V
As thought from thought takes wing and flies,As month on month with sunlit eyesTramples and triumphs in its rise,As wave smites wave to death and dies,So chance on hurtling chance like steelStrikes, flashes, and is quenched, ere fearCan whisper hope, or hope can hear,If sorrow or joy be far or nearFor time to hurt or heal.
Swift as a shadow and strange as lightThat cleaves in twain the shadow of nightBefore the wide-winged word takes flightThat thunder speaks to depth and heightAnd quells the quiet hour with sound,There came before King Mark and stoodBetween the moorside and the woodThe man whose word God’s will made good,Nor guile was in it found.
And Merlin said to Balen: “Lo,Thou hast wrought thyself a grievous woeTo let this lady die, and knowThou mightst have stayed her deadly blow.”And Balen answered him and said,“Nay, by my truth to faith, not I,So fiercely fain she was to die;Ere well her sword had flashed on high,Self-slain she lay there dead.”
Again and sadly Merlin spake:“My heart is wrung for this deed’s sake,To know thee therefore doomed to takeUpon thine hand a curse, and makeThree kingdoms pine through twelve years’ change,In want and woe: for thou shalt smiteThe man most noble and truest knightThat looks upon the live world’s lightA dolorous stroke and strange.
“And not till years shall round their goalMay this man’s wound thou hast given be whole.”And Balen, stricken through the soulBy dark-winged words of doom and dole,Made answer: “If I wist it wereNo lie but sooth thou sayest of me,Then even to make a liar of theeWould I too slay myself, and seeHow death bids dead men fare.”
And Merlin took his leave and passedAnd was not: and the shadow as fastWent with him that his word had cast,Too fleet for thought thereof to last:And there those brethren bade King MarkFarewell: but fain would Mark have knownThe strong knight’s name who had overthrownThe pride of Launceor, when it shoneBright as it now lay dark.
And Balan for his brother spake,Saying: “Sir, albeit him list not breakThe seal of secret time, nor shakeNight off him ere his morning wake,By these two swords he is girt withalMay men that praise him, knights and lords,Call him the knight that bears two swords,And all the praise his fame accordsMake answer when they call.”
So parted they toward eventide;And tender twilight, heavy-eyed,Saw deep down glimmering woodlands rideBalen and Balan side by side,Till where the leaves grew dense and dimAgain they spied from far draw nearThe presence of the sacred seer,But so disguised and strange of cheerThat seeing they knew not him.
“Now whither ride ye,” Merlin said,“Through shadows that the sun strikes red,Ere night be born or day be dead?”But they, for doubt half touched with dread,Would say not where their goal might lie.“And thou,” said Balen, “what art thou,To walk with shrouded eye and brow?”He said: “Me lists not show thee nowBy name what man am I.”
“Ill seen is this of thee,” said they,“That thou art true in word and wayNor fain to fear the face of day,Who wilt not as a true man sayThe name it shames not him to bear.”He answered: “Be it or be it not so,Yet why ye ride this way I know,To meet King Ryons as a foe,And how your hope shall fare.
“Well, if ye hearken toward my rede,Ill, if ye hear not, shall ye speed.”“Ah, now,” they cried, “thou art ours at needWhat Merlin saith we are fain to heed.”“Great worship shall ye win,” said he,“And look that ye do knightly now,For great shall be your need, I trow.”And Balen smiled: “By knighthood’s vow,The best we may will we.”
Then Merlin bade them turn and takeRest, for their good steeds’ weary sake,Between the highway and the brake,Till starry midnight bade them wake:Then “Rise,” he said, “the king is nigh,Who hath stolen from all his host awayWith threescore horse in armed array,The goodliest knights that bear his swayAnd hold his kingdom high.
“And twenty ride of them beforeTo bear his errand, ere the doorTurn of the night, sealed fast no more,And sundawn bid the stars wax hoar;For by the starshine of to-nightHe seeks a leman where she waitsHis coming, dark and swift as fate’s,And hearkens toward the unopening gatesThat yield not him to sight.
Then through the glimmering gloom aroundA shadowy sense of light and soundMade, ere the proof thereof were found,The brave blithe hearts within them bound,And “Where,” quoth Balen, “rides the king?”But softer spake the seer: “Abide,Till hither toward your spears he ride,Where all the narrowing woodland sideGrows dense with boughs that cling.”
There in that straitening way they metThe wild Welsh host against them set,And smote their strong king down, ere yetHis hurrying horde of spears might getFierce vantage of them. Then the fightGrew great and joyous as it grew,For left and right those brethren slew,Till all the lawn waxed red with dewMore deep than dews of night.
And ere the full fierce tale was readFull forty lay before them dead,And fast the hurtling remnant fledAnd wist not whither fear had led:And toward the king they went again,And would have slain him: but he bowedBefore them, crying in fear aloudFor grace they gave him, seeing the proudWild king brought lowest of men.
And ere the wildwood leaves were stirredWith song or wing of wakening bird,In Camelot was Merlin’s wordWith joy in joyous wonder heardThat told of Arthur’s bitterest foeDiskingdomed and discomfited.“By whom?” the high king smiled and said.He answered: “Ere the dawn wax red,To-morrow bids you know.
“Two knights whose heart and hope are oneAnd fain to win your grace have doneThis work whereby if grace be wonTheir hearts shall hail the enkindling sunWith joy more keen and deep than day.”And ere the sundawn drank the dewThose brethren with their prisoner drewTo the outer guard they gave him toAnd passed again away.
And Arthur came as toward his guestTo greet his foe, and bade him restAs one returned from nobler questAnd welcome from the stormbright west,But by what chance he fain would hear.“The chance was hard and strange, sir king,”Quoth Ryons, bowed in thanksgiving.“Who won you?” Arthur said: “the thingIs worth a warrior’s ear.”
The wild king flushed with pride and shame,Answering: “I know not either nameOf those that there against us cameAnd withered all our strength like flame:The knight that bears two swords is one,And one his brother: not on earthMay men meet men of knightlier worthNor mightier born of mortal birthThat hail the sovereign sun.”
And Arthur said: “I know them notBut much am I for this, God wet,Beholden to them: LauncelotNor Tristram, when the war waxed hotAlong the marches east and west,Wrought ever nobler work than this.”“Ah,” Merlin said, “sore pity it isAnd strange mischance of doom, I wis,That death should mar their quest.
“Balen, the perfect knight that wonThe sword whose name is malison,And made his deed his doom, is one:Nor hath his brother Balan doneLess royal service: not on earthLives there a nobler knight, more strongOf soul to win men’s praise in song,Albeit the light abide not longThat lightened round his birth.
“Yea, and of all sad things I knowThe heaviest and the highest in woeIs this, the doom whose date brings lowToo soon in timeless overthrowA head so high, a hope so sure.The greatest moan for any knightThat ever won fair fame in fightShall be for Balen, seeing his mightMust now not long endure.”
“Alas,” King Arthur said, “he hath shownSuch love to me-ward that the moanMade of him should be mine aloneAbove all other, knowing it knownI have ill deserved it of him.” “Nay,”Said Merlin, “he shall do for youMuch more, when time shall be anew,Than time hath given him chance to doOr hope may think to say.
“But now must be your powers purveyedTo meet, ere noon of morn be madeTo-morrow, all the host arrayedOf this wild foe’s wild brother, laidAround against you: see to it well,For now I part from you.” And soon,When sundawn slew the withering moon,Two hosts were met to win the boonWhose tale is death’s to tell.
A lordly tale of knights and lordsFor death to tell by count of swordsWhen war’s wild harp in all its chordsRang royal triumph, and the hordesOf hurtling foemen rocked and reeledAs waves wind-thwarted on the sea,Was told of all that there might be,Till scarce might battle hear or seeThe fortune of the field.
And many a knight won fame that dayWhen even the serpent soul of KayWas kindled toward the fiery playAs might a lion’s be for prey,And won him fame that might not dieWith passing of his rancorous breathBut clung about his life and deathAs fire that speaks in cloud, and saithWhat strong men hear and fly.
And glorious works were Arthur’s there,That lit the battle-darkened air:But when they saw before them fareLike stars of storm the knight that bareTwo swords about him girt for fray,Balen, and Balan with him, thenStrong wonder smote the souls of menIf heaven’s own host or hell’s deep denHad sent them forth to slay.
So keen they rode across the fight,So sharp they smote to left and right,And made of hurtling darkness lightWith lightning of their swords, till flightAnd fear before them flew like flame,That Arthur’s self had never known,He said, since first his blast was blown,Such lords of war as these aloneThat whence he knew not came.
But while the fire of war waxed hotThe wild king hearkened, hearing not,Through storm of spears and arrow-shot,For succour toward him from King LotAnd all his host of sea-born men,Strong as the strong storm-baffling birdWhose cry round Orkney’s headlands heardIs as the sea’s own sovereign wordThat mocks our mortal ken.
For Merlin’s craft of prophecy,Who wist that one of twain must die,Put might in him to say therebyWhich head should lose its crown, and lieStricken, though loth he were to knowThat either life should wane and fail;Yet most might Arthur’s love avail,And still with subtly tempered taleHis wile held fast the foe.
With woven words of magic mightWherein the subtle shadow and lightChanged hope and fear till fear took flight,He stayed King Lot’s fierce lust of fightTill all the wild Welsh war was drivenAs foam before the wind that wakesWith the all-awakening sun, and breaksStrong ships that rue the mirth it makesWhen grace to slay is given.
And ever hotter lit and higher,As fire that meets encountering fire,Waxed in King Lot his keen desireTo bid revenge within him tireOn Arthur’s ravaged fame and life:Across the waves of war betweenFloated and flashed, unseen and seen,The lustrous likeness of the queenWhom shame had sealed his wife.
But when the woful word was broughtThat while he tarried, doubting nought,The hope was lost whose goal he soughtAnd all the fight he yearned for fought,His heart was rent for grief and shame,And half his hope was set on flightTill word was given him of a knightWho said: “They are weary and worn with fight,And we more fresh than flame.”
And bright and dark as night and dayEre either find the unopening wayClear, and forego the unaltering sway,The sad king’s face shone, frowning: “Yea,I would that every knight of mineWould do his part as I shall do,”He said, “till death or life anewShall judge between us as is dueWith wiser doom than thine.”
Then thundered all the awakening fieldWith crash of hosts that clashed and reeled,Banner to banner, shield to shield,And spear to splintering spear-shaft, steeledAs heart against high heart of man,As hope against high hope of knightTo pluck the crest and crown of fightFrom war’s clenched hand by storm’s wild light,For blessing given or ban.
All hearts of hearkening men that heardThe ban twin-born with blessing, stirredLike springtide waters, knew the wordWhereby the steeds of storm are spurredWith ravenous rapture to destroy,And laughed for love of battle, piercedWith passion of tempestuous thirstAnd hungering hope to assuage it firstWith draughts of stormy joy.
But sheer ahead of the iron tideThat rocked and roared from side to sideRode as the lightning’s lord might rideKing Lot, whose heart was set to abideAll peril of the raging hour,And all his host of warriors bornWhere lands by warring seas are wornWas only by his hands upborneWho gave them pride and power.
But as the sea’s hand smites the shoreAnd shatters all the strengths that boreThe ravage earth may bear no more,So smote the hand of PellinoreCharging, a knight of Arthur’s chief,And clove his strong steed’s neck in twain,And smote him sheer through brow and brain,Falling: and there King Lot lay slain,And knew not wrath or grief.
And all the host of Orkney fled,And many a mother’s son lay dead:But when they raised the stricken headWhence pride and power and shame were fledAnd rage and anguish now cast out,And bore it toward a kingly tomb,The wife whose love had wrought his doomCame thither, fair as morning’s bloomAnd dark as twilight’s doubt.
And there her four strong sons and his,Gawain and Gareth, GaherysAnd Agravain, whose sword’s sharp kissWith sound of hell’s own serpent’s hissShould one day turn her life to death,Stood mourning with her: but by theseSeeing Mordred as a seer that sees,Anguish of terror bent her kneesAnd caught her shuddering breath.
The splendour of her sovereign eyesFlashed darkness deeper than the skiesFeel or fear when the sunset diesOn his that felt as midnight riseTheir doom upon them, there undoneBy faith in fear ere thought could yieldA shadowy sense of days revealed,The ravin of the final field,The terror of their son.
For Arthur’s, as they caught the lightThat sought and durst not seek his sight,Darkened, and all his spirit’s mightWithered within him even as nightWithers when sunrise thrills the sea.But Mordred’s lightened as with fireThat smote his mother and his sireWith darkling doom and deep desireThat bade its darkness be.
And heavier on their hearts the weightSank of the fear that brings forth fate,The bitter doubt whose womb is greatWith all the grief and love and hateThat turn to fire men’s days on earth.And glorious was the funeral made,And dark the deepening dread that swayedTheir darkening souls whose light grew shadeWith sense of death in birth.