Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems

Madison Julius Cawein

Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems

PRELUDE

WHY, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naughtSave this, alas! that once it seemed I thoughtI wandered dim with someone, but I knewNot who; most beautiful and good and true,Yet sad through suffering; with curl-crowned brow,Soft eyes and voice; so white she haunts me now: —And when, and where? – At night in dreamland.SheLed me athwart a flower-showered leaWhere trammeled puckered pansy and the pea;Spread stains of pale-rod poppies rinced of rain,So gorged with sun their hurt hearts ached with pain;Heaped honeysuckles; roses lavishing beams,Wherein I knew were huddled little dreamsWhich laughed coy, hidden merriment and thereBlew quick gay kisses fragrancing the air.And where a river bubbled through the swardA mist lay sleepily; and it was hardTo see whence sprung it, to what seas it led,How broadly spread and what it was it fledSo ceasless in its sighs, and bickering onInto romance or some bewildering dawnOf wisest legend from the storied wellsOf lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells,Nodding a white poll and a grand, gray beardAs if some Lake Ladyé he, listening, heard,Who spake like water, danced like careful showersWith blown gold curls thro' drifts of wild-thorn flowers;Loose, lazy arms in graceful movement tossed,Float flower-like down a woodland vista, lostIn some peculiar note that wrings a tearSlow down his withered cheek. And then steals nearHer sweet, lascivious brow's white wonderment,And gray rude eyes, and hair which hath the scentOf the wildwood Brécéliand's perfumesIn Brittany; and in it one red bloom'sBlood-drop thrust deep, and so "Sweet Viviane!"All the glad leaves lisp like a young, soft rainFrom top to top, until a running surgeThe dark, witch-haunted solitude will urge,That shakes and sounds and stammers as from sleepSome giant were aroused; and with a leapA samite-gauzy creature, glossy white,Showers mocking kisses fast and, like a lightBeat by a gust to flutter and then done,From Brécéliande and Merlin she is gone.But still he sits there drowsing with his dreams;A wondrous cohort hath he; many as gleamsThat stab the moted mazes of a beech;And each grave dream hath its own magic speechTo sting to tears his old eyes heavy – twoHang, tangled brilliants, in his beard like dew:And still faint murmurs of courts brave and fair,And forms of Arthur and proud Guenevere,Grave Tristram and rare Isoud and stout Mark,Bold Launcelot, chaste Galahad the darkOf his weak mind, once strong, glares up with, then,– The instant's fostered blossoms – die again.A roar of tournament, a rippling stirOf silken lists that ramble into her,That white witch-mothered beauty, Viviane,The vast Brécéliande and dreams again.Then Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, trips there,A waggish cunning; glittering on his hairA tinsel crown; and then will slightly swayThick leaves and part, and there Morgane the FayWith haughty wicked eyes and lovely faceStudies him steady for a little space.I"THOU askest with thy studious eyes again,Here where the restless forest hears the mainToss in a troubled sleep and moan. Ah, sweet,With joy and passion the kind hour's replete;And what wild beauty here! where roughly runHuge forest shadows from the westering sun,The wood's a subdued power gentle asYon tame wild-things, that in the moss and grassGaze with their human eyes. Here grow the linesOf pale-starred green; and where yon fountain shinesUrned in its tremulous ferns, rest we uponThis oak-trunk of God's thunder overthrownYears, years agone; not where 'tis rotted brownBut where the thick bark's firm and overgrownOf clambering ivy blackly berried; whereWild musk of wood decay just tincts the air,As if some strange shrub on some whispering way,In some dewed dell, while dreaming of one May,In longing languor weakly tried to wakeOne sometime blossom and could only makeGhosts of such dead aromas as it knew,And shape a specter, budding thin as dew,To haunt these sounding miles of solitude.Troubled thou askest, Morgane, and the mood,Unfathomed in thine eyes, glows rash and deepAs that in some wild-woman's found on sleepBy some lost knight upon a precipice,Whom he hath wakened with a laughing kiss.As that of some frail, elfin lady whiteAs if of watery moonbeams, filmy dight,Who waves diaphanous beauty on some cliffThat drowsing purrs with moon-drenched pines; but ifThe lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and dragHim crashing down, while she, tall on the crag,Triumphant mocks him with glad sorceryTill all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.As that bewildering mystery of a tarn,Some mountain water, which the mornings scornTo anadem with fire and leave gray;To which some champion cometh when the DayHath tired of breding on his proud, young headFlame-furry blooms and, golden chapletéd,Sits rosy, trembling with full love for Night,Who cometh sandaled; dark in crape; the lightOf her good eyes a marvel; her vast hairTortuous with stars, – as in some shadowy lairThe eyes of hunted wild things burn with rage, —And on large bosoms doth his love assuage."He, coming thither in that haunted place,Stoops low to quaff cool waters, when his faceMeets gurgling fairy faces in a ringThat jostle upward babbling; beckoningHim deep to wonders secret built of oldBy some dim witch: 'A city walled with gold,With beryl battlements and paved with pearls,Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirlsOf alabaster, and that witch to love,More beautiful to love than queens above.' —He pauses troubled, but a wizard power,In all his bronzen harness that mad hourPlunges him – whither? what if he should missThose cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?Ah, Morgane, that same power AccolonSaw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawnHim deep to plunge – and to what breathless fate? —Bliss? – which, too true, he hath well quaffed of late!But, there! – may come what stealthy-footed DeathWith bony claws to clutch away his breath!And make him loveless to those eyes, alas! —Fain must I speak that vision; thus it was:"In sleep one plucked me some warm fleurs-de-lis,Larger than those of earth; and I might seeTheir woolly gold, loose, webby woven thro', —Like fluffy flames spun, – gauzy with fine dew.And 'asphodels!' I murmured; then, 'these sureThe Eden amaranths, so angel pureThat these alone may pluck them; aye and aye!But with that giving, lo, she passed awayBeyond me on some misty, yearning brookWith some sweet song, which all the wild air tookWith torn farewells and pensive melodyTouching to tears, strange, hopeless utterly.So merciless sweet that I yearned high to tearThose ingot-cored and gold-crowned lilies fair;Yet over me a horror which restrainedWith melancholy presence of two painedAnd awful, mighty eyes that cowed and heldMe weeping while that sad dirge died or swelledFar, far on endless waters borne away:A wild bird's musick smitten when the rayOf dawn it burned for graced its drooping head,And the pale glory strengthened round it dead;Daggered of thorns it plunged on, blind in night,The slow blood ruby on its plumage white."Then, then I knew these blooms which she had givenWere strays of parting grief and waifs of HeavenFor tears and memories; too delicateFor eyes of earth such souls immaculate!But then – my God! my God! thus these were left!I knew then still! but of that song bereft —That rapturous wonder grasping after grief —Beyond all thought – weak thought that would be thief."And bowed and wept into his hands and sheSorrowful beheld; and resting at her kneeRaised slow her oblong lute and smote its chords;But ere the impulse saddened into wordsSaid: "And didst love me as thy lips have spakeNo visions wrought of sleep might such love shake.Fast is all Love in fastness of his power,With flame reverberant moated stands his tower;Not so built as to chink from fact a beamOf doubt and much less of a doubt from dream;Such, the alchemic fires of Love's desires,Which hug this like a snake, melt to gold wiresTo chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."So ceased and then, sad softness in her eyeSang to his dream a questioning reply:"Will love grow less when dead the roguish Spring,Who from gay eyes sowed violets whispering;Peach petals in wild cheeks, wan-wasted thro'Of withering grief, laid lovely 'neath the dew,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when comes queen Summer tall,Her throat a lily long and spiritual;Rich as the poppied swaths – droned haunts of bees —Her cheeks, a brown maid's gleaning on the leas,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when Autumn sighing thereBroods with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair;Tears in grave eyes as in grave heavens above,Deep lost in memories' melancholy, love,Will love grow less?"Will love grow less when Winter at the doorBegs on her scant locks icicles as hoar;While Death's eyes hollow o'er her shoulder dartA look to wring to tears then freeze the heart,Will love grow less?"And in her hair wept softly and her breastRose and was wet with tears; like as, distressed,Night steals on Day rain sobbing thro' her curls."Tho' tears become thee even as priceless pearls,Weep not for love's sake! mine no gloom of doubt,But woe for sweet love's death such dreams brought out.Nay, nay; crowned, throned and flame-anointed heKings our twin-kingdomed hearts eternally.Love, high in Heaven beginning and to ceaseNo majesty when hearts are laid at peace;But reign supreme, if souls have wrought as well,A god in Heaven or a god in Hell.Yea, Morgane, for the favor of his faceAll our rich world of love I will retrace:"Hurt in that battle where thy brother stroveWith those five kings thou wot'st of, dearest love,Wherein the five were worsted, I was broughtTo some king's castle on my shield, methought, —Out of the grind of spears and roar of swords,From the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,Culled from the mountained slain where Havoc sprawledGorged to her eyes with carnage, growling crawled; —By some tall damsels tiremaids of some queenStately and dark, who moved as if a sheenOf starlight spread her presence; and she cameWith healing herbs and searched my wounds. A dameSo marvelous in raiment silveryI feared lest some attendant chaste were sheTo that high Holy Grael, which Arthur hathSought ever widely by hoar wood and path; —Thus not for me, a worldly one, to love,Who loved her even to wonder; skied aboveHis worship as our moon above the Main,That passions upward yearning in great pain,And suffers wearily from year to year,She peaceful pitiless with virgin cheer. —Ah, ideal love, as merciless as fate!And, oh, that savage aching which must waitFor its fulfillment, tortured love in tears,Until that beauty dreamed of many yearsBends over one from luminous skies, so grandOne's weakness fears to touch its mastering hand,And hesitates and stammers nothings weak,And loves and loves with love that can not speak!Ah, there's the tyranny that breeds despair;Breaks hearts whose strong youth by one golden hairCoiled 'round the throat is sooner strangled dumbThan by a glancing dagger thrust from gloomOf an old arras at the very hourOne thought one safest in one's guarded tower. —Thus, Morgane, worshiping that lady IWas speechless; longing now to live, now die,As her fine face suggested secrets ofSome passion kin to mine, or scorn of loveThat dragged heroic humbleness to her feet,For one long look that spake and made such sweet.Ah, never dreamed I of what was to be, —Nay! nay! how could I? while that agonyOf doubtful love denied my heart too much,Too much to dream of that perfection suchAs was to grant me boisterous hours of lifeAnd sever all the past as with a knife!"One night a tempest scourged and beat and lashedThe writhing forest and vast thunders crashedClamorous with clubs of leven, and anon,Between the thunder pauses, seas would groanLike some enormous curse a knight hath luredFrom where it soared to maim it with his sword.I, with eyes partly lidded, seemed to seeThat cloudy, wide-wrenched night's eternityYawn hells of golden ghastliness; and sweepDistending foams tempestuous up each steepOf furious iron, where pale mermaids sitWith tangled hair black-blown, who, bit by bit,Chant glimmering; beckoning on to strangling armsSome hurt bark hurrying in the ravenous storm'sResistless exultation; till there cameOne breaker mounting inward, all aflameWith glow-worm green, to boom against the cliffIts thunderous bulk – and there, sucked pale and stiff,Tumbled in eddies up the howling rocksMy dead, drawn face; eyes lidless; matted locksOozed close with brine; tossed upward merrilyBy streaming mermaids. – Madly seemed to seeThe vampire echoes of the hoarse wood, who,Collected, sought me; down the casement drewWet, shuddering fingers sharply; thronging fastUp hooting turrets, fell thick screaming, castDown bastioned battlements trooped whistling off;From the wild woodland growled a backward scoff. —Then far away, hoofs of a thousand gales,As wave rams wave up windy bluffs of Wales,Loosed from the groaning hills, the cohorts loud,Spirits of thunder, charioteered of cloud,Roared down the rocking night cored with the glareOf fiery eyeballs swimming; their drenched hairBlown black as rain unkempt back from black brows,Wide mouths of storm that voiced a hell carouseAnd bulged tight cheeks with wind, rolled riotous byRuining to ruinous cliffs to headlong die."Once when the lightning made the casement glareSquares touched to gold, between it rose her hair,As if a raven's wing had cut the stormDeath-driven seaward; and a vague alarmStung me with terrors of surmise where hopeAs yet pruned weak wings crippled by their scope.And, lo, she kneeled low, radiant, wonderful,Lawn-raimented and white; kneeled low, – 'to lullThese thoughts of night such storms might shape in thee,All such to peace and sleep,' – Ah, God! to seeHer like a benediction fleshed! with herHearing her voice! her cool hand wandering bareWistful on feverish brow thro' long deep curls!To see her rich throat's carcaneted pearlsRise as her pulses! eyes' large influencePoured toward me straight as stars, whose sole defenseAgainst all storm is their bold beauty! thenTo feel her breathe and hear her speak again!'Love, mark,' I said or dreamed I moaned in dreams,'How wails the tumult and the thunder gleams!As if of Arthur's knights had charged two fieldsBright as sun-winds of dawn; swords, spears and shieldsFlashed lordly shocked; had, – to a man gone downIn burst of battle hurled, – lain silent sown.Love, one eternal tempest thus with theeWere calm, dead calm! but, no! – for thee in meSuch calm proves tempest. Speak; I feel thy voiceThrob soft, caressing silence, healing noise.'"Is radiance loved of radiance? day of day?Lithe beam of beam and laughing ray of ray?Hope loved of hope and happiness of joy,Or love of love, who hath the world for toy?And thou – thou lov'st my voice? fond Accolon!Why not – yea, why not? – nay! – I prithee! – groanNot for that thou hast had long since thine all.'She smiled; and dashed down storm's black-crumbled wall,Baptizing moonlight bathed her, foot and faceDeluging, as my soul brake toward her graceWith worship from despair and secret grief,That felt hot tears of heartsease sweet and brief.And one immortal night to me she saidWords, lay I white in death had raised me red.'Rest now,' they were, 'I love thee with such love! —'Some speak of secret love, but God aboveHath knowledge and divinement.'… Passionate low,'To lie by thee to-night my mind is': – SoShe laughed; – 'Sleep well! – for me? why, thy fast wordOf knighthood, look thou, and this naked swordLaid in betwixt us… Let it be a wallStrong between love and lust and lov'st me all in all.'Undid the goodly gold from her clasped waist;Unbound deep locks; and, like a blossom faced,Stood sweet an unswayed stem that ran to budIn breasts and face a graceful womanhood.And fragrance was to her as naturalAs odor to the rose; and she a tall,White ardor and white fervor in the roomMoved, some pale presence that with light doth bloom.Then all mine eyes and lips and limbs were fire;My tongue delirious throbbed a lawless lyre,That harped loud words of laud for loveliness,Inspired of such, but these I can not guess.Then she, as pure as snows of peaks that keepSun-cloven crowns of virgin, vanquishing steep,Frowned on me, and the thoughts, that in my brainHad risen a glare of gems, set dull like rain,And fair I spake her and with civil pain:"'Thine, sweet, a devil's kindness which is givenFor earthly pleasure but bars out from Heaven.Temptation harbored, like a bloody rustOn a bright blade, leaves ugly stains; and lustIs love's undoing when love's limbs are castA commonness to desire that makes unchaste;And this warm nearness of what should be hidMakes love a lawless love. But, thou hast bid; —Rest thou; I love thee, how, – I only know:But all that love shall shout "out!" at love's foe.'And turning sighed into my hair; and sheStretched the broad blade's division suddenly.And so we lay its fire between us twain;Unsleeping I, for, oh, that devil painOf passion in me that strove up and stoodA rebel wrangling with the brain and blood!An hour stole by: she slept or seemed to sleep.The winds of night came vigorous from the deepWith storm gusts of fresh-watered field and woldThat breathed of ocean meadows bluely rolled.I drowsed and time passed; stealing as for oneWhose drowsy life dreams in Avilion.Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went downHigh casement squares of heaven, a crystal crownOf bubbled moonlight on each monstrous head,Like as great ghosts of giant kings long dead.And then, meseemed, she lightly laughed and sighed,So soft a taper had not bent aside,And leaned a soft face seen thro' loosened hairAbove me, whisp'ring as if sweet in prayer,'Behold, the sword! I take the sword away!'It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay;Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beamOf moonlight in the moonlight. I did deemShe moved in sleep and dreamed perverse, nor wistThat which she did until two fierce lips kissedMy wondering eyes to wakement of her thought.Then spake I, 'Love, my word! is it then naught?Nay, nay, my word albeit the sword be gone! —And wouldst thou try me? rest thou safe till dawn!I will not thus forswear! my word stands fast!'But now I felt hot, desperate kisses castOn hair, eyes, throat and lips and over and over,Low laughter of 'Sweet wretch! and thou – a lover?What is that word if she thou gavest itUnbind thee of it? lo, and she sees fit!'Ah, Morgane, Morgane, then I knew 'twas thou,Thou! thou! who only could such joy allow.""And, oh, unburied passion of that night;The sleepy birds too early piped of light;Too soon came Light girt with a rosy breeze,Strong from his bath, to wrestle with the trees,A thewy hero; and, alas! too soonOur scutcheoned oriel stained was overstrewnOf Dawn's air-jewels; then I sang a strainOf sleep that in my memory strives again:"Ethereal limbed the lovely Sleep should sit,Her starbeam locks with some vague splendor lit,Like that the glow-worm's emerald radiance shedsThro' twilight dew-drops globed on lily-beds.Her face as fair as if of graven stone,Yet dim and airy us a cloud aloneIn the bare blue of Heaven, smiling sweet,For languorous thoughts of love that flit and fleetShort-rainbow-winged about her crumpled hair;Yet on her brow a pensiveness more fair,Ungraspable and sad and lost, I wist,Than thoughts of maiden whom her love hath kissed,Who knows, thro' deepening eyes and drowsy breath,Him weeping bent whiles she drifts on to death.Full sweet and sorrowful and blithe withalShould be her brow; not wholly spiritual,But tinged with mortal for the mortal mind,And smote with flushings from some Eden wind;Hinting at heart's ease and a god's desireOf pleasure hastening in a garb of fireFrom some dim country over storied seasGlassed of content and foamed of mysteries.Her ears two sea-pearls' morning-tender pink,And strung to harkening as if on a brinkNight with profundity of death and doubt,Yet touched with awfulness of light poured out.Ears strung to palpitations of heart throbsAs sea-shells waver with dim ocean sobs.One hand, curved like a mist on dusking skies,Hollowing smooth brows to shade dark velvet eyes, —Dark-lashed and dewed of tear-drops beautiful, —To sound the cowering conscience of the dull,Sleep-sodden features in their human rest,Ere she dare trust her pureness to that breast.Large limbs diaphanous and fleeced with veilOf wimpled heat, wove of the pulsing paleOf rosy midnight, and stained thro' with starsIn golden cores; clusters of quivering barsOf nebulous gold, twined round her fleecily.A lucid shape vague in vague mystery.Untrammeled bosoms swelling free and whiteAnd prodigal of balm; cupped lilies bright,That to the famished mind yield their pure, best,Voluptuous sleep like honey sucked in rest."Thus they communed. And there her castle stoodWith slender towers ivied o'er the wood;An ancient chapel creeper-buried near;A forest vista, where faint herds of deerStalked like soft shadows; where the hares did run,Mavis and throstle caroled in the sun.For it was Morgane's realm, embowered Gore;That rooky pile her palace whence she boreWith Urience sway; but he at CamelotKnew naught of intrigues here at Chariot.IINOON; and the wistful Autumn sat amongThe lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrungBy crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,To don imperial pomp at any cost.On each wild hill they stood as if for warFlaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,Who in a little fretful while, how soon!Would work rebellion under some wan moon;Pluck their old beards deriding; shriek and tearRich royalty; sow tattered through the airTheir purple majesty; and from each headDash down its golden crown, and in its steadSet there a pale-death mockery of snow,Leave them bemoaning beggars bowed with woe.Blow, wood-wind, blow! now that all's fresh and fineAs earth and wood can make it; fresh as brineAnd rare with sodden scents of underbrush.Ring, and one hears a cavalcade a-rush;Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows; —A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goesBeneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green, —Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held betweenHis selle and hunter's head, and at his thighA good, broad hanger, and one fist on highTo wind the rapid echoes from his horn,That start the field birds from the sheavéd corn,Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,That cease again when it no longer sings.Away, away, they flash a belted bandFrom Camelot thro' that haze-ghostly land;Hounds leashed and leamers and a flash of steel,A tramp of horse and the long-baying pealOf stag hounds whimp'ring and – behold! the hart,A lordly height, doth from the covert dart;And the big blood-hounds strain unto the chase.A-hunt! a-hunt! the pryce seems but a paceOn ere 'tis wound; but now, where interlaceThe dense-briered underwoods, the hounds have lostThe slot, there where a forest brook hath crossedWith intercepting waters full of leaves.Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weavesThro' dimmer boscage, and the wizard sunShapes many shadowy stags that seem to runWild herds before the baffled foresters.And treed aloft a reckless laugh one hears,As if some helping goblin from the treesMocked them the unbayed hart and made a breezeHis pursuivant of mocking. Hastening thencePursued King Arthur and King UrienceWith one small brachet, till scarce hear could theyTheir fellowship far-furthered course awayOn fresher trace of hind or rugged boarWith haggard, hairy flanks, curled tusks and hoarWith fierce foam-fury; and of these bereftThe kings continued in the slot they'd left.And there the hart plunged gallant thro' the brakeLeaving a torn path shaking in his wake,Down which they followed on thro' many a copseAbove whose brush, close on before, the topsOf the large antlers swelled anon, and soWere gone where beat the brambles to and fro.And still they drave him hard; and ever nearSeemed that great hart unwearied; and such cheerStill stung them to the chase. When Arthur's horseGasped mightily and lunging in his courseLay dead, a lordly bay; and UrienceLeft his gray hunter dying near; and thenceThey held the hunt afoot; when suddenlyWere they aware of a wide, roughened sea,And near the wood the hart upon the swardBayed, panting unto death and winded hard.Right so the king dispatched him and the pryceWound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.As if each echo, which that wild horn's blastWaked from its sleep, – the quietude had castTender as mercy on it, – in a bandRose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,From that red woodland gliding. These each knightGraced with obeisance and "Our lord," said one,"Tenders ye courtesy until the dawn;The Earl Sir Damas; well in his wide keep,Seen thither with due worship, ye shall sleep."And then they came o'erwearied to a hall,An owlet-haunted pile, whose weedy wallTowered based on crags rough, windy turrets high;An old, gaunt giant-castle 'gainst a skyWherein the moon hung foam-faced, large and full.Down on dank sea-foundations broke the dull,Weird monotone of ocean, and wide rolledThe watery wilderness that was as oldAs loud, defying headlands stretching outBeneath still stars with a voluminous shoutOf wreck and wrath forever. Here the twoWere feasted fairly and with worship dueAll errant knights, and then a damsel ledEach knight with flaring lamp unto his bedDown separate corridores of that great keep;And soon they rested in a heavy sleep.And then King Arthur woke, and woke mid groansOf dolorous knights; and 'round him lay the bonesOf many woful champions mouldering;And he could hear the open ocean ringWild wasted waves above. And so he thought"It is some nightmare weighing me, distraughtBy that long hunt;" and then he sought to shakeThe horror off and to himself awake;But still he heard sad groans and whispering sighs,And deep in iron-ribbéd cells the eyesOf pale, cadaverous knights shone fixed on himUnhappy; and he felt his senses swimWith foulness of that cell, and, "What are ye?Ghosts of chained champions or a companyOf phantoms, bodiless fiends? If speak ye can,Speak, in God's name! for I am here – a man!"Then groaned the shaggy throat of one who layA dusky nightmare dying day by day,Yet once of comely mien and strong withalAnd greatly gracious; but, now hunger-tall,With scrawny beard and faded hands and cheeks:"Sir knight," said he, "know that the wretch who speaksIs but an one of twenty knights here shamedOf him who lords this castle, Damas named,Who mews us here for slow starvation keen;Around you fade the bones of some eighteenTried knights of Britain; and God grant that soonMy hunger-lengthened ghost will see the moon,Beyond the vileness of this prisonment!"With that he sighed and round the dungeon wentA rustling sigh, like saddened sin, and soAnother dim, thin voice complained their woe: —"He doth enchain us with this common end,That he find one who will his prowess bendTo the attainment of his livelihood.A younger brother, Ontzlake, hath he; goodAnd courteous, withal most noble, whomThis Damas hates – yea, ever seeks his doom;Denying him to their estate all rightSave that he holds by main of arms and might.And thro' puissance hath he some fat fieldsAnd one rich manor sumptuous, where he yieldsBelated knights host's hospitality.Then bold is Ontzlake, Damas cowardly.For Ontzlake would decide by sword and lanceBody for body this inheritance;But Damas dotes on life so courageless;Thus on all knights perforce lays coward's stressTo fight for him or starve. For ye must knowThat in his country he is hated soThat no helm here is who will take the fight;Thus fortunes it our plight is such a plight."Quoth he and ceased. And wondering at the taleThe King was thoughtful, and each faded, pale,Poor countenance still conned him when he spake:"And what reward if one this battle take?""Deliverance for all if of us oneConsent to be his party's champion.But treachery and he are so close kinWe loathe the part as some misshapen sin,And here would rather dally on to deathThan serving falseness save and slave our breath.""May God deliver you for mercy, sirs!"And right anon an iron noise he hearsOf chains clanked loose and bars jarred rusty back,The heavy gate croak open; and the blackOf that rank cell astonished was with light,That danced fantastic with the frantic night.One high torch sidewise worried by the gustSunned that lorn den of hunger, death and rust,And one tall damsel vaguely vestured, fairWith 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 seeSo noble knights endungeoned hollowing hereDoth pain me sore with pity – but, what cheer?""Thou mockest us; for me the sorriestSince I was suckled; and of any questTo me the most imperiling and strange. —But what wouldst thou?" said Arthur. She, "A changeI offer thee, through thee to these with thee,And thou but grant me in love's courtesyTo fight for Damas and his livelihood.And if thou wilt not – look! thou seest this broodOf lean and dwindled bellies specter-eyed,Keen knights erst who refused me? – so decide."Then thought the King of the sweet sky, the breezeThat blew delirious over waves and trees;Thick fields of grasses and the sunny earthWhose beating heat filled the red heart with mirth,And made the world one sovereign pleasure houseWhere king and serf might revel and carouse;Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;Lone forest chapels by their radiant rills:His palace rich at Caerlleon upon Usk,And Camelot's loud halls that thro' the duskBlazed far and bloomed a rose of revelry;Or in the misty morning shadowyLoomed grave for audience. And then he thoughtOf his Round Table and that Grael wide soughtIn haunted holds on demon-sinful shore;Then marveled of what wars would rise and roarWith dragon heads unconquered and devourThis realm of Britain and pluck up that flowerOf chivalry whence ripened his renown:And then the reign of some besotted crown,A bandit king of lust, idolatry —And with that thought for tears he could not see:Then of his greatest champions, King Ban's son,And Galahad and Tristram, Accolon:And then, ah God! of his dear Guenevere,And with that thought – to starve and moulder here? —For, being unfriend to Arthur and his court,Well wist he this grim Earl would bless that sportOf fortune which had fortuned him so wellTo have to starve his sovereign in a cell. —In the entombing rock where ground the deep;And all the life shut in his limbs did leapThro' 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.""Fear not for that; and thou shalt lack none, sire."And so she led the path: her torch's fireScaring wild spidery shadows at each strideFrom cob-webbed coignes of scowling passes wide,That labyrinthed the rock foundation strongOf that ungainly fortress bleak of wrong.At length they came to a nail-studded door,Which she unlocked with one harsh key she boreMid many keys bunched at her girdle; thenceThey issued on a terraced eminence.Beneath the sea broke sounding; and the KingBreathed open air that had the smell and stingOf brine morn-vigored and blue-billowed foam;For in the East the second dawning's gloam,Since that unlucky chase, was freaked with streaksRed as the ripe stripes of an apple's cheeks.And so within that larger light of dawnIt seemed to Arthur now that he had knownThis 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 spinAnd work the hangings my sire's halls within:No courts or tournaments or gallants braveTo flatter me and love! for me – the wave,The forest, field and sky; the calm, the storm;My garth wherein I walk to think; the charmOf uplands redolent at bounteous noonAnd full of sunlight; night's free stars and moon;White ships that pass some several every year;These lonesome towers and those wild mews to hear.""An owlet maid!" the King laughed. But, untrueWas she, and of false Morgane's treasonous crew,Who worked vile wiles ev'n to the slaying ofThe King, half-brother, whom she did not love.And presently she brought him where in stateThis swarthy Damas with mailed cowards sate…King Urience that dawning woke and foundHimself safe couched at Camelot and woundIn Morgane's arms; nor weened he how it wasThat this thing secretly had come to pass.But Accolon at Chariot sojourned stillContent with his own dreams; for 'twas the willOf Morgane thus to keep him hidden hereFor her desire's excess, where everywhereIn Gore by wood and river pleasure houses,Pavilions, rose of rock for love carouses;And there in one, where 'twas her dearest wontTo list a tinkling, falling water fount, —Which thro' sweet talks of idle paramoursAt sensuous ease on tumbled beds of flowers,Had caught a laughing language light thereof,And rambled ever gently whispering, "love!" —On cool white walls her hands had deftly drapedA dark rich hanging, where were worked and shapedHer fullest hours of pleasure flesh and mind,Imperishable passions, which could windThe past and present quickly; and could mateDead loves to kisses, and intoxicateWith moon-soft words of past delight and songThe heavy heart that wronged forgot the wrong.And there beside it pooled the urnéd well,And slipping thence thro' dripping shadows fellFrom rippling rock to rock. Here Accolon,With Morgane's hollow lute, one studious dawnCame solely; with not ev'n her brindled houndTo leap beside him o'er the gleaming ground;No handmaid lovely of his loveliest fair,Or paging dwarf in purple with him there;But this her lute, about which her perfumeClung odorous of memories, that made bloomHer flowing features rosy to his eyes,That saw the words, his sense could but surmise,Shaped on dim, breathing lips; the laugh that drunkHer deep soul-fire from eyes wherein it sunkAnd slowly waned away to smouldering dreams,Fathomless with thought, far in their dove-gray gleams.And so for those most serious eyes and lips,Faint, filmy features, all the music slipsOf buoyant being bubbling to his voiceTo chant her praises; and with nervous poiseHis fleet, trained fingers call from her long luteSuch riotous notes as must make madly muteThe nightingale that listens quivering.And well he knows that winging hence it'll singThese aching notes, whose beauties burn and painIts anguished heart now sobless, not in vainWild 'neath her casement in that garden oldDingled with heavy roses; in the goldOf Camelot's stars and pearl-encrusted moon;And if it dies, the heartache of the tuneShall clamor stormy passion at her ear,Of death more dear than life if love be there;Melt her quick eyes to tears, her throat to sobsTumultuous heaved, while separation throbsHard at her heart, and longing rears to DeathTwo prayerful eyes of pleading "for one breath —An ardor of fierce life – crushed in his armsClose, close! and, oh, for such, all these smooth charms,Full, sentient charms voluptuous evermore!"And sweet to know these sensitive vows shall soarEv'n to the dull ear of her drowsy lordBeside her; heart-defying with each wordHarped in the bird's voice rhythmically clear.And thus he sang to her who was not there:"She comes! her presence, like a moving songBreathed soft of loveliest lips and lute-like tongue,Sways all the gurgling forests from their rest:I fancy where her rustling foot is pressed,So faltering, love seems timid, but how strongThat darling love that flutters in her breast!"She comes! and the green vistas are stormed thro' —As if wild wings, wet-varnished with dripped dew,Had dashed a sudden sunbeam tempest past,– With her eyes' inspiration clearly chaste;A rhythmic lavishment of bright gray blue,Long arrows of her eyes perfection cast."Ah, God! she comes! and, Love, I feel thy breath,Like the soft South who idly wanderethThro' musical leaves of laughing laziness,Page on before her, how sweet – none can guess!To say my soul 'Here's harmony dear as deathTo sigh wild vows, or utterless, to bless.'"She comes! ah, God! and all my brain is braveTo war for words to laud her and to laveHer queenly beauty in such vows whereofMay hush melodious cooings of a dove:For her light feet the favored path to paveWith oaths, like roses, raving mad with love."She comes! in me a passion – as the moonWorks madness in strong men – my blood doth swoonTowards her glory; and I feel her soulCling lip to lip with mine; and now the wholeMix with me, aching like a tender tuneExhausted; lavished in a god's control."She comes! ah, Christ! ye eager stars that graceThe fragmentary skies, that dimple space,Clink, and I hear her harp-sweet footfalls come:Ah, wood-indulging, violet-vague perfume,Art of her presence, of her wild-flower face,That like some gracious blossom stains the gloom?"Oh, living exultation of the blood!That now – as sunbursts, the almighty moodOf some moved god, scatter the storm that roars,And hush – her love like some spent splendor poursInto it all immaculate maidenhood,And all the heart that hesitates – adores."Vanquished! so vanquished! – ah, triumphant sweet!The height of heaven – supine at thy feet!Where love feasts crowned, and basks in such a glareAs hearts of suns burn, in thine eyes and hair,Unutterable with raveled fires that cheatThe ardent clay of me and make me air."And so, rare witch, thy blood, like some lewd wine,Shall subtly make me, like thee, half divine;And, – sweet rebellion! – clasp thee till thou urgeTo combat close of savage kisses: surgeA war that rubies all thy proud cheeks' shine, —