Part 9

It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay; Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beam Of moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deem She moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wist The thing she did, until two hot lips kissed His wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought. Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?" But now he felt fierce kisses over and over, And laughter of "Thy word?--Art thou my lover?-- Kisses are more than words!--Come, give them me!-- As for thy word--I give it back to thee!"

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits, Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits; From out her form a pearly light is shed, As, from a lily in a lily-bed, A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone, Uncertain as a cloud that lies alone In empty heaven; her diaphanous feet Are easy as the dew or opaline heat Of summer meads. With ears--aurora-pink As dawn's--she leans and listens on the brink Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt, Wherein vague lights and shadows move about, And palpitations beat--like some huge heart Of Earth--the surging pulse of which we're part. One hand, that hollows her divining eyes, Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies; And with her gaze she fathoms life and death-- Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath Of wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things, The irremediable, where sorrow clings. Around her limbs a veil of woven mist Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst To textured crystal; through which symboled bars Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars Of nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair, Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere, Dreams come and go: the instant images Of things she sees and thinks; realities, Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm, That in the veil take momentary form: Now picturing heaven in celestial fire, And now the hell of every soul's desire; Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery, Beyond the world we touch and know and see.

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No, never,--no!--would they forget that night.-- Too soon the sleepy birds awoke the light! Too soon, for them, trailing gray skirts of breeze, The drowsy dawn came wandering through the trees. "Too soon," she sighed; and he, "Alas! too soon!" But at their scutcheoned casement, overstrewn Of dew and dreams, the dim wind knocked and cried, "Arise! come forth, O bridegroom, and O bride!"

II

Morn; and the Autumn, dreaming, sat among His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost, To don imperial pomp at any cost. On each wild hill he reared his tents of war, Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far, Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged: His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged, Who, in a little fretful while, would soon Work red rebellion under some wan moon: Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear His royalty; and scatter through the air His tattered majesty: then from his head Dash down its golden crown; and in its stead Set up a death's-head mockery of snow, And leave him stripped, a beggar bowed with woe. Blow, wood wind, blow! the day is fair and fine As autumn skies can make it; brisk as brine The air is, rustling in the underbrush, 'Mid which the stag-hounds leap, the huntsmen rush. Hark to the horns! the music of the bows! À mort! à mort!--The hunt is up and goes, Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks, in green,-- Dark woodland green,--a boar-spear held between His selle and hunter's head; and at his thigh A good broad hanger; and one hand on high To wind his horn, that startles many a wing, And makes the forest echoes reel and ring. Away, away they flash, a belted band From Camelot, through the haze-haunted land: With many a leamer leashed, and many a hound, With mouths of bell-like music, now that bound, Uncoupled, forward; for, behold! the hart, A ten-tined buck, doth from the covert dart. And the big stag-hounds swing into the chase, The wild horns sing. The pryce seems but a pace On ere 'tis wound. But, see! where interlace The dense-briared thickets, now the hounds have lost The slot, there where their woodland way is crossed By intercepting waters full of leaves.

Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves Through deeper boscage; and it seems the sun Makes many shadowy stags of this wild one, That lead in different trails the foresters: And in the trees the ceaseless wind, that stirs, Seems some strange witchcraft, that, with baffling mirth, Mocks them the unbayed hart, and fills the earth With rustling sounds of running.--Hastening thence, Galloped King Arthur and King Urience, With one small brachet-hound. Now far away They heard their fellowship's faint horns; and day Wore on to noon; yet, there before them, they Still saw the hart plunge bravely through the brake, Leaving the bracken shaking in his wake: And on they followed; on, through many a copse, Above whose brush, close on before, the tops Of the great antlers swelled anon, then, lo, Were gone where beat the heather to and fro. But still they drave him hard; and ever near Seemed that great hart unwearied, and 'twas clear The chase would yet be long, when Arthur's horse Gasped mightily and, lunging in his course, Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience Reined his gray hunter, laboring. And thence King Arthur went afoot. When suddenly He was aware of a wide waste of sea, And, near the wood, the hart upon the sward, Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard. So with his sword he slew him; then the pryce Wound loudly on his hunting-bugle thrice.

As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast Roused from its sleep,--the solitude had cast For ages on it,--had, a silvery band Of moving sounds of gladness, hand in hand Arisen,--each a visible delight,-- Came three fair damsels, sunny in snowy white, From the red woodland gliding. They the knight,-- For so they deemed the King, who came alone,-- Graced with obeisance. And, "Our lord," said one, "Tenders you courtesy until the dawn, The Earl, Sir Damas. For the day is gone, And you are weary. Safe in his strong keep, Led thither with due worship, you shall sleep." And so he came, o'erwearied, to a hall, An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wall Towered, rock on rock; its turrets, crowding high, Loomed, ancient as the crags, against a sky Wherein the moon hung, owl-eyed, round and full: An old, gaunt giant-castle, like a gull Hung on the weedy cliffs, where broke the dull Vast monotone of ocean, that uprolled Its windy waters; and where all was old, And sad, and swept of winds, and slain of salt, And haunted grim of ruin: where the vault Of heav'n bent ever, clamorous as the rout Of the defiant headlands, stretching out Into the night, with their voluminous shout Of wreck and wrath forever. Arthur then, Among the gaunt Earl's followers, swarthy men, Ate in the wild hall. Then a damsel led, With flaring torch, the tired King to bed, Down lonely labyrinths of that corridored keep. And soon he rested, sunk in heavy sleep.

Then suddenly he woke; it seemed, 'mid groans And dolorous sighs: and round him lay the bones Of many men, and bodies mouldering. And he could hear the wind-swept ocean swing Its sighing surge above. And so he thought, "It is some nightmare weighing me, distraught By that long hunt." And then he sought to shake The horror off and to himself awake. But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs: And gaunt, from iron-ribbéd cells, the eyes Of pale, cadaverous knights regarded him, Unhappy: and he felt his senses swim With foulness of that dungeon.--"What are ye? Ghosts? or chained champions? or a company Of fiends?" he cried. Then, "Speak! if speak ye can! Speak, in God's name! for I am here--a man!" Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who lay, A wasted nightmare, dying day by day, Yet once a knight of comeliness, and strong And great and young, but now, through hunger long, A skeleton with hollow hands and cheeks:-- "Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaks Is only one of twenty knights entombed By Damas here; the Earl who so hath doomed Us in this dungeon, where starvation lairs; Around you lie the bones, whence famine stares, Of many knights. And would to God that soon My liberated ghost might see the moon Freed from the horror of this prisonment!" With that he sighed, and round the dungeon went A rustling sigh, as of the damned; and so Another dim, thin voice complained their woe: "Know, he doth starve us to obtain this end: Because not one of us his strength will lend To battle for what still he calls his rights, This castle and its lands. For, of all knights, He is most base; lacks most in hardihood. A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; good And courteous; withal most noble; whom This Damas hates--yea, even seeks his doom; Denying him to his estate all right Save that he holds by main of arms and might. Through puissance hath Ontzlake some few fields And one right sumptuous manor, where he deals With knights as knights should, with an open hand, Though ill he can afford it. Through the land He is far-famed for hospitality. Ontzlake is brave, but Damas cowardly. For Ontzlake would decide with sword and lance, Body to body, this inheritance: But Damas, vile as he is courageless, Doth on all knights, his guests, lay this duress, To fight for him or starve. For you must know That in this country he is hated so There is no champion who will take the fight. Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight." Quoth he and ceased. And, wondering at the tale, The King lay silent, while each wasted, pale, Poor countenance perused him; then he spake: "And what reward if one this cause should take?"-- "Deliverance for all if of us one Consent to be his party's champion. But treachery and he are so close kin We loathe the part as some misshapen sin; And here would rather with the rats find death Than, serving him, serve wrong, and save our breath, And on our heads, perhaps, bring down God's curse."

"May God deliver you in mercy, sirs, And help us all!" said Arthur. At which word Straightway a groaning sound of iron was heard, Of chains rushed loose and bolts jarred rusty back, And hoarse the gate croaked open; and the black Of that rank cell astonished was with light, That danced fantastic with the frantic night. One high torch, sidewise worried by the gust, Sunned that dark den of hunger, death and dust; And one tall damsel, vaguely vestured, fair, With shadowy hair, poised on the rocky stair: And laughing on the King, "What cheer?" said she. "God's life! the keep stinks vilely! And to see Such noble knights endungeoned, starving here, Doth pain me sore with pity. But, what cheer?" "Thou mockest us. For me, the sorriest Since I was suckled; and of any quest This is the most imperiling and strange.-- But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A change I offer thee; through thee to these with thee, If thou wilt promise, in love's courtesy, To fight for Damas and his brotherhood. And if thou wilt not--look! behold this brood Of lean and dwindled bellies, spectre-eyed,-- Keen knights once,--who refused me. So decide." Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breeze That blew delirious over waves and trees; Thick fields of grasses and the sunny Earth, Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth, And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house Where king and serf might revel and carouse: Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills; Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills; His palace at Caerleon upon Usk, And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry; Or, in the misty morning, shadowy Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought Of his Round Table, and the Grael wide sought In haunted holds by many a haunted shore. Then marveled of what wars would rise and roar With dragon heads unconquered and devour This realm of Britain and crush out that flower Of chivalry whence ripened his renown: And then the reign of some besotted crown, Some bandit king of lust, idolatry-- And with that thought for tears he could not see.-- Then of his best-loved champions, King Ban's son, And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon: And then, ah God! of his loved Guenevere: And with that thought--to starve 'mid horrors here!-- For, being unfriend to Arthur and his Court, Well knew he this grim Earl would bless that sport Of fortune which had fortuned him so well As t' have his King to starve within a cell, In the entombing rock beside the deep.-- And all the life, large in his limbs, did leap Through eager veins and sinews, fierce and red, Stung on to action; and he rose and said: "That which thou askest is right hard, but, lo! To rot here, harder. I will fight his foe. But, mark, I have no weapons and no mail; No steed against that other to avail."

She laughed again; "If we must beg or hire, Fear not for that: these thou shalt lack not, sire." And so she led the way; her torch's fire Sprawling with spidery shadows at each stride The cob-webbed coignes of scowling arches wide. At length they reached an iron-studded door, Which she unlocked with one harsh key she bore 'Mid many keys bunched at her girdle; thence They issued on a terraced eminence. Below, the sea broke sounding; and the King Breathed open air again that had the sting And scent of brine, the far, blue-billowed foam: And in the east the second dawning's gloam, Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaks Red as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks. And so, within that larger light of dawn It seemed to Arthur now that he had known This maiden at his Court, and so he asked. But she, well tutored, her real person masked, And answered falsely, "Nay, deceive thee not. Thou saw'st me ne'er at Arthur's Court, I wot. For here it likes me best to sing and spin, And needle hangings, listening to the din Of ocean, sitting some high tower within. No courts or tournaments or hunts I crave, No knights to flatter me! For me--the wave, The cliffs, the sea and sky, in calm or storm; My garth, wherein I walk at morn; the charm Of ocean, redolent at bounteous noon, And sprayed with sunlight; night's free stars and moon: White ships that pass, some several every year; These ancient towers; and those wild mews to hear." "An owlet maid," the King laughed.--But untrue Was she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew, Deep in intrigues, even for the slaying of The King, her brother, whom she did not love.-- And presently she brought him where, in state, This swarthy Damas, 'mid his wildmen sate.

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And Accolon, at Castle Chariot still, Had lost long weeks in love. Her husband ill, Morgane, perforce, must leave her lover here Among the hills of Gore. A lodge stood near A cascade in the forest, where their wont Was to sit listening the falling fount, That, through sweet talks of many idle hours On moss-banks, varied with the violet flowers, Had learned the lovers' language,--sighed above,-- And seemed, in every fall, to whisper, "love"; That echoed through the lodge, her hands had draped With curious hangings; where were worked and shaped Remembered hours of pleasure, body and soul; Imperishable passions, which made whole The past again in pictures; and could mate The heart with loves long dead; and re-create The very kisses of those perished knights With woven records of long-dead delights. Below the lodge within an urnéd shell The water pooled, and made a tinkling well, Then, slipping thence, through dripping shadows fell From rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon, With Morgane's hollow lute, as eve drew on Came all alone: not ev'n her brindled hound To bound before him o'er the gleaming ground; No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair, Or paging dwarf in purple with him there; Only her lute, about which her perfume Clung, odorous of memories, that made bloom Her absent features, making them arise, Like some rich flower, before his memory's eyes, That seemed to see her lips and to surmise The words they fashioned; then the smile that drank Her soul's deep fire from eyes wherein it sank And slowly waned away to deeper dreams, Fathomless with thought, down in their dove-gray streams. And so for her imagined eyes and lips, Heart-fashioned features, all the music slips Of all his soul, himseems, into his voice, To sing her praises. And, with nervous poise, His fleet, trained fingers waken in her lute Such mellow riot as must make envy-mute The nightingale that listens quivering. And well he hopes that, winging thence, 'twill sing A similar song;--whose passions burn and pain Its anguished soul, now silent,--not in vain Beneath her casement, in that garden old Dingled with heavy roses; in the gold Of Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon: And still he hopes the heartache of the tune Will clamor secret memories in her ear, Of life, less dear than death with her not near; Of love, who longs for her, to have her here: Till melt her eyes with tears; and sighs and sobs O'erwhelm her soul, and separation throbs Hard at her heart, that, longing, lifts to death A prayerful pleading, crying, "But a breath, One moment of real heaven, there! in his arms! Close, close! And, for that moment, then these charms, This body, hell, canst have forevermore!" And sweet to know, perhaps its song will pour Into the dull ear of her drowsy lord A vague suspicion of some secret word, Borne by the bird,--love's wingéd messenger,-- To her who lies beside him; even her, His wife, whom still he loves; whom Accolon Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:--

"The thought of thy white coming, like a song Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue, Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest; Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.-- Come! press it once again, for it is strong To bear that weight which never yet distressed.

"O come! and straight the woodland is stormed through With wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew: And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed, Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last, Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue, Wherein the arrows of all love are cast.

"O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath, Like the soft South, that idly wandereth Through musical leaves of laughing laziness, Page on before her, how sweet,--none can guess: Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death; In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.'

"She comes! she comes! and all my mind doth rave For words to tell her how she doth enslave My soul with beauty: then o'erwhelm with love That loveliness, no words can tell whereof; Words, words, like roses, every path to pave, Each path to strew, and no word sweet enough!

"She comes!--Thro' me a passion--as the moon Works wonder in the sea--through me doth swoon Ungovernable glory; and her soul Seems blent with mine; and now, to some bright goal, Compels me, throbbing like a tender tune, Exhausting all my efforts of control.

"She comes! ah, God! ye little stars that grace The fragmentary skies, and scatter space, Brighter her steps that golden all my gloom! Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume, Sweeter the presence of her wild-flower face, That fragrance-fills my life, and stars with bloom!

"Oh, boundless exultation of the blood! That now compels me to some higher mood, Diviner sense of something that outsoars The Earth--her kiss! that all love's splendor pours Into me; all delicious womanhood, So all the heart that hesitates--adores.

"Sweet, my soul's victor! heart's triumphant Sweet! Within thy bosom Love hath raised his seat; There he sits crowned; and, from thy eyes and hair, Shoots his soft arrows,--as the moonbeams fair,-- That long have laid me supine at thy feet, And changed my clay to ardent fire and air.

"My love! my witch! whose kiss, like some wild wine, Has subtly filled me with a flame divine, An aspiration, whose fierce pulses urge In all my veins, with rosy surge on surge, To hurl me in that heaven, all which is mine, Thine arms! from which I never would emerge."

His ecstasy the very foliage shook; The wood seemed hushed to hear, and hushed the brook; And even the heavens, wherein one star shone clear, Seemed leaning nearer, his glad song to hear, To which its wild star throbbed, all golden-pale: And after which, deep in the purple vale, Awoke the passion of the nightingale.

III