Part 8

_And one, perchance, will read and sigh: "What aimless songs! Why will he sing Of nature that drags out her woe Through wind and rain, and sun and snow, From miserable spring to spring?" Then put me by._

_And one, perhaps, will read and say: "Why write of things across the sea; Of men and women, far and near, When we of things at home would hear-- Well! who would call this poetry?" Then toss away._

_A hopeless task have we, meseems, At this late day; whom fate hath made Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled With kindred yearnings, try to build A tower like theirs, that will not fade, Out of our dreams._

ACCOLON OF GAUL

_Prelude_

O wondrous legends from the storied wells Of lost Baranton! where old Merlin dwells, Nodding a white poll and a grave, gray beard, As if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard, Who spake like water, danced like careful showers With blown gold curls through drifts of wild-thorn flowers; Loose, lazy arms upon her bosom crossed, An instant seen, and in an instant lost, With one peculiar note, like that you hear Dropped by a reed-bird when the night is near, A vocal gold blown through the atmosphere.

Lo! dreams from dreams in dreams remembered. Naught That matters much, save that it seemed I thought I wandered dim with some one, but I knew Not whom; most beautiful, and young, and true, And pale through suffering: with curl-crowned brow Soft eyes and voice, so strange, they haunt me now-- A dream, perhaps, in dreamland.

Seemed that she Led me along a flower-showered lea Trammeled with puckered pansy and the pea; Where poppies spread great blood-red stain on stain, So gorged with sunlight and the honeyed rain Their hearts were weary; roses lavished beams; Roses, wherein were huddled little dreams That laughed coy, sidewise merriment, like dew, Or from fair fingers fragrant kisses blew. And suddenly a river cleft the sward; And o'er it lay a mist: and it was hard To see whence came it; whitherward it led; Like some wild, frightened thing, it foamed and fled, Sighing and murmuring, from its fountain-head. And following it, at last I came upon The Region of Romance,--from whence were drawn Its wandering waters,--and the storied wells Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells, Nodding a white poll and a great, gray beard. And then, far off, a woman's voice I heard, Wilder than water, laughing in the bowers, Like some strange bird: and then, through wild-thorn flowers, I saw her limbs glance, twinkling as spring showers; And then, with blown gold curls, tempestuous tossed, White as a wood-nymph, she a vista crossed, Laughing that laugh wherein there was no cheer, But soulless scorn. And so to me drew near Her sweet lascivious brow's white wonderment, And gray, great eyes, and hair which had the scent Of all the wild Brécèliande's perfumes Drowned in it; and, a flame in gold, one bloom's Blood-point thrust deep. And, "Viviane! Viviane!" The wild seemed crying, as if swept with rain; And all the young leaves laughed; and surge on surge Swept the witch-haunted forest to its verge, That shook and sighed and stammered, as, in sleep, A giant half-aroused: and, with a leap, That samite-hazy creature, blossom-white, Showered mocking kisses down; then, like a light Beat into gusty flutterings by the dawn, Then quenched, she glimmered and, behold, was gone; And in Brécèliande I stood alone Gazing at Merlin, sitting on a stone; Old Merlin, charmed there, dreaming drowsy dreams; A wondrous company; as many as gleams That stab the moted mazes of a beech. And each grave dream, behold, had power to reach My mind through magic; each one following each In dim procession; and their beauty drew Tears down my cheeks, and Merlin's gray cheeks, too,-- One in his beard hung tangled, bright as dew.-- Long pageants seemed to pass me, brave and fair, Of courts and tournaments, with silvery blare Of immaterial trumpets high in air; And blazoned banners, shields, and many a spear Of Uther, waved an incorporeal fear: And forms of Arthur rose and Guenevere, Of Tristram and of Isoud and of Mark, And many others; glimmering in the dark Of Merlin's mind, they rose and glared and then,-- The instant's fostered phantoms,--passed again. Then all around me seemed a rippling stir Of silken something,--wilier, lovelier Than that witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,-- Approaching with dead knights amid her train, Pale through the vast Brécèliande. And then A knight, steel-helmeted, a man of men, Passed with a fool, King Arthur's Dagonet, Who on his head a tinsel crown had set In mockery. And as he went his way, Behind the knight the leaves began to sway, Then slightly parted--and Morgane le Fay, With haughty, wicked eyes and lovely face, Studied him steadily a little space.

I

"Again I hold thee to my heart, Morgane; Here where the restless forest hears the main Toss as in troubled sleep. Now hear me, sweet, While I that dream of yesternight repeat."

"First let us find some rock or mossed retreat Where we may sit at ease.--Why dost thou look So serious? Nay! learn lightness from this brook, And gladness from these flowers, my Accolon. See the wild vista there! where purpling run Long woodland shadows from the sinking sun; Deeper the wood seems there, secluded as The tame wild-deer that, in the moss and grass, Gaze with their human eyes. Where grow those lines Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shines, Urned deep in tremulous ferns, let's rest upon Yon oak-trunk by the tempest overthrown Years, years ago. See, how 'tis rotted brown! But here the red bark's firm and overgrown Of trailing ivy darkly berried. Share My throne with me. Come, cast away thy care! Sit here and breathe with me this wildwood air, Musk with the wood's decay that fills each way; As if some shrub, while dreaming of the May, In longing languor weakly tried to wake Its perished blossoms and could only make Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew, And shape a spectre of invisible dew To haunt these sounding miles of solitude."

"Still, thou art troubled, Morgane! and the mood, Deep in thy fathomless eyes, glows.--Canst not keep Mine eyes from seeing!--Dark thy thought and deep As that of some wild woman,--found asleep By some lost knight upon a precipice,-- Whom he hath wakened with a sudden kiss: As that of some frail elfin lady,--light As are the foggy moonbeams,--filmy white, Who waves diaphanous beauty on a cliff, That, drowsing, purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag Him crashing down, while she, tall on the crag, Triumphant, mocks him with glad sorcery Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee."

"Follow thy figure further, Accolon. Right fair it is. Too soon, alas! art done," Said she; and tossing back her heavy hair, Said smilingly, yet with a certain air Of hurt impatience, "Why dost not compare This dark expression of my eyes, ah me! To something darker? say, it is to thee As some bewildering mystery of a tarn, A mountain water, that the mornings scorn To anadem with fire and leave gray; To which a champion cometh when the day Hath tired of breding for the twilight's head Flame-petaled blooms, and, golden-chapleted, Sits waiting, rosy with deep love, for night, Who cometh sandaled with the moon; the light Of the auroras round her; her vast hair Tortuous with stars,--that burn, as in a lair The eyes of hunted wild things glare with rage,-- And on her bosom doth his love assuage."

"Yea, even so," said Accolon, his eyes Searching her face: "the knight, as I surmise, Who cometh heated to that haunted place, Stoops down to lave his forehead, and his face Meets fairy faces; elfins in a ring That shadow upward, smiling, beckoning Down, down to wonders, magic built of old For some dim witch.--A city walled with gold, With beryl battlements and paved with pearls; Its lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls Of alabaster; and that witch to love More beautiful than any queen above.-- He pauses, troubled: but a wizard power, In all his bronzen harness, that mad hour Plunges him--whither? What if he should miss Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?-- Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon Found potent in thine eyes, and it hath drawn And plunged him--whither? yea, to what far fate? To what dim end? what veiled and future state?"

With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his, Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss." And like an echo on his sad mouth sate The answer:--"Bliss?--deep have we drunk of late! But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed death Draws near! whose claws will clutch away--whose breath?... I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me, Fairer than those of earth. And I did see How woolly gold they were, how woven through With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew: And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sure Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure That love alone may touch them.'--Thou didst lay The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away. In some strange manner on a misty brook, Between us flowing, striving still to look Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook With torn farewells of pensive melody, Aching with tears and hopeless utterly; So merciless near, meseemed that I did hear That music in those flowers, and yearned to tear Their ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hush Their voices into silence and to crush: Yet o'er me was a something that restrained: The melancholy presence of two pained And awful, burning eyes that cowed and held My spirit while that music died or swelled Far out on shoreless waters, borne away-- Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the ray Of dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest, The glory round it, sings its heavenliest, When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head, Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead, Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night, The slow blood beading on its breast of white.-- And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst given Were strays of parting grief and waifs of heaven For tears and memories. Importunate They spoke to me of loves that separate!-- But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left! And these were with me who was so bereft. The haunting torment of that dream of grief Weighs on my soul and gives me no relief."

He bowed and wept into his hands; and she, Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee, Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords. But ere the impulse saddened into words, Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove, No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love. Firm is all love in firmness of his power; With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower; So built as not to admit from fact a beam Of doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream: All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,-- That moats its tower with flame,--turns to gold wires To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres." She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye, Sang to his dream a questioning reply:--

"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring, Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering? When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted through Of withering grief, are laid beneath the dew, Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall? Her throat a lily, long and spiritual: When like a poppied swath,--hushed haunt of bees,-- Her form is laid in slumber on the leas, Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when Autumn, sighing there, Droops with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair? When her grave eyes are closed to heaven above, Deep, lost in memory's melancholy, love, Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when Winter at the door Shakes from gray locks th' icicles, long and hoar? When Death's eyes, hollow o'er his shoulder, dart Dark looks that wring with tears, then freeze the heart, Will love be less?"

And in her hair wept softly, and her breast Rose and was wet with tears--as when, distressed, Night steals on day, rain sobbing through her curls.--

"Though tears become thee even as priceless pearls, Weep not, Morgane.--Mine no gloom of doubt, But grief for sweet love's death I dreamed about," He said. "May love, the flame-anointed, be Lord of our hearts, and king eternally! Love, ruler of our lives, whose power shall cease No majesty when we are laid at peace; But still shall reign, when souls have loved thus well, Our god in Heaven or our god in Hell."

So they communed. Afar her castle stood, Its slender towers glimmering through the wood: A forest lodge rose, ivy-buried, near A woodland vista where faint herds of deer Stalked like soft shadows: where, with many a run, Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun: And where through trees was seen a surf-white shore. For this was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore; And that her castle, sea-built Chariot, That rooky pile, where, she a while forgot Urience, her husband, now at Camelot. Hurt in that battle where King Arthur strove With the Five Heathen Kings, and, slaying, drove The Five before him, Accolon was borne To a gray castle on his shield one morn;-- A castle like a dream, set high in scorn Above the world and all its hungry herds, Belted with woods melodious with birds, Far from the rush of spears and roar of swords, And the loud shields of battle-bloody lords, And fields of silent slain where Havoc sprawled Gorged to her eyes with carnage.--Dim, high-halled, And hushed it rose; and through the granite-walled Huge gate, and court, up stairs of marble sheen, Six damsels bore him, tiremaids of a queen, Stately and dark, who moved as if a flame Of starlight shone around her; and who came With healing herbs and searched his wounds. A dame, So radiant in raiment silvery, So white, that she attendant seemed to be On that high Holy Grail, which evermore The Table Round hath sought by wood and shore; The angel-guarded cup of mystery, That but the pure in body and soul may see;-- Thus not for him, a worldly one, to love, Who loved her even to wonder; skied above His worship as the moon above the main, That strives and strives to reach her, pale with pain, She with her peaceful, pitiless, virgin cheer Watching his suffering year on weary year.-- To Accolon such seemed she: Then, too late, His heart's ideal, merciless as fate! For whom his soul must yearn till death; and wait And dream of; evermore with sighs and tears, Through the long waste of unavailing years, Seeing her ever luminously stand In luminous heavens, beckoning with her hand: Before which vision heart and soul were weak, And dumb with love, that would, yet could not speak.-- Her beauty filled him with divine despair. Around his heart she seemed to wrap her hair, Her raven hair, and drag him to his doom; Her looks were splendid daggers in the gloom Of his sick soul, his heart's invaded tower, Stabbing, yet never slaying, every hour. Thus worshiping that queen, Morgane le Fay, For many a day within his room he lay, Longing to live now, then again to die, As now her face, or now her glancing eye, Bade his heart hope, with smiled approval of His passion; now despair, with scorn of love; His love, that dragged itself before her feet, Dog-like, to whom even a blow were sweet. Ah, never dreamed he of what was to be,-- Nay, nay! how could he? while the agony Of his unworth possessed his soul so much, He never thought such loveliness and such Perfection ever could stoop from its heaven, Far as his world, and to his arms be given.

One night a tempest tore and tossed and lashed The writhing forest, and deep thunders dashed Sonorous shields together; and anon, Vast in the thunder's pause, the sea would groan Like some enormous curse a knight hath lured From where it soared to maim it with his sword. And Accolon, from where he lay, could see The stormy, wide-wrenched night's immensity Yawn hells of golden ghastliness, and sweep Distending foam, tempestuous, up each steep Of raucous iron. In a fever-fit, He seemed to see, on crags the lightning lit, With tangled hair wild-blown, nude mermaids sit, Singing, and beckoning with foam-white arms Some far ship struggling with the strangling storm's Resistless exultation. And there came One breaker, mountained heavenward, all aflame With glow-worm green, that boomed against the cliff Its bulkéd thunder--and there, pale and stiff, Tumbled in eddies of the howling rocks, His dead, drawn face, with lidless eyes, and locks Oozed close with brine; hurled upward streamingly To streaming mermaids. Then he seemed to see The vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who, With hooting, sought him: down the casement drew Wet, shuddering, hag-like fingers; and, at last, Thronged up the turrets with an elfin blast Of baffled mockery, and whirled wildly off, Back to the forest with a maniac scoff.-- Then, far away, hoofs of a hundred gales, As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales, Loosed from the battlemented hills, the loud Herders of tempest drove their herds of cloud, That down the rocking night rolled, with the glare Of swimming eyeballs, and the hurl of hair, Blown, black as rain, from misty-manéd brows, And mouths of bellowing storm; in mad carouse, With whips of wind, rolling and ruining by, Headlong, along the wild and headlong sky.

Once when the lightning made the casement glare, Squares touched to gold, athwart it swept her hair, As if a raven's wing had cut the storm Death-driven seaward. And the vague alarm Of her swift coming filled his soul with hope And wild surmise, that winged beyond the scope Of all his dreams had dreamed of, when he saw 'Twas she, the all-adored. He felt no awe When low she kneeled beside him, beautiful As some lone star and white, and said, "To lull Thy soul to sleep, lo, I have come to thee.-- Didst thou not call me?"--

"Yea;" he said. "Maybe Thou heard'st my heart, that calls continually: But with my lips I called thee not. But, stay! The night is wild. Thou wilt not go away! The night is wild, and it is long till day! To see thee like a benediction near, To hear thy voice, to have thy cool hand here Smoothing my feverish brow and matted curls; To see thy white throat, whiter than its pearls, Lean o'er me breathing; feel the influence Of thy large eyes, like stars, whose sole defence Against all storm is beauty,--is to see And feel a portion of divinity, My heart's high dream come true, my dream of dreams!--" Then paused and said, "See, how the tempest streams! How sweeps the tumult! and the thunder gleams As, when King Arthur charged on battle-fields Of Humber, glared the fiery spears and shields Of all his knights!--when the Five Kings went down! In the wild hurl of onset overthrown.... But thy white presence, like the moon, has sown This room with calm; and all the storm in me, The tempest of my soul, dies utterly. So let me feel thy hand upon my cheek. And speak! I love thy voice: belovéd, speak."

"Thou lov'st a thing of air, fond Accolon! Is thy love then so spiritual? Nay! anon 'Twill change, methinks. Whatever may befall, Earth-love, thou'lt find, is better, after all."-- She smiled; and, sudden, through the moon-rent wall Of storm, baptizing moonlight, foot and face, Bathed and possessed her, as his soul the grace And sweetness of her smile, whose life was brief, But long enough to heal him of his grief.

"Now rest," she said; "I love thee with much love!-- Thou didst not know I loved: but God above, He knew and had divinement.--Winds may blow!-- To lie by thee to-night my mind is. So,"-- She laughed,--"sleep well!--For me ... give me thy word Of knighthood!--look thou!... and this naked sword Laid here betwixt us!... Let it be a wall Strong between love and lust an lov'st me all in all."

Then she unbound the gold that clasped her waist: Undid her hair: and, like a flower faced, Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to bud In bloom and beauty of young womanhood. And fragrance was to her as natural As odor to the rose. And white and tall, All ardor and all fervor, through the room She moved, a presence as of pale perfume. And all his eyes and lips and limbs were fire: His tongue, delirious, babbled of desire; Cried, "Thine is devil's kindness, which is even Worse than fiend's fury, since the soul sees Heaven Among eternal torments unforgiven. Temptation neighbored, like a bloody rust On a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lust Is love's undoing when love's limbs are cast Naked before desire. What love so chaste But that such nearness of what should be hid Makes it a lawless love?--But thou hast bid. Rest thou. I love thee; love thee as dost know, And all my love shall battle with love's foe."

"Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keep Snow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweep An avalanche of virtue in one look. And he, whose very soul within him shook, Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"--And hopes, that in his brain Had risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rain At that high look she gave of chastest pain. Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and she Laid the broad blade between them instantly. And so they lay its iron between them twain: Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdain Of passion in him struggled up and stood A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood. An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep. The winds of night blew vigorous from the deep With rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold, And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled. He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for one Whose life is but a dream in Avalon. Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went by The casement's square of heaven,--a crystal dye, A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,-- That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead. And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed, So soft a taper had not bent aside, And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair, Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer, "Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"