch its mastering hand,And hesitates and stammers nothings weak,And loves and loves with love that can not speak!Ah, there's the tyranny that breeds despair;Breaks hearts whose strong youth by one golden hairCoiled 'round the throat is sooner strangled dumbThan by a glancing dagger thrust from gloomOf an old arras at the very hourOne thought one safest in one's guarded tower. —Thus, Morgane, worshiping that lady IWas speechless; longing now to live, now die,As her fine face suggested secrets ofSome passion kin to mine, or scorn of loveThat dragged heroic humbleness to her feet,For one long look that spake and made such sweet.Ah, never dreamed I of what was to be, —Nay! nay! how could I? while that agonyOf doubtful love denied my heart too much,Too much to dream of that perfection suchAs was to grant me boisterous hours of lifeAnd sever all the past as with a knife!"One night a tempest scourged and beat and lashedThe writhing forest and vast thunders crashedClamorous with clubs of leven, and anon,Between the thunder pauses, seas would groanLike some enormous curse a knight hath luredFrom where it soared to maim it with his sword.I, with eyes partly lidded, seemed to seeThat cloudy, wide-wrenched night's eternityYawn hells of golden ghastliness; and sweepDistending foams tempestuous up each steepOf furious iron, where pale mermaids sitWith tangled hair black-blown, who, bit by bit,Chant glimmering; beckoning on to strangling armsSome hurt bark hurrying in the ravenous storm'sResistless exultation; till there cameOne breaker mounting inward, all aflameWith glow-worm green, to boom against the cliffIts thunderous bulk – and there, sucked pale and stiff,Tumbled in eddies up the howling rocksMy dead, drawn face; eyes lidless; matted locksOozed close with brine; tossed upward merrilyBy streaming mermaids. – Madly seemed to seeThe vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,Collected, sought me; down the casement drewWet, shuddering fingers sharply; thronging fastUp hooting turrets, fell thick screaming, castDown bastioned battlements trooped whistling off;From the wild woodland growled a backward scoff. —Then far away, hoofs of a thousand gales,As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,Loosed from the groaning hills, the cohorts loud,Spirits of thunder, charioteered of cloud,Roared down the rocking night cored with the glareOf fiery eyeballs swimming; their drenched hairBlown black as rain unkempt back from black brows,Wide mouths of storm that voiced a hell carouseAnd bulged tight cheeks with wind, rolled riotous byRuining to ruinous cliffs to headlong die."Once when the lightning made the casement glareSquares touched to gold, between it rose her hair,As if a raven's wing had cut the stormDeath-driven seaward; and a vague alarmStung me with terrors of surmise where hopeAs yet pruned weak wings crippled by their scope.And, lo, she kneeled low, radiant, wonderful,Lawn-raimented and white; kneeled low, – 'to lullThese thoughts of night such storms might shape in thee,All such to peace and sleep,' – Ah, God! to seeHer like a benediction fleshed! with herHearing her voice! her cool hand wandering bareWistful on feverish brow thro' long deep curls!To see her rich throat's carcaneted pearlsRise as her pulses! eyes' large influencePoured toward me straight as stars, whose sole defenseAgainst all storm is their bold beauty! thenTo feel her breathe and hear her speak again!'Love, mark,' I said or dreamed I moaned in dreams,'How wails the tumult and the thunder gleams!As if of Arthur's knights had charged two fieldsBright as sun-winds of dawn; swords, spears and shieldsFlashed lordly shocked; had, – to a man gone downIn burst of battle hurled, – lain silent sown.Love, one eternal tempest thus with theeWere calm, dead calm! but, no! – for thee in meSuch calm proves tempest. Speak; I feel thy voiceThrob soft, caressing silence, healing noise.'"Is radiance loved of radiance? day of day?Lithe beam of beam and laughing ray of ray?Hope loved of hope and happiness of joy,Or love of love, who hath the world for toy?And thou – thou lov'st my voice? fond Accolon!Why not – yea, why not? – nay! – I prithee! – groanNot for that thou hast had long since thine all.'She smiled; and dashed down storm's black-crumbled wall,Baptizing moonlight bathed her, foot and faceDeluging, as my soul brake toward her graceWith worship from despair and secret grief,That felt hot tears of heartsease sweet and brief.And one immortal night to me she saidWords, lay I white in death had raised me red.'Rest now,' they were, 'I love thee with such love! —'Some speak of secret love, but God aboveHath knowledge and divinement.'… Passionate low,'To lie by thee to-night my mind is': – SoShe laughed; – 'Sleep well! – for me? why, thy fast wordOf knighthood, look thou, and this naked swordLaid in betwixt us… Let it be a wallStrong between love and lust and lov'st me all in all.'Undid the goodly gold from her clasped waist;Unbound deep locks; and, like a blossom faced,Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to budIn breasts and face a graceful womanhood.And fragrance was to her as naturalAs odor to the rose; and she a tall,White ardor and white fervor in the roomMoved, some pale presence that with light doth bloom.Then all mine eyes and lips and limbs were fire;My tongue delirious throbbed a lawless lyre,That harped loud words of laud for loveliness,Inspired of such, but these I can not guess.Then she, as pure as snows of peaks that keepSun-cloven crowns of virgin, vanquishing steep,Frowned on me, and the thoughts, that in my brainHad risen a glare of gems, set dull like rain,And fair I spake her and with civil pain:"'Thine, sweet, a devil's kindness which is givenFor earthly pleasure but bars out from Heaven.Temptation harbored, like a bloody rustOn a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lustIs love's undoing when love's limbs are castA commonness to desire that makes unchaste;And this warm nearness of what should be hidMakes love a lawless love. But, thou hast bid; —Rest thou; I love thee, how, – I only know:But all that love shall shout "out!" at love's foe.'And turning sighed into my hair; and sheStretched the broad blade's division suddenly.And so we lay its fire between us twain;Unsleeping I, for, oh, that devil painOf passion in me that strove up and stoodA rebel wrangling with the brain and blood!An hour stole by: she slept or seemed to sleep.The winds of night came vigorous from the deepWith storm gusts of fresh-watered field and woldThat breathed of ocean meadows bluely rolled.I drowsed and time passed; stealing as for oneWhose drowsy life dreams in Avilion.Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went downHigh casement squares of heaven, a crystal crownOf bubbled moonlight on each monstrous head,Like as great ghosts of giant kings long dead.And then, meseemed, she lightly laughed and sighed,So soft a taper had not bent aside,And leaned a soft face seen thro' loosened hairAbove me, whisp'ring as if sweet in prayer,'Behold, the sword! I take the sword away!'It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beamOf moonlight in the moonlight. I did deemShe moved in sleep and dreamed perverse, nor wistThat which she did until two fierce lips kissedMy wondering eyes to wakement of her thought.Then spake I, 'Love, my word! is it then naught?Nay, nay, my word albeit the sword be gone! —And wouldst thou try me? rest thou safe till dawn!I will not thus forswear! my word stands fast!'But now I felt hot, desperate kisses castOn hair, eyes, throat and lips and over and over,Low laughter of 'Sweet wretch! and thou – a lover?What is that word if she thou gavest itUnbind thee of it? lo, and she sees fit!'Ah, Morgane, Morgane, then I knew 'twas thou,Thou! thou! who only could such joy allow.""And, oh, unburied passion of that night;The sleepy birds too early piped of light;Too soon came Light girt with a rosy breeze,Strong from his bath, to wrestle with the trees,A thewy hero; and, alas! too soonOur scutcheoned oriel stained was overstrewnOf Dawn's air-jewels; then I sang a strainOf sleep that in my memory strives again:"Ethereal limbed the lovely Sleep should sit,Her starbeam locks with some vague splendor lit,Like that the glow-worm's emerald radiance shedsThro' twilight dew-drops globed on lily-beds.Her face as fair as if of graven stone,Yet dim and airy us a cloud aloneIn the bare blue of Heaven, smiling sweet,For languorous thoughts of love that flit and fleetShort-rainbow-winged about her crumpled hair;Yet on her brow a pensiveness more fair,Ungraspable and sad and lost, I wist,Than thoughts of maiden whom her love hath kissed,Who knows, thro' deepening eyes and drowsy breath,Him weeping bent whiles she drifts on to death.Full sweet and sorrowful and blithe withalShould be her brow; not wholly spiritual,But tinged with mortal for the mortal mind,And smote with flushings from some Eden wind;Hinting at heart's ease and a god's desireOf pleasure hastening in a garb of fireFrom some dim country over storied seasGlassed of content and foamed of mysteries.Her ears two sea-pearls' morning-tender pink,And strung to harkening as if on a brinkNight with profundity of death and doubt,Yet touched with awfulness of light poured out.Ears strung to palpitations of heart throbsAs sea-shells waver with dim ocean sobs.One hand, curved like a mist on dusking skies,Hollowing smooth brows to shade dark velvet eyes, —Dark-lashed and dewed of tear-drops beautiful, —To sound the cowering conscience of the dull,Sleep-sodden features in their human rest,Ere she dare trust her pureness to that breast.Large limbs diaphanous and fleeced with veilOf wimpled heat, wove of the pulsing paleOf rosy midnight, and stained thro' with starsIn golden cores; clusters of quivering barsOf nebulous gold, twined round her fleecily.A lucid shape vague in vague mystery.Untrammeled bosoms swelling free and whiteAnd prodigal of balm; cupped lilies bright,That to the famished mind yield their pure, best,Voluptuous sleep like honey sucked in rest."Thus they communed. And there her castle stoodWith slender towers ivied o'er the wood;An ancient chapel creeper-buried near;A forest vista, where faint herds of deerStalked like soft shadows; where the hares did run,Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun.For it was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;That rooky pile her palace whence she boreWith Urience sway; but he at CamelotKnew naught of intrigues here at Chariot.IINOON; and the wistful Autumn sat amongThe lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrungBy crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,To don imperial pomp at any cost.On each wild hill they stood as if for warFlaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,Who in a little fretful while, how soon!Would work rebellion under some wan moon;Pluck their old beards deriding; shriek and tearRich royalty; sow tattered through the airTheir purple majesty; and from each headDash down its golden crown, and in its steadSet there a pale-death mockery of snow,Leave them bemoaning beggars bowed with woe.Blow, wood-wind, blow! now that all's fresh and fineAs earth and wood can make it; fresh as brineAnd rare with sodden scents of underbrush.Ring, and one hears a cavalcade a-rush;Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows; —A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goesBeneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green, —Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held betweenHis selle and hunter's head, and at his thighA good, broad hanger, and one fist on highTo wind the rapid echoes from his horn,That start the field birds from the sheavéd corn,Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,That cease again when it no longer sings.Away, away, they flash a belted bandFrom Camelot thro' that haze-ghostly land;Hounds leashed and leamers and a flash of steel,A tramp of horse and the long-baying pealOf stag hounds whimp'ring and – behold! the hart,A lordly height, doth from the covert dart;And the big blood-hounds strain unto the chase.A-hunt! a-hunt! the pryce seems but a paceOn ere 'tis wound; but now, where interlaceThe dense-briered underwoods, the hounds have lostThe slot, there where a forest brook hath crossedWith intercepting waters full of leaves.Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weavesThro' dimmer boscage, and the wizard sunShapes many shadowy stags that seem to runWild herds before the baffled foresters.And treed aloft a reckless laugh one hears,As if some helping goblin from the treesMocked them the unbayed hart and made a breezeHis pursuivant of mocking. Hastening thencePursued King Arthur and King UrienceWith one small brachet, till scarce hear could theyTheir fellowship far-furthered course awayOn fresher trace of hind or rugged boarWith haggard, hairy flanks, curled tusks and hoarWith fierce foam-fury; and of these bereftThe kings continued in the slot they'd left.And there the hart plunged gallant thro' the brakeLeaving a torn path shaking in his wake,Down which they followed on thro' many a copseAbove whose brush, close on before, the topsOf the large antlers swelled anon, and soWere gone where beat the brambles to and fro.And still they drave him hard; and ever nearSeemed that great hart unwearied; and such cheerStill stung them to the chase. When Arthur's horseGasped mightily and lunging in his courseLay dead, a lordly bay; and UrienceLeft his gray hunter dying near; and thenceThey held the hunt afoot; when suddenlyWere they aware of a wide, roughened sea,And near the wood the hart upon the swardBayed, panting unto death and winded hard.Right so the king dispatched him and the pryceWound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.As if each echo, which that wild horn's blastWaked from its sleep, – the quietude had castTender as mercy on it, – in a bandRose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,From that red woodland gliding. These each knightGraced with obeisance and "Our lord," said one,"Tenders ye courtesy until the dawn;The Earl Sir Damas; well in his wide keep,Seen thither with due worship, ye shall sleep."And then they came o'erwearied to a hall,An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wallTowered based on crags rough, windy turrets high;An old, gaunt giant-castle 'gainst a skyWherein the moon hung foam-faced, large and full.Down on dank sea-foundations broke the dull,Weird monotone of ocean, and wide rolledThe watery wilderness that was as oldAs loud, defying headlands stretching outBeneath still stars with a voluminous shoutOf wreck and wrath forever. Here the twoWere feasted fairly and with worship dueAll errant knights, and then a damsel ledEach knight with flaring lamp unto his bedDown separate corridores of that great keep;And soon they rested in a heavy sleep.And then King Arthur woke, and woke mid groansOf dolorous knights; and 'round him lay the bonesOf many woful champions mouldering;And he could hear the open ocean ringWild wasted waves above. And so he thought"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraughtBy that long hunt;" and then he sought to shakeThe horror off and to himself awake;But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs,And deep in iron-ribbéd cells the eyesOf pale, cadaverous knights shone fixed on himUnhappy; and he felt his senses swimWith foulness of that cell, and, "What are ye?Ghosts of chained champions or a companyOf phantoms, bodiless fiends? If speak ye can,Speak, in God's name! for I am here – a man!"Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who layA dusky nightmare dying day by day,Yet once of comely mien and strong withalAnd greatly gracious; but, now hunger-tall,With scrawny beard and faded hands and cheeks:"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaksIs but an one of twenty knights here shamedOf him who lords this castle, Damas named,Who mews us here for slow starvation keen;Around you fade the bones of some eighteenTried knights of Britain; and God grant that soonMy hunger-lengthened ghost will see the moon,Beyond the vileness of this prisonment!"With that he sighed and round the dungeon wentA rustling sigh, like saddened sin, and soAnother dim, thin voice complained their woe: —"He doth enchain us with this common end,That he find one who will his prowess bendTo the attainment of his livelihood.A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; goodAnd courteous, withal most noble, whomThis Damas hates – yea, ever seeks his doom;Denying him to their estate all rightSave that he holds by main of arms and might.And thro' puissance hath he some fat fieldsAnd one rich manor sumptuous, where he yieldsBelated knights host's hospitality.Then bold is Ontzlake, Damas cowardly.For Ontzlake would decide by sword and lanceBody for body this inheritance;But Damas dotes on life so courageless;Thus on all knights perforce lays coward's stressTo fight for him or starve. For ye must knowThat in his country he is hated soThat no helm here is who will take the fight;Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."Quoth he and ceased. And wondering at the taleThe King was thoughtful, and each faded, pale,Poor countenance still conned him when he spake:"And what reward if one this battle take?""Deliverance for all if of us oneConsent to be his party's champion.But treachery and he are so close kinWe loathe the part as some misshapen sin,And here would rather dally on to deathThan serving falseness save and slave our breath.""May God deliver you for mercy, sirs!"And right anon an iron noise he hearsOf chains clanked loose and bars jarred rusty back,The heavy gate croak open; and the blackOf that rank cell astonished was with light,That danced fantastic with the frantic night.One high torch sidewise worried by the gustSunned that lorn den of hunger, death and rust,And one tall damsel vaguely vestured, fairWith shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair.And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she;"God's life! the keep stinks vilely! and to seeSo noble knights endungeoned hollowing hereDoth pain me sore with pity – but, what cheer?""Thou mockest us; for me the sorriestSince I was suckled; and of any questTo me the most imperiling and strange. —But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A changeI offer thee, through thee to these with thee,And thou but grant me in love's courtesyTo fight for Damas and his livelihood.And if thou wilt not – look! thou seest this broodOf lean and dwindled bellies specter-eyed,Keen knights erst who refused me? – so decide."Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breezeThat blew delirious over waves and trees;Thick fields of grasses and the sunny earthWhose beating heat filled the red heart with mirth,And made the world one sovereign pleasure houseWhere king and serf might revel and carouse;Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;Lone forest chapels by their radiant rills:His palace rich at Caerlleon upon Usk,And Camelot's loud halls that thro' the duskBlazed far and bloomed a rose of revelry;Or in the misty morning shadowyLoomed grave for audience. And then he thoughtOf his Round Table and that Grael wide soughtIn haunted holds on demon-sinful shore;Then marveled of what wars would rise and roarWith dragon heads unconquered and devourThis realm of Britain and pluck up that flowerOf chivalry whence ripened his renown:And then the reign of some besotted crown,A bandit king of lust, idolatry —And with that thought for tears he could not see:Then of his greatest champions, King Ban's son,And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:And then, ah God! of his dear Guenevere,And with that thought – to starve and moulder here? —For, being unfriend to Arthur and his court,Well wist he this grim Earl would bless that sportOf fortune which had fortuned him so wellTo have to starve his sovereign in a cell. —In the entombing rock where ground the deep;And all the life shut in his limbs did leapThro' eager veins and sinews fierce and red,Stung on to action, and he rose and said:"That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo!To rot here harder; I will fight his foe.But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail,No steed against that other to avail.""Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire."And so she led the path: her torch's fireScaring wild spidery shadows at each strideFrom cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,That labyrinthed the rock foundation strongOf that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.At length they came to a nail-studded door,Which she unlocked with one harsh key she boreMid many keys bunched at her girdle; thenceThey issued on a terraced eminence.Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the KingBreathed open air that had the smell and stingOf brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;For in the East the second dawning's gloam,Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaksRed as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.And so within that larger light of dawnIt seemed to Arthur now that he had knownThis maiden at his court, and so he asked.But she, well-tutored, her real person masked,And answered falsely; "Nay, deceive thee not;Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's court, I wot.For here it likes me best to sing and spinAnd work the hangings my sire's halls within:No courts or tournaments or gallants braveTo flatter me and love! for me – the wave,The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;My garth wherein I walk to think; the charmOf uplands redolent at bounteous noonAnd full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;White ships that pass some several every year;These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear.""An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrueWas she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying ofThe King, half-brother, whom she did not love.And presently she brought him where in stateThis swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate…King Urience that dawning woke and foundHimself safe couched at Camelot and woundIn Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it wasThat this thing secretly had come to pass.But Accolon at Chariot sojourned stillContent with his own dreams; for 'twas the willOf Morgane thus to keep him hidden hereFor her desire's excess, where everywhereIn Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wontTo list a tinkling, falling water fount, —Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramoursAt sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,Had caught a laughing language light thereof,And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!" —On cool white walls her hands had deftly drapedA dark rich hanging, where were worked and shapedHer fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind,Imperishable passions, which could windThe past and present quickly; and could mateDead loves to kisses, and intoxicateWith moon-soft words of past delight and songThe heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong.And there beside it pooled the urnéd well,And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fellFrom rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawnCame solely; with not ev'n her brindled houndTo leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground;No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;But this her lute, about which her perfumeClung odorous of memories, that made bloomHer flowing features rosy to his eyes,That saw the words, his sense could but surmise,Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunkHer deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunkAnd slowly waned away to smouldering dreams,Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams.And so for those most serious eyes and lips,Faint, filmy features, all the music slipsOf buoyant being bubbling to his voiceTo chant her praises; and with nervous poiseHis fleet, trained fingers call from her long luteSuch riotous notes as must make madly muteThe nightingale that listens quivering.And well he knows that winging hence it'll singThese aching notes, whose beauties burn and painIts anguished heart now sobless, not in vainWild 'neath her casement in that garden oldDingled with heavy roses; in the goldOf Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon;And if it dies, the heartache of the tuneShall clamor stormy passion at her ear,Of death more dear than life if love be there;Melt her quick eyes to tears, her throat to sobsTumultuous heaved, while separation throbsHard at her heart, and longing rears to DeathTwo prayerful eyes of pleading "for one breath —An ardor of fierce life – crushed in his armsClose, close! and, oh, for such, all these smooth charms,Full, sentient charms voluptuous evermore!"And sweet to know these sensitive vows shall soarEv'n to the dull ear of her drowsy lordBeside her; heart-defying with each wordHarped in the bird's voice rhythmically clear.And thus he sang to her who was not there:"She comes! her presence, like a moving songBreathed soft of loveliest lips and lute-like tongue,Sways all the gurgling forests from their rest:I fancy where her rustling foot is pressed,So faltering, love seems timid, but how strongThat darling love that flutters in her breast!"She comes! and the green vistas are stormed thro' —As if wild wings, wet-varnished with dripped dew,Had dashed a sudden sunbeam tempest past,– With her eyes' inspiration clearly chaste;A rhythmic lavishment of bright gray blue,Long arrows of her eyes perfection cast."Ah, God! she comes! and, Love, I feel thy breath,Like the soft South who idly wanderethThro' musical leaves of laughing laziness,Page on before her, how sweet – none can guess!To say my soul 'Here's harmony dear as deathTo sigh wild vows, or utterless, to bless.'"She comes! ah, God! and all my brain is braveTo war for words to laud her and to laveHer queenly beauty in such vows whereofMay hush melodious cooings of a dove:For her light feet the favored path to paveWith oaths, like roses, raving mad with love."She comes! in me a passion – as the moonWorks madness in strong men – my blood doth swoonTowards her glory; and I feel her soulCling lip to lip with mine; and now the wholeMix with me, aching like a tender tuneExhausted; lavished in a god's control."She comes! ah, Christ! ye eager stars that graceThe fragmentary skies, that dimple space,Clink, and I hear her harp-sweet footfalls come:Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,Art of her presence, of her wild-flower face,That like some gracious blossom stains the gloom?"Oh, living exultation of the blood!That now – as sunbursts, the almighty moodOf some moved god, scatter the storm that roars,And hush – her love like some spent splendor poursInto it all immaculate maidenhood,And all the heart that hesitates – adores."Vanquished! so vanquished! – ah, triumphant sweet!The height of heaven – supine at thy feet!Where love feasts crowned, and basks in such a glareAs hearts of suns burn, in thine eyes and hair,Unutterable with raveled fires that cheatThe ardent clay of me and make me air."And so, rare witch, thy blood, like some lewd wine,Shall subtly make me, like thee, half divine;And, – sweet rebellion! – clasp thee till thou urgeTo combat close of savage kisses: surgeA war that rubies all thy proud cheeks' shine, —Slain, struggling blushes, – till white truce emerge."My life for thine, thus bartered lip to lip!A striving being pulsant, that shall slipLike song and flame in sense from thee to me;Nor held, but quick rebartered thence to thee:So our two loves be as a singleship,Ten thousand loves as one eternally."Babbled the woodland like a rocky brook;And as the ecstacy of foliage shook,Hot pieces of bright, sunny heavens glancedLike polished silver thro' pale leaves that danced.As one hath seen some green-gowned huntress fair,Morn in her cheeks and midnight in her hair,Eyes clear as hollow dews; clean limbs as litheAs limbs swift morning moves; a voice as blitheAs high hawk's ringing thro' the falling dews;Pant thro' the bramble-matted avenues, —Where brier and thorn have gashed her gown's pinched green,About bright breasts and arms, the milky sheenOf white skin healthy pouting out; her face,Ardent and flushed, fixed on the lordly chase.IIITHE eve now came; and shadows cowled the wayLike somber palmers, who have kneeled to prayBeside a wayside shrine, and rosy rolledUp the capacious West a grainy gold,Luxuriant fluid, burned thro' strong, keen skies,Which seemed as towering gates of ParadiseSurged dim, far glories on the hungry gaze.And from that sunset down the roseate ways,To Accolon, who with his idle lute,Reclined in revery against a rootOf a great oak, a fragment of that West,A dwarf, in crimson satin tightly dressed,Skipped like a leaf the rather frosts have burnedAnd cozened to a fever red, that turnedAnd withered all its sap. And this one cameFrom Camelot; from his beloved dame,Morgane the Fay. He on his shoulder boreA burning blade wrought strange with wizard lore,Runed mystically; and a scabbard whichGlared venomous, with angry jewels rich.He, louting to the knight, "Sir knight," said he,"Your lady with all sweetest courtesyAssures you – ah, unworthy messengerI of such brightness! – of that love of her."Then doffing that great baldric, with the swordTo him he gave: "And this from him, my lordKing Arthur; even his Excalibur,The sovereign blade, which Merlin gat of her,The Ladye of the Lake, who LauncelotFostered from infanthood, as well you wot,In some wierd mere in Briogn's tangled landsOf charms and mist; where filmy fairy bandsBy lazy moons of Autumn spin their fillOf giddy morrice on the frosty hill.By goodness of her favor this is sent;Who craved King Arthur boon with this intent:That soon for her a desperate combat oneWith one of mightier prowess were begun;And with the sword Excalibur right sureWere she against that champion to endure.The blade flame-trenchant, but more prize the sheathWhich stauncheth blood and guardeth from all death."He said: and Accolon looked on the sword,A mystic falchion, and, "It shall wend hardWith him thro' thee, unconquerable blade,Whoe'er he be, who on my Queen hath laidStress of unworship: and the hours as slowAs palsied hours in Purgatory goFor those unmassed, till I have slain this foe!My purse, sweet page; and now – to her who gave,Dispatch! and this: – to all commands – her slave,To death obedient. In love or warHer love to make me all the warrior.Plead her grace mercy for so long delayFrom love that dies an hourly death each dayTill her white hands kissed he shall kiss her face,By which his life breathes in continual grace."Thus he commanded; and incontinentThe dwarf departed like a red ray sentFrom rich down-flowering clouds of suffused lightWinged o'er long, purple glooms; and with the night,Whose votaress cypress stoled the dying strifeSoftly of day, and for whose perished lifeGave heaven her golden stars, in dreamy thoughtWends Accolon to hazy Chariot.And it befell him; wandering one dawn,As was his wont, across a dew-drenched lawn,Glad with night freshness and elastic healthIn sky and earth that lavished worlds of wealthFrom heady breeze and racy smells, a knightAnd lofty lady met he; gay bedight,With following of six esquires; and theyHeld on straight wrists the jess'd gerfalcon gray,And rode a-hawking o'er the leas of GoreFrom Ontzlake's manor, where he languished; soreHurt in the lists, a spear thrust in his thigh:Who had besought – for much he feared to die —This knight and his fair lady, as they rodeTo hawk near Chariot, the Queen's abode,That they would pray her in all charityFare post to him, – for in chirurgeryOf all that land she was the greatest leach, —And her to his recovery beseech.So, Accolon saluted, they drew rein,And spake their message, – for right over fainWere they toward their sport, – that he might barePetition to that lady. But, not thereWas Arthur's sister, as they well must wot;But now a se'nnight lay at Camelot,Of Guenevere the guest; and there with herFour other queens of farther Britain were:Isoud of Ireland, she of Cornwall Queen,King Mark's wife; who right rarely then was seenAt court for jealousy of Mark, who knewHer to that lance of Lyonesse how trueSince mutual quaffing of a philter; whileHow guilty Guenevere on such could smile:She of Northgales and she of Eastland: andShe of the Out Isles Queen. A fairer bandFor sovereignty and love and lovelinessWas not in any realm to grace and bless.Then quoth the knight, "Ay? see how fortune turnsAnd varies like an April day, that burnsNow welkins blue with calm, now scowls them down,Revengeful, with a black storm's wrinkled frown.For, look, this Damas, who so long hath lainA hiding vermin, fearful of all pain,Dark in his bandit towers by the deep,Wakes from a five years' torpor and a sleep;So sends dispatch a courier to my lordWith, 'Lo! behold! to-morrow with the swordEarl Damas by his knight at point of lanceDecides the issue of inheritance,Body to body, or by champion.'Right hard to find such ere to-morrow dawn.Though sore bestead lies Ontzlake, and he could,Right fain were he to save his livelihood.Then mused Sir Accolon: "The adventure goesEv'n as my Lady fashioneth; who knowsBut what her arts develop this and make?"And thus to those: "His battle I will take, —And he be so conditioned, harried ofEstate and life, – in knighthood and for love.Conduct me thither."And, gramercied, thenMounted a void horse of that wondering train,And thence departed with two squires. And theyCame to a lone, dismantled prioryHard by a castle gray on whose square towers,Machicolated, o'er the forest's bowers,The immemorial morning bloomed and blushed.A woodland manor olden, dark embushedIn wild and woody hills. And then one woundAn echoy horn, and with the boundless soundThe drawbridge rumbled moatward clanking, andInto a paved court passed that little band…When all the world was morning, gleam and glareOf far deluging glory, and the airSang with the wood-bird, like a humming lyreSwept bold of minstrel fingers wire on wire;Ere that fixed hour of prime came Arthur armedFor battle royally. A black steed warmedA fierce impatience 'neath him cased in mail,Huge, foreign; and accoutered head to tailIn costly sendal; rearward wine-dark red,Amber as sunlight to his fretful head.Firm, heavy armor blue had Arthur onBeneath a robe of honor, like the dawn,Satin and diapered and purflewed deepWith lordly golden purple; whence did sweepTwo hanging acorn tuftings of fine gold,And at his thigh a falchion, long and bold,Heavy and triple-edged; its scabbard, redCordovan leather; thence a baldric ledOf new cut deer-skin; this laborious wrought,And curiously with slides of gold was fraught,And buckled with a buckle white that shone,Bone of the sea-horse, tongued with jet-black bone.And, sapphire-set, a burgonet of goldBarbaric, wyvern-crested whose throat rolledA flame-sharp tongue of agate, and whose eyesGlowed venomous great rubies fierce of prize.And in his hand, a wiry lance of ash,Lattened with finest silver, like a flashOf sunlight in the morning shone a-gash.Clad was his squire most richly; he whose headCurled with close locks of yellow tinged to red:Of noble bearing; fair face; hawk eyes keen,And youthful, bearded chin. Right well beseen,Scarfed with blue satin; on his shoulder strongOne broad gold brooch chased strangely, thick and long.His legs in hose of rarest Totness clad,And parti-colored leathern shoes he hadGold-latched; and in his hand a bannered spearSpeckled and bronzen sharpened in the air.So with his following, while lay like scarsThe blue mist thin along the woodland bars,Thro' dew and fog, thro' shadow and thro' rayJoustward Earl Damas led the forest way.Then to King Arthur when arrived were theseTo where the lists shone silken thro' the trees,Bannered and draped, a wimpled damsel came,Secret, upon a palfrey all aflameWith sweat and heat of hurry, and, "From her,Your sister Morgane, your Excalibur,With tender greeting: For ye well have needIn this adventure of him. So, God speed!"And so departed suddenly: nor knewThe king but this his weapon tried and true.But brittle this and fashioned like thereof,And false of baser metal, in unloveAnd treason to his life, of her of kinHalf 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 plateOf Spanish laton. And of sovereign stateHis surcoat robe of honor white and blackOf satin, red-silk needled front and backThen blackly bordered. And above his robeThat two-edged sword, – a throbbing golden globeOf vicious jewels, – thrust its burning hilt,Its broad belt, tawny and with gold-work gilt,Clasped with the eyelid of a black sea-horseWhose tongue was rosy gold. And stern as ForceHis visored helmet burned like fire, of richAnd bronzen laton hammered; and on whichAn hundred crystals glittered, thick as onA 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, overlaidWith fine blue silver, whereon colors played,Firm in his iron gauntlet lithely swayed.Intense on either side an instant stoodGlittering 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 feelsTouch to red onset; the aventured spearsHurled like two sun-bursts of a storm when clearsLaborious thunders; and in middle courseShrieked shrill the unpierced shields; mailed horse from horseLashed madly pawing – and a hoarse roar rangFrom buckram lists, till the wild echoes sangOf leagues on leagues of forest and of cliff.Rigid the proof-shelled warriors passed and stiffWhither their squires fresher spears upheld;Nor stayed to breathe; but scarcely firmly selledLaunched deadly forward. Shield to savage shieldOpposing; crest to crest, whose fronts did wieldA towering war's unmercifulest scath;Rocking undaunted, glared wan withering wrathFrom balls of jeweled eyes, and raging stoodSlim, slippery bodies, in the sun like blood.The lance of Accolon, as on a rockLong storm-launched foam breaks baffled, with the shock,On Arthur's sounding shield burst splintered force;But him resistless Arthur's, – high from horseSell-lifted, – ruinous bare crashing onA long sword's length; unsaddled AccolonFor one stunned moment lay. Then rising, drewThe great sword at his hip, that shone like dewFresh flashed in morn. "Descend;" he stiffly said,"To proof of better weapons head for head!Enough of spears, to swords!" and so the knightAddressed him to the King. Dismounting light,Arthur his moon-bright brand unsheathed, and highEach covering shield gleamed slanting to the sky,Relentless, strong, and stubborn; underneathTheir wary shelters foined the glittering deathOf stolid steel thrust livid arm to arm:As cloud to cloud growls up a soaring stormAbove the bleak wood and lithe lightnings workBrave 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 sendsA long fang heavenward, – for a crushing stroke;Swings hard and trenchant, and, resounding heard,Sings surly helmward full; defiance rearedSoars to a brother blow to shriek againBlade on brave blade. And o'er the battered plain,Forward and backward, blade on baleful blade,Teeth clenched as visors where the fierce eyes madeA cavernous, smouldering fury, shield at shield,Unflinchingly remained and scorned to yield.So Arthur drew aside to rest uponHis falchion for a pause; but AccolonAs yet, thro' virtue of that magic sheathFresh and almighty, being no nearer deathThro' 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 hateGnarled 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 shoreThe golden boasting of its griffin fierceWith 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 rayBurst sunward and in feverish fragments lay.Then groaned the King unarmed; and so he knewThis no Excalibur; that tried and trueMost perfect tempered, runed and mystical.Sobbed, "Oh, hell-false! betray me?" – Then withalHim seemed this foe, who fought with so much stress,So long untiring, and with no distressOf wounds or heat, through treachery bare his brand;And then he knew it by its hilt that handClutched to an avenging stroke. For AccolonIn madness urged the belted battle onHis King defenseless; who, the hilted crossOf that false weapon grasped, beneath the bossOf his deep-dented shield crouched; and aroundCrawled the unequal conflict o'er the ground,Sharded with shattered spears and off-hewn bitsOf shivered steel and gold that burnt in fits.So hunted, yet defiant, coweringBeneath his bossy shield's defense, the KingPersisted stoutly. And, devising stillHow to secure his sword and by what skill,Him so it fortuned when most desperate:In that hot chase they came where shattered lateLay tossed the truncheon of a bursten lance,Which deftly seized, to Accolon's advanceHe wielded valorous. Against the fistSmote where the gauntlet husked the nervous wrist,Which strained the weapon to a wrathful blow;Palsied, the tightened sinews of his foeLoosened 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 seenSome stern storm take an ash tree, roaring green,Nodding its sappy bulk of trunk and boughsTo dizziness, from tough, coiled roots carouseIts long height thundering; – so King Arthur shookSir Accolon and headlong flung; then took,Tearing away, that scabbard from his side,Tossed thro' the breathless lists, that far and wideGulped in the battle voiceless. Then right wrothSecured Excalibur, and grasped of bothWild hands swung glittering and brought bitter downOn rising Accolon; steel, bone and brawnHewed thro' that blow; unsettled every sense:Bathed in a world of blood his limbs grew tenseAnd 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, methinksI have beheld it – where? say, ere death drinksThe soul-light from life's cups, thine eyes! thou art —What art thou, speak!"He answered slow and shortWith tortured breathing: "I? – one, AccolonOf 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 mailéd hands his visored face;"Thou Accolon? art Accolon?" a spaceExclaimed and conned him: then asked softly, "Say,Whence gatest thou this sword, or in what wayThou hadst it, speak?" But wandering that knightHeard 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 madeMe strong o'er kings an hundred! to have swayedBritain! 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 dreamedGone some twelve months. There so we had devolvedHow Arthur's death were compassed and resolvedEach liberal morning, like an almoner,Prodigal of silver to the begging air;Each turbulent eve that in heaven's turquoise rolledConvulsive fiery glories deep in gold;Each night – hilarious heavens vast of night! —Boisterous with quivering stars buoyed bubble-lightIn 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-pursedFor kisses which I gave for love: How cursedWas I thereafter! For, lie fleshed in truth,She shrivels to a hag! Behind that youthUgly, misshapen; Lust not Love, whereinGerms 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 grieveThat 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 eyeBurnt, instant-embered, as one oft may seeA 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 drewUp full his armored tallness, hoarsely cried,"The King!" and at his mailed feet clashed and died.Then rose a world of anxious faces pressedAbout King Arthur, who, though wound-distressed,Bespake that multitude: "Whiles breath and powerRemain, judge we these brethren: This harsh hourHath yielded Damas all this rich estate; —So it is his – allotted his of FateThro' might of arms; so let it be to him.For, stood our oath on knighthood not so slimBut 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 islesOf farthest Britain in its many miles.One month be his – no more! then will we comeEven with an iron host to seal his doom;If he be not departed over seas,Hang naked from his battlements to pleaseOf carrion ravens and wild hawks the craws.Thus much for Damas. But our pleasure drawsToward sir Ontzlake, whom it likes the KingTo take into his knightly followingOf that Round Table royal. – Stand our word! —But I am overweary; take my sword; —Unharness me; for, battle worn, I tireWith 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 wrongThat Damas had inflicted on the land,Commanded Lionell with a staunch bandThis weed's out-stamping if still rooted there.He riding thither to that robber lair,Led Arthur's hopefulest helms, when thorn on thornReddened an hundred spears one winter morn;Built up, a bulk of bastioned rock on rock,Vast battlements, that loomed above the shockOf freshening foam that climbed with haling hands,Lone cloudy-clustered turrets in loud landsSet desolate, – mournful o'er wide, frozen flats, —Found hollow towers the haunt of owls and bats.IVHATE, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,Artificer of God, had coined one worldFrom formless forms of void and 'round it furledIts 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 conceivedA morbid hatred; in that much she grieved,Envious and jealous, for that high renownAnd majesty the King for his fast crownThro' worship had acquired. And once he said,"The closest kin to state are those to dread:No honor such to crush: envenomingAll those kind tongues of blood that try to singPetition to the soul, while conscience quakesHuddled, but stern to hearts whose cold pride takes."And well she knew that Arthur: mightierThan Accolon, without ExcaliburWere as a stingless hornet in the joustWith all his foreign weapons. So her trustSmiled certain of conclusion; eloquentGave lofty heart bold hope that at large eyesPiled up imperial dreams of power and prize.And in her carven chamber, oaken dark,Traceried and arrased, o'er the barren parkThat dripped with Autumn, – for November laySwathed 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 dullWith silence or with sad wind-music full."And he removed? – fond fool! he is removed!Death-dull from feet to hair and graveward shovedFrom royalty to that degraded stateBut purpler pomp! But, see! regenerateAnother monarch rises – Accolon! —Love! Love! with state more ermined; balmy sonOf gods not men, and nobler hence to rule.Sweet Love almighty, terrible to schoolHarsh hearts to gentleness! – Then all this realm'sIron-huskéd flower of war, which overwhelmsWith rust and havoc, shall explode and bloomAn asphodel of peace with joy's perfume.And then, sweet Launcelots and sweet Tristrams proud,Sweet Gueneveres, sweet Isouds, now allowedNo pleasures but what wary, stolen hoursIn 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 scoffOf bully Power, whose heart of insult flingsOff for the roar of arms the appeal that clingsAnd lifts a tearful, prayerful pitiful faceUp from his brutal feet: this shrine where graceLays woman's life for every sacrifice —To him so little, yet of what pure price,Her all, being all her all for love! – her soulLife, honor, earth and firmamental wholeOf 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 knewLove which God's Heaven encouraged – love that drewHips, head and hair in fiends' devouring clawsDown, 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 hereSharp as an adder's fang? or for that earNo instant poison which insinuates,Tightens quick pulses, while one breathing waits,With ice and death? For often men who sleepOn eider-down wake not, but closely keepSuch secrets in their graves to rot and rotTo dust and maggots; – of these – which his lot?"Thus she conspired with her that rainy nightLone 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 alongThe turrets and torn poplars stirred to song.So grew her face severe as skies that takeDark forces of full storm, sound-shod, that shakeWith murmurous feet black hills, and stab with fireA 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 deepSuggestive 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 shadowyThe stirring hangings rolled a Pagan war.And there the mail of Urience shone. A star,Glimmering above, a dying cresset droppedFrom the stone vault and flared. And here she stoppedAnd took the sword bright, burnished by his page,And ruddy as a flame with restless rage.Grasping this death unto the chamber whereSlept innocent her spouse she moved – an airTwined in soft, glossy sendal; or a fitOf faery song a wicked charm in it,A spell that sings seductive on to death.Then paused she at one chamber; for a breathListened: 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 stoodDim by his couch. About her heart hot bloodCaught strangling, then throbbed thudding fever upTo her broad eyes, like wine whirled in a cup.Then came rare Recollection, with a mouthSweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the SouthTrickling thro' perplexed ripples of low leaves;To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleavesIntricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet; —Feet sandaled with crushed, sifted snows and fleetTo come and go and airy anxiously.She, trembling to her, like a flower a beeNests in and makes an audible mouth of muskDripping a downy language in the dusk,Laid lips to ears and luted memories ofNow hateful Urience: – Her maiden love,That willing went from Caerlleon to GoreOne 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 curseMurderous upon her; how her steed waxed worseAnd, snorting terror, fled unmanageable,Pursued with fear, and flung her from the selle,Soft slipping on a bank of springy mossThat couched her swooning. In an utter lossOf mind and limbs she only knew twas thus —As one who pants beneath an incubus: —The boar thrust toward her a tusked snout and fangedOf hideous bristles, and the whole wood clangedAnd buzzed and boomed a thousand sounds and lightsLawless about her brain, like leaves fierce nightsOf hurricane harvest shouting: then she knewA fury thunder twixt it – and fleet flewRich-rooted moss and sandy loam that heldDark-buried shadows of the wild, and swelledContinual 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 shredHummed whirling, and snapped brittle branches dead.And when she rose and leaned her throbbing head,Which burst its uncoifed rays of raven hairDown swelling shoulders pure and faultless fair,On one milk, marvelous arm of fluid grace,Beheld the brute thing throttled and the faceOf 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 updrawnWedged deep the glutton sides that quaked and stroveA shaggy bulk, whose sharp hoofs horny drove.Thus man and brute burned bent; when Urience slippedOne arm, the horror's tearing tusks had rippedAnd ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,Which at his hip hung long a haft gold-gilt;Its rapid splinter drew; beamed twice and thriceHigh in the sun its ghastliness of icePlunged – and the great boar, stretched in sullen death,Weakened thro' wild veins, groaned laborious breath.And how he brought her water from a wellThat rustled freshness near them, as it fellFrom its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque,And prayed her quaff; then bathed her brow, a taskThat had accompaning tears of joy and vowsOf love, sweet intercourse of eyes and brows,And many clinging kisses eloquent.And how, when dressed his arm, behind him bentShe clasped him on the same steed and they wentOn thro' the gold wood toward the golden West,Till on one low hill's forest-covered crestUp in the gold his castle's battlements pressed.And then she felt she'd loved him till had comeFame of the love of Isoud, whom from homeBrought knightly Tristram o'er the Irish foam,And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake.And then how passion from these seemed to wakeLonging for some great gallant who would slake —And such found Accolon.And then she thoughtHow far she'd fallen and how darkly fraughtWith consequence was this. Then what distressWere hers and his – her lover's; and successHow doubly difficult if Arthur slain,King Urience lived to assert his right to reign.So paused she pondering on the blade; her lipsBreathless and close as close cold finger tipsHugged the huge weapon's hilt. And so she sighed,"Nay! long, too long hast lived who shouldst have diedEven in the womb abortive! who these yearsHast leashed sweet life to care with stinging tears,A knot thus harshly severed! – As thou artInto the elements naked!"O'er his heartThe long sword hesitated, lean as crime,Descended redly once. And like a rhymeOf nice words fairly fitted forming on, —A sudden ceasing and the harmony gone,So ran to death the life of Urience,A strong song incomplete of broken sense.There glowered the crimeful Queen. The glistening swordUnfleshed, flung by her wronged and murdered lord;And the dark blood spread broader thro' the sheetTo drip a horror at impassive feetAnd blur the polished oak. But lofty sheStood proud, relentless; in her ecstacyA lovely devil; a crowned lust that criedOn Accolon; that harlot which defiedHeaven with a voice of pulses clamorous asSteep storm that down a cavernous mountain passBlasphemes an hundred echoes; with like powerThe inner harlot called its paramour:Him whom King Arthur had commanded, whenBorne from the lists, be granted her againAs his blithe gift and welcome from that joust,For treacherous love and her adulterous lust.And while she stood revolving how her deed'sConcealment were secured, – a grind of steeds,Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursedFierce in the northern court. To her athirstFor him her lover, war and power it spoke,Him victor and so King; and then awokeA yearning to behold, to quit the dead.So a wild specter down wide stairs she fled,Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail,That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail.To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce,Down from a steaming steed into her ears,"This from the King, a boon!" laughed harsh and hoarse;Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer with force,Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn and red,Crusted with blood a knight in armor – dead;Even Accolon, tossed with the mocking scoff"This from the King!" – phantoms in fog rode off.And what remains? From Camelot to GoreThat right she weeping fled; then to the shore, —As that romancer tells, – Avilion,Where she hath Majesty gold-crowned yet wan;In darkest cypress a frail pitious faceQueenly and lovely; 'round sad eyes the traceOf immemorial tears as for some crime:They future fixed, expectant of the timeWhen the forgiving Arthur cometh andShall have to rule all that lost golden landThat drifts vague amber in forgotten seasOf surgeless turquoise dim with mysteries.And so was seen Morgana nevermore,Save once when from the Cornwall coast she boreThe wounded Arthur from that last fought fightOf Camlan in a black barge into night.But oft some see her with a palfried bandOf serge-stoled maidens thro' the drowsy landOf Autumn glimmer; when are sharply strewnThe red leaves, while broad in the east a moonSwings full of frost a lustrous globe of gleams,Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.