Complete works of willia.., p.306
Complete Works of William Morris, page 306
So cold and grey. After, a spasm took
Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair,
All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,
And rose till she was sitting in the bed,
Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem’d
As though she would have torn it from her head,
Natheless she dropp’d it, lay down, as she deem’d
It matter’d not whatever she might do:
O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face!
Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue
Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;
Because at last she rose up from her bed,
And put her raiment on, and knelt before
The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said,
Muttering the words against the marble floor:
‘Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord,
But go to hell? and there see day by day
Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word,
For ever and ever, such as on the way
To Camelot I heard once from a churl,
That curled me up upon my jennet’s neck
With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl
For ages and for ages? dost thou reck
That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you
And your dear mother? why did I forget
You were so beautiful, and good, and true,
That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet
If even I go to hell, I cannot choose
But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep
From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose
My own heart’s love? see, though I cannot weep,
Yet am I very sorry for my sin;
Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell,
I am most fain to love you, and to win
A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:
Speak to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet;
Ah! now I weep!’ The maid said, ‘By the tomb
He waiteth for you, lady,’ coming fleet,
Not knowing what woe filled up all the room.
So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there,
He did not hear her coming, as he lay
On Arthur’s head, till some of her long hair
Brush’d on the new-cut stone: ‘Well done! to pray
For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king
That ever lived.’ ‘Guenevere! Guenevere!
Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling
Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear
You are not Guenevere, but some other thing.’
‘Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot!
I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling,
God’s curses, unto such as I am; not
Ever again shall we twine arms and lips.’
‘Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord,
Is very tight about her now, and grips
Her poor heart, so that no right word
Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now,
That she not knowing what she does, being mad,
Kills me in this way; Guenevere, bend low
And kiss me once! for God’s love kiss me! sad
Though your face is, you look much kinder now;
Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die.’
‘Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow,
Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily,
Across my husband’s head, fair Launcelot!
Fair serpent mark’d with V upon the head!
This thing we did while yet he was alive,
Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead?
Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can
Remember anything for agony,
Pray you remember how when the wind ran
One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree,
And elm and oak about the palace there,
The king came back from battle, and I stood
To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair,
My face made beautiful with my young blood.’
‘Will she lie now, Lord God?’ ‘Remember too,
Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came
A royal bier, hung round with green and blue,
About it shone great tapers with sick flame.
And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor,
Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead,
Not able to hold sword or sceptre more,
But not quite grim; because his cloven head
Bore no marks now of Launcelot’s bitter sword,
Being by embalmers deftly solder’d up;
So still it seem’d the face of a great lord,
Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.
Also the heralds sung rejoicingly
To their long trumpets; Fallen under shield,
Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy,
Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.
Thereat the people shouted: Launcelot!
And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh,
You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not,
But rather Arthur, God would not let die,
I hoped, these many years; he should grow great,
And in his great arms still encircle me,
Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat
Of king’s love for the queen I used to be.
Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand,
When he had kissed me in his kingly way?
Saying: This is the knight whom all the land
Calls Arthur’s banner, sword, and shield to-day;
Cherish him, love. Why did your long lips cleave
In such strange way unto my fingers then?
So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave
When you rose up? Why among helmed men
Could I always tell you by your long strong arms,
And sway like an angel’s in your saddle there?
Why sicken’d I so often with alarms
Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair
Than aspens in the autumn at their best?
Why did you fill all lands with your great fame,
So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear’d lest
At turning of the way your shield should flame?
Was it nought then, my agony and strife?
When as day passed by day, year after year,
I found I could not live a righteous life!
Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear?
O, but your lips say: Yea, but she was cold
Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring;
When I was sad she would be overbold,
Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring,
The back-toll’d bells of noisy Camelot.
‘Now, Lord God, listen! listen, Guenevere,
Though I am weak just now, I think there’s not
A man who dares to say: You hated her,
And left her moaning while you fought your fill
In the daisied meadows! lo you her thin hand,
That on the carven stone can not keep still,
Because she loves me against God’s command,
Has often been quite wet with tear on tear,
Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not
In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where
He will not be these ages.’ ‘Launcelot!
Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang,
The noisy back-toll’d bells of Camelot,
There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang
In the lonely gardens where my love was not,
Where I was almost weeping; I dared not
Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say,
In tittering whispers: Where is Launcelot
To wipe with some kerchief those tears away?
Another answer sharply with brows knit,
And warning hand up, scarcely lower though:
You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it,
This tigress fair has claws, as I well know,
As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day!
Why met he not with Iseult from the West,
Or better still, Iseult of Brittany?
Perchance indeed quite ladyless were best.
Alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch
Queen Guenevere, uncertain as sunshine
In March; forgive me! for my sin being such,
About my whole life, all my deeds did twine,
Made me quite wicked; as I found out then,
I think; in the lonely palace where each morn
We went, my maids and I, to say prayers when
They sang mass in the chapel on the lawn.
And every morn I scarce could pray at all,
For Launcelot’s red-golden hair would play,
Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall,
Mingled with dreams of what the priest did say;
Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul;
Judging of strange sins in Leviticus;
Another sort of writing on the wall,
Scored deep across the painted heads of us.
Christ sitting with the woman at the well,
And Mary Magdalen repenting there,
Her dimmed eyes scorch’d and red at sight of hell
So hardly ‘scaped, no gold light on her hair.
And if the priest said anything that seemed
To touch upon the sin they said we did,
(This in their teeth) they looked as if they deem’d
That I was spying what thoughts might be hid
Under green-cover’d bosoms, heaving quick
Beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame,
And gazed down at their feet: while I felt sick,
And almost shriek’d if one should call my name.
The thrushes sang in the lone garden there:
But where you were the birds were scared I trow:
Clanging of arms about pavilions fair,
Mixed with the knights’ laughs; there, as I well know,
Rode Launcelot, the king of all the band,
And scowling Gauwaine, like the night in day,
And handsome Gareth, with his great white hand
Curl’d round the helm-crest, ere he join’d the fray;
And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face,
All true knights loved to see; and in the fight
Great Tristram, and though helmed you could trace
In all his bearing the frank noble knight;
And by him Palomydes, helmet off,
He fought, his face brush’d by his hair,
Red heavy swinging hair; he fear’d a scoff
So overmuch, though what true knight would dare
To mock that face, fretted with useless care,
And bitter useless striving after love?
O Palomydes, with much honour bear
Beast Glatysaunt upon your shield, above
Your helm that hides the swinging of your hair,
And think of Iseult, as your sword drives through
Much mail and plate: O God, let me be there
A little time, as I was long ago!
Because stout Gareth lets his spear fall low,
Gauwaine and Launcelot, and Dinadan
Are helm’d and waiting; let the trumpets go!
Bend over, ladies, to see all you can!
Clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for Gareth’s spear
Throws Kay from out his saddle, like a stone
From a castle-window when the foe draws near:
Iseult! Sir Dinadan rolleth overthrown.
Iseult! again: the pieces of each spear
Fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel;
Tristram for Iseult! Iseult! and Guenevere!
The ladies’ names bite verily like steel.
They bite: bite me, Lord God! I shall go mad,
Or else die kissing him, he is so pale,
He thinks me mad already, O bad! bad!
Let me lie down a little while and wail.’
‘No longer so, rise up, I pray you, love,
And slay me really, then we shall be heal’d,
Perchance, in the aftertime by God above.’
‘Banner of Arthur, with black-bended shield
Sinister-wise across the fair gold ground!
Here let me tell you what a knight you are,
O sword and shield of Arthur! you are found
A crooked sword, I think, that leaves a scar
On the bearer’s arm, so be he thinks it straight,
Twisted Malay’s crease beautiful blue-grey,
Poison’d with sweet fruit; as he found too late,
My husband Arthur, on some bitter day!
O sickle cutting hemlock the day long!
That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs,
And, going homeward about evensong,
Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!
Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die,
Lest you meet Arthur in the other world,
And, knowing who you are, he pass you by,
Taking short turns that he may watch you curl’d,
Body and face and limbs in agony,
Lest he weep presently and go away,
Saying: I loved him once, with a sad sigh,
Now I have slain him, Lord, let me go too, I pray.
[Launcelot falls.
Alas! alas! I know not what to do,
If I run fast it is perchance that I
May fall and stun myself, much better so,
Never, never again! not even when I die.’
LAUNCELOT, on awaking.
‘I stretch’d my hands towards her and fell down,
How long I lay in swoon I cannot tell:
My head and hands were bleeding from the stone,
When I rose up, also I heard a bell.’
SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY
It is the longest night in all the year,
Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born;
Six hours ago I came and sat down here,
And ponder’d sadly, wearied and forlorn.
The winter wind that pass’d the chapel door,
Sang out a moody tune, that went right well
With mine own thoughts: I look’d down on the floor,
Between my feet, until I heard a bell
Sound a long way off through the forest deep,
And toll on steadily; a drowsiness
Came on me, so that I fell half asleep,
As I sat there not moving: less and less
I saw the melted snow that hung in beads
Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw
Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds:
Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe
Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground,
I thought: O Galahad! the days go by,
Stop and cast up now that which you have found,
So sorely you have wrought and painfully.
Night after night your horse treads down alone
The sere damp fern, night after night you sit
Holding the bridle like a man of stone,
Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it?
And what if Palomydes also ride,
And over many a mountain and bare heath
Follow the questing beast with none beside?
Is he not able still to hold his breath
With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale
With weary striving, to seem best of all
To her, ‘as she is best,’ he saith? to fail
Is nothing to him, he can never fall.
For unto such a man love-sorrow is
So dear a thing unto his constant heart,
That even if he never win one kiss,
Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.
And he will never know her to be worse
Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is:
Good knight, and faithful, you have ‘scaped the curse
In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.
Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out,
Can he not think of Guenevere’s arms, round
Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout
Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?
And when he lists can often see her face,
And think, ‘Next month I kiss you, or next week,
And still you think of me’: therefore the place
Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.
But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find
Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow,
When all unkindly with the shifting wind,
The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know
Indeed that they will say: ‘This Galahad
If he had lived had been a right good knight;
Ah! poor chaste body!’ but they will be glad,
Not most alone, but all, when in their sight
That very evening in their scarlet sleeves
The gay-dress’d minstrels sing; no maid will talk
Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,
Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,
East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard
To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!
Before the trees by autumn were well bared,
I saw a damozel with gentle play,
