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

ruled the tournament
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down
Before his throne of arbitration cursed
The dead babe and the follies of the King;
And once the laces of a helmet cracked,
And showed him, like a vermin in its hole,
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billowed round the barriers roar
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
But newly-entered, taller than the rest,
And armoured all in forest green, whereon
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield
A spear, a harp, a bugle⁠—Tristram⁠—late
From overseas in Brittany returned,
And marriage with a princess of that realm,
Isolt the White⁠—Sir Tristram of the Woods⁠—
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain
His own against him, and now yearned to shake
The burthen off his heart in one full shock
With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
Until he groaned for wrath⁠—so many of those,
That ware their ladies’ colours on the casque,
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
And there with gibes and flickering mockeries
Stood, while he muttered, “Craven crests! O shame!
What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
The glory of our Round Table is no more.”

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems,
Not speaking other word than “Hast thou won?
Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand
Wherewith thou takest this, is red!” to whom
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot’s languorous mood,
Made answer, “Ay, but wherefore toss me this
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?
Lest be thy fair Queen’s fantasy. Strength of heart
And might of limb, but mainly use and skill,
Are winners in this pastime of our King.
My hand⁠—belike the lance hath dript upon it⁠—
No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
Right arm of Arthur in the battle-field,
Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.”

And Tristram round the gallery made his horse
Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying,
“Fair damsels, each to him who worships each
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.”
And most of these were mute, some angered, one
Murmuring, “All courtesy is dead,” and one,
“The glory of our Round Table is no more.”

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day
Went glooming down in wet and weariness:
But under her black brows a swarthy one
Laughed shrilly, crying, “Praise the patient saints,
Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
The snowdrop only, flowering through the year,
Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide.
Come⁠—let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen’s
And Lancelot’s, at this night’s solemnity
With all the kindlier colours of the field.”

So dame and damsel glittered at the feast
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;
So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
And glowing in all colours, the live grass,
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
About the revels, and with mirth so loud
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
Then Tristram saying, “Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?”
Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
“Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
To know myself the wisest knight of all.”
“Ay, fool,” said Tristram, “but ’tis eating dry
To dance without a catch, a roundelay
To dance to.” Then he twangled on his harp,
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood
Quiet as any water-sodden log
Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook;
But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
And being asked, “Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?”
Made answer, “I had liefer twenty years
Skip to the broken music of my brains
Than any broken music thou canst make.”
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
“Good now, what music have I broken, fool?”
And little Dagonet, skipping, “Arthur, the King’s;
For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
Thou makest broken music with thy bride,
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany⁠—
And so thou breakest Arthur’s music too.”
“Save for that broken music in thy brains,
Sir Fool,” said Tristram, “I would break thy head.
Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o’er,
The life had flown, we sware but by the shell⁠—
I am but a fool to reason with a fool⁠—
Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down,
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses’ ears,
And harken if my music be not true.

“ ‘Free love⁠—free field⁠—we love but while we may:
The woods are hushed, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away:
New leaf, new life⁠—the days of frost are o’er:
New life, new love, to suit the newer day:
New loves are sweet as those that went before:
Free love⁠—free field⁠—we love but while we may.’

“Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune,
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods,
And heard it ring as true as tested gold.”

But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
“Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
Made to run wine?⁠—but this had run itself
All out like a long life to a sour end⁠—
And them that round it sat with golden cups
To hand the wine to whosoever came⁠—
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
In honour of poor Innocence the babe,
Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
Gave for a prize⁠—and one of those white slips
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
‘Drink, drink, Sir Fool,’ and thereupon I drank,
Spat⁠—pish⁠—the cup was gold, the draught was mud.”

And Tristram, “Was it muddier than thy gibes?
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?⁠—
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool⁠—
‘Fear God: honour the King⁠—his one true knight⁠—
Sole follower of the vows’⁠—for here be they
Who knew thee