II
In linden-time the heart is highFor pride of summer passing byWith lordly laughter in her eye;A heavy splendour in the skyUplifts and bows it down again.The spring had waned from wood and woldSince Balen left his prison holdAnd lowlier-hearted than of oldBeheld it wax and wane.
Though humble heart and poor arrayKept not from spirit and sense awayTheir noble nature, nor could slayThe pride they bade but pause and stayTill time should bring its trust to flower,Yet even for noble shame’s sake, bornOf hope that smiled on hate and scorn,He held him still as earth ere mornRing forth her rapturous hour.
But even as earth when dawn takes flightAnd beats her wings of dewy lightFull in the faltering face of night,His soul awoke to claim by rightThe life and death of deed and doom,When once before the king there cameA maiden clad with grief and shameAnd anguish burning her like flameThat feeds on flowers in bloom.
Beneath a royal mantle, fairWith goodly work of lustrous vair,Girt fast against her side she bareA sword whose weight bade all men thereQuail to behold her face again.Save of a passing perfect knightNot great alone in force and fightIt might not be for any mightDrawn forth, and end her pain.
So said she: then King Arthur spake:“Albeit indeed I dare not takeSuch praise on me, for knighthood’s sakeAnd love of ladies will I makeAssay if better none may be.”By girdle and by sheath he caughtThe sheathed and girded sword, and wroughtWith strength whose force availed him noughtTo save and set her free.
Again she spake: “No need to setThe might that man has matched not yetAgainst it: he whose hand shall getGrace to release the bonds that fretMy bosom and my girdlesteadWith little strain of strength or strifeShall bring me as from death to lifeAnd win to sister or to wifeFame that outlives men dead.”
Then bade the king his knights assayThis mystery that before him layAnd mocked his might of manhood. “Nay,”Quoth she, “the man that takes awayThis burden laid on me must beA knight of record clean and fairAs sunlight and the flowerful air,By sire and mother born to bearA name to shame not me.”
Then forth strode Launcelot, and laidThe mighty-moulded hand that madeStrong knights reel back like birds affrayedBy storm that smote them as they strayedAgainst the hilt that yielded not.Then Tristram, bright and sad and kindAs one that bore in noble mindLove that made light as darkness blind,Fared even as Launcelot.
Then Lamoracke, with hardier cheer,As one that held all hope and fearWherethrough the spirit of man may steerIn life and death less dark or dear,Laid hand thereon, and fared as they.With half a smile his hand he drewBack from the spell-bound thing, and threwWith half a glance his heart anewToward no such blameless may.
Between Iseult and GuenevereSat one of name as high to hear,But darklier doomed than they whose cheerForeshowed not yet the deadlier yearThat bids the queenliest head bow down,The queen Morgause of Orkney: theyWith scarce a flash of the eye could sayThe very word of dawn, when dayGives earth and heaven their crown.
But bright and dark as night or noonAnd lowering as a storm-flushed moonWhen clouds and thwarting winds distuneThe music of the midnight, soonTo die from darkening star to starAnd leave a silence in the skiesThat yearns till dawn find voice and rise,Shone strange as fate Morgause, with eyesThat dwelt on days afar.
A glance that shot on LamorackeAs from a storm-cloud bright and black.Fire swift and blind as death’s own trackTurned fleet as flame on Arthur backFrom him whose hand forsook the hilt:And one in blood and one in sinTheir hearts caught fire of pain withinAnd knew no goal for them to winBut death that guerdons guilt.
Then Gawain, sweet of soul and gayAs April ere he dreams of May,Strove, and prevailed not: then Sir Kay,The snake-souled envier, vile as theyThat fawn and foam and lurk and lie,Sire of the bastard band whose broodWas alway found at servile feudWith honour, faint and false and lewd,Scarce grasped and put it by.
Then wept for woe the damsel boundWith iron and with anguish round,That none to help her grief was foundOr loose the inextricably inwoundGrim curse that girt her life with griefAnd made a burden of her breath,Harsh as the bitterness of death.Then spake the king as one that saithWords bitterer even than brief.
“Methought the wide round world could bringBefore the face of queen or kingNo knights more fit for fame to singThan fill this full Round Table’s ringWith honour higher than pride of place:But now my heart is wrung to know,Damsel, that none whom fame can showFinds grace to heal or help thy woe:God gives them not the grace.”
Then from the lowliest place thereby,With heart-enkindled cheek and eyeMost like the star and kindling skyThat say the sundawn’s hour is highWhen rapture trembles through the sea,Strode Balen in his poor arrayForth, and took heart of grace to prayThe damsel suffer even him to assayHis power to set her free.
Nay, how should he avail, she said,Averse with scorn-averted head,Where these availed not? none had spedOf all these mightier men that ledThe lists wherein he might not ride,And how should less men speed? But he,With lordlier pride of courtesy,Put forth his hand and set her freeFrom pain and humbled pride.
But on the sword he gazed elateWith hope set higher than fear or fate,Or doubt of darkling days in wait;And when her thankful praise waxed greatAnd craved of him the sword again,He would not give it. “Nay, for mineIt is till force may make it thine.”A smile that shone as death may shineSpake toward him bale and bane.
Strange lightning flickered from her eyes.“Gentle and good in knightliest guiseAnd meet for quest of strange empriseThou hast here approved thee: yet not wiseTo keep the sword from me, I wis.For with it thou shalt surely slayOf all that look upon the dayThe man best loved of thee, and layThine own life down for his.”
“What chance God sends, that chance I take,”He said. Then soft and still she spake;“I would but for thine only sakeHave back the sword of thee, and breakThe links of doom that bind thee round.But seeing thou wilt not have it so,My heart for thine is wrung with woe.”“God’s will,” quoth he, “it is, we know,Wherewith our lives are bound.”
“Repent it must thou soon,” she said,“Who wouldst not hear the rede I readFor thine and not for my sake, spedIn vain as waters heavenward shedFrom springs that falter and departEarthward. God bids not thee believeTruth, and the web thy life must weaveFor even this sword to close and cleaveHangs heavy round my heart.”
So passed she mourning forth. But he,With heart of springing hope set freeAs birds that breast and brave the sea,Bade horse and arms and armour beMade straightway ready toward the fray.Nor even might Arthur’s royal prayerWithhold him, but with frank and fairThanksgiving and leave-taking thereHe turned him thence away.