Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson (best books to read for self development txt) 📕

living soul.

Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man

That ever among ladies ate in hall,

And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.

However marred, of more than twice her years,

Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes

And loved him, with that love which was her doom.

 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court,

Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall

Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain

Hid under grace, as in a smaller time,

But kindly man moving among his kind:

Whom they with meats and vintage of their best

And talk and minstrel melody entertained.

And much they asked of court and Table Round,

And ever well and readily answered he:

But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere,

Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,

Heard from the Baron that, ten years before,

The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue.

‘He learnt and warned me of their fierce design

Against my house, and him they caught and maimed;

But I, my sons, and little daughter fled

From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods

By the great river in a boatman’s hut.

Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke

The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.’

 

‘O there, great lord, doubtless,’ Lavaine said, rapt

By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth

Toward greatness in its elder, ‘you have fought.

O tell us—for we live apart—you know

Of Arthur’s glorious wars.’ And Lancelot spoke

And answered him at full, as having been

With Arthur in the fight which all day long

Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem;

And in the four loud battles by the shore

Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war

That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts

Of Celidon the forest; and again

By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King

Had on his cuirass worn our Lady’s Head,

Carved of one emerald centered in a sun

Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed;

And at Caerleon had he helped his lord,

When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse

Set every gilded parapet shuddering;

And up in Agned-Cathregonion too,

And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,

Where many a heathen fell; ‘and on the mount

Of Badon I myself beheld the King

Charge at the head of all his Table Round,

And all his legions crying Christ and him,

And break them; and I saw him, after, stand

High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume

Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,

And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,

“They are broken, they are broken!” for the King,

However mild he seems at home, nor cares

For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts—

For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs

Saying, his knights are better men than he—

Yet in this heathen war the fire of God

Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives

No greater leader.’

 

While he uttered this,

Low to her own heart said the lily maid,

‘Save your own great self, fair lord;’ and when he fell

From talk of war to traits of pleasantry—

Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind—

She still took note that when the living smile

Died from his lips, across him came a cloud

Of melancholy severe, from which again,

Whenever in her hovering to and fro

The lily maid had striven to make him cheer,

There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness

Of manners and of nature: and she thought

That all was nature, all, perchance, for her.

And all night long his face before her lived,

As when a painter, poring on a face,

Divinely through all hindrance finds the man

Behind it, and so paints him that his face,

The shape and colour of a mind and life,

Lives for his children, ever at its best

And fullest; so the face before her lived,

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full

Of noble things, and held her from her sleep.

Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought

She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine.

First in fear, step after step, she stole

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating:

Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court,

‘This shield, my friend, where is it?’ and Lavaine

Past inward, as she came from out the tower.

There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed

The glossy shoulder, humming to himself.

Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew

Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed

Than if seven men had set upon him, saw

The maiden standing in the dewy light.

He had not dreamed she was so beautiful.

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,

For silent, though he greeted her, she stood

Rapt on his face as if it were a God’s.

Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire,

That he should wear her favour at the tilt.

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.

‘Fair lord, whose name I know not—noble it is,

I well believe, the noblest—will you wear

My favour at this tourney?’ ‘Nay,’ said he,

‘Fair lady, since I never yet have worn

Favour of any lady in the lists.

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.’

‘Yea, so,’ she answered; ‘then in wearing mine

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,

That those who know should know you.’ And he turned

Her counsel up and down within his mind,

And found it true, and answered, ‘True, my child.

Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me:

What is it?’ and she told him ‘A red sleeve

Broidered with pearls,’ and brought it: then he bound

Her token on his helmet, with a smile

Saying, ‘I never yet have done so much

For any maiden living,’ and the blood

Sprang to her face and filled her with delight;

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine

Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield,

His brother’s; which he gave to Lancelot,

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine:

‘Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield

In keeping till I come.’ ‘A grace to me,’

She answered, ‘twice today. I am your squire!’

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ‘Lily maid,

For fear our people call you lily maid

In earnest, let me bring your colour back;

Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:’

So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,

And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute,

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there—

Her bright hair blown about the serious face

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother’s kiss—

Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield

In silence, while she watched their arms far-off

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.

Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield,

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

 

Meanwhile the new companions past away

Far o’er the long backs of the bushless downs,

To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight

Not far from Camelot, now for forty years

A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed,

And ever labouring had scooped himself

In the white rock a chapel and a hall

On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave,

And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry;

The green light from the meadows underneath

Struck up and lived along the milky roofs;

And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees

And poplars made a noise of falling showers.

And thither wending there that night they bode.

 

But when the next day broke from underground,

And shot red fire and shadows through the cave,

They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away:

Then Lancelot saying, ‘Hear, but hold my name

Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,’

Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence,

Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise,

But left him leave to stammer, ‘Is it indeed?’

And after muttering ‘The great Lancelot,

At last he got his breath and answered, ‘One,

One have I seen—that other, our liege lord,

The dread Pendragon, Britain’s King of kings,

Of whom the people talk mysteriously,

He will be there—then were I stricken blind

That minute, I might say that I had seen.’

 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes

Run through the peopled gallery which half round

Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass,

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat

Robed in red samite, easily to be known,

Since to his crown the golden dragon clung,

And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold,

And from the carven-work behind him crept

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them

Through knots and loops and folds innumerable

Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found

The new design wherein they lost themselves,

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work:

And, in the costly canopy o’er him set,

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.

 

Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said,

‘Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat,

The truer lance: but there is many a youth

Now crescent, who will come to all I am

And overcome it; and in me there dwells

No greatness, save it be some far-off touch

Of greatness to know well I am not great:

There is the man.’ And Lavaine gaped upon him

As on a thing miraculous, and anon

The trumpets blew; and then did either side,

They that assailed, and they that held the lists,

Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,

Meet in the midst, and there so furiously

Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive,

If any man that day were left afield,

The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.

And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw

Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it

Against the stronger: little need to speak

Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl,

Count, baron—whom he smote, he overthrew.

 

But in the field were Lancelot’s kith and kin,

Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists,

Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight

Should do and almost overdo the deeds

Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, ‘Lo!

What is he? I do not mean the force alone—

The grace and versatility of the man!

Is it not Lancelot?’ ‘When has Lancelot worn

Favour of any lady in the lists?

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.’

‘How then? who then?’ a fury seized them all,

A fiery family passion for the name

Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs.

They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus,

Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made

In moving, all together down upon him

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea,

Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all

Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies,

Down on a bark, and overbears the bark,

And him that helms it, so they overbore

Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear

Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear

Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head

Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained.

 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully;

He bore a knight of old repute to the earth,

And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay.

He up the side, sweating with agony, got,

But thought to do while he might yet endure,

And being lustily holpen by the rest,

His party,—though it seemed half-miracle

To those he fought with,—drave his kith and kin,

And all the Table Round that held the lists,