Chapter III: Preface (3)

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,
And the strong passion in her made her weep 110
True tears upon his broad and naked breast,
And these awoke him, and by great mischance
He heard but fragments of her later words,
And that she fear’d she was not a true wife.
And then he thought, “In spite of all my care, 115
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,
She is not faithful to me, and I see her
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.”
Then, though he lov’d and reverenc’d her too much
To dream she could be guilty of foul act, 120
Right through his manful breast darted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable.
At this he hurl’d his huge limbs out of bed,
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 125
“My charger and her palfrey;” then to her,
“I will ride forth into the wilderness;
For though it seems my spurs are yet to win,
I have not fall’n so low as some would wish.
And you put on your worst and meanest dress 130
And ride with me.” And Enid ask’d, amaz’d,
“If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.”
But he, “I charge you, ask not, but obey.”
Then she bethought her of a faded silk,
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 135
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet,
Wherein she kept them folded reverently
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds,
She took them, and array’d herself therein,
Remembering when first he came on her 140
Drest in that dress, and how he lov’d her in it,
And all her foolish fears about the dress,
And all his journey to her, as himself
Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 145
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
Before him came a forester of Dean,
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
Taller than all his fellows, milky white, 150
First seen that day: these things he told the King.
Then the good King gave order to let blow
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.
And when the Queen petition’d for his leave
To see the hunt, allow’d it easily. 155
So with the morning all the court were gone.
But Guinevere lay late into the morn,
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt;
But rose at last, a single maiden with her, 160
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain’d the wood;
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay’d
Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 165
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford
Behind them, and so gallop’d up the knoll.
A purple scarf, at either end whereof
There swung an apple of the purest gold, 170
Sway’d round about him, as he gallop’d up
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly
In summer suit and silks of holiday.
Low bow’d the tributary Prince, and she,
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 175
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer’d him:
“Late, late, Sir Prince,” she said, “later than we!”
“Yea, noble Queen,” he answer’d, “and so late
That I but come like you to see the hunt,
Not join it.” “Therefore wait with me,” she said; 180
“For on this little knoll, if anywhere,
There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds:
Here often they break covert at our feet.”

And while they listen’d for the distant hunt,
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 185
King Arthur’s hound of deepest mouth, there rode
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf;
Whereof the dwarf lagg’d latest, and the knight
Had vizor up, and show’d a youthful face,
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 190
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face
In the King’s hall, desired his name, and sent
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf;
Who being vicious, old and irritable,
And doubling all his master’s vice of pride, 195
Made answer sharply that she should not know.
“Then will I ask it of himself,” she said.
“Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,” cried the dwarf;
“Thou art not worthy ev’n to speak of him;”
And when she put her horse toward the knight, 200
Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d
Indignant to the Queen; at which Geraint
Exclaiming, “Surely I will learn the name,”
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask’d it of him,
Who answer’d as before; and when the Prince 205
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight,
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek.
The Prince’s blood spirted upon the scarf,
Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: 210
But he from his exceeding manfulness
And pure nobility of temperament,
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain’d
From ev’n a word, and so returning said:

“I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 215
Done in your maiden’s person to yourself:
And I will track this vermin to their earths;
For though I ride unarmed, I do not doubt
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms
On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, 220
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride,
And on the third day will again be here,
So that I be not fall’n in fight. Farewell.”

“Farewell, fair Prince,” answered the stately Queen,
“Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; 225
And may you light on all things that you love,
And live to wed with her whom first you love.
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride,
And I, were she the daughter of a king,
Yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge, 230
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.”

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn,
A little vex’d at losing of the hunt,
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 235
By ups and downs, through many a grassy glade
And valley, with fix’d eye following the three.
At last they issued from the world of wood,
And climb’d upon a fair and even ridge,
And show’d themselves against the sky, and sank. 240
And thither came Geraint, and underneath
Beheld the long street of a little town
In a long valley, on one side of which,
White from the mason’s hand, a fortress rose;
And on one side a castle in decay, 245
Beyond a bridge that spann’d a dry ravine:
And out of town and valley came a noise
As of a broad brook o’er a shingly bed
Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 250

And onward to the fortress rode the three
And enter’d, and were lost behind the walls.
“So,” thought Geraint, “I have track’d him to his earth.”
And down the long street riding wearily,
Found every hostel full, and everywhere 255
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
And bustling whistle of the youth who scour’d
His master’s armour; and of such a one
He ask’d, “What means the tumult in the town?”
Who told him, scouring still, “The sparrow-hawk!” 260
Then riding close behind an ancient churl,
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam,
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn,
Ask’d yet once more what meant the hubbub here?
Who answer’d gruffly, “Ugh! the sparrow-hawk,” 265
Then riding farther past an armourer’s,
Who, with back turn’d, and bow’d above his work,
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,
He put the self-same query; but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 270
“Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk
Has little time for idle questioners.”
Whereat Geraint flash’d into sudden spleen:
“A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
Tits, wrens, and all wing’d nothings peck him dead! 275
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
The murmur of the world! What is it to me?
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 280
Where can I get me harbourage for the night?
And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak!”
At this the armourer, turning all amazed
And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand, 285
And answer’d, “Pardon me, O stranger knight;
We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,
And there is scantly time for half the work.
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here.
Harbourage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, 290
It may be, at Earl Yniol’s, o’er the bridge
Yonder.” He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet,
Across the bridge that spann’d the dry ravine.
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl 295
(His dress a suit of fray’d magnificence,
Once fit for feasts of ceremony), and said:
“Whither, fair son?” to whom Geraint replied,
“O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.”
Then Yniol, “Enter, therefore, and partake 300
The slender entertainment of a house
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door’d.”
“Thanks, venerable friend,” replied Geraint;
“So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 305
With all the passion of a twelve hours’ fast.”
Then sigh’d and smil’d the hoary-headed Earl,
And answer’d, “Graver cause than yours is mine
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk.
But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, 310
We will not touch upon him ev’n in jest.”

Then rode Geraint into the castle court,
His charger trampling many a prickly star
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones.
He look’d, and saw that all was ruinous. 315
Here stood a shatter’d archway plumed with fern;
And here had fall’n a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers:
And high above a piece of turret stair, 320
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms,
And suck’d the joining of the stones, and look’d
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 325

And while he waited in the castle court,
The voice of Enid, Yniol’s daughter, rang
Clear through the open casement of the hall,
Singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird,
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 330
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is
That sings so delicately clear, and make
Conjecture of the plumage and the form,—
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint;
And made him like a man abroad at morn 335
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemm’d with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend, 340
Or it may be the labour of his hands,
To think or say, “There is the nightingale,”—
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,
“Here, by God’s grace, is the one voice for me.”

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 345
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; 350
With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

“Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man and master of his fate. 355

“Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.”

“Hark, by the bird’s song you may learn the nest,”
Said Yniol; “enter quickly.” Entering then, 360
Right o’er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
The dusky-rafter’d many-cobwebb’d hall,
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 365
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint,
“Here by God’s rood is the one maid for me.”
But none spake word except the hoary Earl:
“Enid, the good knight’s horse stands in the court; 370
Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine;
And we will make us merry as we may.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.”

He spake: the Prince, as Enid pass’d him, fain 375
To follow, strode a stride; but Yniol caught
His purple scarf, and held, and said, “Forbear!
Rest! the good house, though ruin’d, O my son,
Endures not that her guest should serve himself.”
And reverencing the custom of the house, 380
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

So Enid took his charger to the stall;
And after went her way across the bridge,
And reach’d the town, and while the Prince and Earl
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 385
A youth, that following with a costrel bore
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine.
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,
And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.
And then, because their hall must also serve 390
For kitchen, boil’d the flesh and spread the board,
And stood behind, and waited on the three.
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
Geraint had a longing in him evermore
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, 395
That crost the trencher as she laid it down:
But after all had eaten, then Geraint,
For now the wine made summer in his veins,
Let his eye rove in following, or rest
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 400
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall;
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl:

“Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy;
This sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him.
His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it; 405
For if he be the knight whom late I saw
Ride into that new fortress by your town,
White from the mason’s hand, then have I sworn
From his own lips to have it—I am Geraint
Of Devon—for this morning when the Queen 410
Sent her own maiden to demand the name,
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing,
Struck at her with his whip, and she return’d
Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore
That I would track this caitiff to his hold, 415
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.
And all unarm’d I rode, and thought to find
Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg
For the great wave that echoes round the world; 420
They would not hear me speak; but if you know
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn
That I will break his pride and learn his name,
Avenging this great insult done the Queen.” 425

Then cried Earl Yniol, “Art thou he indeed,
Geraint, a name far sounded among men
For noble deeds? and truly I, when first
I saw you moving by me on the bridge,
Felt you were somewhat, yea, and by your state 430
And presence might have guess’d you one of those
That eat in Arthur’s hall at Camelot.
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;
For this dear child hath often heard me praise
Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 435
Had ask’d again, and ever loved to hear;
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:
Oh, never yet had woman such a pair
Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours, 440
A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,
Drunk even when he woo’d; and be he dead
I know not, but he pass’d to the wild land.
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,
My curse, my nephew—I will not let his name 445
Slip from my lips if I can help it—he,
When I that knew him fierce and turbulent
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke
And since the proud man often is the mean,
He sow’d a slander in the common ear 450
Affirming that his father left him gold,
And in my charge, which was not render’d to him;
Bribed with large promises the men who serv’d
About my person, the more easily
Because my means were somewhat broken into 455
Through open doors and hospitality;
Rais’d my own town against me in the night
Before my Enid’s birthday, sack’d my house;
From mine own earldom foully ousted me;
Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 460
For truly there are those who love me yet;
And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,
Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,
But that his pride too much despises me:
And I myself sometimes despise myself; 465
For I have let men be, and have their way;
Am much too gentle, have not used my power:
Nor know I whether I be very base
Or very manful, whether very wise
Or very foolish; only this I know, 470
That whatsoever evil happen to me,
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,
But can endure it all most patiently.”

“Well said, true heart,” replied Geraint, “but arms,
That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights 475
In next day’s tourney I may break his pride.”

And Yniol answer’d, “Arms, indeed, but old
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours.
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 480
Except the lady he loves best be there.
Two forks are fix’d into the meadow ground,
And over these is laid a silver wand,
And over that is placed a sparrow-hawk,
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 485
And this, what knight soever be in field
Lays claim to for the lady at his side,
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,
Who being apt at arms and big of bone
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 490
And toppling over all antagonism
Has earn’d himself the name of sparrow-hawk.
But you, that have no lady, cannot fight.”

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,
Leaning a little toward him, “Your leave! 495
Let _me_ lay lance in rest, O noble host,
For this dear child, because I never saw,
Though having seen all beauties of our time,
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.
And if I fall her name will yet remain 500
Untarnish’d as before; but if I live,
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,
As I will make her truly my true wife.”

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 505
And looking round he saw not Enid there
(Who hearing her own name had slipt away),
But that old dame, to whom full tenderly
And fondling all her hand in his he said,
“Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 510
And best by her that bore her understood.
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.”

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she
With frequent smile and nod departing found, 515
Half-disarray’d as to her rest, the girl;
Whom first she kiss’d on either cheek, and then
On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
And kept her off and gazed upon her face,
And told her all their converse in the hall, 520
Proving her heart: but never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Enid hearing her;
While slowly falling as a scale that falls, 525
When weight is added only grain by grain,
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it.
So moving without answer to her rest 530
She found no rest, and ever fail’d to draw
The quiet night into her blood, but lay
Contemplating her own unworthiness;
And when the pale and bloodless east began
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 535
Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved
Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,
And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint
Beheld her first in field awaiting him, 540
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move
The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms
Were on his princely person, but through these
Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights 545
And ladies came, and by and by the town
Flow’d in, and settling circled all the lists.
And there they fix’d the forks into the ground,
And over these they placed a silver wand,
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 550
Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown,
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim’d,
“Advance and take as fairest of the fair,
For I these two years past have won it for thee,
The prize of beauty.” Loudly spake the Prince, 555
“Forbear; there is a worthier,” and the knight,
With some surprise and thrice as much disdain,
Turn’d, and beheld the four, and all his face
Glow’d like the heart of a great fire at Yule,
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 560
“Do battle for it then,” no more; and thrice
They clash’d together, and thrice they brake their spears.
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash’d at each
So often and with such blows, that all the crowd
Wonder’d, and now and then from distant walls 565
There came a clapping as of phantom hands.
So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still
The dew of their great labour, and the blood
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain’d their force.
But either’s force was match’d till Yniol’s cry, 570
“Remember that great insult done the Queen,”
Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft,
And crack’d the helmet through, and bit the bone,
And fell’d him, and set foot upon his breast,
And said, “Thy name?” To whom the fallen man 575
Made answer, groaning, “Edyrn, son of Nudd!
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.
My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.”
“Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,” replied Geraint,
“These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. 580
First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy dwarf,
Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and being there,
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,
And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 585
These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.”
And Edyrn answer’d, “These things will I do,
For I have never yet been overthrown,
And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!” 590
And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,
And there the Queen forgave him easily.
And being young, he changed himself, and grew
To hate the sin that seem’d so like his own
Of Modred, Arthur’s nephew, and fell at last 595
In the great battle fighting for the King.

But when the third day from the hunting-morn
Made a low splendour in the world, and wings
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay
With her fair head in the dim yellow light, 600
Among the dancing shadows of the birds,
Woke and bethought her of her promise given
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint—
So bent he seem’d on going the third day,
He would not leave her, till her promise given— 605
To ride with him this morning to the court,
And there be made known to the stately Queen,
And there be wedded with all ceremony.
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,
And thought it never yet had look’d so mean. 610
For as a leaf in mid-November is
To what it was in mid-October, seem’d
The dress that now she look’d on to the dress
She look’d on ere the coming of Geraint.
And still she look’d, and still the terror grew 615
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,
All staring at her in her faded silk;
And softly to her own sweet heart she said;

“This noble prince who won our earldom back,
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 620
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!
Would he could tarry with us here awhile,
But being so beholden to the Prince,
It were but little grace in any of us,
Bent as he seem’d on going this third day, 625
To seek a second favour at his hands.
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,
Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame,
Far liefer than so much discredit him.”

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 630
All branch’d and flower’d with gold, a costly gift
Of her good mother, given her on the night
Before her birthday, three sad years ago,
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack’d their house,
And scatter’d all they had to all the winds: 635
For while the mother show’d it, and the two
Were turning and admiring it, the work
To both appear’d so costly, rose a cry
That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled
With little save the jewels they had on, 640
Which being sold and sold had bought them bread:
And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight,
And placed them in this ruin; and she wish’d
The Prince had found her in her ancient home;
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 645
And roam the goodly places that she knew;
And last bethought her how she used to watch,
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;
And one was patch’d and blurr’d and lustreless
Among his burnish’d brethren of the pool; 650
And half asleep she made comparison
Of that and these to her own faded self
And the gay court, and fell asleep again;
And dreamt herself was such a faded form
Among her burnish’d sisters of the pool; 655
But this was in the garden of a king;
And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew
That all was bright; that all about were birds
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work;
That all the turf was rich in plots that look’d 660
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it;
And lords and ladies of the high court went
In silver tissue talking things of state;
And children of the King in cloth of gold
Glanced at the doors or gamboll’d down the walks; 665
And while she thought, “They will not see me,” came
A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,
And all the children in their cloth of gold
Ran to her, crying, “If we have fish at all
Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now 670
To pick the faded creature from the pool.
And cast it on the mixen that it die.”
And therewithal one came and seized on her,
And Enid started, waking, with her heart
All overshadow’d by the foolish dream, 675
And lo! it was her mother grasping her
To get her well awake: and in her hand
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid
Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

“See here, my child, how fresh the colours look, 680
How fast they hold like colours of a shell
That keeps the wear and polish of the wave!
Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow:
Look on it, child, and tell me if you know it.”

And Enid look’d, but all confus’d at first, 685
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream;
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced,
And answer’d, “Yea, I know it; your good gift,
So sadly lost on that unhappy night;
Your own good gift!” “Yea, surely,” said the dame, 690
“And gladly given again this happy morn.
For when the jousts were ended yesterday,
Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere
He found the sack and plunder of our house
All scatter’d through the houses of the town; 695
And gave command that all which once was ours
Should now be ours again: and yester-eve,
While you were talking sweetly with your Prince,
Came one with this and laid it in my hand,
For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, 700
Because we have our Earldom back again.
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it,
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?
For I myself unwillingly have worn 705
My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,
And howsoever patient, Yniol his.
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,
And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, 710
And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all
That appertains to noble maintenance.
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;
But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade,
And all through that young traitor, cruel need 715
Constrain’d us, but a better time has come;
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits
Our mended fortunes and a Prince’s bride:
For though you won the prize of fairest fair,
And though I heard him call you fairest fair, 720
Let never maiden think, however fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old.
And should some great court-lady say, the Prince
Hath pick’d a ragged-robin from the hedge,
And like a madman brought her to the court, 725
Then were you shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince
To whom we are beholden; but I know,
When my dear child is set forth at her best,
That neither court nor country, though they sought
Through all the provinces like those of old 730
That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.”

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;
And Enid listen’d brightening as she lay;
Then, as the white and glittering star of morn
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 735
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,
And left her maiden couch, and robed herself,
Help’d by the mother’s careful hand and eye,
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown;
Who, after, turn’d her daughter round and said, 740
She never yet had seen her half so fair;
And call’d her like that maiden in the tale,
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers,
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,
Flur, for whose love the Roman Cæsar first 745
Invaded Britain, “But we beat him back,
As this great Prince invaded us, and we,
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy.
And I can scarcely ride with you to court,
For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; 750
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream
I see my princess as I see her now,
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.”

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call’d 755
For Enid; and when Yniol made report
Of that good mother making Enid gay
In such apparel as might well beseem
His princess, or indeed the stately Queen,
He answer’d: “Earl, entreat her by my love, 760
Albeit I give no reason but my wish,
That she ride with me in her faded silk.”
Yniol with that hard message went; it fell
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn:
For Enid, all abash’d she knew not why, 765
Dared not to glance at her good mother’s face,
But silently, in all obedience,
Her mother silent too, nor helping her,
Laid from her limbs the costly-broider’d gift,
And robed them in her ancient suit again, 770
And so descended. Never man rejoiced
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired;
And glancing all at once as keenly at her
As careful robins eye the delver’s toil,
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 775
But rested with her sweet face satisfied;
Then seeing cloud upon the mother’s brow,
Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said:

“O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved
At your new son, for my petition to her. 780
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen,
In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet,
Made promise, that whatever bride I brought,
Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven.
Thereafter, when I reach’d this ruin’d hold, 785
Beholding one so bright in dark estate,
I vow’d that could I gain her, our kind Queen,
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst
Sunlike from cloud—and likewise thought, perhaps,
That service done so graciously would bind 790
The two together; for I wish the two
To love each other: how should Enid find
A nobler friend? Another thought I had;
I came among you here so suddenly,
That though her gentle presence at the lists 795
Might well have served for proof that I was loved,
I doubted whether filial tenderness,
Or easy nature, did not let itself
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal;
Or whether some false sense in her own self 800
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall;
And such a sense might make her long for court
And all its dangerous glories: and I thought,
That could I someway prove such force in her 805
Link’d with such love for me, that at a word
(No reason given her) she could cast aside
A splendour dear to women, new to her,
And therefore dearer; or if not so new,
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 810
Of intermitted custom; then I felt
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,
Fix’d on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest,
A prophet certain of my prophecy,
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 815
Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts;
And for my strange petition I will make
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,
When your fair child shall wear your costly gift
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, 820
Who knows? another gift of the high God,
Which, maybe, shall have learn’d to lisp you thanks.”

He spoke: the mother smil’d, but half in tears,
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it,
And claspt and kiss’d her, and they rode away. 825

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb’d
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,
And white sails flying on the yellow sea;
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 830
Look’d the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;
And then descending met them at the gates,
Embrac’d her with all welcome as a friend,
And did her honour as the Prince’s bride, 835
And cloth’d her for her bridals like the sun;
And all that week was old Caerleon gay,
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,
They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year’s Whitsuntide. 840
But Enid ever kept the faded silk,
Remembering how first he came on her,
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,
And all her foolish fears about the dress,
And all his journey toward her, as himself 845
Had told her, and their coming to the court.

And now this morning when he said to her,
“Put on your worst and meanest dress,” she found
And took it, and array’d herself therein.

* * * * *

=ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF
WELLINGTON.=

PUBLISHED IN 1852.

I.

Bury the Great Duke
With an empire’s lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,
Mourning when their leaders fall, 5
Warriors carry the warrior’s pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?
Here, in streaming London’s central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 10
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.

III.

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long long procession go, 15
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

IV.

Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 20
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute:
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 25
Whole in himself, a common good.
Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war, 30
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O good gray head which all men knew, 35
O voice from which their omens all men drew,
O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fall’n at length that tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew!
Such was he whom we deplore. 40
The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er.
The great World-victor’s victor will be seen no more.

V.

All is over and done:
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son. 45
Let the bell be toll’d.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river, 50
There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll’d:
And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds: 55
Bright let it be with its blazon’d deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be toll’d:
And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll’d;
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll’d 60
Thro’ the dome of the golden cross;
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;
He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain’s-ear has heard them boom 65
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom:
When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame;
With those deep voices our dead captain taught
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 70
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper’d frame.
O civic muse, to such a name, 75
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-ringing[1] avenues of song.

VI.

Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest, 80
With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 85
The greatest sailor since our world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes;
For this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea; 90
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England’s greatest son, 95
He that gain’d a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash’d with his fiery few and won; 100
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labour’d rampart-lines, 105
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms, 110
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o’er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow’d up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamour of men, 115
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose
In anger, wheel’d on Europe-shadowing wings, 120
And barking for the thrones of kings;
Till one that sought but Duty’s iron crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;
A day of onsets of despair!
Dash’d on every rocky square 125
Their surging charges foam’d themselves away;
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;
Thro’ the long-tormented air
Heaven flash’d a sudden jubilant ray,
And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 130
So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo!
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 135
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all, 140
Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!
And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voice
In full acclaim,
A people’s voice,
The proof and echo of all human fame, 145
A people’s voice, when they rejoice
At civic revel and pomp and game,
Attest their great commander’s claim
With honour, honour, honour, honour to him,
Eternal honour to his name. 150

VII.

A people’s voice! we are a people yet.
Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget,
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless powers;
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set
His Saxon[2] in blown seas and storming showers, 155
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours.
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 160
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
And save the one true seed of freedom sown
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,
That sober freedom out of which there springs
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; 165
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 170
Remember him who led your hosts;
He bad you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lour 175
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter’d with Eternal God for power; 180
Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow
Thro’ either babbling world of high and low;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life;
Who never spoke against a foe; 185
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the right:
Truth-teller was our England’s Alfred named;
Truth-lover was our English Duke;
Whatever record leap to light 190
He never shall be shamed.

VIII.

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow’d by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands 195
Lavish Honour shower’d all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.
Yea, let all good things await
Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the state. 200
Not once or twice in our rough island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory:
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes, 205
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory: 210
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has won
His path upward, and prevail’d,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 215
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God Himself is moon and sun.
Such was he: his work is done.
But while the races of mankind endure,
Let his great example stand 220
Colossal, seen of every land,
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure:
Till in all lands and thro’ all human story
The path of duty be the way to glory:
And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame
For many and many an age proclaim 226
At civic revel and pomp and game,
And when the long-illumined cities flame,
Their ever-loyal iron leader’s fame,
With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, 230
Eternal honour to his name.

IX.

Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not see:
Peace, it is a day of pain 235
For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung:
O peace, it is a day of pain
For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 240
Ours the pain, be his the gain!
More than is of man’s degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere; 245
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane: 250
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music’s golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true 255
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And Victor he must ever be.
For tho’ the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore 260
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho’ world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul? 265
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people’s ears:
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:
The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 270
He is gone who seem’d so great,—
Gone; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State, 275
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him, 280
God accept him, Christ receive him.

-----

[1] See note on this line.

[2] See note on this line.

* * * * *

=THE DAY DREAM.=

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

I.

The varying year with blade and sheaf
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;
Here rests the sap within the leaf,
Here stays the blood along the veins.
Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d, 5
Faint murmurs from the meadows come,
Like hints and echoes of the world
To spirits folded in the womb.

II.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn. 10
The fountain to his place returns
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower, 15
The parrot in his gilded wires.

III.

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:
In these, in those the life is stay’d.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,— 20
Not even of a gnat that sings.
More like a picture seemeth all
Than those old portraits of old kings,
That watch the sleepers from the wall.

IV.

Here sits the Butler with a flask 25
Between his knees, half-drain’d; and there
The wrinkled steward at his task,
The maid-of-honour blooming fair:
The page has caught her hand in his:
Her lips are sever’d as to speak: 30
His own were pouted to a kiss:
The blush is fix’d upon her cheek.

V.

Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams that thro’ the Oriel shine,
Make prisms in every carven glass, 35
And beaker brimm’d with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps,
Grave faces gather’d in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps,
He must have been a jovial king. 40

VI.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green 45
Close-matted, bur and brake and briar,
And glimpsing over these, just seen,
High up, the topmost palace-spire.

VII.

When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again, 50
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
Here all things in their place remain,
As all were order’d, ages since.
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 55
And bring the fated fairy Prince.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

I.

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone
Across the purpled coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown, 60
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.

II.

The silk star-broidered coverlid 65
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm
With bracelets of the diamond bright: 70
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.

III.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d 75
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest. 80

THE ARRIVAL.

I.

All precious things, discover’d late,
To those who seek them issue forth;
For love in sequel works with fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth.
He travels far from other skies— 85
His mantle glitters on the rocks—
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes,
And lighter-footed than the fox.

II.

The bodies and the bones of those
That strove in other days to pass, 90
Are wither’d in the thorny close,
Or scatter’d blanching on the grass.
He gazes on the silent dead:
‘They perish’d in their daring deeds.’
This proverb flashes thro’ his head, 95
‘The many fail: the one succeeds.’

III.

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks:
He breaks the hedge: he enters there:
The colour flies into his cheeks:
He trusts to light on something fair; 100
For all his life the charm did talk
About his path, and hover near
With words of promise in his walk,
And whisper’d voices in his ear.

IV.

More close and close his footsteps wind; 105
The Magic Music in his heart
Beats quick and quicker, till he find
The quiet chamber far apart.
His spirit flatters like a lark,
He stoops—to kiss her—on his knee. 110
‘Love, if thy tresses be so dark,
How dark those hidden eyes must be!’

THE REVIVAL.

I.

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt.
There rose a noise of striking clocks;
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 115
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;
A fuller light illumined all,
A breeze thro’ all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 120

II.

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,
The butler drank, the steward scrawl’d,
The fire shot up, the martin flew,
The parrot scream’d, the peacock squall’d,
The maid and page renew’d their strife, 125
The palace bang’d, and buzz’d and clackt,
And all the long pent stream of life
Dash’d downward in a cataract.

III.