He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive.
II.
You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began?
You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man.
And we got some idea of selection and evolu- tion, you know —
Professor Huxley’s doing — where does he ex- pect to go!
III.
Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble — I may say, a peck —
And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque —
And his puppy died of the mange — my parrot choked on its perch.
This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church?
IV.
So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done
On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun,
Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters —
And reviewers are barely civil — and people get spiteful letters —
And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine —
Was to send in our P. P. C., and purchase a package of strychnine.
V.
Nay — but first we thought it was rational — only fair —
To give both parties a hearing — and went to the meeting-house there,
At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion.
“Little Zion” they call it — a deal more “little” than “Zion.”
VI.
And the preacher preached from the text, “Come out of her.” Hadn’t we come?
And we thought of the Shepherd in Pickwick — and fancied a flavour of rum
Balmily borne on the wind of his words — and my man said, “Well,
Let’s get out of this, my dear — for his text has a brimstone smell.”
VII.
So we went, O God, out of chapel — and gazed, ah God, at the sea.
And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me.
VIII.
And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact,
That, whether or not you believe in the doc- trine taught in a tract,
Life was not in the least worth living. Be- cause, don’t you see?
Nothing that can’t be, can, and what must be, must. Q. E. D.
And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality
Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality
Whose refraction is felt in the nebulas strewn in the pathway of Mars
Like the parings of nails Æonian — clippings and snippings of stars —
Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve — and at times
Give a sweet astronomical twang to remark- ably hobbling rhymes.
IX.
And the sea curved in with a moan — and we thought how once — before
We fell out with those atheist lecturers — once, ah, once and no more,
We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,
A reverend gentleman’s work — the Conver- sion of Colonel Quagg.
And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure —
Zephaniah Stockdolloger’s gospel — a word that deserves to endure
Infinite millions on millions of infinite Æons to come —
“Vocation,” says he, “is vocation, and duty duty. Some.”
X.
And duty, said I, distinctly points out — and vocation, said he,
Demands as distinctly — that I should kill you, and that you should kill me.
The reason is obvious — we cannot exist with- out creeds — who can?
So we went to the chemist’s — a highly re- spectable church-going man —
And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn’t have done so Wait.
It’s evident, Providence is not with you, ma’am, the same thing as Fate.
Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,
But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.
(I don’t exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that’s a consideration I leave to the secu- lar man.)
XI.
I meant of course to go with him — as far as I pleased — but first
To see how my old man liked it — I thought perhaps he might burst.
I didn’t wish it — but still it’s a blessed release for a wife —
And he saw that I thought so — and grinned in derision — and threatened my life
If I made wry faces — and so I took just a sip — and he —
Well — you know how it ended — he didn’t get over me.
XII.
Terrible, isn’t it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse.
He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.
“Never do it again”? Why, certainly not. You don’t
Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow — there — I won’t.
THE TALE OF BALEN
CONTENTS
DEDICATION TO MY MOTHER
THE TALE OF BALEN
DEDICATION TO MY MOTHER
Love that holds life and death in fee,
Deep as the clear unsounded sea
And sweet as life or death can be,
Lays here my hope, my heart, and me
Before you, silent, in a song.
Since the old wild tale, made new, found grace,
When half sung through, before your face,
It needs must live a springtide space,
While April suns grow strong.
March 24, 1896.
THE TALE OF BALEN
I
In hawthorn-time the heart grows light,
The world is sweet in sound and sight,
Glad thoughts and birds take flower and flight,
The heather kindles toward the light,
The whin is frankincense and flame.
And be it for strife or be it for love
The falcon quickens as the dove
When earth is touched from heaven above
With joy that knows no name.
And glad in spirit and sad in soul
With dream and doubt of days that roll
As waves that race and find no goal
Rode on by bush and brake and bole
A northern child of earth and sea.
The pride of life before him lay
Radiant: the heavens of night and day
Shone less than shone before his way
His ways and days to be.
And all his life of blood and breath
Sang out within him: time and death
Were even as words a dreamer saith
When sleep within him slackeneth,
And light and life and spring were one.
The steed between his knees that sprang,
The moors and woods that shone and sang,
The hours where through the spring’s breath rang,
Seemed ageless as the sun.
But alway through the bounteous bloom
That earth gives thanks if heaven illume
His soul forefelt a shadow of doom,
His heart foreknew a gloomier gloom
Than closes all men’s equal ways,
Albeit the spirit of life’s light spring
With pride of heart upheld him, king
And lord of hours like snakes that sting
And nights that darken days.
And as the strong spring round him grew
Stronger, and all blithe winds that blew
Blither, and flowers that flowered anew
More glad of sun and air and dew,
The shadow lightened on his soul
And brightened into death and died
Like winter, as the bloom waxed wide
From woodside on to riverside
And south
ward goal to goal.
Along the wandering ways of Tyne,
By beech and birch and thorn that shine
And laugh when life’s requickening wine
Makes night and noon and dawn divine
And stirs in all the veins of spring,
And past the brightening banks of Tees,
He rode as one that breathes and sees
A sun more blithe, a merrier breeze,
A life that hails him king.
And down the softening south that knows
No more how glad the heather glows,
Nor how, when winter’s clarion blows
Across the bright Northumbrian snows,
Sea-mists from east and westward meet,
Past Avon senseless yet of song
And Thames that bore but swans in throng
He rode elate in heart and strong
In trust of days as sweet.
So came he through to Camelot,
Glad, though for shame his heart waxed hot,
For hope within it withered not
To see the shaft it dreamed of shot
Fair toward the glimmering goal of fame,
And all King Arthur’s knightliest there
Approved him knightly, swift to dare
And keen to bid their records bear
Sir Balen’s northern name.
Sir Balen of Northumberland
Gat grace before the king to stand
High as his heart was, and his hand
Wrought honour toward the strange north strand
That sent him south so goodly a knight.
And envy, sick with sense of sin,
Began as poisonous herbs begin
To work in base men’s blood, akin
To men’s of nobler might.
And even so fell it that his doom,
For all his bright life’s kindling bloom
And light that took no thought for gloom,
Fell as a breath from the opening tomb
Full on him ere he wist or thought.
For once a churl of royal seed,
King Arthur’s kinsman, faint in deed
And loud in word that knew not heed,
Spake shame where shame was nought.
“What doth one here in Camelot
Whose birth was northward? Wot we not
As all his brethren borderers wot
How blind of heart, how keen and hot,
The wild north lives and hates the south?
Men of the narrowing march that knows
Nought save the strength of storms and snows,
What would these carles where knighthood blows
A trump of kinglike mouth?”
Swift from his place leapt Balen, smote
The liar across his face, and wrote
His wrath in blood upon the bloat
Brute cheek that challenged shame for note
How vile a king-born knave might be.
Forth sprang their swords, and Balen slew
The knave ere well one witness knew
Of all that round them stood or drew
What sight was there to see.
Then spake the great king’s wrathful will
A doom for six dark months to fill
Wherein close prison held him, still
And steadfast-souled for good or ill.
But when those weary days lay dead
His lordliest knights and barons spake
Before the king for Balen’s sake
Good speech and wise, of force to break
The bonds that bowed his head.
II
In linden-time the heart is high
For pride of summer passing by
With lordly laughter in her eye;
A heavy splendour in the sky
Uplifts and bows it down again.
The spring had waned from wood and wold
Since Balen left his prison hold
And lowlier-hearted than of old
Beheld it wax and wane.
Though humble heart and poor array
Kept not from spirit and sense away
Their noble nature, nor could slay
The pride they bade but pause and stay
Till time should bring its trust to flower,
Yet even for noble shame’s sake, born
Of hope that smiled on hate and scorn,
He held him still as earth ere morn
Ring forth her rapturous hour.
But even as earth when dawn takes flight
And beats her wings of dewy light
Full in the faltering face of night,
His soul awoke to claim by right
The life and death of deed and doom,
When once before the king there came
A maiden clad with grief and shame
And anguish burning her like flame
That feeds on flowers in bloom.
Beneath a royal mantle, fair
With goodly work of lustrous vair,
Girt fast against her side she bare
A sword whose weight bade all men there
Quail to behold her face again.
Save of a passing perfect knight
Not great alone in force and fight
It might not be for any might
Drawn forth, and end her pain.
So said she: then King Arthur spake:
“Albeit indeed I dare not take
Such praise on me, for knighthood’s sake
And love of ladies will I make
Assay if better none may be.”
By girdle and by sheath he caught
The sheathed and girded sword, and wrought
With strength whose force availed him nought
To save and set her free.
Again she spake: “No need to set
The might that man has matched not yet
Against it: he whose hand shall get
Grace to release the bonds that fret
My bosom and my girdlestead
With little strain of strength or strife
Shall bring me as from death to life
And win to sister or to wife
Fame that outlives men dead.”
Then bade the king his knights assay
This mystery that before him lay
And mocked his might of manhood. “Nay,”
Quoth she, “the man that takes away
This burden laid on me must be
A knight of record clean and fair
As sunlight and the flowerful air,
By sire and mother born to bear
A name to shame not me.”
Then forth strode Launcelot, and laid
The mighty-moulded hand that made
Strong knights reel back like birds affrayed
By storm that smote them as they strayed
Against the hilt that yielded not.
Then Tristram, bright and sad and kind
As one that bore in noble mind
Love that made light as darkness blind,
Fared even as Launcelot.
Then Lamoracke, with hardier cheer,
As one that held all hope and fear
Wherethrough the spirit of man may steer
In life and death less dark or dear,
Laid hand thereon, and fared as they.
With half a smile his hand he drew
Back from the spell-bound thing, and threw
With half a glance his heart anew
Toward no such blameless may.
Between Iseult and Guenevere
Sat one of name as high to hear,
But darklier doomed than they whose cheer
Foreshowed not yet the deadlier year
That bids the queenliest head bow down,
The queen Morgause of Orkney: they
With scarce a flash of the eye could say
The very word of dawn, when day
Gives earth and heaven their crown.
But bright and dark as night or
noon
And lowering as a storm-flushed moon
When clouds and thwarting winds distune
The music of the midnight, soon
To die from darkening star to star
And leave a silence in the skies
That yearns till dawn find voice and rise,
Shone strange as fate Morgause, with eyes
That dwelt on days afar.
A glance that shot on Lamoracke
As from a storm-cloud bright and black.
Fire swift and blind as death’s own track
Turned fleet as flame on Arthur back
From him whose hand forsook the hilt:
And one in blood and one in sin
Their hearts caught fire of pain within
And knew no goal for them to win
But death that guerdons guilt.
Then Gawain, sweet of soul and gay
As April ere he dreams of May,
Strove, and prevailed not: then Sir Kay,
The snake-souled envier, vile as they
That fawn and foam and lurk and lie,
Sire of the bastard band whose brood
Was alway found at servile feud
With honour, faint and false and lewd,
Scarce grasped and put it by.
Then wept for woe the damsel bound
With iron and with anguish round,
That none to help her grief was found
Or loose the inextricably inwound
Grim curse that girt her life with grief
And made a burden of her breath,
Harsh as the bitterness of death.
Then spake the king as one that saith
Words bitterer even than brief.
“Methought the wide round world could bring
Before the face of queen or king
No knights more fit for fame to sing
Than fill this full Round Table’s ring
With honour higher than pride of place:
But now my heart is wrung to know,
Damsel, that none whom fame can show
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 136
