|
ABOUT the middle music of the spring Came from the castled shore of Ireland’s king A fair ship stoutly sailing, eastward bound And south by Wales and all its wonders round To the loud rocks and ringing reaches home That take the wild wrath of the Cornish foam, Past Lyonesse unswallowed of the tides And high Carlion that now the steep sea hides To the wind-hollowed heights and gusty bays Of sheer Tintagel, fair with famous days. Above the stem a gilded swallow shone, Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone As flying sunward oversea, to bear Green summer with it through the singing air. And on the deck between the rowers at dawn, As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn, Sat with full face against the strengthening light Iseult, more fair than foam or dawn was white. Her gaze was glad past love’s own singing of, And her face lovely past desire of love. Past thought and speech her maiden motions were, And a more golden sunrise was her hair. The very veil of her bright flesh was made As of light woven and moonbeam-coloured shade More fine than moonbeams; white her eyelids shone As snow sun-stricken that endures the sun, And through their curled and coloured clouds of deep Luminous lashes thick as dreams in sleep Shone as the sea’s depth swallowing up the sky’s The springs of unimaginable eyes. As the wave’s subtler emerald is pierced through With the utmost heaven’s inextricable blue, And both are woven and molten in one sleight Of amorous colour and implicated light Under the golden guard and gaze of noon, So glowed their awless amorous plenilune, Azure and gold and ardent grey, made strange With fiery difference and deep interchange Inexplicable of glories multiform; Now as the sullen sapphire swells toward storm Foamless, their bitter beauty grew acold, And now afire with ardour of fine gold. Her flower-soft lips were meek and passionate, For love upon them like a shadow sate Patient, a foreseen vision of sweet things, A dream with eyes fast shut and plumeless wings That knew not what man’s love or life should be, Nor had it sight nor heart to hope or see What thing should come, but childlike satisfied Watched out its virgin vigil in soft pride And unkissed expectation; and the glad Clear cheeks and throat and tender temples had Such maiden heat as if a rose’s blood Beat in the live heart of a lily-bud. Between the small round breasts a white way led Heavenward, and from slight foot to slender head The whole fair body flower-like swayed and shone Moving, and what her light hand leant upon Grew blossom-scented: her warm arms began To round and ripen for delight of man That they should clasp and circle: her fresh hands, Like regent lilies of reflowering lands Whose vassal firstlings, crown and star and plume, Bow down to the empire of that sovereign bloom, Shone sceptreless, and from her face there went A silent light as of a God content; Save when, more swift and keen than love or shame, Some flash of blood, light as the laugh of flame, Broke it with sudden beam and shining speech, As dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each Outshone the last that lightened, and not one Showed her such things as should be borne and done. Though hard against her shone the sunlike face That in all change and wreck of time and place Should be the star of her sweet living soul. Nor had love made it as his written scroll For evil will and good to read in yet; But smooth and mighty, without scar or fret, Fresh and high-lifted was the helmless brow As the oak-tree flower that tops the topmost bough, Ere it drop off before the perfect leaf; And nothing save his name he had of grief, The name his mother, dying as he was born, Made out of sorrow in very sorrow’s scorn, And set it on him smiling in her sight, Tristram; who now, clothed with sweet youth and might, As a glad witness wore that bitter name, The second symbol of the world for fame. Famous and full of fortune was his youth Ere the beard’s bloom had left his cheek unsmooth, And in his face a lordship of strong joy And height of heart no chance could curb or cloy Lightened, and all that warmed them at his eyes Loved them as larks that kindle as they rise Toward light they turn to music love the blue strong skies. So like the morning through the morning moved Tristram, a light to look on and be loved. Song sprang between his lips and hands, and shone Singing, and strengthened and sank down thereon As a bird settles to the second flight, Then from beneath his harping hands with might Leapt, and made way and had its fill and died, And all whose hearts were fed upon it sighed Silent, and in them all the fire of tears Burned as wine drunken not with lips but ears. And gazing on his fervent hands that made The might of music all their souls obeyed With trembling strong subservience of delight, Full many a maid that had him once in sight Thought in the secret rapture of her heart In how dark onset had these hands borne part How oft, and were so young and sweet of skill; And those red lips whereon the song burned still, What words and cries of battle had they flung Athwart the swing and shriek of swords, so young; And eyes as glad as summer, what strange youth Fed them so full of happy heart and truth, That had seen sway from side to sundering side The steel flow of that terrible springtide That the moon rules not, but the fire and light Of men’s hearts mixed in the mid mirth of fight. Therefore the joy and love of him they had Made thought more amorous in them and more glad For his fame’s sake remembered, and his youth Gave his fame flowerlike fragrance and soft growth As of a rose requickening, when he stood Fair in their eye, a flower of faultless blood. And that sad queen to whom his life was death, A rose plucked forth of summer in mid breath, A star fall’n out of season in mid throe Of that life’s joy that makes the star’s life glow, Made their love sadder toward him and more strong. And in mid change of time and fight and song Chance cast him westward on the low sweet strand Where songs are sung of the old green Irish land, And the sky loves it, and the sea loves best, And as a bird is taken to man’s breast The sweet-souled land where sorrow sweetest sings Is wrapt round with them as with hands and wings And taken to the sea’s heart as a flower. There in the luck and light of his good hour Came to the king’s court like a noteless man Tristram, and while some half a season ran Abode before him harping in his hall, And taught sweet craft of new things musical To the dear maiden mouth and innocent hands That for his sake are famous in all lands. Yet was not love between them, for their fate Lay wrapt in its appointed hour at wait, And had no flower to show yet, and no sting. But once being vexed with some past wound the king Bade give him comfort of sweet baths, and then Should Iseult watch him as his handmaiden, For his more honour in men’s sight, and ease The hurts he had with holy remedies Made by her mother’s magic in strange hours Out of live roots and life-compelling flowers. And finding by the wound’s shape in his side This was the knight by whom their strength had died And all their might in one man overthrown Had left their shame in sight of all men shown, She would have slain him swordless with his sword; Yet seemed he to her so great and fair a lord She heaved up hand and smote not; then said he, Laughing—‘What comfort shall this dead man be, Damsel? what hurt is for my blood to heal? But set your hand not near the toothèd steel Lest the fang strike it.’—‘Yea, the fang,’ she said, ‘Should it not sting the very serpent dead That stung mine uncle? for his slayer art thou, And half my mother’s heart is bloodless now Through thee, that mad’st the veins of all her kin Bleed in his wounds whose veins through thee ran thin.’ Yet thought she how their hot chief’s violent heart Had flung the fierce word forth upon their part Which bade to battle the best knight that stood On Arthur’s, and so dying of his wild mood Had set upon his conqueror’s flesh the seal Of his mishallowed and anointed steel, Whereof the venom and enchanted might Made the sign burn here branded in her sight. These things she stood recasting, and her soul Subsiding till its wound of wrath were whole Grew smooth again, as thought still softening stole Through all its tempered passion; nor might hate Keep high the fire against him lit of late; But softly from his smiling sight she passed. And peace thereafter made between them fast Made peace between two kingdoms, when he went Home with hands reconciled and heart content, To bring fair truce ’twixt Cornwall’s wild bright strand And the long wrangling wars of that loud land. And when full peace was struck betwixt them twain Forth must he fare by those green straits again, And bring back Iseult for a plighted bride And set to reign at Mark his uncle’s side. So now with feast made and all triumphs done They sailed between the moonfall and the sun Under the spent stars eastward; but the queen Out of wise heart and subtle love had seen Such things as might be, dark as in a glass, And lest some doom of these should come to pass Bethought her with her secret soul alone To work some charm for marriage unison And strike the heart of Iseult to her lord With power compulsive more than stroke of sword. Therefore with marvellous herbs and spells she wrought To win the very wonder of her thought, And brewed it with her secret hands and blest And drew and gave out of her secret breast To one her chosen and Iseult’s handmaiden, Brangwain, and bade her hide from sight of men This marvel covered in a golden cup, So covering in her heart the counsel up As in the gold the wondrous wine lay close; And when the last shout with the last cup rose About the bride and bridegroom bound to bed, Then should this one word of her will be said To her new-married maiden child, that she Should drink with Mark this draught in unity, And no lip touch it for her sake but theirs: For with long love and consecrating prayers The wine was hallowed for their mouths to pledge; And if a drop fell from the beaker’s edge That drop should Iseult hold as dear as blood Shed from her mother’s heart to do her good. And having drunk they twain should be one heart Who were one flesh till fleshly death should part— Death, who parts all. So Brangwain swore, and kept The hid thing by her while she waked or slept. And now they sat to see the sun again Whose light of eye had looked on no such twain Since Galahault in the rose-time of the year Brought Launcelot first to sight of Guenevere. And Tristram caught her changing eyes and said: “As this day raises daylight from the dead Might not this face the life of a dead man?” And Iseult, gazing where the sea was wan Out of the sun’s way, said: “I pray you not Praise me, but tell me there in Camelot, Saving the queen, who hath most name of fair? I would I were a man and dwelling there, That I might win me better praise than yours, Even such as you have; for your praise endures, That with great deeds ye wring from mouths of men, But ours—for shame, where is it? Tell me then, Since woman may not wear a better here, Who of this praise hath most save Guenevere?” And Tristram, lightening with a laugh held in— “Surely a little praise is this to win, A poor praise and a little! but of these Hapless, whom love serves only with bowed knees, Of such poor women fairer face hath none That lifts her eyes alive against the sun Than Arthur’s sister, whom the north seas call Mistress of isles; so yet majestical Above the crowns on younger heads she moves, Outlightening with her eyes our late-born loves.” “Ah,” said Iseult, “is she more tall than I? Look, I am tall;” and struck the mast hard by, With utmost upward reach of her bright hand; “And look, fair lord, now, when I rise and stand, How high with feet unlifted I can touch Standing straight up; could this queen do thus much? Nay, over tall she must be then, like me; Less fair than lesser women. May this be, That still she stands the second stateliest there, So more than many so much younger fair, She, born when yet the king your lord was not, And has the third knight after Launcelot And after you to serve her? nay, sir, then God made her for a godlike sign to men.” “Ay,” Tristram answered, “for a sign, a sign— Would God it were not! for no planets shine With half such fearful forecast of men’s fate As a fair face so more unfortunate.” Then with a smile that lit not on her brows But moved upon her red mouth tremulous Light as a sea-bird’s motion oversea, “Yea,” quoth Iseult, “the happier hap for me, With no such face to bring men no such fate. Yet her might all we women born too late Praise for good hap, who so enskied above Not more in age excels us than man’s love.” There came a glooming light on Tristram’s face Answering: “God keep you better in his grace Than to sit down beside her in men’s sight. For if men be not blind whom God gives light And lie not in whose lips he bids truth live, Great grief shall she be given, and greater give. For Merlin witnessed of her years ago That she should work woe and should suffer woe Beyond the race of women: and in truth Her face, a spell that knows nor age nor youth, Like youth being soft, and subtler-eyed than age, With lips that mock the doom her eyes presage, Hath on it such a light of cloud and fire, With charm and change of keen or dim desire, And over all a fearless look of fear Hung like a veil across its changing cheer, Made up of fierce foreknowledge and sharp scorn, That it were better she had not been born. For not love’s self can help a face which hath Such insubmissive anguish of wan wrath, Blind prescience and self-contemptuous hate Of her own soul and heavy-footed fate, Writ broad upon its beauty: none the less Its fire of bright and burning bitterness Takes with as quick a flame the sense of men As any sunbeam, nor is quenched again With any drop of dewfall; yea, I think No herb of force or blood-compelling drink Would heal a heart that ever it made hot. Ay, and men too that greatly love her not, Seeing the great love of her and Lamoracke, Make no great marvel, nor look strangely back When with his gaze about her she goes by Pale as a breathless and star-quickening sky Between moonrise and sunset, and moves out Clothed with the passion of his eyes about As night with all her stars, yet night is black; And she, clothed warm with love of Lamoracke, Girt with his worship as with girdling gold, Seems all at heart anhungered and acold, Seems sad at heart and loveless of the light, As night, star-clothed or naked, is but night.” And with her sweet eyes sunken, and the mirth Dead in their look as earth lies dead in earth That reigned on earth and triumphed, Iseult said: “Is it her shame of something done and dead Or fear of something to be born and done That so in her soul’s eye puts out the sun?” And Tristram answered: “Surely, as I think, This gives her soul such bitterness to drink, The sin born blind, the sightless sin unknown, Wrought when the summer in her blood was blown But scarce aflower, and spring first flushed her will With bloom of dreams no fruitage should fulfil, When out of vision and desire was wrought The sudden sin that from the living thought Leaps a live deed and dies not: then there came On that blind sin swift eyesight like a flame Touching the dark to death, and made her mad With helpless knowledge that too late forbade What was before the bidding: and she knew How sore a life dead love should lead her through To what sure end how fearful; and though yet Nor with her blood nor tears her way be wet And she look bravely with set face on fate, Yet she knows well the serpent hour at wait Somewhere to sting and spare not; ay, and he, Arthur”—— “The king,” quoth Iseult suddenly, “Doth the king too live so in sight of fear? They say sin touches not a man so near As shame a woman; yet he too should be Part of the penance, being more deep than she Set in the sin.” “Nay,” Tristram said, “for thus It fell by wicked hap and hazardous, That wittingly he sinned no more than youth May sin and be assoiled of God and truth, Repenting; since in his first year of reign As he stood splendid with his foemen slain And light of new-blown battles, flushed and hot With hope and life, came greeting from King Lot Out of his wind-worn islands oversea, And homage to my king and fealty Of those north seas wherein the strange shapes swim, As from his man; and Arthur greeted him As his good lord and courteously, and bade To his high feast; who coming with him had This Queen Morgause of Orkney, his fair wife, In the green middle Maytime of her life, And scarce in April was our king’s as then, And goodliest was he of all flowering men, And of what graft as yet himself knew not; But cold as rains in autumn was King Lot And grey-grown out of season: so there sprang Swift love between them, and all spring through sang Light in their joyous hearing; for none knew The bitter bond of blood between them two, Twain fathers but one mother, till too late The sacred mouth of Merlin set forth fate And brake the secret seal on Arthur’s birth, And showed his ruin and his rule on earth Inextricable, and light on lives to be. For surely, though time slay us, yet shall we Have such high name and lordship of good days As shall sustain us living, and men’s praise Shall burn a beacon lit above us dead. And of the king how shall not this be said When any of us from any mouth has praise, That such were men in only this king’s days, In Arthur’s? yea, come shine or shade, no less His name shall be one name with knightliness, His fame one light with sunlight. Yet in sooth His age shall bear the burdens of his youth And bleed from his own bloodshed; for indeed Blind to him blind his sister brought forth seed, And of the child between them shall be born Destruction: so shall God not suffer scorn, Nor in men’s souls and lives his law lie dead.” And as one moved and marvelling Iseult said: “Great pity it is and strange it seems to me God could not do them so much right as we, Who slay not men for witless evil done; And these the noblest under God’s glad sun For sin they knew not he that knew shall slay, And smite blind men for stumbling in fair day. What good is it to God that such should die? Shall the sun’s light grow sunnier in the sky Because their light of spirit is clean put out?” And sighing, she looked from wave to cloud about, And even with that the full-grown feet of day Sprang upright on the quivering water-way, And his face burned against her meeting face Most like a lover’s thrilled with great love’s grace Whose glance takes fire and gives; the quick sea shone And shivered like spread wings of angels blown By the sun’s breath before him; and a low Sweet gale shook all the foam-flowers of thin snow As into rainfall of sea-roses shed Leaf by wild leaf on that green garden-bed Which tempests till and sea-winds turn and plough: For rosy and fiery round the running prow Fluttered the flakes and feathers of the spray, And bloomed like blossoms cast by God away To waste on the ardent water; swift the moon Withered to westward as a face in swoon Death-stricken by glad tidings: and the height Throbbed and the centre quivered with delight And the depth quailed with passion as of love, Till like the heart of some new-mated dove Air, light, and wave seemed full of burning rest, With motion as of one God’s beating breast. And her heart sprang in Iseult, and she drew With all her spirit and life the sunrise through, And through her lips the keen triumphant air Sea-scented, sweeter than land-roses were, And through her eyes the whole rejoicing east Sun-satisfied, and all the heaven at feast Spread for the morning; and the imperious mirth Of wind and light that moved upon the earth, Making the spring, and all the fruitful might And strong regeneration of delight That swells the seedling leaf and sapling man, Since the first life in the first world began To burn and burgeon through void limbs and veins, And the first love with sharp sweet procreant pains To pierce and bring forth roses; yea, she felt Through her own soul the sovereign morning melt, And all the sacred passion of the sun; And as the young clouds flamed and were undone About him coming, touched and burnt away In rosy ruin and yellow spoil of day, The sweet veil of her body and corporal sense Felt the dawn also cleave it, and incense With light from inward and with effluent heat The kindling soul through fleshly hands and feet. And as the august great blossom of the dawn Burst, and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawn Seemed on the fiery water a flower afloat, So as a fire the mighty morning smote Throughout her, and incensed with the influent hour Her whole soul’s one great mystical red flower Burst, and the bud of her sweet spirit broke Rose-fashion, and the strong spring at a stroke Thrilled, and was cloven, and from the full sheath came The whole rose of the woman red as flame: And all her Mayday blood as from a swoon Flushed, and May rose up in her and was June. So for a space her heart as heavenward burned: Then with half summer in her eyes she turned, And on her lips was April yet, and smiled, As though the spirit and sense unreconciled Shrank laughing back, and would not ere its hour Let life put forth the irrevocable flower. And the soft speech between them grew again With questionings and records of what men Rose mightiest, and what names for love or fight Shone starriest overhead of queen or knight. There Tristram spake of many a noble thing, High feast and storm of tournay round the king, Strange quest by perilous lands of marsh and brake And circling woods branch-knotted like a snake And places pale with sins that they had seen, Where was no life of red fruit or of green But all was as a dead face wan and dun; And bowers of evil builders whence the sun Turns silent, and the moon holds hardly light Above them through the sick and star-crossed night; And of their hands through whom such holds lay waste, And all their strengths dishevelled and defaced Fell ruinous, and were not from north to south: And of the might of Merlin’s ancient mouth, The son of no man’s loins, begot by doom In speechless sleep out of a spotless womb; For sleeping among graves where none had rest And ominous houses of dead bones unblest Among the grey grass rough as old rent hair And wicked herbage whitening like despair And blown upon with blasts of dolorous breath From gaunt rare gaps and hollow doors of death, A maid unspotted, senseless of the spell, Felt not about her breathe some thing of hell Whose child and hers was Merlin; and to him Great light from God gave sight of all things dim And wisdom of all wondrous things, to say What root should bear what fruit of night or day, And sovereign speech and counsel higher than man; Wherefore his youth like age was wise and wan, And his age sorrowful and fain to sleep; Yet should sleep never, neither laugh nor weep, Till in some depth of deep sweet land or sea The heavenly hands of holier Nimue, That was the nurse of Launcelot, and most sweet Of all that move with magical soft feet Among us, being of lovelier blood and breath, Should shut him in with sleep as kind as death: For she could pass between the quick and dead: And of her love toward Pelleas, for whose head Love-wounded and world-wearied she had won A place beyond all pain in Avalon; And of the fire that wasted afterward The loveless eyes and bosom of Ettarde, In whose false love his faultless heart had burned; And now being rapt from her, her lost heart yearned To seek him, and passed hungering out of life: And after all the thunder-hours of strife That roared between King Claudas and King Ban How Nimue’s mighty nursling waxed to man, And how from his first field such grace he got That all men’s hearts bowed down to Launcelot, And how the high prince Galahault held him dear And led him even to love of Guenevere And to that kiss which made break forth as fire The laugh that was the flower of his desire, The laugh that lightened at her lips for bliss To win from Love so great a lover’s kiss: And of the toil of Balen all his days To reap but thorns for fruit and tears for praise, Whose hap was evil as his heart was good, And all his works and ways by wold and wood Led through much pain to one last labouring day When blood for tears washed grief with life away: And of the kin of Arthur, and their might; The misborn head of Mordred, sad as night, With cold waste cheeks and eyes as keen as pain, And the close angry lips of Agravaine; And gracious Gawain, scattering words as flowers, The kindliest head of worldly paramours; And the fair hand of Gareth, found in fight Strong as a sea-beast’s tushes and as white; And of the king’s self, glorious yet and glad For all the toil and doubt of doom he had, Clothed with men’s loves and full of kingly days. Then Iseult said: “Let each knight have his praise And each good man good witness of his worth; But when men laud the second name on earth, Whom would they praise to have no worldly peer Save him whose love makes glorious Guenevere?” “Nay,” Tristram said, “such man as he is none.” “What,” said she, “there is none such under sun Of all the large earth’s living? yet I deemed Men spake of one—but maybe men that dreamed, Fools and tongue-stricken, witless, babbler’s breed— That for all high things was his peer indeed Save this one highest, to be so loved and love.” And Tristram: “Little wit had these thereof; For there is none such in the world as this.” “Ay, upon land,” quoth Iseult, “none such is, I doubt not, nor where fighting folk may be; But were there none such between sky and sea, The world’s whole worth were poorer than I wist.” And Tristram took her flower-white hand and kissed, Laughing; and through his fair face as in shame The light blood lightened. “Hear they no such name?” She said; and he, “If there be such a word, I wot the queen’s poor harper hath not heard.” Then, as the fuller-feathered hours grew long, He holp to speed their warm slow feet with song.
And Iseult mused and spake no word, but sought |
Back | Words Home | Algernon Charles Swinburne Home | Site Info. | Feedback