Glastonbury
Thither through moaning woods came Bedivere,
At gloomy breaking of a winter’s day,
Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart,
With a great wound gotten in that last fray
Ere he stood by, and watched the King depart
Down the long, silent reaches of the mere:
And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear,
And the wind cried, and chased the relict leaves
Like ships, that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves,
And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear.
So he found at the last an hermitage
Hard by a little hill, and sheltering trees
That bent gaunt branches in the winter’s breeze;
And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door:
Then presently came forth an hermit sage
And helped him to dismount with labour sore:
Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lame
Stumbled against the open door, and swooned,
And would have fallen, but the hermit caught
And laid him gently down; then hurrying brought
From a great chest a cordial, and came
That he might drink, and so beheld his wound.
Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death,
Like a torn traveller on a stormy height
’Twixt one wind and another: till his breath
Came easier, and he prospered. Then did sleep
Bathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep,
And left him whole, at breaking of the light,
So he beheld the old man, and desired
That he would tell of whom he was, and whence.
Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired:
“I, I was Arthur’s bishop, at his court
And in his church I ministered, and thence
When at the last the whole was overthrown
With wrath and ill designings, straight I sought
A place where I might die, too feeble grown
To endure a new beginning to my years
When once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears.
Hither I came, where, in the dawns of time
Dim peoples, that the very stones forget,
Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rime
On a lake island mystically set.
They passed, and after ages manifold
Came wandering sainted Joseph (even he
That tended God’s frail body, and enrolled
In linen clothes of spicèd fragrancy).
He brought the vessel, vanished now from earth
That wrought destruction to the Table Round,
Since many deemed themselves above their worth
And sought in vain, and perished ere they found.”
Then Bedivere: “Alas the King! I saw
The unstayed overwhelming tide of war:
And when the opposèd standards were unfurled
Of Arthur and of Mordred, his base son,
Ere yet the noise of battle was begun
I heard the heralds crying to the world:
“‘Ye that have sought out pallid harmonies
Where never wind blows, save the gentle south:
Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seas
And fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth:
“‘Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened crops
Of word and measure, till the rime, grown proud,
Did straight contemn the leaping mountain tops
And lose itself in air, and riven cloud:
“‘Ye that have lived a dangerous life of war
Whose speech has been bold words and heady boasts
Gather, for strife and death unknown before,
Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.’
“I saw the last dim battle in the mist
There, where a dreary waste of barren sand
Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;
Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist
Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths
Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors
Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;
And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths
Were all confounded on those desolate shores.
And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept
A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end
Of all mankind, and of created time.
How many fell therein of foe or friend
I know not, save that when the darkness came
And the mist cleared, I found at last the King,
His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime,
And fading in his eyes the ancient flame.
“I saw him make on Mordred with his spear,
And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life,
He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’
Put a dread ending to the outworn strife.
I saw them fall together, and, drawn near.
Knew that the King was wounded unto death.
“Then as he drew with growing pain his breath
I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole
Across the waters, like a wandering soul
Returnèd from the woeful realm, to view
The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew.
And when it touched the shallows I did bear
The dying Arthur as he bade, and there
I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell
Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.”
Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door
There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn,
And there did worship in the days of yore
The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither
I was awakened by the sound of feet.
And I looked forth, and saw a body borne
By veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither,
In at the chapel gateway. I went down
And found that they had digged a grave, most meet
For one of saintly life, or king by birth:
They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light
I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown
Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth,
Then prayed, and so went out into the night.”
Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway
Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld
The stone beneath whose length the body lay:
Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled
Graven in golden character, “Arcturus
Rex Quondamque Futurus.”
Quoth Bedivere:
“Thank God this voice remaineth unto us;
Now I do mind me of a prophecy
Spoken long since in some emblazoned year,
How Arthur should escape mortality
And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep
Or on some shore, where faery seas do break:
Around him all his warriors shall sleep,
Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake
What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm
Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes
Go over her; his own victorious arm
Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.”
So leave we them, each head inaureoled
With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold.
Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung
Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung,
They saw who stood therein, and each one knew
The face unspared by years and strife and shame,
Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,
With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,
Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few
Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came
Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights,
Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.
“Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the
Queen,
The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade
Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil
Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen
Most puissant proud of all that ever made
The traitor honest, and the valorous frail.
“Yet evermore about her form there clings
And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,
Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:
And till the end of all created things
There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace
The immortal loveliness of Guinevere.
“Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies
In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,
In shady paths, and marble terraces
Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.
But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given,
And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,
The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,
And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.
“Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind,
Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago,
Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf.
The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,
Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow
Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.”
Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain
Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year
Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.
Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled
By winds of winter, until skies were clear,
And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world
Lay glistening to the newly risen sun.
Till came that season, wherein solemn days
Do celebrate the reign on earth begun
Of the most blessèd Child, whenas all ways
Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow.
Then in the chapel at high noon they three
Offered their quiet orisons and so
Came forth and looked upon the purity,
And when he saw the fields all stainless-white
Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore
And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight
Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod.
Even so once before the eyes of God
My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.”
“Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage;
No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain
Through the great love of God, and His dear Son.
Repent and be forgiven: know that none
Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain,
Nor shall one name be blotted from the page
If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.”
Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years
That still are left before the longed-for earth
Receive my body, I should strive amain
To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,
Alas it were all profitless and vain.
Verily, when I came unto this place
I railed on God, that I had lost my soul
And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace
Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,
And now my grief is only for old sin.
But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree
(He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),
This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before
I pass the gates divine, and enter in
To the fair country I must never see.”
But even as he spoke, the hand of God
Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway
They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,
As at the very bidding of the spring,
Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay
With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze
(So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod),
And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.
Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief
Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;
For God beholds the living, not the dead;
And He that took the semblance of a child
Loves He but penance, and the drooping head,
Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?”
So they grew old together, and the years
Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears
(They had drained all, maybe). And ever less
Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness
They pondered the eternal mysteries
(The noblest heritage of all men born),
Such as are writ upon the face of dawn,
Or in the glamour of a moonlit night,
Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight,
Or in the breaking of the restless seas:
Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days
While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell
On bower and roof of ancient Camelot:
Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell,
When all was song, and laughter, and high praise,
Even when as yet the accursed thing was not.
Then would loom out from the chill mists of time
The faces and the forms remembered still,
The King and Guinevere, and Galahad,
That rode upon a peerless quest and dire,
Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire,
And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad;
Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime,
And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill.
So as the day draws ever toward the dark,
Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath,
And ever toward the further shore the bark
They drew to the dark, silent realm of death.
Far, far away from their old palace-halls
Where once they lived a splendid life and vain,
That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls
In some soft vale, or by the echoing main,
Beneath the springing grass, and very deep
They three do lie, where never mornings rise
To ope the portals of their dazèd eyes,
Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep,
And near beside lies Arthur, even he
That was King once, and yet again shall be.
Legend
Grey, ancient abbeys, you may see them yet,
In that high plain above the western sea:
A broken arch or two, a few worn stones
Piled one upon another, and for paving
Uneven fragments with tall grass between:
Grass that is always green, winter and summer,
The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves.
It was a springtime morning long ago,
A morning of blue skies and whitest clouds,
And singing birds, and singing streams, and woods
That shone like silver, yet untouched with green:
The brethren of an abbey of the plain
—Whereof what now is ruin yet was whole—
Were labouring as holy brethren must,
Quietly, and in peace: and elder ones
Paced in the cloister, and some, older still,
Too old to work or dream, sat in the sunlight,
The sunlight which they soon should see no more.
And there came from the wood upon the hill
One clothed in the sere habit of a monk,
That passed in at the portal of the abbey:
Brighter his face than is the face of spring,
And joy was in his tread, as in his soul.
And some that paced the cloister paused to glance
at him,
And one that went upon an errand stayed,
And some that laboured left their work, and came
Gathering round him, and he spake, and said:
“Very fair the golden morning
As in yonder wood I strayed,
And I heard diviner music
Than the greatest harpers made,
For a sweet bird sang before me
Songs of laughter, and of tears.
All that I have loved and longed for,
As I measured out my years.
Sang of blessed shores and golden
Where the old, dim heroes be,
Distant isles of sunset glory,
Set beyond the western sea.
Sang of Christ and Mary Mother
Hearkening unto angels seven
Playing on their golden harp-strings
In the far courts of high Heaven.”
So they stood by, and listened to his speech,
Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul:
But while they wondered whence he was, and who,
He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried:
“Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers?
Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they
I left behind me but an hour ago?”
Then was there whispering among the throng,
And wonder not a little, and some scorn;
Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye,
Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray.”
’Twas done, and in the golden afternoon
A brother entered, and found none within,
Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust,
As of a body crumbled in the grave.
And while they wondered what these things might be,
At last spake forth the oldest of them all,
Burdened with hundred winters in his soul:
“I can remember, when my years were young,
Hearing the old monks say, one went from here
When spring was on the earth, as it is now,
Some five-score years ago, and was not seen
Again, though search was made in all the land.”
And some believed this was the same, and all
Forgot it in a sennight’s silent toil.
Save one, that saw, and seeing understood,
And for the greater glory of High God
Wrote down the story in a mighty book,
And limned the old saint hearkening to the bird
With bright hues, and you still may read and see.