Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

by Alfred Tennyson

  Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown

  The vast necessity of heart and life.

  Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear

  My fate or folly, passing gayer youth

  For one so old, must be to love thee still.

  But ere I leave thee let me swear once more

  That if I schemed against thy peace in this,

  May yon just heaven, that darkens o’er me, send

  One flash that, missing all things else, may make

  My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.”

  Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a

  bolt—

  For now the storm was close above them—struck,

  Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining

  With darted spikes and splinters of the wood

  The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw

  The tree that shone white-listed thro’ the gloom.

  But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath,

  And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork,

  And deafen’d with the stammering cracks and

  claps

  That follow’d, flying back and crying out,

  “O Merlin, tho’ you do not love me, save,

  Yet save me!” clung to him and hugg’d him close;

  And call’d him dear protector in her fright,

  Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,

  But wrought upon his mood and hugg’d him close.

  The pale blood of the wizard at her touch

  Took gayer colors, like an opal warm’d.

  She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales;

  She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept

  Of petulancy; she call’d him lord and liege,

  Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,

  Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love

  Of her whole life; and ever overhead

  Bellow’d the tempest, and the rotten branch

  Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain

  Above them; and in change of glare and gloom

  Her eyes and neck glittering went and came;

  Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent,

  Moaning and calling out of other lands,

  Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more

  To peace; and what should not have been had been,

  For Merlin, overtalk’d and overworn,

  Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.

  Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm

  Of woven paces and of waving hands,

  And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,

  And lost to life and use and name and fame.

  Then crying, “I have made his glory mine,”

  And shrieking out, “O fool!” the harlot leapt

  Adown the forest, and the thicket closed

  Behind her, and the forest echo’d “fool.”

  LANCELOT AND ELAINE

  ELAINE the fair, Elaine the lovable,

  Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,

  High in her chamber up a tower to the east

  Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;

  Which first she placed where morning’s earliest ray

  Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;

  Then fearing rust or soilure fashion’d for it

  A case of silk, and braided thereupon

  All the devices blazon’d on the shield

  In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,

  A border fantasy of branch and flower,

  And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.

  Nor rested thus content, but day by day,

  Leaving her household and good father, climb’d

  That eastern tower, and entering barr’d her door,

  Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,

  Now guess’d a hidden meaning in his arms,

  Now made a pretty history to herself

  Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,

  And every scratch a lance had made upon it,

  Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh,

  That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle,

  That at Caerleon—this at Camelot—

  And ah, God’s mercy, what a stroke was there!

  And here a thrust that might have kill’d, but God

  Broke the strong lance, and roll’d his enemy down,

  And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

  How came the lily maid by that good shield

  Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?

  He left it with her, when he rode to tilt

  For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,

  Which Arthur had ordain’d, and by that name

  Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

  For Arthur, long before they crown’d him king,

  Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,

  Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.

  A horror lived about the tarn, and clave

  Like its own mists to all the mountain side;

  For here two brothers, one a king, had met

  And fought together, but their names were lost;

  And each had slain his brother at a blow;

  And down they fell and made the glen abhorr’d.

  And there they lay till all their bones were bleach’d,

  And lichen’d into color with the crags.

  And he that once was king had on a crown

  Of diamonds, one in front and four aside.

  And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass,

  All in a misty moonshine, unawares

  Had trodden that crown’d skeleton, and the skull

  Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown

  Roll’d into light, and turning on its rims

  Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn.

  And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught,

  And set it on his head, and in his heart

  Heard murmurs, “Lo, thou likewise shalt be king.”

  Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems

  Pluck’d from the crown, and show’d them to his

  knights

  Saying: “These jewels, whereupon I chanced

  Divinely, are the kingdom’s, not the King’s—

  For public use. Henceforward let there be,

  Once every year, a joust for one of these;

  For so by nine years’ proof we needs must learn

  Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow

  In use of arms and manhood, till we drive

  The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land

  Hereafter, which God hinder!” Thus he spoke.

  And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still

  Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year,

  With purpose to present them to the Queen

  When all were won; but, meaning all at once

  To snare her royal fancy with a boon

  Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.

  Now for the central diamond and the last

  And largest, Arthur, holding then his court

  Hard on the river nigh the place which now

  Is this world’s hugest, let proclaim a joust

  At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh

  Spake—for she had been sick—to Guinevere:

  “Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move

  To these fair jousts?” “Yea, lord,” she said, “ye

  know it.”

  “Then will ye miss,” he answered, “the great deeds

  Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists,

  A sight ye love to look on.” And the Queen

  Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly

  On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King.

  He, thinking that he read her meaning there,

  “Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more

  Than many diamonds
,” yielded; and a heart

  Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen—

  However much he yearn’d to make complete

  The tale of diamonds for his destined boon—

  Urged him to speak against the truth, and say,

  “Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole,

  And lets me from the saddle;” and the King

  Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way.

  No sooner gone than suddenly she began:

  “To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame!

  Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights

  Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd

  Will murmur, ‘Lo the shameless ones, who take

  Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!’ ”

  Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in vain:

  “Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise,

  My Queen, that summer when ye loved me first.

  Then of the crowd ye took no more account

  Than of the myriad cricket of the mead,

  When its own voice clings to each blade of grass,

  And every voice is nothing. As to knights,

  Them surely can I silence with all ease.

  But now my loyal worship is allow’d

  Of all men; many a bard, without offence,

  Has link’d our names together in his lay,

  Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere,

  The pearl of beauty; and our knights at feast

  Have pledged us in this union, while the King

  Would listen smiling. How then? is there more?

  Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself,

  Now weary of my service and devoir,

  Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?”

  She broke into a little scornful laugh:

  “Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King,

  That passionate perfection, my good lord—

  But who can gaze upon the sun in heaven?

  He never spake word of reproach to me,

  He never had a glimpse of mine untruth,

  He cares not for me. Only here today

  There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes;

  Some meddling rogue has tamper’d with him—else

  Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round,

  And swearing men to vows impossible,

  To make them like himself; but, friend, to me

  He is all fault who hath no fault at all.

  For who loves me must have a touch of earth;

  The low sun makes the color. I am yours,

  Not Arthur’s, as ye know, save by the bond.

  And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts;

  The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream

  When sweetest; and the vermin voices here

  May buzz so loud—we scorn them, but they sting.”

  Then answer’d Lancelot, the chief of knights:

  “And with what face, after my pretext made,

  Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I

  Before a king who honors his own word

  As if it were his God’s?”

  “Yea,” said the Queen,

  “A moral child without the craft to rule,

  Else had he not lost me; but listen to me,

  If I must find you wit. We hear it said

  That men go down before your spear at a touch,

  But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name,

  This conquers. Hide it therefore; go unknown.

  Win! by this kiss you will; and our true King

  Will then allow your pretext, O my knight,

  As all for glory; for to speak him true,

  Ye know right well, how meek soe’er he seem,

  No keener hunter after glory breathes.

  He loves it in his knights more than himself;

  They prove to him his work. Win and return.”

  Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse,

  Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known,

  He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare,

  Chose the green path that show’d the rarer foot,

  And there among the solitary downs,

  Full often lost in fancy, lost his way;

  Till as he traced a faintly-shadow’d track,

  That all in loops and links among the dales

  Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw

  Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers.

  Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn.

  Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man,

  Who let him into lodging and disarm’d.

  And Lancelot marvell’d at the wordless man;

  And issuing found the Lord of Astolat

  With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine,

  Moving to meet him in the castle court;

  And close behind them stept the lily maid

  Elaine, his daughter; mother of the house

  There was not. Some light jest among them rose

  With laughter dying down as the great knight

  Approach’d them; then the Lord of Astolat:

  “Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name

  Livest between the lips? for by thy state

  And presence I might guess thee chief of those,

  After the King, who eat in Arthur’s halls.

  Him have I seen; the rest, his Table Round,

  Known as they are, to me they are unknown.”

  Then answer’d Lancelot, the chief of knights:

  “Known am I, and of Arthur’s hall, and known,

  What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield.

  But since I go to joust as one unknown

  At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not;

  Hereafter ye shall know me—and the shield—

  I pray you lend me one, if such you have,

  Blank, or at least with some device not mine.”

  Then said the Lord of Astolat: “Here is Torre’s:

  Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre,

  And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough.

  His ye can have.” Then added plain Sir Torre,

  “Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.”

  Here laugh’d the father saying: “Fie, Sir Churl,

  Is that an answer for a noble knight?

  Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here,

  He is so full of lustihood, he will ride,

  Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour,

  And set it in this damsel’s golden hair,

  To make her thrice as wilful as before.”

  “Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not

  Before this noble knight,” said young Lavaine,

  “For nothing. Surely I but play’d on Torre,

  He seem’d so sullen, vext he could not go;

  A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt

  That some one put this diamond in her hand,

  And that it was too slippery to be held,

  And slipt and fell into some pool or stream,

  The castle-well, belike; and then I said

  That if I went and if I fought and won it—

  But all was jest and joke among ourselves—

  Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest.

  But, father, give me leave, an if he will,

  To ride to Camelot with this noble knight.

  Win shall I not, but do my best to win;

  Young as I am, yet would I do my best.”

  “So ye will grace me,” answer’d Lancelot,

  Smiling a moment, “with your fellowship

  O’er these waste downs whereon I lost myself,

  Then were I glad of you as guide and friend:

  And you shall win this diamond,—as I hear,

  It is a fair large diamond,—if ye may,

  And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.”

  “A fair large diamond,” added plain Sir Tor
re,

  “Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.”

  Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground,

  Elaine, and heard her name so tost about,

  Flush’d slightly at the slight disparagement

  Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her,

  Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return’d:

  “If what is fair be but for what is fair,

  And only queens are to be counted so,

  Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid

  Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth,

  Not violating the bond of like to like.”

  He spoke and ceased; the lily maid Elaine,

  Won by the mellow voice before she look’d,

  Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments.

  The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,

  In battle with the love he bare his lord,

  Had marr’d his face, and mark’d it ere his time.

  Another sinning on such heights with one,

  The flower of all the west and all the world,

  Had been the sleeker for it; but in him

  His mood was often like a fiend, and rose

  And drove him into wastes and solitudes

  For agony, who was yet a living soul.

  Marr’d as he was, he seem’d the goodliest man

  That ever among ladies ate in hall,

  And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.

  However marr’d, of more than twice her years,

  Seam’d with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek,

  And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes

  And loved him, with that love which was her doom.

  Then the great knight, the darling of the court,

  Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall

  Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain

  Hid under grace, as in a smaller time,

  But kindly man moving among his kind;

  Whom they with meats and vintage of their best

  And talk and minstrel melody entertain’d.

  And much they ask’d of court and Table Round,

  And ever well and readily answer’d he;

  But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere,

  Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,

  Heard from the baron that, ten years before,

  The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue.

  “He learnt and warn’d me of their fierce design