III
As the east wind, when the morning’s breastGleams like a bird’s that leaves the nest,A fledgeling halcyon’s bound on quest,Drives wave on wave on wave to westTill all the sea be life and light,So time’s mute breath, that brings to bloomAll flowers that strew the dead spring’s tomb,Drives day on day on day to doomTill all man’s day be night.
Brief as the breaking of a waveThat hurls on man his thunderous graveEre fear find breath to cry or craveLife that no chance may spare or save,The light of joy and glory shoneEven as in dreams where death seems deadRound Balen’s hope-exalted head,Shone, passed, and lightened as it fledThe shadow of doom thereon.
For as he bound him thence to fare,Before the stately presence thereA lady like a windflower fair,Girt on with raiment strange and rareThat rippled whispering round her, came.Her clear cold eyes, all glassy grey,Seemed lit not with the light of dayBut touched with gleams that waned awayOf quelled and fading flame.
Before the king she bowed and spake:“King, for thine old faith’s plighted sakeTo me the lady of the lake,I come in trust of thee to takeThe guerdon of the gift I gave,Thy sword Excalibur.” And heMade answer: “Be it whate’er it be,If mine to give, I give it thee,Nor need is thine to crave.”
As when a gleam of wicked lightTurns half a low-lying water brightThat moans beneath the shivering nightWith sense of evil sound and sightAnd whispering witchcraft’s bated breath,Her wan face quickened as she said:“This knight that won the sword—his headI crave or hers that brought it. Dead,Let these be one in death.”
“Not with mine honour this may be;Ask all save this thou wilt,” quoth he,“And have thy full desire.” But sheMade answer: “Nought will I of thee,Nought if not this.” Then Balen turned,And saw the sorceress hard besideBy whose fell craft his mother died:Three years he had sought her, and here espiedHis heart against her yearned.
“Ill be thou met,” he said, “whose ireWould slake with blood thy soul’s desire:By thee my mother died in fire;Die thou by me a death less dire.”Sharp flashed his sword forth, fleet as flame,And shore away her sorcerous head.“Alas for shame,” the high king said,“That one found once my friend lies dead;Alas for all our shame!
“Thou shouldst have here forborne her; yea,Were all the wrongs that bid men slayThine, heaped too high for wrath to weigh,Not here before my face todayWas thine the right to wreak thy wrong.”Still stood he then as one that foundHis rose of hope by storm discrowned,And all the joy that girt him roundBrief as a broken song.
Yet ere he passed he turned and spake:“King, only for thy nobler sakeThan aught of power man’s power may takeOr pride of place that pride may breakI bid the lordlier man in thee,That lives within the king, give ear.This justice done before thee hereOn one that hell’s own heart holds dear,Needs might not this but be.
“Albeit, for all that pride would prove,My heart be wrung to lose thy love,It yet repents me not hereof:So many an eagle and many a dove,So many a knight, so many a may,This water-snake of poisonous tongueTo death by words and wiles hath stung,That her their slayer, from hell’s lake sprung,I did not ill to slay.”
“Yea,” said the king, “too high of heartTo stand before a king thou art;Yet irks it me to bid thee partAnd take thy penance for thy part,That God may put upon thy pride.”Then Balen took the severed headAnd toward his hostry turned and spedAs one that knew not quick from deadNor good from evil tide.
He bade his squire before him standAnd take that sanguine spoil in handAnd bear it far by shore and strandTill all in glad NorthumberlandThat loved him, seeing it, all might knowHis deadliest foe was dead, and hearHow free from prison as from fearHe dwelt in trust of the answering yearTo bring him weal for woe.
“And tell them, now I take my wayTo meet in battle, if I may,King Ryons of North Wales, and slayThat king of kernes whose fiery swayDoth all the marches dire despiteThat serve King Arthur: so shall heAgain be gracious lord to me,And I that leave thee meet with theeOnce more in Arthur’s sight.”
So spake he ere they parted, norTook shame or fear to counsellor,As one whom none laid ambush for;And wist not how Sir Launceor,The wild king’s son of Ireland, hotAnd high in wrath to know that oneStood higher in fame before the sun,Even Balen, since the sword was won,Drew nigh from Camelot.
For thence, in heat of hate and pride,As one that man might bid not bide,He craved the high king’s grace to rideOn quest of Balen far and wideAnd wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought.“Yea,” Arthur said, “for such despiteWas done me never in my sightAs this thine hand shall now requiteIf trust avail us aught.”
But ere he passed, in eager moodTo feed his hate with bitter food,Before the king’s face Merlin stoodAnd heard his tale of ill and good,Of Balen, and the sword achieved,And whence it smote as heaven’s red ireThat direful dame of doom as dire;And how the king’s wrath turned to fireThe grief wherewith he grieved.
And darkening as he gave it ear,The still face of the sacred seerWaxed wan with wrath and not with fear,And ever changed its cloudier cheerTill all his face was very night.“This damosel that brought the sword,”He said, “before the king my lord,And all these knights about his board,Hath done them all despite.
“The falsest damosel she isThat works men ill on earth, I wis,And all her mind is toward but this,To kill as with a lying kissTruth, and the life of noble trust.A brother hath she,—see but nowThe flame of shame that brands her brow!—A true man, pure as faith’s own vow,Whose honour knows not rust.
“This good knight found within her bowerA felon and her paramour,And slew him in his shameful hour,As right gave might and righteous powerTo hands that wreaked so foul a wrong.Then, for the hate her heart put on,She sought by ways where death had goneThe lady Lyle of Avalon,Whose crafts are strange and strong.
“The sorceress, one with her in thought,Gave her that sword of magic, wroughtBy charms whereof sweet heaven sees nought,That hither girt on her she broughtTo be by doom her brother’s bane.And grief it is to think how heThat won it, being of heart so freeAnd perfect found in chivalry,Shall by that sword lie slain.
Great pity it is and strange despiteThat one whose eyes are stars to lightHonour, and shine as heaven’s own height,Should perish, being the goodliest knightThat even the all-glorious north has borne.Nor shall my lord the king beholdA lordlier friend of mightier mouldThan Balen, though his tale be toldEre noon fulfil his morn.”