The head of William Morris
Frontispiece to WILLIAM MORRIS
Selected & edited by Henry Newbolt

Arthurian verse by William Morris


Completed 10 June 2000.
Last modified 2 September 2001.
© Text Copyright 2000 Michael Wild

I can be reached at:- dagonet_uk 'at' yahoo.co,uk


CONTENTS


INTRODUCTION,

One of the giants of the Victorian artistic scene, William Morris is described by the Dictionary of National Biography as a 'poet, artist, manufacturer and socialist.' As a student in Oxford, at Exeter College, he began a lifetime friendship with the eminent artist Edward Burne-Jones. Both were members of the group of students who were fascinated with things mediaeval. Known as 'The Brotherhood', the group is regarded as having been an important influence on the development of the Victorian fascination with things mediaeval. From this formative period of Morris's life the poems reproduced below come. The book of verse, 'The Defence of Guinevere', in which they appeared, was published in the month of March 1858 when Morris was twenty-four years of age. Morris's approach is not to retell Arthurian tales, but to either treat them more as chronicles of the personal experiences of participants, or to evoke the atmosphere of Arthurian scenes.

The following poems are taken from 'The Early Romances of William Morris' with an introduction by Alfred Noyes, first published in 1907 by Dent: London.


THE DEFENCE OF GUINEVERE

But, knowing now that they would have her speak,
She threw her wet hair backward form her brow,
Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek,

As though she had had there a shameful blow,
And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame
All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so,

She must a little touch it; like one lame
She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head
Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame

The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said:
"O knights and lords, it seems but little skill
To talk of well known things now past and dead.

"God wot I ought to say, I have done ill,
And pray you all forgiveness heartily!
Because you must be right such great lords __ still

"Listen suppose your time were come to die,
And you were quite alone and very weak;
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily

"The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak
Of river through your broad lands running well:
Suppose a hush should come, then some should speak:

"'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell,
Now choose one cloth for ever, which they be,
I will not tell you, you must somehow tell

"'Of your strength and mightiness; here, see!'
Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes,
At foot of your familiar bed to see

"A great God's angel standing, with such dyes,
Not known on earth, on his great wings and hands,
held out two ways, light from the innner skies

"Showing him well, and making his commands
Seem to be God's commands, morever, too,
Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;

"And one of those strange choosing cloths was blue,
Wavy and long, and one cut short and red;
No man could tell the better of the two.

"After a shivering half hour you said,
'God help! heaven's colour the blue;' and he said , 'hell.'
Perhaps you would than roll upon your bed,

"And cry to all good men that loved you well,
'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;'
Launcelot went away, then I could tell,

"Like the wisest man how all things would be, moan,
And roll and hurt myself, and long to die,
And yet fear much  to die for what was sown.

"Nevertheless you, Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have appeared through these years
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie."

Her voice was low at first, being full of tears,
But as it cleared, it grew both loud and shrill,
Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears,

A ringing in their startled brains, until
She said that Gauwaine had lied, then her voice sunk,
And her great eyes began to fill,

Though she stood right up, and never shrunk,
But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair!
Whatever tears her full lips may have drink,

She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair,
Spoke out at last, with no more trace of shame,
With passionate twisting of her body there:

"It chanced upon a day that Launcelot came
To dwell at Arthur's court: at Christmas-time
This happened; when the heralds sung his name,

"'Son of King Ban of Benwick,' seemed to chime
Along with all the bells that rang the day,
O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme.

"Christmas and whitened winter passed away,
And over me the April sunshine came,
Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea

"And in summer I grew white with flame,
And bowed my head down __ Autumn, and the sick
Sure knowledge things would never be the same,

"However often Spring might be most thick
Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew
Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,

"To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through
My eager body,; while I laughed out loud,
And let my lips curl up at false and true,

"Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud.
Behold my judges, then the clothes were brought
While I was dizzied thus old thoughts would crowd,
"Belonging to the time ere I was bought
By Arthur's great name and his little love,
Must I give up for ever then, I thought,

"That which I deemed would ever round me move
Glorifying all things for a little word,
Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove

"Stone-cold for ever?  Pray you does the Lord
Will that all folks should be quite happy and good?
I love God now a little, if this cord

"Were broken, once for all what striving could
Make me love anything in earth or heaven.
So day by day it grew, as if one should

"Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,
Down to a cool sea on a summer day;
Yet in slipping was there some small leaven

"Of stetched hands catching small stones by the way,
Until one surely reached the sea at last,
And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay

"Back with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past
Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips,
Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast

"In the lone sea, far off from any ships!
Do I not know now of a day in Spring?
No minute of that wild day ever slips

"From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing,
And wheresoever I may be, straighway
Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting;

"I was half mad with beauty on that day,
And went without my ladies all alone,
In a quiet garden walled round every way;

"I was right joyful of that wall of stone,
That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky,
And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,

"Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy
With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad;
Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,

"A little thing just then had made me mad;
I dared not think, as I was wont to do,
Sometimes upon my beauty; if I had

"Held out my long hand up against the blue,
And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers,
Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,

"There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers,
Round by the edges; what should I have done,
If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,

"And startling green drawn upward by the sun?
But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair,
And trancedly stood watching the west wind run

"With faintest half-heard breathing sound __ why there
I lose my head e'en now in doing this;
But shortly listen __ In that garden fair

"Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss
Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day,
I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,

"When both our mouths went wandering in one way,
And aching sorely, met among the leaves;
Our hands being left behind strained far away.

"Never within a yard of my bright sleeves
Had Launcelot come before __ and now, so nigh!
After that day why is it Guinevere grieves?

"Nevertheless, you O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever happened on through all those years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.

"Being such a lady could I weep these tears
If this were true?  A great queen such as I
Having sinn'd this way, straight way her conscience sears;

"And afterwards she liveth hatefully,
Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps, __
Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly.

"Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps
All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth?
Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,

"Buried in some place far down in the south,
Men are forgetting as I speak to you;
By her head sever'd in that awful drouth

"O pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow,
I pray your pity! let me not scream out
For ever after, when the shrill winds blow

"Through half your castle locks! let me not shout
For ever after in the winter night
When you ride out alone! in battle-rout
"Let not my rusting tears make your sword light!
Ah! God of mercy see how he turns away!
So, ever must I dress me to the fight,

"So __ let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say,
See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know
Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day,

"One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so
All good knights held it after, saw __
Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though

"You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw,
This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed __
Whose blood then pray you? is there any law

"To make a queen say why some spots of red
Lie on her coverlet? or will you say,
'Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed,

"Where did you bleed? and must I stammer out __ 'Nay
I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend
My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay

"'A knife-point last night;' so must I defend
The honour of the Lady Guenevere?
Not so, fair Lords, even if the world should end

"This very day, and you were judges here
Instead of God.  did you see Mellyagraunce
When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear

"Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance
His side sink in? as my knight cried and said,
'Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance!

"'Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head,
By God I am so glad to fight with you,
'Slayer of ladies, that my hand feels lead

"'For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do,
For all my wounds are moving to my breast,
And I am getting mad with waiting so.'

"He struck his hands together o'er the beast,
Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet,
And groan's at being slain so young __ 'at least.'

"My knight said, 'Rise you, sir, who are so fleet
At catching ladies, half-arme'd will I fight,
My left side all uncovered!' then I weet.

"Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight
Upon his knave's face; not until just then
Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight

"Along the lists look to my stake and pen
With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh
From agony beneath my waist chain, when

"The fight began, and to me they drew nigh;
Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right,
And traversed warily, and ever high

"And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight
Sudden threw up hos sword to his left hand,
Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight.

"Except a spout of blood on the hot land;
For it was the hottest summer; and I know
I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand,

"And burn, against the heat, would quiver so,
Yards above my head; thus these matters went;
Which things were only warnings of the woe

"That fell on me.  Yet Mellyagraunce was shent,
For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord;
Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent

With all this wickedness; say no rash word
Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes
Wept all away to grey, may bring some sword

"To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise,
Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand;
And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise,

"Yea also at my full heart's strong command,
See through my long throat how my words go up
In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand

"The shadow lies like wine within a cup
Of marvewllously colour's gold; yea now
This little wind is rising, look you up,

"And wonder how the light is falling so
Within my moving tresses: will you dare,
When you have looked a little on my brow,

"To say this thing is vile? or will you care
For any plausible lies of cunning woof,
When you can see my face with no lie there

"For ever? am I not a gracious proof __
'But in your chamber Launcelot was found' __
Is there a good knight then would stand aloof,
"When a queen says with gentle queenly sound:
'O true as steel come now and talk with me,
I love to see your step upon the ground

"'Unwavering, also well I love to see
That gracious smile light up your face, and hear
Your wonderful words, that all mean verily

"'The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear
To me in everything, come here to-night,
O else the hours will pass so dull and drear;

"'If you come not, I fear this time I might
Get thinking over much of times gone by,
When I was young, and green hope was in sight;

"'For no man cares to know now why I sigh;
And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs,
Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie

"'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs
To see you, Launcelot; that we may be
Like children once again, free from all wrongs

"'Just for one night."  Did he not come to me?
What thing could keep true Launcelot away
If I said 'come'? there was less than three

"In my quiet room that night, and we were gay;
Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick,
Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea

"I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak,
For he looked helpless too, for a little while;
Then I remember how I tried to shriek,

"And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile
The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head,
And made me dizzier; till within a while

"My maids were all about me and my head
On Launcelot's breast was soothed away
From its white chattering, until Launcelot said __

"By God! I will not tell you more to-day,
Judge any way you will __ what matters it?
You know quite well the story of that fray,

"How Launcelot stilled their bawling, the mad fit
That caught up Gauwaine __ all, all, verily,
But just that which would save me; these things flit.

"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie,
Whatever may have happen'd these long years,
God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!

"All I have said is truth by Christ's dear tears."
She would not speak another word, but stood
Turn's sideways; listening, like a man who hears

His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood
Of his foes lances.  She lean'd eagerly,
And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could

At last hear something really; joyfully
Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed
Of the roan charger drew all men to see,
The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.

KING ARTHUR'S TOMB

Hot August noon __ already on that day
  Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad
Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way;
  Ay and by night, till whether good or bad

He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance
  That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight
Of all who since the world was, have borne lance,
  Or swung their sword in wrong cause or in right.

Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where
  The Glastonbury gilded towers shine,
A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere;
  This he knew also; that some fingers twine,

Not only in a man's hair, even in his heart,
  (Making him good or bad I mean,) but in his life,
Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, as that has part
  Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half strife,

(Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so
  Was Launcelot most glad when the moon rose,
Because it brought new memories of her __"Lo,
  Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows

"Not loud, but as a cow begins to low,
  Wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear:
The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea long ago,
  In the old garden life, my Guenevere

"Loved still among the flowers, till night
  Had quite come on, hair loosen's, for she said,
Smiling like heaven, that its fairest might
  Draw up the wind sooner to cool her head.

"Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small,
  As it did then __ I tell myself a tale
That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall,
  Thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale,

"Keep this till after __ how Sir Gareth ran
  A good course that day under my Queen's eyes,
And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan __
  No __ back again, the other thoughts will arise,

"And yet I thaink so fast 'twill end right soon __
  Verily then I think, that Guenevere,
Made sad by dew and wind and tree-barred moon,
  Did love me more than ever, was more dear

"To me than ever, she would let me lie
  And kiss her feet, or, if I sat behind,
Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly,
  And touch my mouth.  And she would let me wind

"Her hair around my neck, so that it fell
  Upon my red robe, strange in the twilight
With many unnamed colours, till the bell
  Of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight

"Through all my ways of being; like the stroke
  Wherewith God threw all men upon the face
When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke
  With a changed body in the happy place.

"Once, I remember, as I sat beside,
  She turn'd a little, and laid back her head
And slept upon my breast: I almost died
  In those night watches with my love and dread,

There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept,
  And I breathed low and did not dare to move,
But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept,
  And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love.

The stars shone out above the doubtful green
  Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead;
Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween,
  Because the moon shone like a star she shed

"When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago,
  And ruled all things but God: the night went on,
The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low,
  One hand had fallen down, and now lay on

"My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then
  For near an hour, and I fell asleep
In spite of all my striving, even when
  I held her whose name-letters make me leap.

"I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep
  I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun
Had only just arisen from the deep
  Still land of colours, when before me one

"Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch,
  She seemed to have changed so in the night;
Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such
  As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light

"Of the great church, natheless did I walk
  Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn,
Touching her hair and hands and mouth, and talk
  Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.

"Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high,
  We went, and in a cool green room all day
I gazed upon the arras giddily,
  Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.

"I could not hold her hand, or see her face;
  For which may God forgive me! but I think,
Howsoever, that she was not in that place."
  These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;

And when these fell some paces past the wall,
  There rose yet others, but they wearied more,
And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall
  So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore

In shadowy slipping from his grasp; these gone,
  A longing followed; if he might but touch
That Guenevere at once!  Still night, the lone
  Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,

In steady nodding over the grey road __
  Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart
Of any stories; what a dismal load
  Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part
And let the sun flame over all, still there
  The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that,
And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare
  Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,

Quite wearied with all the wretched night,
  Until about the dustiest of the day,
On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight
  Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.

And he was now quite giddy as before,
  When she slept by him, tired out and her hair
Was mingled with the rushes on the floor,
  And he, being tired too, was scarce aware

Of her presence; yat as he sat and gazed,
  A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath
Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed,
  As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.

This for a moment only, presently
  He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd
A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree
  Wherefrom St. Joseph in days past preached

Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb,
  Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight
One of her maidens told her, "he is come,"
  And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight

Had settled on her, all her robes were black,
  With a long white veil only; she went slow,
As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack
  Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow

Had left her face and hands; this was because
  As she lay last night on her purple bed,
Wishing for morning, grudging every pause
  Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head

Should lie upon her breast, with all her golden hair
  Each side __ when suddenly the thing grew drear,
In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare
  Grew into lumps of sin to Guenever.

At first she said no word, but lay quite still,
  Only her mouth was open, and her eyes
Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill;
  As though she asked, not with so much surprise

As tired disgust, what made them stand up there
  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, 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's 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 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 to 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 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, Guenever?  O yet

"If even I go to hell, I cannot choose
  But love you, Christ, yea, even 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 an 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 entwine 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, 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 twiisting 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 the 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 of 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, Kng 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 who 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 the helmed men

"Could I always tell you by your long arms,
  And sway like an angel's in your saddle there?
Why sicken'd I so often with alarms
  Over the tilt yard?  Why wer you more fair

"Than aspens in the autumn at their best?
  Why did you fill all the lands with your great fame,
So that Breuse even, as he rode, feared lest
  At turning of the way your shield should flame?

"Was it nought then, my agony and my strife?
  When as day passed by day, year after year,
I found I could not live a righteous life?
  Didst ever think that queens held their truth dear.

"O, but your lips say, 'Yea, but she was cold
  Sometimes, always as 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 cannot 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 held 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 is 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 Launcleot'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 Magdelen repenting there,
Her dimm'd eyes scorched and red at sight of hell
  So hardly scaped, no gold light on her hair.

"And if the priest said anything that seem'd
  To touch upon the sin they said we did, __
(This in their teeth) they look'd as if they deem'd
  That I was spying what thoughts might be hid

"Under the 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 shrieke'd if one should call me 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 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 joined the fray:

"And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face,
  All true knights liked 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,
  The 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 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 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 shoulders hangs,
And, going homeward about evensong,
  Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!

"Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not pray to 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 awakening

"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 form 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, weary 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 he can often see her face,
  And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week,
And you still 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-dressed 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,

Within that very walk say last farewell
  To her dear knight, just riding out to find
(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,
  And their last kisses sunk into my mind,

Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast,
  Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,
That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd
  Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd

By gentle gusts of frosty wind,
  Till Mador de la Porte a-going by,
And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwin'd
  And parted like a dream.  In this way I,

With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor,
  Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly
A sharp bell rang from close beside the door,
  And I leapt when something pass'd me by,

Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind
  I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe
At every step kept gathering on my mind,
  Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw

One sitting on the altar as a throne,
  Whose face no man could say he did not know,
And though the bell still rang, he sat alone,
  With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.

Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,
  Not as one kneels in church when mass is said,
But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt
  The first time what a thing was perfect dread.

But mightily the gentle voice came down:
  "Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,
Good knight of God, for you will see no frown
  Upon my face; I come to make you glad.

"For that you say that you are here alone,
  I will be with you always, and fear not
You are uncared for, though no maiden moan
  Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot,

"He in good time shall be my servant too,
  Meantime, take note of whose sword first made him knight,
And who loved him alway, yea, and who
  Still trusts him alway, though in all mens sight,

"He is just what you know, O Galahad,
  This love is happy even as you say,
But would you for a little time be glad,
  To make ME sorry long day after day?

"Her warm arms round his neck half throttle Me,
  The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,
Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally
  Will Launcelot at one time hang his head;

"Yea, old and shrivelled he shall win my love.
  Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!
Not always is he able, son, to move
  His love, and do it honour: needs must roll

"The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust,
  And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside
Seem better than he is, so that his trust
  Is always on what chance may betide;

"And so he wears away, my servant, too,
  When all these things are gone, and wretchedly
He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who
  Is no care now for Palomydes: see,

"Oh good son Galahad, upon this day,
  Now even, all these things are on your side,
But these you fight not for; look up, I say,
  And see how I can love you, for no pride

"Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down.
  See now you have ME always; following
That holy vision, Galahad, go on,
  Until at last you come to Me to sing

"In Heaven always, and to walk around
  The garden where I am:" he ceased, my face
And wretched body fell upon the ground;
  And when I look'd again, the holy place

Was empty; but right so the bell again
  Came to the chapel door, there entered
Two angels first, in white, without a stain,
  And scarlet wings, then, after them a bed,

Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath
  The very altar-step, and while for fear
I scarcely dared to draw my breath,
  Those holy ladies gently came a-near,

And quite unarm's me, saying: "Galahad,
  Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought
Of any other thing than being glad;
  Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,

"Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here."
  Right so they went away, and I, being weary,
Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near,
  I doubt it grows till morning.  Miserere!

Enter Two Angels in white with scarlet wings; also Four
	Ladies in gowns of red and green; also an Angel bear-
	ing in his hands a surcoat of white, with a red cross.

		AN ANGEL.

O servant of the high God, Galahad!
  Rise and be arm'd, the Sangreal is gone forth
Through the great forest, and you must be had
  Unto the sea that lieth to the north:

There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein
  The spindles of King Solomon are laid
And the sword that no man draweth without sin,
  But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd

Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet
  In some short space upon that ship: first, though,
Will come here presently that lady sweet,
  Sister of Percival, whom you well know,

And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,
These ladies will arm you.

		FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberke
				Galahad,
That I may stand so close beneath your brow,
		I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad.

		SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword.
That I may stand and touch you with my hand,
  O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.

			THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs.
That I may kneel while above us you stand,
  And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,
I, Lucy , am most glad.

			FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet.
					O gentle knight,
  That you bow bow down to us in reverence,
We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight
  Must needs fall trembling.

			ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat.
					Galahad, we go hence,
For here, amid the straying of the snow,
  Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival.
		[the Four Ladies carry out the bed,
			and all go but Galahad.

			GALAHAD.

How still and quiet everything seems now:
  They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.

  Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his sister.

Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!
  A many marvels have been here tonight;
Tell me what news of Launcelot you have,
  And has God's body ever been in sight.

			SIR BORS

Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,
  As we were riding slowly side by side,
An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing,
  And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,

With many-colour'd raiment, but far off,
  And pass'd so quickly __ from the court nought good;
Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff
  Kept us all merry, in a little wood

Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel
  And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest,
Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well
  Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest

Went out to seek him, but was also slain,
  Perhaps is dead now; everywhere
The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain;
  In vain they struggle for the vision fair.

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS


SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY.  SIR GALAHAD,
		SIR BORS DE GANYS.

		SIR OZANA

All day long and every day,
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,
  And no man came a-near.

Naked to the waist was I,
And deep within my breast did lie,
Though no man any blood could spy,
  The truncheon of a spear.

No meat did ever pass my lips,
Those days __ (Alas! the sunlight slips
From of the gilded parclose, dips,
  And night comes on apace.)

My arms lay back behind my head;
Over my raised-up knees was spread
A samite cloth of white and red;
  A rose lay on my face.

Many a time I tried to shout;
But as in a dream of battle-rout,
My frozen speech would not well out;
  I could not even weep.

With inward sigh I see the sun
Fade off the pillars one by one,
My heart faints when the day is done,
  Because I cannot sleep.

Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head;
Not like a tomb is this my bed,
Yet oft I think that I am dead;
  That round my tomb is writ,

"Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Round Table,
Pray for his soul,lords, of your part;
  A true knight he was found."
Ah! me, I cannot fathom it.	[ He sleeps


		SIR GALAHAD

All day long and every day,
Till his madness pass'd away,
I watch'd Ozana as he lay
  Within the gilded screen.

All my singing moved him not;
As I sung my heart grew hot,
With the thought of Launcelot
  Far away, I ween.

So I went a little space
From out the chapel, bathed my face
In the stream that runs apace
  By the churchyard wall.

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose,
Hard by where the linden grows,
Sighing over the silver rows
  Of the lilies tall.

I laid the flower across his mouth;
The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth,
He smiled, turn'd round to the south,
  Held up a golden tress.

The light smote on it from the west:
He drew the covering from his breast,
Against his heart that hair he prest;
  Death him soon will bless.


		SIR BORS

I enter'd by the western door;
  I saw a knight's helm lying there:
I raised my eyes from off the floor,
  And caught the gleaming of his hair.

I stept full softly up to him;
  I laid my chin upon his head;
I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,
  I was so glad he was not dead.

I heard Ozana murmur low,
  "There comes no sleep nor any love."
But Glahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow:
  He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.


		SIR OZANA

There comes no sleep nor any love;
  Ah me! I shiver with delight.
I am so weak I cannot move;
  God move me to thee, dear, to-night!
Christ help! I have but little wit:
My life went wrong; I see it writ,

"Ozana of the hardy heart,
  Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, on your part;
  A good knight he was found."
Now I begin to fathom it.		[he dies


		SIR BORS

Galahad sits dreamily:
What strange things may his eyes see,
Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?
On his soul, Lord, have mercy.


		SIR GALAHAD

Ozana, shall I pray for thee?
  Her cheek is laid to thine;
No long time hence, also I see
  Thy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hair
  That shineth gloriously,
Thinly outspread in the clear air
  Against the jasper sea.

NEAR AVALON

A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.

The tatter'd scarlet banners there,
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare,
Those six knights sorrowfully bear
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON

SIR GUY,being in the court of a Pagan castle
THIS castle where I dwell, it stands
A long way off from Christian lands,
A long way off from my lady's hands,
A long way off the aspen trees,
And murmur of the lime-tree bees.

  But down the Valley of the Rose
My lady often hawking goes,
Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,
Leaning towards the western wind,
Because it brings to her mind
Sad whisperings of happy times,
The face of him who sings these rhymes.

  King Guilbert rides beside her there,
Bends low and calls her very fair,
And strives, by pulling down his hair,
To hide from my dear lady's ken
The grisly gash I gave him, when
I cut him down at Camelot;
However he strives, he hides it not,
That tourney will not be forgot,
Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,
Whatever he says she answers not.

  Now tell me, you that are in love,
From the king's son to the wood-dove,
Which is the better, he or I?

  For this king means that I should die
In this lone Pagan castle, where
The flowers droop in the bad air
On the September evening.

  Look, now I take mine ease and sing,
Counting as but a little thing
That foolish spite of a bad king.

  For these vile things that hem me in,
These Pagan beasts who live in sin,
The sickly flowers, pale and wan,
The grim blue-bearded castellan,
The stanchions half worn-out with rust,
Whereto their banner vile they trust __
Why, all these things I hold them just
Like dragons in a missal-book,
Wherein, whenever we may look,
We see no horror, yea, delight
We have, the colours are so bright;
Likewise we note the specks of white,
And the great plates of burnished gold.

    Just so this Pagan castle old,
  And everything I can see there,
  Sick-pining in the marshland air,
  I note; I will go over now,
  Like one who paints with knitted brow,
  The flowers and all things one by one,
From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.

  Four great walls, and a little one
That leads down to the barbican,
Which walls with many spears they man,
When news comes to the castellan
Of Launcelot being in the land.

  And as I sit here, close at hand
Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand,
The castellan with a long wand
Cuts down their leaves as he goes by,
Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,
And fingers twisted in his beard __
Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?
I have a hope makes me afeard:
It cannot be, but if some dream
Just for a minute made me deem
I saw among the flowers there
My lady's face with long red hair,
Pale ivory-colour'd dear face come,
As I was wont to see her some
Fading September afternoon,
And kiss me, saying nothing, soon
To leave me by myself again;
  Could I get this by longing: vain!

  The castellan is gone: I see
On one broad yellow flower a bee
Drunk with much honey __
			Christ! again,
Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,
I thought I had forgot to feel,
I never heard the blissful steel
These ten years past; year after year,
Through all my hopeless sojourn here,
No Christian pennon has been near;
Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on
Over the marshes, battle won,
Knights' shouts, and axes hammering,
Yea, quicker now the dint and ring
Of flying hoofs; ah! castellan,
When they come back count man for man,
Say whom you miss.

 THE PAGANS, from the battlements.
		    Mahound to aid!
Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?

   THE PAGANS, from without.
Nay haste! for here is Launcelot,
Who follows quisk upon us, hot
And shouting with his men-at-arms.

		SIR GUY.
Also the Pagans raise alarms,
And ring the bells for fear; at last
My prison walls will be well past.

	SIR LAUNCELOT, from outside
Ho! in the name of the Trinity,
Let down the drawbridge quick to me,
And open doors, that I may see
Guy the good knight.

  THE PAGANS, from the battlements.
		      Nay, Launcelot,
With mere big words ye win us not.

	SIR LAUNCELOT.
Bid Miles bring up la perriere,
And archers clear the vile walls there,
Bring back the notches to the ear,
Shoot well together! God to aid!
These miscreants will be well paid.

Hurrah! all goes together; Miles
Is good to win my lady's smiles
For his good shooting __ Launcelot!
On knights apace! this game is hot!

	SIR GUY. sayeth afterwards.
I said, I go to meet her now,
And saying so, I felt a blow
From some clench'd hand across my brow,
And fell down on the sunflowers
Just as a hammering smote my ears,
After which this I felt in sooth;
My bare hands throttling without ruth
The hair-throated castellan;
Then a grim fight with those that ran
To slay me, while I shouted, "God
For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod
That evening in my own red blood;
Nevertheless so stiff I stood,
That when the knights burst the old wood
Of the castle-doors, I was not dead.

  I kiss the Lady Mary's head,
Her lips, and her hair golden-red,
Because today we have been wed.

SONG FROM 'SIR PETER HARPDON'S END'

Editorial note: -

This piece is not concerned with the Arthurian world. Instead it is a short blank verse play telling of the death of a Gascon ally of the English during their territorial wars in mediaeval France. It ends with a fragment concerning Launcelot and Galahad, which serves as an epilogue.

Sir Peter Harpdon is defending a decrepit castle in Poictou against overwhelming odds. On the French side is his cousin, Sir Lambert, who arranges a parley to persuade Sir Peter to change sides. When words fail, Sir Lambert makes a treacherous attempt to kill Sir Peter with a hidden dagger. However, suspicious of his cousin's intentions, Sir Peter had come to the parley prepared for treachery and takes Sir Lambert prisoner. Back in the beleagured castle Sir Peter threatens his cousin with an ignominious execution that is a fit punishment for his earlier perfidious attempt to murder him during a truce: that his ears be cropped and he be hung. Only the first part of the sentence can be carried out before the castle is attacked, is captured and Sir Peter is taken prisoner.

Sir Peter is hung as a traitor by the French commander, Guesclin, who refuses to let him be ransomed despite the pleas of one of his subordinates, Sir Oliver Clisson. He attempts to persuade Guesclin that Sir Peter should be shown mercy because of his honesty, faithfulness and knightly qualities but his pleas are refused, even though Sir Oliver offers to pay Sir Peter's ransom himself. With his cropped ears Sir Lambert, despite being on the winning side, is marked for the rest of his life as a pariah and vents his spleen on Sir Peter before the latters execution.

Sir Oliver Clisson has Sir Peter honourably buried in a church and sends a messenger to inform Sir Peter's lady, Lady Alice de la Borde, of his fate. Lady Alice recites a lament in which she compares Sir Peter Harpdon to Launcelot. Then the following verses are heard sung from offstage. Morris's intention is clearly to cofirm the parallels between the characters of Sir Peter Harpdon and Launcelot. As they come at the end of the playlet the verses are, appropriately, the final verses of a much longer ballad whose singing is just ending. The singer finishes by soliciting appreciation, and no doubt monetary reward, for his effort.

 [One sings from outside]

Therefore be it believed
Whatsoever he grieved,
Whan his horse was relieved,
    This Launcelot,

Beat down on his knee,
Right valiant was he
God's body to see,
    Though he saw it not.

Right valiant to move,
But for his sad love
The high God above
    Stinted his praise.

Yet so he was glad
That his own son Lord Galahad
That high joyaunce had
    All his life-days.

Sing we therefore then
Launcelot's praise again,
For he wan crownés ten,
    If he wan not twelve.

To his death from his birth
He was muckle of worth,
Lay him in the cold earth,
    A long grave ye may delve.

Omnes homines benedicite!
This last fitte ye may see,
All men pray for me,
Who made this history
Cunning and fairly.

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