For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request He brought it; and the poet, little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result.
MORTE D'ARTHUR.
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep-the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,- Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more-but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword-and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond studs, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded king. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen or what hast heard ?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag."
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd 'n thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud.
"And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost forever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honor and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds."
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; | Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: "My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone, Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels- And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream-by these Three Queens with crowns of gold-and from them
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. Such times have been not since the light hath led But she that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colorless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ;
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds."
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge; "The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
High from the dais-throne-were parch'd with dust; I have lived my life, and that which I have done
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. If thou shouldst never see my face again,
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? | Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest-if indeed I go- (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ;
And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will you paint like this ?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) ""Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all,
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan- That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away.
Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell: At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we Sat rapt it was the tone with which he read- Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness- Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not: but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, "There now-that's nothing!" drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again: he cannot die." Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated "Come again, and thrice as fair;" And, further inland, voices echoed "Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES.
THIS morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt.
My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ;-Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit-oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March." And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock; Although between it and the garden lies
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster towers.
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lives Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
And sure this orbit of the memory folds Forever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward; but all else of Heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel. And now, As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbor field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap whistled; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me,
"Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts.
Like poets, from the vanity of song?
So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Think you they Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving-such a noise of life
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for what they Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice
And I made answer, "Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise." Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool.
The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. "Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house." He nodded, but a moment afterwards
He cried, "Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.
For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloftGown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shapeHolding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist
Ah, happy shade-and still went wavering down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt,
Aud mix'd with shadows of the common ground! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil,
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her:
"Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine."
She look'd: but all Suffused with blushes-neither self-possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet-paused,
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks.
I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.
So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. "Now," said he, "will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,-the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all."
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchmen peal The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odors on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms: or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the color to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased.
The daughters of the year, One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in passing touch'd with some new grace Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will," Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds; but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd; We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there.
Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she answer'd me, And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering "I am thine." Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfill'd itself, Merged in completion? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed
I had not stayed so long to tell you all,
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth;
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, "Be wise: not easily forgiven Are those, who, setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells-
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |