Part 18

"The lady sate the Monarch by, Now in her turn abash'd and shy, And with indifference seem'd to hear The toys he whisper'd in her ear. Her bearing modest was and fair, Yet shadows of constraint were there, That show'd an over-cautious care Some inward thought to hide; Oft did she pause in full reply, And oft cast down her large dark eye, Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, That heav'd her bosom's pride.

"Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, Maraud on Britain's shores again. Arthur, of Christendom the flower, Lies loitering in a lady's bower; The horn, that foemen wont to fear, Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, And Caliburn, the British pride, Hangs useless by a lover's side.

"Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! Heroic plans in pleasure drowned, He thinks not of the Table Round; In lawless love dissolved his life, He thinks not of his beauteous wife: Better he loves to snatch a flower From bosom of his paramour, Than from a Saxon knight to wrest The honours of his heathen crest; Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, The heron's plume her hawk struck down, Than o'er the altar give to flow The banners of a Paynim foe. Thus, week by week, and day by day, His life inglorious glides away; But she, that soothes his dream, with fear Beholds his hour of waking near.

"Three summer months had scantly flown, When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone, Spoke of his liegemen and his throne; Said, all too long had been his stay, And duties, which a monarch sway, Duties, unknown to humbler men, Must tear her knight from Guendolen. She listened silently the while, Her mood expressed in bitter smile; Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, And oft resume the unfinished tale, Confessing, by his downcast eye, The wrong he sought to justify. He ceased. A moment mute she gazed, And then her looks to heaven she raised; One palm her temples veiled, to hide The tear that sprung in spite of pride; The other for an instant pressed The foldings of her silken vest!

"At her reproachful sign and look The hint the monarch's conscience took. Eager he spoke--'No, Lady, no! Deem not of British Arthur so, Nor think he can deserter prove To the dear pledge of mutual love. I swear by sceptre and by sword, As belted knight and Britain's lord, That if a boy shall claim my care, That boy is born a kingdom's heir; But, if a maiden Fate allows, To choose that maid a fitting spouse, A summer-day in lists shall strive My knights--the bravest knights alive,-- And he, the best and bravest tried, Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'-- He spoke, with voice resolved and high-- The lady deigned him not reply.

"At dawn of morn, ere on the brake His matins did a warbler make, Or stirred his wing to brush away A single dewdrop from the spray, Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist, The castle-battlements had kissed, The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, And Arthur sallies from the walls. Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom, And steel from spur to helmet-plume, His Lybian steed full proudly trode, And joyful neighed beneath his load. The Monarch gave a passing sigh To penitence and pleasures by, When, lo! to his astonished ken, Appeared the form of Guendolen.

"Beyond the utmost wall she stood, Attired like huntress of the wood: Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare, And eagle-plumage decked her hair; Firm was her look, her bearing bold, And in her hand a cup of gold. 'Thou goest!' she said, 'and ne'er again Must we two meet; in joy or pain. Full fain would I this hour delay, Thought weak the wish--yet wilt thou stay? --No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,-- Part we like lover and like friend.' She raised the cup--'Not this the juice The sluggish vines of earth produce; Pledge we, at parting, in the draught Which Genii love!'--she said and quaffed; And strange unwonted lustres fly From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye.

"The courteous monarch bent him low, And, stooping down from saddlebow, Lifted the cup, in act to drink. A drop escaped the goblet's brink-- Intense as liquid fire from hell, Upon the charger's neck it fell. Screaming with agony and fright, He bolted twenty feet upright-- --The peasant still can show the dint Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.-- From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, Scattering a shower of fiery dew, That burned and blighted where it fell![24] The frantic steed rushed up the dell, As whistles from the bow the reed; Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, Until he gained the hill; Then breath and sinew failed apace, And, reeling from the desperate race, He stood, exhausted, still. The Monarch, breathless and amazed, Back on the fatal castle gazed---- Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, Darkening against the morning sky; But, on the spot where once they frowned, The lonely streamlet brawled around A tufted knoll, where dimly shone Fragments of rock and rifted stone. Musing on this strange hap the while, The King wends back to fair Carlisle; And cares, that cumber royal sway, Wore memory of the past away.

"Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought, The Saxons to subjection brought: Rython, the mighty giant, slain By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: The Pictish Gillamore, in fight, And Roman Lucius, owned his might; And wide were through the world renowned The glories of his Table Round. Each knight, who sought adventurous fame, To the bold court of Britain came, And all who suffered causeless wrong, From tyrant proud or faitour strong, Sought Arthur's presence to complain, Nor there for aid implored in vain.

"For this the King, with pomp and pride, Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, And summoned Prince and Peer-- All who owed homage for their land, Or who craved knighthood from his hand, Or who had succour to demand-- To come from far and near.

"The heralds named the appointed spot, As Caerleon or Camelot, Or Carlisle fair and free. At Penrith, now, the feast was set, And in fair Eamont's vale were met The flower of chivalry.

"When wine and mirth did most abound, And harpers played their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, And marshals cleared the ring; A maiden, on a palfrey white, Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle, to alight And kneel before the King. Arthur, with strong emotion, saw Her graceful boldness checked by awe, Her dress like huntress of the wold, Her bow and baldric trapped with gold, Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare, And the eagle-plume that decked her hair. Graceful her veil she backward flung-- The King, as from his seat he sprung, Almost cried,'Guendolen!' But 'twas a face more frank and wild, Betwixt the woman and the child, Where less of magic beauty smiled Than of the race of men; And in the forehead's haughty grace, The lines of Britain's royal race, Pendragon's you might ken.

"Faltering, yet gracefully she said-- 'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid, In her departed mother's name, A father's vowed protection claim! The vow was sworn in desert lone, In the deep valley of St. John.' At once the King the suppliant raised, And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; His vow, he said, should well be kept, Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,-- Then conscious glanced upon his queen: But she, unruffled at the scene, Of human frailty construed mild, Looked upon Lancelot and smiled.

"'Up! up! each knight of gallant crest Take buckler, spear, and brand! He that to-day shall bear him best, Shall win my Gyneth's hand. And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, Shall bring a noble dower; Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, And Carlisle town and tower.' Then might you hear each valiant knight, To page and squire that cried, 'Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight! 'Tis not each day that a warrior's might May win a royal bride.' Then cloaks and caps of maintenance In haste aside they fling; The helmets glance, and gleams the lance, And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. Small care had they of their peaceful array, They might gather it that wolde; For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, With pearls and cloth of gold.

"Within trumpet sound of the Table Round Were fifty champions free, And they all arise to fight that prize,-- They all arise but three. The knights they busied them so fast, With buckling spur and belt, That sigh and look, by ladies cast, Were neither seen nor felt.

"From pleading, or upbraiding glance, Each gallant turns aside, And only thought, 'If speeds my lance, A queen becomes my bride! She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide, And Carlisle tower and town; She is the loveliest maid, beside, That ever heired a crown.' So in haste their coursers they bestride, And strike their visors down.

"The champions, arm'd in martial sort, Have throng'd into the list, And but three knights of Arthur's court Are from the tourney miss'd.

"Now caracol'd the steeds in air, Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, As all around the lists so wide In panoply the champions ride. King Arthur saw, with startled eye, The flower of chivalry march by, The kingdom's shield in hour of need, Too late he thought him of the woe Might from their civil conflict flow; For well he knew they would not part Till cold was many a gallant heart. His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, And Gyneth then apart he drew; To her his leading-staff resign'd, But added caution grave and kind.

"'Thou see'st my child, as promise-bound, I bid the trump for tourney sound. Take thou my warder, as the queen And umpire of the martial scene; But mark thou this:--as Beauty bright Is polar star to valiant knight, As at her word his sword he draws, His fairest guerdon her applause, So gentle maid should never ask Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; And Beauty's eyes should ever be Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should whisper peace, And bid the storm of battle cease. I tell thee this, lest all too far These knights urge tourney into war. Blithe at the trumpet let them go, And fairly counter blow for blow:-- No striplings these, who succour need, For a raised helm or fallen steed. But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, And threatens death or deadly harm, Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, Thou drop the warder from thy hands. Trust thou thy father with thy fate, Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate; Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.'

"A proud and discontented glow O'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow; She put the warder by:-- 'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 'Thus chaffer'd down and limited. Debased and narrow'd, for a maid, Of less degree than I. No petty chief, but holds his heir At a more honour'd price and rare Than Britain's King holds me! Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower, Has but her father's rugged tower, His barren hill and lee.' King Arthur swore, 'By crown and sword, As belted Knight, and Britain's lord, That a whole summer's day should strive His knights, the bravest knights alive!'-- 'Recal thine oath! and to her glen Poor Gyneth can return agen; Not on thy daughter will the stain, That soils thy sword and crown, remain. But think not she will e'er be bride Save to the bravest, proved and tried; Pendragon's daughter will not fear For clashing sword or splinter'd spear, Nor shrink though blood should flow.'

"He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch bold:-- 'I give--what I may not withhold; For not for danger, dread, or death, Must British Arthur break his faith. Too late I mark thy mother's art Hath taught thee this relentless part. Use, then, the warder, as thou wilt; But, trust me, that, if life be spilt, In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' With that he turn'd his head aside, Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride, As, with the truncheon raised, she sate The arbitress of mortal fate; Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, How the bold champions stood opposed, For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell Upon his ear like passing bell! Then first from sight of martial fray Did Britain's hero turn away.

"But Gyneth heard the clangour high, As hears the hawk the partridge cry. So well accomplish'd was each knight, To strike and to defend in fight, Their meeting was a goodly sight, While plate and mail held true. The lists with painted plumes were strown, Upon the wind at random thrown, But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, It seem'd their feather'd crests alone Should this encounter rue.

"But soon too earnest grew their game, The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame, And, horse and man, to ground there came Knights, who shall rise no more! Gone was the pride the war that graced, Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced, And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced, And pennons stream'd with gore. Gone, too, were fence and fair array, And desperate strength made deadly way At random through the bloody fray, And blows were dealt with headlong sway, Unheeding where they fell; And now the trumpet's clamour seem Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream, Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, The sinking seaman's knell!

"Already gasping on the ground Lie twenty of the Table Round, Of chivalry the prime. Arthur, in anguish, tore away From head and beard his tresses gray, And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay, And quaked with ruth and fear; But still she deem'd her mother's shade Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade The sign that had the slaughter staid, And chid the rising tear. Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, Helias the White, and Lionel, And many a champion more; Rochemont and Dinadam are down, And Ferrand of the Forest Brown Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's-blood died her sandals red. But then the sky was overcast. Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulf,--tremendous birth!-- The form of Merlin rose.

"Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, And sternly raised his hand;-- 'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear! And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear The doom thy fates demand! Long shall close in stony sleep Eyes for ruth that would not weep; Iron lethargy shall seal Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. Yet, because thy mother's art Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, And for love of Arthur's race, Punishment is blent with grace, Thou shalt bear thy penance lone In the valley of Saint John, And this doom shall overtake thee; Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee, For feats of arms as far renown'd As warrior of the Table Round. Long endurance of thy slumber Well may teach the world to number All their woes from Gyneth's pride, When the Red Cross champions died.'

"As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye Slumber's load begins to lie; Fear and anger vainly strive Still to keep its light alive. Twice, with effort and with pause, O'er her brow her hand she draws; Twice her strength in vain she tries, From the fatal chair to rise; Merlin's magic doom is spoken, Vanoc's death must now be wroken. Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, Curtaining each azure ball, Slowly as on summer eves Violets fold their dusky leaves. The weighty baton of command Now bears down her sinking hand, On her shoulder droops her head: Net of pearl and golden thread, Bursting, gave her locks to flow O'er her arm and breast of snow. And so lovely seem'd she there, Spell-bound in her ivory chair, That her angry sire, repenting, Craved stern Merlin for relenting, And the champions, for her sake, Would again the contest wake; Till, in necromantic night, Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.

"Still she bears her weird alone, In the Valley of Saint John; And her semblance oft will seem, Mingling in a champion's dream, Of her weary lot to plain, And crave his aid to burst her chain. While her wondrous tale was new, Warriors to her rescue drew, East and west, and south and north, From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. Most have sought in vain the glen, Tower nor castle could they ken; Not at every time or tide, Nor by every eye descried, Fast and vigil must be borne, Many a night in watching worn, Ere an eye of mortal powers Can discern those magic towers. Of the persevering few, Some from hopeless task withdrew, When they read the dismal threat Graved upon the gloomy gate. Few have braved the yawning door, And those few return'd no more. In the lapse of time forgot, Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; Sound she sleeps as in the tomb, Till waken'd by the trump of doom."

THIS IS THE END OF LYULPH'S TALE.

We must now Resume the legendary strain Of the bold Knight of Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound, Hath wandered forth alone, And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of Saint John.

When first began his vigil bold, The moon twelve summer nights was old, And shone both fair and full; High in the vault of cloudless blue, O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw Her light composed and cool. Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast, Sir Roland eyed the vale; Chief where, distinguished from the rest, Those clustering rocks upreared their crest, The dwelling of the fair distressed, As told grey Lyulph's tale. Thus as he lay, the lamp of night Was quivering on his armour bright, In beams that rose and fell, And danced upon his buckler's boss, That lay beside him on the moss, As on a crystal well.

Ever he watch'd, and oft he deemed, While on the mound the moonlight streamed, It altered to his eyes; Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, Fain think, by transmutation strange, He saw grey turrets rise. But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly, Which fancy had conceived. For, seen by moon of middle night, Or by the blaze of noontide bright, Or by the dawn of morning light, Or evening's western flame, In every tide, at every hour, In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, The rocks remain'd the same.

Oft has he traced the charmed mound, Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, Yet nothing might explore, Save that the crags so rudely piled, At distance seen, resemblance wild To a rough fortress bore. Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps, Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, And drinks but of the well; Ever by day he walks the hill, And when the evening gale is chill, He seeks a rocky cell, Like hermit poor to bid his bead, And tell his Ave and his Creed, Invoking every saint at need, For aid to burst his spell.

And now the moon her orb has hid, And dwindled to a silver thread, Dim seen in middle heaven, While o'er its curve careering fast, Before the fury of the blast The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills, And down the torrents came; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux, within his mountain cave (No human step the storm durst brave), To moody meditation gave Each faculty of soul, Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, And the sad winds that whistled round, Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, A broken slumber stole.

Twas then was heard a heavy sound (Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer): As, starting from his couch of fern, Again he heard, in clangor stern, That deep and solemn swell,-- Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke, Like some proud minster's pealing clock, Or city's larum bell. What thought was Roland's first when fell, In that deep wilderness, the knell Upon his startled ear? To slander, warrior, were I loth, Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,-- It was a thought of fear.

But lively was the mingled thrill That chased that momentary chill, For Love's keen wish was there, And eager Hope, and Valour high, And the proud glow of Chivalry, That burn'd to do and dare. Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd, That answer'd to the knell; For long and far the unwonted sound, Eddying in echoes round and round, Was toss'd from fell to fell; And Glaramara answer flung, And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, And Legbert heights their echoes swung, As far as Derwent's dell.

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, Till all was hush'd and still, Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, And the night-blast that wildly bore Its course along the hill. Then on the northern sky there came A light, as of reflected flame, And over Legbert-head, As if by magic art controll'd, A mighty meteor slowly roll'd Its orb of fiery red; Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire Came mounted on that car of fire, To do his errand dread. Far on the sloping valley's course, On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, Shingle and Scree, and Fell and Force, A dusky light arose: Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene; Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, Even the gay thicket's summer green, In bloody tincture glows.