Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
And armour'd all in forest green, whereon
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she With ever-scattering berries, and on shield sigh'd.
Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme
Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows?
From the great deep to the great deep he
goes."
But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,
A spear, a harp, a bugle-Tristram-late
From overseas in Brittany return'd,
And marriage with a princess of that realm,
Isolt the White-Sir Tristram of the Woods-
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with
pain
His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake
The burthen off his heart in one full shock
With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands
gript
Round whose sick head all night, like birds of And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose,
And down a streetway hung with folds of pure
White samite, and by fountains running wine,
Where children sat in white with cups of gold,
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad
steps
Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair.
He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their
Queen
White-robed in honor of the stainless child,
And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank
Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again.
The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf
And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn
plume
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,
When all the goodlier guests are past away,
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists.
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast
down
Before his throne of arbitration cursed
The dead babe and the follies of the King;
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd,
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole,
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest,
Until he groan'd for wrath-so many of those,
That ware their ladies' colors on the casque,
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
And there with gibes and flickering mockeries
Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! 0
shame!
What faith have these in whom they sware to
love?
The glory of our Round Table is no more."
Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, Quiet as any water-sodden log
Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and one, "The glory of our Round Table is no more."
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook;
But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
Then being asked, "Why skipt ye not, Sir
Fool?"
Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day
Went glooming down in wet and weariness :
But under her black brows a swarthy dame
Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient
saints,
Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year,
Would make the world as blank as wintertide.
Come let us comfort their sad eyes, our
Queen's
And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity
With all the kindlier colours of the field.”
So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
Skip to the broken music of my brains
Than any broken music ye can make.”
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
"Good now, what music have I broken, fool?”
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the
King's;
For when thou playest that air with Queen
Isolt,
Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in BrittanyAnd so thou breakest Arthur's music too." "Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head.
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shellI am but a fool to reason with a fool,
Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me cold
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
With veer of wind, and all are flowers again :"
So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
And glowing in all colours, the live grass,
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
About the revels, and with mirth so loud
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.
And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"
Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
"Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
To know myself the wisest knight of all."
“Ay, fool,” said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry
To dance without a catch, a roundelay
To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp,
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood,
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And hearken if my music be not true.
"Free love-free field-we love but while we may:
The woods are hush'd, their music is no more :
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away :
New leaf, new life-the days of frost are o'er :
New life, new love to suit the newer day :
New loves are sweet as those that went before :
Free love-free field-we love but while we
may."
"Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune,
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And found it ring as true as tested gold."
But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
"Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
Made to run wine?-but this had run itself
All out like a long life to a sour end—
And them that round it sat with golden cups
To hand the wine to whomsoever came—
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,
In honour of poor Innocence the babe,
Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
Gave for a prize-and one of those white slips
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank,
Spat-pish-the cup was gold, the draught was
mud."
Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,
That harpest downward! Dost thou know the
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?"
And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our
King
And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, gibes?
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?— Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool
'Fear God honor the king-his one true
knight-
Sole follower of the vows,-for here be they
Who knew thee swine enow before I came,
Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the
King
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;
Which left thee less than fool, and less than
swine,
A naked naught-yet swine I hold thee still,
For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee
swine."
And little Dagonet mincing with his feet,
"Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my
neck
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd-the
world
Is flesh and shadow-I have had my day.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
Hath foul'd me-an I wallowed, then I wash'd—
I have had my day and my philosophies-
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and
geese
Glorying in each new glory, set his name
High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven."
And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the
land
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself
To babble about him, all to show your wit-
And whether he were king by courtesy,
Or king by right-and so went harping down
The black king's highway, got so far, and grew
So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes
With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire.
Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star ?"
"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day."
And Dagonet, “Nay, nor will : I see it and hear
It makes a silent music up in heaven,
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear,
And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, “ye
talk
And down the city Dagonet danced away.
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues
And solitary passes of the wood
Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west.
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore
Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood
On such a wire as musically as thou
Some such fine song-but never a king's fool." Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye
For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew
And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard
Had such a master of his mystery
That he could harp his wife up out of Hell."
Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself
Unruffling waters re-collect the shape
Of one that in them sees himself, return'd;
But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,
Or ev❜n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.
So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length
A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs
Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt
Against a shower, dark in the golden grove
Appearing, sent his fancy back to where
She lived a moon in that low lodge with him:
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king,
With six or seven, when Tristram was away,
And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse
than shame
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,
But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.
And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt
So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown;
But could not rest for musing how to smooth
And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all
The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.
But then what folly had sent him overseas
After she left him lonely here? a name?
Was it the name of one in Brittany,
Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt
Of the white hands" they called her: the sweet
Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers,
And loved him well, until himself had thought
He loved her also, wedded easily,
But left her all as easily, and return'd.
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes
Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,
And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh
Glared on a huge machicolated tower
That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd
A roar of riot, as from men secure
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song.
"Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there,
High on a grim dead tree before the tower,
A goodly brother of The Table Round
Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield
Showing a shower of blood in a field noir,
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights
At that dishonour done the gilded spur,
Till each would clash the shield and blow the
horn.
But Arthur waved them back : alone he rode.
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn,
That sent the face of all the marsh aloft
An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud
Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard,
and all,
Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm,
In blood-red armour sallying, howl'd to the King,
"The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee
flat!-
Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the
The woman worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I!
Slain was the brother of my paramour
Had drawn him home-what marvel? then he By a knight of thine, and I that heard her
His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.
He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show'd them both the ruby chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand-her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower." Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet.
He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred
Whitening for half a league, and thin them- A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair
Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud,
From less and less to nothing; thus he fell
Head-heavy, while the knights, who watch'd
him, roar'd
And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n;
There trampled out his face from being known,
And sank his head in mire, and slimed them-
selves;
And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.
And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind
The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there
Belted his body with her white embrace,
Crying aloud, "Not Mark-not Mark, my soul !
The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark,
But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls
Nor heard the King for their own cries, but Who hates thee, as I him-ev'n to the death.
Thro' open doors, and swording right and left
Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd
The tables over and the wines, and slew
Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells,
And all the pavement stream'd with massacre :
Then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower,
Which half that autumn night, like the live
North,
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor,
Made all above it, and a hundred meres
About it, as the water Moab saw
Come round by the East, and out beyond them
flush'd
The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea.
So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord.
Then out of Tristram waking the red dream
Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd,
Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs.
He whistled his good warhorse left to graze
Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him,
And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf,
Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross,
Stay'd him, "Why weep ye ?" "Lord," she said,
"my man
My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark
Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here.
Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine."
And drawing somewhat backward she replied,
"Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own,
But save for dread of thee had beaten me,
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow-
Mark?
What rights are his that dare not strike for them?
Not lift a hand-not, tho' he found me thus !
But hearken, have ye met him? hence he went
To-day for three days' hunting-as he said—
And so returns belike within an hour.
Mark's way, my soul !-but eat not thou with
him,
Because he hates thee even more than fears;
Nor drink and when thou passest any wood
Close visor, lest an arrow from the bush
Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.
My God, the measure of my hate for Mark
Is as the measure of my love for thee."
So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying,
Hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-"O hunter, and O blower of the horn,
"What an she hate me now? I would not this.
What an she love me still? I would not that.
I know not what I would"--but said to her,-
"Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return,
He find thy favour changed and love thee not❞—
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonesse
Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard
The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds
Yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land,
A crown of towers.
Harper, and thou hast been a rover too,
For, ere I mated with my shambling king,
Ye twain had fallen out about the bride
Of one-his name is out of me-the prize,
If prize she were-(what marvel--she could
see)-
Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks
To wreck thee villanously; but, O Sir Knight,
What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last ?"
And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love, And loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first
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