Part 11

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime, In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of Time, Artificer of God, had coined our world Within the formless void, and round it furled Its lordly raiment of the day and night, And germed its womb with beauty and delight: And Hell sent Hate to Earth, that it might use And serve Hell's ends, filling with flame its cruse....

For her half-brother Morgane had conceived Unnatural hatred; so much so, she grieved, Envious and jealous, for the high renown And might the King had gathered round his crown Through truth and honor. And who was it said, "Those nearest to the crown are those to dread"?-- Warm in your breast a serpent, it will sting The breast that warms it: and albeit the King Knew of his sister's hate, he passed it by, Thinking that love and kindness gradually Would win her heart to him. He little knew The witch he dealt with, beautiful to view, And all the poison she could stoop to brew. She, who, well knowing how much mightier The King than Accolon, rejoiced that her Wits had secured from him Excalibur, Without which, she was certain, in the joust The King were as a foe unarmed. Her trust Smiled, confident of conclusion: eloquent, Within her, whispered of success, that lent Her heart a lofty hope; and at large eyes Piled up imperial dreams of power and prize. And in her carven chamber, oaken-dark, Traceried and arrased,--when the barren park Dripped, drenched with autumn,--for November lay Swathed frostily in fog on every spray,-- She at her tri-arched casement sate one night, Ere yet came courier from that test of might. Her lord in slumber and the castle full Of drowsy silence and the rain's dull lull: "The King removed?--my soul!--he _is_ removed! Ere now dog-dead he lies. His sword hath proved Too much for him. Yet! let him lie in state, The great king, Arthur!--But, regenerate, Now crown our other monarch, Accolon! And, with him, Love, the ermined! balmy son Of gods, not men; and nobler hence to rule. Love, Love almighty; beautiful to school The hearts and souls of mortals!--Then this realm's Iron-huskéd flower of war,--that overwhelms The world with havoc,--will explode and bloom The amaranth, peace, with love for its perfume. And then, O Launcelots and Tristrams, vowed To Gueneveres and Isouds,--now allowed No pleasure but what hour by stolen hour, In secret places, brings to flaming flower,-- You shall have feasts of passion evermore! And out-thrust Love, now shivering at the door, No more shalt stand neglected and cast off, Insulted and derided; and the scoff Of War, the bully, whose hands of insult fling Off, for the iron of arms, thy hands that cling About his brutal feet, that crush thy face, Bleeding, into the dust.--Here, in War's place, We will erect a shrine of sacrifice; Love's sacrifice; a shrine of purest price; Where each shall lay his heart and each his soul For Love, for earthly Love! who shall control The world, and make it as the Heaven whole; Being to it its stars and moon and sun, Its firmament and all its lights in one. And if by such Love Heaven should be debarred, Its God, its spheres, with spiritual love in-starred, Hell will be Heaven, our Heaven, while Love shall thus Remain earth Love, that God encouraged in us.

"And now for Urience, my gaunt old lord!-- There lies my worry.--Yet, hath he no sword No dangerous dagger I, hid softly here, Sharp as an adder's fang? or for his ear No instant poison to insinuate Ice in his pulses, and with death abate?" So did she then determine; on that night Of lonely autumn, when no haggard, white, Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane; But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain, And the lamenting wind wailed wild among The trees and turrets, like a phantom throng. So grew her face severe as skies that take Suggestions of far storm whose thunders shake The distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fire A pine the moaning forest mourns as sire-- So touched her countenance that dark intent: And in still eyes her thoughts were evident, As in dark waters, luminous and deep, The heavens glass themselves when o'er them sweep The clouds of storm and austere stars they keep,-- Ghostly and gray,--locked in their steadfast gloom. Then, as if some great wind had swept the room, Silent, intense, she rose up from her seat. As if dim arms had made her a retreat, Secret as thought to move in, like a ghost, Noiseless as sleep and subtle as the frost, Poised like a light and borne as carefully, She trod the gusty hall where shadowy The hangings rolled a dim Pendragon war. And there the mail of Urience shone. A star, Glimmering above, a dying cresset dropped From the stone vault and flared. And here she stopped, And took the sword, fresh-burnished by his page, Long as a flame of pale, arrested rage.-- For she had thought that, when they found him dead, His sword laid by him on the bloody bed Would be convictive that his own hand had Done him this violence when fever-mad. The sword she took; and to the chamber, where King Urience slept, she glided; like an air, Smooth in seductive sendal; or a fit Of faery song, a wicked charm in it, That slays; an incantation full of guile. She paused upon his threshold; for a while Listened; and, sure he slept, stole in and stood Crouched o'er his couch. About her heart the blood Caught, strangling; then rose throbbing, thud on thud, Up to her wide-stretched eyes, and up and up, As wine might, whirling wildly in a cup. Then came rare Recollection, with a mouth Sweet as the honeyed sunbeams of the South Trickling through perplexed ripples of the leaves; To whose faint form a veil of starshine cleaves Intricate gauze from memoried eyes to feet-- Feet softer than the sifted snows and fleet To come and go and airy anxiously. She, trembling to her, like a flower a bee Nests in and makes an audible mouth of musk, Lisping a downy message to the dusk, Laid lips to ears and languaged memories of Now hateful Urience:--How her maiden love Had left Caerleon secretly for Gore, With him, one day of autumn. How a boar, Wild as the wildness of the solitude, Raged at her from a cavern of the wood, That, crimson-creepered, yawned the bristling curse Murderous upon her. As her steed grew worse And, terrified, fled snorting down the dell, How she had flung herself from out the selle, In fear, upon a bank of springy moss, Where she lay swooning: in an utter loss Of mind and limbs; wherein she seemed to see, Or saw in horror, half unconsciously,-- As one who pants beneath an incubus And strives to shriek or move, delirious,-- The monster-thing thrust tow'rds her, tusked and fanged, And hideous snouted: how the whole wood clanged And buzzed and boomed a hundred sounds and lights Lawless about her brain,--like leaves wild nights Of hurricane harvest, shouting.--Then it seemed A fury thundered 'twixt them--and she screamed As round her flew th' uprooted loam that held Leaves, twigs and matted moss; and, clanging, swelled Continual echoes with the thud of strife, And groan of man and brute that warred for life: How all the air, gone mad with foam and forms, Spun froth and, 'twixt her, wrestled hair and arms, And hoofs and feet that crushed the leaves and shred, Whirling them wildly, brown, and yellow, and red. And how she rose and leaned her throbbing head, With all its uncoifed braids of raven hair Disheveled, on one arm,--as white and fair And smooth as milk,--and saw, as through a haze, The brute thing throttled and the frowning face Of Urience bent above it, browed with might; One red swol'n arm, that pinned the hairy fright, Strong as a god's, iron at the gullet's brawn: Dug in its midriff, the close knees, updrawn, Wedged, as with steel, the glutton sides that strove,-- A shaggy bulk,--with hoofs that drove and drove. And then she saw how Urience swiftly slipped One arm, the monster's tearing tusks had ripped And ribboned redly, to the dagger's hilt,-- Which at his hip hung long, its haft gold-gilt;-- Flame-like it flashed; and then, as bright as ice, Plunged, and replunged; again, now twice, now thrice; And the huge boar, stretched out in sullen death, Lay, bubbling blood, with harsh, laborious breath. Then how he brought her water from a well, That rustled freshly near them as it fell From its full-mantled urn, in his deep casque, And begged her drink; then bathed her brow, a task That had accompanying tears of joy and vows Of love, and intercourse of eyes and brows, And many kisses: then, beneath the boughs, His wound dressed, and her steed still violent From fear, she mounted and behind him bent And clasped him on the same steed; and they went On through the gold wood tow'rds the golden west, Till, on one low hill's forest-covered crest, Gray from the gold, his castle's battlements pressed. And then she felt she'd loved him till had come Fame of the love of Isoud, whom, from home, Tristram had brought across the Irish foam; And Guenevere's for Launcelot of the Lake: Then how her thought from these did seem to take Reflex of longing; and within her wake Desire for some great lover who should slake; And such found Accolon.

And then she thought How far she'd fallen, and how darkly fraught With consequence was this. Then what distress Were hers and his--her lover's--and success How doubly difficult if, Arthur slain, King Urience lived to assert his right to reign. So she stood pondering with the sword; her lips Breathless, and tight as were her finger-tips About the weapon's hilt. And so she sighed, "Nay, nay! too long hast lived who shouldst have died Even in the womb, my sorrow! who for years Hast leashed my life to thine, a bond of tears, A weight of care, a knot that thus I part! Thus harshly sever! Ugly that thou art Into the elements naked!"

O'er his heart The long blade paused and--then descended hard. Unfleshed, she flung it by her murdered lord, And watched the blood spread darkly through the sheet, And drip, a horror, at impassive feet Pooling the polished oak. Regretless she Stood, and relentless; in her ecstasy A lovely devil: demon crowned, that cried For Accolon, with passion that defied Control in all her senses; clamorous as A torrent in a cavernous mountain pass That sweeps to wreck and ruin; at that hour So swept her longing tow'rds her paramour. Him whom, King Arthur had commanded when Borne from the lists, she should receive again; Her lover, her dear Accolon, as was just, As was but due her for her love--and lust. And while she stood revolving if her deed's Secret were safe, behold! a noise of steeds, Arms, jingling stirrups, voices loud that cursed Fierce in the northern court. To her, athirst For him her lover, war and power it spoke, Him victor and so king. And then awoke Desire to see and greet him: and she fled, Like some wild spectre, down the stairs; and, red, Burst on a glare of links and glittering mail, That shrunk her eyes and made her senses quail. To her a bulk of iron, bearded fierce, Down from a steaming steed into her ears, "This from the King, O Queen!" laughed harsh and hoarse: Two henchmen beckoned, who pitched sheer, with force, Loud clanging at her feet, hacked, hewn, and red, Crusted with blood, a knight in armor--dead: Her Accolon, flung in his battered arms By what to her seemed fiends and demon forms, Wild-torched, who mocked; then, with the parting scoff, "This from the King!" phantoms in fog, rode off.

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And what remains?--From Camelot to Gore That night she, wailing, fled; thence, to the shore,-- As old romances tell,--of Avalon; Where she hath majesty gold-crowned and wan: Clothed dark in cypress, still her lovely face Is young and queenly; sweeter though in grace, And softer for the sorrow there; the trace Of immemorial tears as for some crime, Attempted or committed at some time, Some old, unhappy time of long ago, That haunts her eyes and fills them with its woe: Sad eyes, dark, future-fixed, expectant of That far-off hour awaited of her love, When the forgiving Arthur cometh and Shall rule, dim King, o'er all that golden land, That Isle of Avalon, where none grows old, Where spring is ever, and never a wind blows cold; That lifts its mountains from forgotten seas Of surgeless turquoise deep with mysteries.-- And so was seen Morgana nevermore, Save once, when from the Cornwall coast she bore The wounded Arthur from that last fought fight Of Camlan in a black barge into night. But some may see her, with a palfried band Of serge-stoled maidens, through the drowsy land Of autumn glimmer,--when are sadly strewn The red leaves, and, broad in the east, the moon Hangs, full of frost, a lustrous globe of gleams,-- Faint on the mooning hills as shapes in dreams.

PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC

Beyond the walls, past wood and twilight field, The Usk slipped onward under wharf and wall Of old Caerleon, rolling down, it seemed,-- Incarnadined with splendor of the west,-- The heathen blood of all of Arthur's wars. So she had left him; and he stood alone Within the carven casement, where a ray Of sunset laid a bleeding spear athwart The dark oak hall, and, on the arras gaunt A crimson blade of battle red that dripped.-- And now life's bitterness took Peredur By all his heart's strings, smiting. He would go, Equipped for quest, through all the savagery Of mountain and of forest. And this girl?-- Forget her! and her game of shuttlecock, Of battledore and shuttlecock with his heart, This Angharad! this child the Court had spoiled! Now he remembered how he once had ridd'n, Spurring his piebald stallion down the square, Upon the King's quest, and a girl had laughed From some be-dragoned balcony of walls That faced the gateway; and in passing he Had glimpsed her beauty. It was she. And then He thought how she had haunted him for days, For weeks; and how, returning to Caerleon, His long quest ended, how it thus befell: Deep snow had fallen and the winter wood Lay carpeted with silence. And he rode Into a vista where a raven lay Slain of a hawk; some blood-drops dyed the snow. He lost himself in quaint comparisons Of how the sifted drift was as her skin; The raven's feathers as her heavy hair; And in her cheeks the health of maidenhood Red as the blood-drops. So he sat and dreamed: When one rode up in angry steel and spoke Thrice to no answer, and in anger dashed A gauntlet in his face and made at him: And how he slew him and rode over him, Fiercer than fire; then how he returned To find her fairer than their Gwenddolen,-- Who, ere the coming of this loveliness, Divided all men's hearts with Gwenhwyvar:-- Crowned beauty of the beautiful at Court, With Gwenhwyvar, and fair among the fair.

Thus while he mused he thought he heard her voice: Or was it fancy? teasing him with sounds Of music and of words: or did he hear Her lute below the creepered walls? whose leaves, Crimson with autumn, reddened all the court, Burning continual sunset, where she sat Beside the ceaseless whisper of the foam Of one faint fountain. Sweeter mockery Had never held him: and he heard her sing:--

"Ask me not now to sing to thee Songs I have loved to sing before. I love thee not; it can not be: The dream is done; the song is o'er.

"Come, hold my hands: look deep into The heartbreak of my eyes that bore Glad welcome erst and now adieu; Adieu, adieu forevermore!

"Once more shalt kiss my mouth and brow; Once more my hair,--as oft of yore When it was love and I and thou,-- Then nevermore! ah, nevermore!

"Thou must not weep; I can not weep: I love thee not; should I regret?-- Nay! go; forget my face and sleep, Sleep and forget! sleep and forget!"

"Aye! that I will! thy face, thy form, thy voice, O bird of spring! whose beak is in my heart. Take out thy beak, and sing me back my soul! O bird of spring," he said, "when flowers are dead Thy wing will winter underneath the pine, And hunger, for the summer that is gone, Will slay thy music with the memory. God give thou find no winter in thy heart Whenas dost find the frost invades thy voice! Ah, lovelier than thy song, there's that in me That harps and sings of thee; that troubadours Thy beauty! ballades, sonnets it! and makes A lyric of each heart-beat--all in vain: Thou dost not heed, thou wilt not hear it sing. Or, if thou dost, 'tis but in wantonness, Indifference pretending interest: then praise, A moiety, in mockery. And this To one who'd love thee over all belief, Above all women and beyond all men."

She strummed her lute. He listened, and then laughed, "God's life! our Dagonet might teach me sense, The folly that I am!--What? have I slept A sennight in the taking of the moon, Or danced, sleep-footed, with the forest fays?-- One would imagine.... No!... O silken Lust, O Wantonness! whose soft, voluptuous skirts Trail sweet contamination through these halls! O lawless Love, whose evil influence Haunts and parades Caerleon corridors! O Vanity and Falsehood, throned within The faithless Court, here is another soul, Fresh, fragrant, like a wild-flower of the woods, Ready and willing to be plucked and worn, And placed among those soiled and hothouse flowers, You long have worn, Isolt and Gwenhwyvar! The forest flower, innocent as yet,-- The fairest, hence the more to be desired, The quickest, too, to wither,--whose sweet name Is Angharad!... Ho! page! my horse! my mail!-- God's wounds! my horse! my arms!--I will away!"

And many knights he passed, nor saw; who asked What quest he rode. Inscrutable deeds behind His visor, and along his sullen spear Adventure bitter as a burning ray, Into the night he galloped with the stars.

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And one lone night, two years thereafter,--lost Within a forest wilder than wild Dean; Where neither wind nor water shook the leaves, That hung as turned to stone above the moss And grass, that wrapped the scaly rocks, death-dry, And barren torrents; where he had not found Or man or hut, or slot of boar or deer, Through miles and miles of lamentable trees And twisted thorns; beneath the autumn moon,-- (Pale as a nun's face seen in cloistered walks)-- Above dead tree-tops, like the rugged rock Of melancholy cliffs, he saw wild walls Of some vague castle thrust gray battlements And hoary towers, like a wizard's dream. Great greedy weeds and burrs and briers packed Its moat and roadway: at the very gate Weeds higher than a man; their ancient stalks Devoured with the dust and spider-webs, Or smothered with the slime where croaked the toad. And Peredur against the portal rode, And with his spear-point beat upon its bolts A sounding minute. But no wolf-hound bayed; Only dull echoes of interior walls And hollow rock that arched the empty halls. And once again his truncheon shook the gate And roused a round-eyed owl that screamed and blinked, Like some fierce gargoyle, on the bartizan; And from a crevice, like an omen, hurled A frantic bat. And then he heard a grate, Concealed within the gloomy battlements, Slide slowly; and a lean, gaunt, red-haired youth, Lit with a link, addressed him. And he saw That famine had sunk hollows in his cheeks, And fixed gaunt misery in mouth and eyes. "What knight art thou?" he asked. "And whence dost come?"-- And Peredur replied, "First let me in. I am of Arthur's Court. Long have I ridd'n Through miles and miles of melancholy woods. The night begins to storm. And I would rest." Then said the youth, sad mirth about his mouth, "Rest shalt thou; yea: and since thou, haply, hast Fasted all day, thou shalt break bread with us."-- Then he retired from the grated slide: Undid harsh chains and shot back stubborn bolts; And, stiff with rust, the snarling hinges swung. And Peredur rode armed into a court, Neglected, and pathetic with strewn leaves And offal, where the weed and wire-grass Creviced with wisps the loose and broken stones: And overhead, around the mournful walls, Huge oaks thrust ancient boughs of mistletoe And withered leaves, whose twisted wildness seemed The beckoning arms of hunger, and the hands, Hooked and distorted, darkly threatening, Of murder; enemies that, pitiless, Had laid long siege to that old forest hold.

And he dismounted. And in clanking mail Strode down the hall. And in the hall beheld Youths, lean and auburn-haired, around the hearth; Some eighteen of an equal height, and clad Alike in dingy garments that looked worn And old. And these were like to him who first Had bid him welcome. And they greeted him And took his arms; and bade him to a seat. And then an inner door flung wide; and, lo, Five maidens, like five forest flowers, came; Dark-eyed, dark-haired. Behold, the queen of these Was Angharad. Clad in a ragged robe Of faded satin that had once been rich. She looked at Peredur, and he at her: And with glad eyes once more his soul beheld The hair far blacker than the bird that wings Athwart the milk-white moon: the matchless skin, Inviolably white as wind-flowers blown Among the mighty gospels of the trees: And in her cheeks, the rose of maidenhood Red as round berries winter bushes dot The dimpled drift with under loaded boughs. She knew him not, or seemed to; or forgot To speak his name whenas she looked at him And, blushing, welcomed.

And they sat and talked Until the night waxed late. And as they talked He marked that hunger had made hollow haunts Of all their eyes; and so he longed to ask, But courtesy forbade him. Late it grew, And late and later; and at last there came A knocking, and, as shadowy as two ghosts, Two nuns came gliding; sandalled silence in Frail footsteps, and pale caution on pale lips. One brought a jar of wine, and one brought bread, Six loaves of wheaten flour. And these said, "God bear us witness, Lady, this is all! Now is our Convent barren as thy board;" And so departed. And they sat and ate.

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