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

>Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew

Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve

Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights,

His party, cried ‘Advance and take thy prize

The diamond;’ but he answered, ‘Diamond me

No diamonds! for God’s love, a little air!

Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!

Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.’

 

He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field

With young Lavaine into the poplar grove.

There from his charger down he slid, and sat,

Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ‘Draw the lance-head:’

‘Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,’ said Lavaine,

‘I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.’

But he, ‘I die already with it: draw—

Draw,’—and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave

A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,

And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank

For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away.

Then came the hermit out and bare him in,

There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt

Whether to live or die, for many a week

Hid from the wide world’s rumour by the grove

Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,

And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.

 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists,

His party, knights of utmost North and West,

Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles,

Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him,

‘Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day,

Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize

Untaken, crying that his prize is death.’

‘Heaven hinder,’ said the King, ‘that such an one,

So great a knight as we have seen today—

He seemed to me another Lancelot—

Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot—

He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise,

O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight.

Wounded and wearied needs must he be near.

I charge you that you get at once to horse.

And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you

Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given:

His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him

No customary honour: since the knight

Came not to us, of us to claim the prize,

Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take

This diamond, and deliver it, and return,

And bring us where he is, and how he fares,

And cease not from your quest until ye find.’

 

So saying, from the carven flower above,

To which it made a restless heart, he took,

And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat

At Arthur’s right, with smiling face arose,

With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince

In the mid might and flourish of his May,

Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong,

And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint

And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal

Sir Modred’s brother, and the child of Lot,

Nor often loyal to his word, and now

Wroth that the King’s command to sally forth

In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave

The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.

 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went;

While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood,

Past, thinking ‘Is it Lancelot who hath come

Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain

Of glory, and hath added wound to wound,

And ridden away to die?’ So feared the King,

And, after two days’ tarriance there, returned.

Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked,

‘Love, are you yet so sick?’ ‘Nay, lord,’ she said.

‘And where is Lancelot?’ Then the Queen amazed,

‘Was he not with you? won he not your prize?’

‘Nay, but one like him.’ ‘Why that like was he.’

And when the King demanded how she knew,

Said, ‘Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us,

Than Lancelot told me of a common talk

That men went down before his spear at a touch,

But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name

Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name

From all men, even the King, and to this end

Had made a pretext of a hindering wound,

That he might joust unknown of all, and learn

If his old prowess were in aught decayed;

And added, “Our true Arthur, when he learns,

Will well allow me pretext, as for gain

Of purer glory.”’

 

Then replied the King:

‘Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been,

In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,

To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee.

Surely his King and most familiar friend

Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed,

Albeit I know my knights fantastical,

So fine a fear in our large Lancelot

Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains

But little cause for laughter: his own kin—

Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!—

His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him;

So that he went sore wounded from the field:

Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine

That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart.

He wore, against his wont, upon his helm

A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls,

Some gentle maiden’s gift.’

 

‘Yea, lord,’ she said,

‘Thy hopes are mine,’ and saying that, she choked,

And sharply turned about to hide her face,

Past to her chamber, and there flung herself

Down on the great King’s couch, and writhed upon it,

And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm,

And shrieked out ‘Traitor’ to the unhearing wall,

Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again,

And moved about her palace, proud and pale.

 

Gawain the while through all the region round

Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest,

Touched at all points, except the poplar grove,

And came at last, though late, to Astolat:

Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid

Glanced at, and cried, ‘What news from Camelot, lord?

What of the knight with the red sleeve?’ ‘He won.’

‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘But parted from the jousts

Hurt in the side,’ whereat she caught her breath;

Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go;

Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned:

And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came

The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince

Reported who he was, and on what quest

Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find

The victor, but had ridden a random round

To seek him, and had wearied of the search.

To whom the Lord of Astolat, ‘Bide with us,

And ride no more at random, noble Prince!

Here was the knight, and here he left a shield;

This will he send or come for: furthermore

Our son is with him; we shall hear anon,

Needs must hear.’ To this the courteous Prince

Accorded with his wonted courtesy,

Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it,

And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:

Where could be found face daintier? then her shape

From forehead down to foot, perfect—again

From foot to forehead exquisitely turned:

‘Well—if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!’

And oft they met among the garden yews,

And there he set himself to play upon her

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height

Above her, graces of the court, and songs,

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence

And amorous adulation, till the maid

Rebelled against it, saying to him, ‘Prince,

O loyal nephew of our noble King,

Why ask you not to see the shield he left,

Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King,

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove

No surer than our falcon yesterday,

Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went

To all the winds?’ ‘Nay, by mine head,’ said he,

‘I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,

O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes;

But an ye will it let me see the shield.’

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw

Sir Lancelot’s azure lions, crowned with gold,

Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked:

‘Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!’

‘And right was I,’ she answered merrily, ‘I,

Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.’

‘And if I dreamed,’ said Gawain, ‘that you love

This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it!

Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?’

Full simple was her answer, ‘What know I?

My brethren have been all my fellowship;

And I, when often they have talked of love,

Wished it had been my mother, for they talked,

Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself—

I know not if I know what true love is,

But if I know, then, if I love not him,

I know there is none other I can love.’

‘Yea, by God’s death,’ said he, ‘ye love him well,

But would not, knew ye what all others know,

And whom he loves.’ ‘So be it,’ cried Elaine,

And lifted her fair face and moved away:

But he pursued her, calling, ‘Stay a little!

One golden minute’s grace! he wore your sleeve:

Would he break faith with one I may not name?

Must our true man change like a leaf at last?

Nay—like enow: why then, far be it from me

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves!

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave

My quest with you; the diamond also: here!

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it;

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it

From your own hand; and whether he love or not,

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well

A thousand times!—a thousand times farewell!

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two

May meet at court hereafter: there, I think,

So ye will learn the courtesies of the court,

We two shall know each other.’

 

Then he gave,

And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave,

The diamond, and all wearied of the quest

Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went

A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

 

Thence to the court he past; there told the King

What the King knew, ‘Sir Lancelot is the knight.’

And added, ‘Sire, my liege, so much I learnt;

But failed to find him, though I rode all round

The region: but I lighted on the maid

Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her,

Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,

I gave the diamond: she will render it;

For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.’

 

The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied,

‘Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more

On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget

Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.’

 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe,

For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word,

Lingered that other, staring after him;

Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad

About the maid of Astolat, and her love.

All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed:

‘The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot,

Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.’

Some read the King’s face, some the Queen’s, and all

Had marvel what the maid might be, but most

Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame

Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news.

She, that had heard the noise of it before,

But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low,

Marred her friend’s aim with pale tranquillity.

So ran the tale like fire about the court,

Fire in dry stubble a nine-days’ wonder flared:

Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice

Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen,

And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid

Smiled at each