Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (read book txt) 📕

quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man
Guard thou thine head.” Sir Balin spake not word,
But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire,
And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed
In onset, and King Pellam’s holy spear,
Reputed to be red with sinless blood,
Redded at once with sinful, for the point
Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked
The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin’s horse
Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed,
Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man
Inward, and either fell, and swooned away.

Then to her Squire muttered the damsel: “Fools!
This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen:
Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved
And thus foamed over at a rival name:
But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell,
Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down⁠—
Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk⁠—
And yet hast often pleaded for my love⁠—
See what I see, be thou where I have been,
Or else Sir Chick⁠—dismount and loose their casques
I fain would know what manner of men they be.”
And when the Squire had loosed them, “Goodly!⁠—look!
They might have cropt the myriad flower of May,
And butt each other here, like brainless bulls,
Dead for one heifer!”

Then the gentle Squire
“I hold them happy, so they died for love:
And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog,
I too could die, as now I live, for thee.”

“Live on, Sir Boy,” she cried. “I better prize
The living dog than the dead lion: away!
I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.”
Then leapt her palfrey o’er the fallen oak,
And bounding forward “Leave them to the wolves.”

But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,
Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,
Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan,
Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay,
And on his dying brother cast himself
Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt
One near him; all at once they found the world,
Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail
And drawing down the dim disastrous brow
That o’er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake;

“O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died
To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.
Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why
Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?”

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,
All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again.

“Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam’s hall:
This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not.
And one said ‘Eat in peace! a liar is he,
And hates thee for the tribute!’ this good knight
Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,
And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,
Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.
I well believe this damsel, and the one
Who stood beside thee even now, the same.
‘She dwells among the woods,’ he said, ‘and meets
And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell.’
Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.
Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen.’ ”

“O brother,” answered Balin, “woe is me!
My madness all thy life has been thy doom,
Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now
The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.
Goodnight! for we shall never bid again
Goodmorrow⁠—Dark my doom was here, and dark
It will be there. I see thee now no more.
I would not mine again should darken thine,
Goodnight, true brother.”

Balan answered low
“Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there!
We two were born together, and we die
Together by one doom:” and while he spoke
Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep
With Balin, either locked in either’s arm.

Merlin and Vivien

A storm was coming, but the winds were still,
And in the wild woods of Broceliande,
Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old
It looked a tower of ivied masonwork,
At Merlin’s feet the wily Vivien lay.

For he that always bare in bitter grudge
The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark
The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,
A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm
Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say
That out of naked knightlike purity
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl
But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,
Sware by her⁠—vows like theirs, that high in heaven
Love most, but neither marry, nor are given
In marriage, angels of our Lord’s report.

He ceased, and then⁠—for Vivien sweetly said
(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),
“And is the fair example followed, Sir,
In Arthur’s household?”⁠—answered innocently:

“Ay, by some few⁠—ay, truly⁠—youths that hold
It more beseems the perfect virgin knight
To worship woman as true wife beyond
All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.
They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.
So passionate for an utter purity
Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,
For Arthur bound them not to singleness.
Brave hearts and clean! and yet⁠—God guide them⁠—young.”

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup
Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose
To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,
Turned to her: “Here are snakes within the grass;
And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear
The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure
Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.”

And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully,
“Why fear? because that fostered at thy court
I savour of thy⁠—virtues? fear them? no.
As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear,
So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear.
My father died in battle against the King,
My mother on his corpse in open field;
She bore me there, for born from death was I
Among the dead and sown upon the wind⁠—
And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes,
That old true filth, and bottom of the well
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine
And maxims of the mud! ‘This Arthur pure!
Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made
Gives him the lie! There is no being pure,
My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?’⁠—
If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood.
Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back,
When I have ferreted out their burrowings,
The hearts of all this Order in mine hand⁠—
Ay⁠—so that fate and craft and folly close,
Perchance, one curl of Arthur’s golden beard.
To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine
Is cleaner-fashioned⁠—Well, I loved thee first,
That warps the wit.”

Loud laughed the graceless Mark,
But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged
Low in the city, and on a festal day
When Guinevere