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SElsECTIOJSIS 
 
 « FROM H^ 
 
 XTE/^/^ygoQ 
 
 PR 5551 
 1891 
 
 JOR ONTO 
 
 HE Copp, Clark Company, Limited 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one tlioiisand 
 eight hundred and ninety-one, by McMillan & Co., in the office of the Minister 
 of Agriculture. 
 
dr. 
 
 '■y 
 
 / 
 
 aNADA 
 
 NATIONAL LIBRARY 
 BIBLIOTHEQ.UE NATIONALE 
 
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PR 
 18511 
 
 
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SELECTIONS FROM TENNYSON. 
 
 4 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
 Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright 5 
 
 as mine ; . 
 
 There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 
 But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 
 So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 
 the May. 
 
 I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. 
 If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 10 
 
 But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. 
 For I'm to be Qneen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 
 But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 
 He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, 15 
 But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
 And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
 They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 20 
 the May. 
 
 3 
 
 33 
 
d4 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 .\» 
 
 They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
 They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me 
 There's many a bolder lad 'ill wco me any summer day, 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen (> 
 the May. 
 
 25 Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
 
 And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 
 For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
 30 And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo- 
 flowers ; 
 
 And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and 
 hollows gray, 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
 
 And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; 
 
 35 There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o» 
 
 the May. 
 
 All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 
 And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 
 And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, 
 40 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
 So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
 To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
 To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
 the May. 
 
THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 35 
 
 be: 
 
 :hat to me 
 clay, 
 be Queen i> 
 
 n, 
 
 the Queen ; 
 m far away, 
 be Queen o* 
 
 ravy bowers, 
 veet cuckoo - 
 
 swamps and 
 
 f be Queen o' 
 
 leadow-grass, 
 
 as they pass; 
 
 livelong day, 
 
 be Queen C 
 
 1 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 ' If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, ^ 
 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
 
 T^ It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. 
 
 Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more 
 of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set ; he set and left behind 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; 50 
 And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowe;s : we had a merry day ; 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
 And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 55 
 Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 
 
 There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is ae pane : 
 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come agaiii . 
 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high ; 
 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 60 
 
 I still, 
 
 ^ hill, 
 
 ,nce and play, 
 
 3 be Queen o' 
 
 mother dear, 
 id New-year : 
 riest day. 
 o be Queen o' 
 
 The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the 
 
 wave, 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, gs 
 
 In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
 When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the woiid is stiil. 
 
86 
 
 THE MAY C^UKEN. 
 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning hgnt 
 70 You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the 
 pool. 
 
 You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
 
 And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
 
 75 1 shall not forget you. mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
 You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
 80 You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 
 
 If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
 Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
 Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, 
 And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 
 
 85 Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, 
 , And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
 
 Don't let EflSe come to see me till my grave be growing green; 
 
 She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 
 
 She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor ; 
 90 Let her take 'em : ihey are hers : I shall never garden more ; 
 But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
 About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
 All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
 95 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
 So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, another dear. 
 
THE MAY yUEEN. 
 
 37 
 
 aning lignt 
 night J 
 w cool 
 rush in the 
 
 horn shade, 
 I lowly laid. 
 Bn you pass, 
 :asant grass. 
 
 me now ; 
 el go; 
 e wild, 
 bher child. 
 
 ting-place ; 
 your face; 
 you say, 
 I far away. 
 
 for evermore, 
 : the door ; 
 owing green; 
 keen. 
 
 garden more ; 
 ush that I set 
 nette. 
 
 y is born. 
 
 -year, 
 ler dear. 
 
 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
 
 And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
 
 How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. lOD 
 
 O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
 And sweetfjr is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
 And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 
 
 It seem'ed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 105 
 And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
 But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 
 
 O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me theie ! 1 10 
 
 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
 A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 
 
 He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
 Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 115 
 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 
 
 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch boat. 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
 
 And Eifie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 120 
 
 All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels tall; 
 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
 
38 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 i 
 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
 And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 
 
 125 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
 With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd 
 And up the valley uame a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
 
 130 And then did something speak to me — I know not what was 
 said; 
 
 For great delight and s aer ig took hold of all my mind, 
 
 And up the valley cp'it *•"■ che music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleei. .ig; and I said, 'It's not for them: i«*8 
 mine.' 
 
 And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
 
 136 And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
 
 Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 
 
 So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
 140 But, Effie. you must comfort her when I am past away. 
 
 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
 There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
 If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
 But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 
 
 1 45 O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
 And there I move no longer now, and theie his li<,'ht may 
 
 shine — 
 Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine, 
 
to roll, 
 eJI my soul. 
 
 fie dear ; 
 here ; 
 
 I felt resign'd 
 1 wind. 
 
 ly bed, 
 
 I not what was 
 
 all my mind, 
 e wind. 
 
 b for them: i-'a 
 
 it for a sign, 
 vindow-bars, 
 among the stars. 
 
 I know 
 have to go. 
 ay. 
 ast away. 
 
 not to fret ; 
 
 B him happy yet. 
 
 jeen his wife ; 
 
 my desire of life. 
 
 re in a glow ; 
 
 hem I know. 
 
 ^re his light may 
 
 lan uiiue, 
 
 TOU ASK ME WHY. 
 
 39 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 150 
 I'^or ever and for ever with those just 'uls and true — 
 And what is life, that we should moan^ why make we such ado? 
 
 For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
 
 And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 155 
 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 YOU ASK ME WHY. 
 
 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
 Within this region I subsist, 
 Whose spirits falter in the mist^ 
 
 And languish for the purple seas. 
 
 It is the land that freemen till. 
 
 That sober-suited Freedom iliose, 
 
 The land, whei-e girt with friends or foes 
 
 A man may speak the thing he will ; 
 
 A land of settled government, 
 
 A land of just and old renown. 
 Where Freedom slowly broadens down 
 
 From precedent to precedent : 
 
 Where faction seldom gathers head, 
 
 Ihit by (h^grecs to fullness wrought. 
 The strength of some diffusive thought 
 
 Hath time and space to work and spread, 
 
 10 
 
 16 
 
40 
 
 20 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM. 
 
 Should banded unions persecute 
 Opinion, and induce a time 
 When single thought is civil crime, 
 
 And individual freedom mute ; 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 26 
 
 Tho' Power should make from land to land 
 The name of Britain trebly great — 
 Tho' every channel of the State 
 
 Should till and choke with golden sand — 
 
 Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, 
 Wild wind ! I seek a ^'armer sky, 
 And I will see before I die 
 
 The palms and temples of the South. 
 
 
 10 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM. 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 
 
 The thunders breaking at her feet ; 
 
 Above her shook the starry lights : 
 She heard the torrents meet. 
 
 There in her place she did rejoice, 
 
 Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 
 
 But fragments of her mighty voice 
 Came rolling on the wind. 
 
 Then stept she down thro' town and field 
 To mingle with the human race, 
 
 And pfirt by part to men reveal'd 
 The fullness of her face — 
 
LOVE THOU THY LAND. 41 
 
 Grave mother of majestic works, 
 
 From her isle-altar gazing down, 
 Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 15 
 
 And, King-like, wears the crown : 
 
 Her open eyes desire the truth. 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years 
 Is in them. May perpetual youth 
 
 Keep dry their light from tears ; 2J 
 
 That her fair form may stand and shine, 
 
 Make bright our days and light our dreams, 
 
 Turning to scorn with lips divine 
 The falsehood of extremes. 
 
 LOVE THOU THY LAND. 
 
 Love thou thy land, with love far-biought 
 From out the storied Past, and used " 
 Within the Present, but transfused 
 
 Thro' future time by power of thought. 
 
 True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
 Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
 For English natures, freemen, friends, 
 
 Thy brothers and immortal souls. 
 
 But pamper not a hasty time, 
 Nor feed with crude imaginings 
 The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings 
 
 That every sophi.sler cin lime. 
 
 10 
 
42 
 
 LOVE THOU THY LAND. 
 
 16 
 
 Deliver not the tasks of might 
 To weakness, neither hide the ray 
 From those, not blind, who wait for day, 
 
 Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 
 
 But let hf herald, Reverence, fly 
 
 Before her to whatever sky 
 Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 
 
 Watch what main-cui rents draw the years: 
 Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
 But gentle words are always gain : 
 
 Regard the weakiiess of thy peers : 
 
 Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
 Of pension, neither count on praise : 
 It grows to guerdon after-days : 
 
 Nor deal in watch-words oveimuch : 
 
 30 
 
 36 
 
 4Q 
 
 Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 
 
 Not master'd by some modern term ; 
 
 Not swift nor slow to change, but firm ; 
 And in its season bring the law ; 
 
 That from Discussion's lip may fall 
 
 With Life, that, working strongly, binds — 
 Set in all lights by many minds, 
 
 To close the interests of all. 
 
 For nature also, cold and warm. 
 And moist and dry, devising long, 
 Thro' many agents making strong, 
 
 Matures the individual form. 
 
LOVE THOU THY LAND. 
 
 Meet is it changes should control 
 Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
 We all are changed by still degrees, 
 
 All but the basis of the soul. 
 
 So let the change which comes be free 
 To ingroove itself with that which flies, 
 And work, a joint of state, that plies 
 
 Its office, moved with sympathy. 
 
 A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
 For all the past of Time reveals 
 A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 
 
 Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 
 
 Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
 A motion toiling in the gloom— 
 The Spirit of the years to come 
 
 Yearning to mix himself with Life. 
 
 A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
 Completion in a painful school ; 
 Phantoms of other forms of rule. 
 
 New Majesties of mighty States—* 
 
 The warders of the growing hour 
 But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; 
 And round them sea and air are dark 
 
 With great contrivances of Power. 
 
 Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
 Is bodied forth the second whole. 
 Regard gradation, lest the soul 
 
 Of Discord race the rising wind • 
 
 43 
 
 46 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 60 
 
 C5 
 
44 
 
 LOVE THOU THY LAND. 
 
 70 
 
 76 
 
 80 
 
 86 
 
 00 
 
 96 
 
 A wind to puif your idol-fires, 
 
 And heap their ashes on the head ; 
 To shame the boast so often made, 
 
 That we are wiser than our sires. 
 
 Oh yet, if ^STature's evil star 
 
 Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
 To follow flying steps of Truth 
 
 Across the brazen bridge of war — 
 
 If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
 Must ever shock, .like armed foes, 
 And this be true, till Time shall close. 
 
 That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 
 
 Not yet the wise of heart would c^ase 
 To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
 But with his hand against the hilt. 
 
 Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; 
 
 Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay. 
 
 Would serve his kind in deed and word. 
 Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 
 
 That knowledge takes the sword away — 
 
 Would love the gleams of good that broke 
 From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
 And if some dreadful need should rise 
 
 Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 
 
 To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
 As wo bear blossoms of the dead ; 
 Earn well the thrit'ty mouths, nor wed 
 
 Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 
 
 COMRAE 
 
 Leave n 
 1 
 
 Tis the 
 Dreary 
 
 Lockslej 
 And th( 
 
 Many a 
 Did I lo 
 
 Many a 
 Glitter li 
 
 Here ab( 
 With th( 
 
 Whenth 
 When I 
 
 When I 
 
 Saw the 
 b( 
 
 In the S 
 In the S 
 
 In the S 
 In the S 
 of 
 
 Then hei 
 sol 
 And her 
 
LOCKSLEY ilALL. 
 
 45 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : 
 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle- 
 horn. 
 
 Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 5 
 And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 10 
 
 Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
 When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: 
 
 When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 15 
 
 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
 be. — 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 
 
 1 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 
 
 I In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts 20 
 of love. 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one 
 so young. 
 
 And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 
 
46 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 in 
 
 And I said, 'My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.' 
 
 25 On her pallid cheek and forehead cams a colour and a light, 
 As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 
 
 And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of 
 sighs — 
 
 All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of liazel eyes — 
 
 Saying, *I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me 
 wrong ; 
 
 30 Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin?' weeping, 'I have loved 
 thee long.' 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing 
 hands ; 
 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 
 
 Lo\s took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords 
 with might; 
 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out 
 of sight. 
 
 35 Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
 
 And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the 
 Spring. 
 
 Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
 And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 
 
 O ray cousin, shallow-hearted ! my Amy, mine no more ! 
 40 O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
 Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
 On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine 1 
 
 Yet it s 
 
 What is 
 c 
 
 As the I 
 
 And the 
 
 d 
 
 He will : 
 
 f( 
 
 Somethii 
 
 What is 
 w 
 Go to hii 
 
 It may b 
 
 Soothe hi 
 th 
 
 He will a 
 Better thi 
 
 Better th^ 
 RoU'd in 
 
 Cursed b 
 
 yo 
 
 Cursed b€ 
 
 Cursed b( 
 I Cursed be 
 
 Well— 'ti; 
 
 W( 
 
 Would to 
 lo^ 
 
L0CK8LEY HALL. 
 
 47 
 
 Qth to me, 
 thee.' 
 
 a light, 
 I night. 
 
 a. storm of 
 yes— 
 luld do me 
 have loved 
 
 his glowing 
 
 sands, 
 the chords 
 
 a music out 
 
 copses ring, 
 ness of the 
 
 tately ships, 
 the lips. 
 
 no more 
 
 )arren shore! 
 
 rs have sung, 
 wish tongue! 
 
 — to decline 
 •t than mine 1 
 
 Yet it sliall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 46 
 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with 
 clay. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 
 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee 
 down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel 
 force, 
 
 \ Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 50 
 
 What is this 1 his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed 
 with wine. 
 
 Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : 
 
 Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter 
 thought. 
 
 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 55 
 Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
 Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of 
 youth ! 
 
 Cursed be the social lies that warp us trom the living truth! gQ 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 
 
 ; Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less un- 
 worthy proved — 
 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was 
 loved. 
 
48 
 
 LOCKSLRV HALL. 
 
 65 Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter 
 fruit? 
 
 I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' r , ii t be at the root. 
 
 Never, tho' my mortal summer'' to such length of years should 
 come 
 
 As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery 
 home. 
 
 Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? 
 70 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? 
 
 I remember one that perish 'd: sweetly did she speak and move: 
 Such a one do I remember, v^hom to look at was to love. 
 
 Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? 
 No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 
 
 75 Comfort? comfort soorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to 
 proof, 
 
 In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 
 
 Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
 80 Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and 
 fall. 
 
 Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken 
 
 sleep. 
 To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the teats that thou wilt 
 
 weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whisper'd by the phantom 
 
 years, 
 And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears: 
 
 And ai 
 Turn t 
 
 Nay, b 
 'Tis a I 
 
 Baby li 
 Baby fi 
 
 O, the < 
 Half is 
 
 O, I see 
 
 AVith a 
 
 1 
 
 'They w 
 
 e 
 
 Truly, sj 
 
 Overlive 
 I myself 
 
 What is 
 
 tl 
 
 Every dc 
 
 Every 
 I have b 
 
 I had be( 
 
 When th 
 w 
 
 But the 
 fe<l 
 
 And the 
 
 4 
 
LOCKSLKY HALL. 
 
 49 
 
 but l)itter 
 he root, 
 ars should 
 
 ig rookery 
 
 mind? 
 her, kind? 
 
 and move*, 
 love. 
 
 ^e she bore? 
 rmore. 
 
 3 poet sings, 
 pier things. 
 
 rt be put to 
 
 on the roof. 
 
 at the wall, 
 ows rise and 
 
 his drunken 
 at thou wilt 
 
 the phantom 
 )f thine ears: 
 
 And an eye shall vex Lhcc, locking ancient kindness on thy pain. 85 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. 
 
 Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 
 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 
 
 Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 90 
 
 O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 
 Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 
 
 O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 
 
 With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's 
 heart. 
 
 'They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not 95 
 exempt — 
 
 Truly, she herself had suffer'd' — Perish in thy self-contempt! 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet— be happy ! wherefore should I care ? 
 I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 
 
 What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like 
 these 1 
 
 1 Every door is barr'd with gold and opens but to golden keys. 100 
 
 Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
 I have but an angry fancy ; what is that which I should do 1 
 
 \ I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 
 
 I When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid 
 with sound. 
 
 But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour 105 
 
 feels, 
 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 
 4 
 
50 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 Can I but relive in sarlness? 1 will turn that earlier 
 
 page. 
 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- Age ! 
 
 Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
 1 10 When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life. 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would 
 yield. 
 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 
 
 And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, 
 Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 
 
 115 And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of 
 men : 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 
 
 new; 
 That which they hp ve done but earnest of the things that they 
 
 shall do : 
 
 For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 
 120 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 
 
 Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 
 Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 
 
 Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly 
 
 dew 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 
 
 126 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing 
 warm. 
 With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder- 
 storm ; 
 
 Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were 
 
 furl'd 
 In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 
 
 There tli 
 a 
 
 And the 
 
 So I trir 
 Left me 
 
 Eye, to V 
 Science r 
 
 Slowly c( 
 Glares at 
 
 ^ c 
 
 Yet I dc 
 
 And the 
 su 
 
 What is 
 joj 
 
 Tho' the 
 
 Knowledf 
 And the 
 
 Knowled^ 
 bn 
 
 Full of sa 
 
 Hark, my 
 They to w 
 
 Sh ill it nc 
 
 I am shai 
 thi 
 
 ■Weakness 
 
 I ^<^' 
 
 ■Nature mj 
 bra 
 
LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 51 
 
 r page. 
 
 •ther-Age ! 
 
 the strife, 
 f my life. 
 
 ears would 
 her's field. 
 
 irer drawn, 
 3ary dawn ; 
 
 him then, 
 throngs of 
 
 something 
 ;s that they 
 
 see, 
 
 t would be ; 
 
 igic sails, 
 ostly bales ; 
 
 'd a ghastly 
 
 ;ral blue ; 
 Ind rushing 
 
 he thunder- 
 
 e-flags were 
 (yorld. 
 
 Thnre the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in 
 awe, 
 
 And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 130 
 
 So I trimph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry. 
 
 Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced 
 eye; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint ; 
 
 Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to 
 point : 
 
 I Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, 135 
 
 Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. 
 
 And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the 
 suns. 
 
 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful 
 
 joys, 
 Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? 140 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. 
 And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 
 
 I Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden 
 breast. 
 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 
 
 Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 145 
 They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: 
 
 Sh ill it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? 
 
 il am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a 
 thing. 
 
 [Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, 
 woman's pain — 
 
 INature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallowei- 150 
 brain : 
 
52 
 
 LOCKyLi;\ IJALL. 
 
 Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, maich'd with 
 mine, 
 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 
 
 Heie at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some 
 retreat 
 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where ray life began to beat ; 
 
 155 Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil starrd ; — 
 I was left a trampled orphan, and a sellish uncle's ward. 
 
 Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, 
 On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
 160 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paratlise. 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 
 
 Slides the bii'd o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from 
 the crag ; 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited 
 
 tree — 
 Sunmier isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 
 
 165Th'^re m 'thinks would be enjoyment more than in this march 
 of mind. 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake 
 mankind. 
 
 There the passit)ns cranip'd no longcM- shall have scope and 
 
 br(Ni thing space : 
 I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 
 
 Iron jointed, supple-sinew 'd, they shall dive, and they shall 
 run, 
 170 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the 
 sun ; 
 
 0, I s( 
 
 1 Anciej 
 
LOCKSLEY HALL. 
 
 63 
 
 itch'd with 
 
 ) wino — 
 
 h, for some 
 
 fin to beat ; 
 
 il starred ; — 
 ward. 
 
 r away, 
 p, day. 
 
 happy skies, 
 ^ of Paradise. 
 
 II tlag, 
 
 \ trailer from 
 
 leavy-fruited 
 es of sea. 
 in this inarch 
 s that shake 
 
 ve scope and 
 y dusky race, 
 id they shall 
 lances in the 
 
 Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the 
 brooks. 
 
 Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 
 
 Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are 
 wild, 
 
 But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 
 
 I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 175 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime? 
 I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 
 
 I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 
 
 Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in I8O 
 Ajalon ! 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us 
 range, 
 
 Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of 
 change. 
 
 Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 
 
 Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 18.5 
 
 Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh 
 the Sun. 
 
 0, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
 
 Now for me tlie woods may wither, now for me the roof -tree 190 
 fall. 
 
54 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and 
 
 holt, 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 
 
 i^et it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
 For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 It little profits that an idle king, 
 By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
 Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dolo 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
 
 5 That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 
 
 I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
 Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy 'd 
 Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 
 That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 
 
 10 Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
 
 Vext the dim sea : I am become a name j 
 For always roaming with a hungry heart 
 Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
 And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
 
 16 Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ; 
 
 And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
 Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
 I am a part of all that I have met ; 
 Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
 
 20 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose mai-gin fades 
 
 For ever and for ever when I move. 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
 To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
 As tlio' to breathe were Life. Life piled on life 
 
^er heath and 
 
 thunderbolt. 
 
 fire or snow ; 
 1 1 go. 
 
 tga. 
 
 7 not me. 
 
 lose 
 ben 
 
 bts, 
 
 [gin fades 
 
 ULTSSES. 
 
 55 
 
 life 
 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 26 
 
 Little remains : but every hour is saved 
 
 From that eternal silence, something more, 
 
 A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
 
 For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
 
 And this gray spirit yearning i;a desire 80 
 
 To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
 
 Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
 
 This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
 To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — - 
 Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 36 
 
 This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
 A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
 Subdue them to the useful and the good. • 
 
 Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere 
 Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 
 
 In offices of tenderness, arxd pay 
 Meet adoration to my household gods. 
 When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
 
 There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : " 
 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 45 
 
 Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— 
 That ever with a frolic welcome took 
 The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
 Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 00 
 
 Death closes all • but something ere the end, 
 Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
 Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
 The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
 The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs: the deep 55 
 
 Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
 Push off", and sitting well in order smite 
 
56 ST. AGNEs' KVE. 
 
 The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
 60 Jo sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
 
 Of all the western stars, until I die. 
 It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
 It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
 And see the great Achilles whom we knew. 
 65 Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; 
 One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
 Made wrak by time and fate, but strong in will 
 70 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 
 
 10 
 
 ST. AGNES' EVE. 
 
 Deep on the con vent- roof the snows 
 
 Are sparkling to the moon : 
 My breath to heaven like vapour goes : 
 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to my Lord : 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 T^hat in my bosom lies. 
 
 15 
 
 As these white robes are soil'd and dark. 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 
I days 
 e, we are; 
 
 will 
 
 SIR GALAHAD. 
 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee ; 
 So in mine earthly house I am, 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 
 
 Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
 Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors : 
 
 The flashes come and go ; 
 All heaven bursts her starry floors. 
 
 And strows her lights below. 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The sabbaths of Eternity, 
 
 One sabbath deep and wide — 
 A light upon the shining sea — 
 
 The Bridegroom with his bride ! 
 
 57 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 35 
 
 SIR GALAHAD. 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men. 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heari; Is pure. 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
 
 The hai'd brands shiver on the steel, 
 The s])linter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
 
 The horae and rider reel : 
 
68 
 
 10 
 
 16 
 
 itiii; 
 
 '1 !i 
 
 m 
 
 'Si 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 SIR GALAHAD. 
 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
 And when the tide of combat stands, 
 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favours fall ! 
 For them I battle till the end, 
 
 To save from shame and thrall : 
 But all my heart is drawn above, 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
 I never felt the kiss of love, 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam. 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 
 
 A light before me swims, 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns : 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride ; • 
 
 I hear a voice but none are there ; 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
 
 And solemn chaunts resound between. 
 
 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 I find a magic bark ; 
 I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 
 
 I float till all is dark. 
 
SIR QALAHAD. 
 
 69 
 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides, the glory slides, 
 
 And star-like mingles with the stars. 
 
 46 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas mom, 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow. 
 The tempest crackles on the leads. 
 
 And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 
 
 No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 
 
 00 
 
 65 
 
 jen. 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 
 Such hope, T know not fear ; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease. 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace, • 
 
 Whose odours haunt my dreams ; 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 
 This mortal armour that I wear, 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 
 
 Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 
 
 m 
 
 n 
 
• I 
 
 60 ENID. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky, 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 
 75 Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
 * O just and faithful knight of God ! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near.' 
 80 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 
 
 Until I find the holy Grail. 
 
 It 
 
 ENID. 
 THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT. 
 
 The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 
 
 A tributary prince of Devon, one 
 
 Of that great Order of the Table Round, 
 
 Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 
 
 And loved her as he loved the light of Heaven. 
 
 And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
 
 At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 
 
 With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint 
 
 To make her beauty vary day by day, 
 
 In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
 
 And Enid, but to please her husband's eye. 
 
 Who first had found and loved her in a state 
 
 Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
 
 In some fresh splendour ; and the Queen herself, 
 
 Grateful to Prince Geraint few service done. 
 
 Loved her, and often with her own white hands 
 
lie, 
 
 i 
 
 court, 
 
 eaven. 
 
 ireraint 
 
 late 
 
 lerself, 
 
 |e, 
 
 Ihands 
 
 ENID. 
 
 Array*d and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
 
 Next after her own self, in all the court. 
 
 And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart 
 
 Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
 
 And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
 
 And seeing them so tender and so close. 
 
 Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 
 
 But when a rumour rose about the Queen, 
 
 Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
 
 Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard 
 
 The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, 
 
 Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell 
 
 A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
 
 Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, 
 
 Had sufFer'd, or should suffer any taint 
 
 In nature : wherefore going to the King, 
 
 He made this pretext, that his princedom lay 
 
 Close on the borders of a territory. 
 
 Wherein were bandit earls and caitiff knights. 
 
 Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
 
 Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 
 
 And therefore, till the King himself should please 
 
 To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm. 
 
 He craved a fair permission to depart, 
 
 And there defend his marches ; and the King 
 
 Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
 
 Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 
 
 And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores 
 
 Of Severn, and they past to their own land ; 
 
 Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 
 
 True to her lord, mine shall be so to me. 
 
 He compass'd her with sweet observances 
 
 And worship, never leaving her, and grew 
 
 Forgetful of his promise to the King, 
 
 61 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
 86 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
62 
 
 ENID. 
 
 Forgetful of the falcon und the hunt, 
 Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 
 Forgetful of his glory and his name, 
 Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 
 
 56 And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. 
 
 And by and by the people, when they met 
 In twos and threes, or fuller companies, 
 Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 
 As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, 
 
 60 And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 
 
 And this she gather'd from the peoples eyes : 
 This too the women who attired her head. 
 To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, 
 Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more : 
 
 65 And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 
 
 ^ut could not out of bashful delicacy ; 
 While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more 
 Suspicious that her natui'e had a taint. 
 
 Acn 
 Low 
 
 
 Am 
 Rep I 
 
 At last, it chanced that on a summer morn 
 70 (They sleeping each by either) the new sun 
 
 Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room, 
 . And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; 
 
 Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
 
 And bared the knotted column of his thro;^t, 
 75 The massive square of his heroic breast. 
 
 And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, 
 
 As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, 
 
 Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
 
 And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, 
 80 Admiring him, and thought within herself. 
 
 Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
 
 Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
 
 And accusation of uxoriousness 
 
ENID. 
 
 63 
 
 Across her mind, and bowing over him, 
 Low to her own heart piteously she said : 
 
 ' O noble breast and all-puissant arms, 
 Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
 Reproach you, saying all your force is gonel 
 I am the cause, because I dare not speak 
 And tell him what I think and what they say. 
 And yet I hate that he should linger here ; 
 I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
 Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, 
 And ride with him to battle and stand by, 
 And watch his mightful hand striking great blows 
 At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
 Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
 Not hearing any more his noble voice. 
 Not to be folded more in these dear arms, 
 And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, 
 Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. 
 Am I so bold, and could I so stand by. 
 And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
 Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, 
 And yet not dare to tell him what I think. 
 And how men slur him, saying all his force 
 Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 
 O me, I fear that I am no true wife.* 
 
 85 
 
 90 
 
 m 
 
 100 
 
 105 
 
 Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
 And the strong passion in her made her weep 
 True tears upon his broad and naked breast. 
 And these awoke him, and by great mischance 
 He heard but fragments of her later words, 
 And that she fear'd she was not a true wife, 
 And then he thought, * In spite of all my care, 
 
 110 
 
 115 
 
64 
 
 BNIO. 
 
 120 
 
 125 
 
 130 
 
 135 
 
 140 
 
 I Mi!! 
 
 li'ii 
 
 145 
 
 For all ir.y pains, poor man, for all my pains, 
 She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
 Weepiii<i; for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.' 
 Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much 
 To dream she could be guilty of foul act, 
 Right thro" his manful breast darted the pang 
 That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
 Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
 At this he hui'l'd his huge limbs out of bed, 
 And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
 
 * j\[y ch:irger and her palfrey ; ' then to her, 
 
 * I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
 For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 
 
 I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
 And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress, 
 And ride with me.* And Enid asked, amazed, 
 ' If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.' 
 But he, ' I charge thee, ask not, but obey.' 
 Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
 A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
 And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
 Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
 With sprigs of summer laid fc ^ ^-een the folds. 
 She took them and arrayed herself therein, 
 Remembering when first he came on her 
 Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
 And all her foolish fears about the dress, 
 And all his journey to her, as himself 
 Had told her, and their coming to the court. 
 
 For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 
 Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
 There on a day, he sitting high in hall. 
 Before him came a forester of Dean, 
 Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
 
 E 
 
ENID. 
 
 65 
 
 ds, 
 
 Tiiller than all hi.s fellows, milky-white, IfiO 
 
 First seen thut day ; these thinji^s he told the King. 
 
 Then the g(jod King gave order to let blow 
 
 His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
 
 And when the Queen petitioned for his leave 
 
 To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. IM 
 
 So with the morning all the court were gone. 
 
 But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
 
 Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love 
 
 For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
 
 But rose at last, a single maiden with her, 160 
 
 Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood ; 
 
 There, on a little knollj< beside it stay'd 
 
 Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard instead 
 
 A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, 
 
 Late also, wearing neither hunting dress ' 165 
 
 Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, 
 
 Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford 
 
 Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
 
 A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
 
 There swung an apple of the purest gold, * 170 
 
 Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 
 
 To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 
 
 In summer suit and silks of holiday. ' ." ■ 
 
 Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, • •> 
 
 Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace •" 176 
 
 Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him : 
 
 ' Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, ' later than we ! ' 
 
 'Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, 'and so late 
 
 That I but come like you to see the hunt, 
 
 Not join it.' ' Therefore wait with me,' she said ; 180 
 
 For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 
 
 There is a good chance that w« shall hear the hounds : 
 
 Here often they break covert at our feet.' 
 
I ! 
 
 06 ENID. 
 
 And while 'hey listened for the distant hunt, 
 And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
 King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode 
 Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; Mi 
 
 Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight 
 Had vizor up, and .show'd a youthful face, •'-^■r 
 
 190 Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
 
 And Guinevere, not mindful of his face ' 
 
 In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent ' 
 Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; . ■ ' '' 
 Who being vicious, old and irritable, ; ' ' 
 
 195 And doubling all his master's vice of pride, '** 
 
 Made answer sharply that she should not know. 
 'Then will I ask it of himself,' she said, 
 
 * Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf 
 
 * Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ;' 
 200 And when she put her horse toward the knight, 
 
 Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd , 
 Indignant to the Queen ; whereat Geraint 
 Exclaiming ' Surely I will learn the name,' 
 Made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him, 
 
 205 Who answer'd as before ; and when the Prince 
 
 Had put his horse in motion toward the knight. 
 Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. 
 The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf. 
 Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand ^ 
 
 210 Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : . 
 
 But he, from his exceeding manfulness ., 
 And pure nobility of temperament. 
 Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd 
 From ev'n a word, and so returning said : 
 
 {\ 
 
 
 216 
 
 ' I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
 Done in your maiden's person to yourself : 
 And I will track this vermin to their earths : 
 
,nt hunt, 
 
 , there rode 
 
 rf; 
 
 tie knight 
 
 ice, 
 
 e " 
 
 nd sent 
 
 )ride, ''* 
 not know.' 
 
 ed the dwai-f ; 
 
 him ;' . ; 
 he knight, 
 return'd ; 
 aint j 
 
 ame,' 
 
 it of him, 
 
 le Prince 
 
 le knight, 
 
 lis cheek. 
 
 larf, 
 
 land 
 
 > V 
 
 train'd 
 id: 
 
 If : 
 Lrths : 
 
 .- (' 
 
 ,vin 
 
 . ^-v 
 
 ENID. 
 
 For tho' I ride unarra'd, I do not doubt 
 To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
 On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found, 
 Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, 
 And on the third day will again be here, 
 So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell.' 
 
 * Farewell, fair Prince,' answer'd the stately Queen. 
 * Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; 
 And may you light on all things mat you love. 
 And live to wed with her whom first you love; 
 But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, 
 And I, were she the daughter of a king, 
 Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
 Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.' 
 
 And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard 
 The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
 A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
 A. little at the vile occasion, rode. 
 By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
 And valley, with fixt eye following the three. 
 At last they issued from the world of wood. 
 And climb 'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
 And show'd themselves against the sky and sank. 
 And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
 Beheld the long street of a little town 
 In a long valley, on one side whereof. 
 White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose ; 
 And on one side a castle in decay. 
 Beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine ; 
 And out of town and valley came n noise 
 As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
 Brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks 
 At distance ere they settle for the night. 
 
 •220 
 
 •J25 
 
 230 
 
 235 
 
 240 
 
 245 
 
 250 
 
68 
 
 ENID. 
 
 And onward to the fortress rode the three, 
 And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
 ' So,' thought Geraint, ' I have track'd him to his eartli. 
 And down the long street riding wearily, 
 
 255 Found every hostel full, and everywhere ^ 
 
 Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 
 And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd 
 His master's armour ; and of such a one 
 He ask'd, ' What means the tumult in the town f 
 
 260 Who told him, scouring still, ' The sparrow-hawk ! ' 
 
 Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 
 Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, 
 Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 
 Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here ! 
 
 26 Who answer'd gruffly, ' Ugh ! the sparrow-hawk.' 
 
 Then riding further past an armourer's. 
 Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, 
 Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, " / 
 
 He put the self-same query, but the man 
 
 27C Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : 
 
 ' Friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk . / 
 Has little time for idle questioners.' 
 Whereat Geraint flashed into sudden spleen : .. .' 
 ' A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk ! 
 
 275 Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead ! 
 
 Ye think th(! rustic cackle of your bourg 
 The murmur of the world ! What is it to me 1 
 O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, 
 Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! 
 
 280 Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 
 
 Where can I get me harbourage for the night ? 
 And arms, arms, arms to fight my enciny 1 Speak !' 
 Whereat the armourer turning all amazed 
 And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 
 
 288 Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 
 
ENID. 
 
 61) 
 
 hree, 
 
 alls. 
 
 dm to his eartli. 
 
 / 
 
 tiiss 
 
 scour 'd 
 
 e 
 
 the town ?' 
 
 ^row-hawk ! ' 
 
 irl, 
 
 m, 
 
 )rn, 
 
 ubbub here ! 
 
 'ow-hawk.' 
 
 ve his work, 
 
 i 
 
 s 
 
 m / 
 
 said : . . - 
 
 Iw-hawk / 
 
 )leen : i 
 [hawk ! 
 ;k him dead ! 
 
 to me % 
 
 ^ks! . , ../ 
 |uad, 
 
 night ? 
 \y1 Speak!' 
 led 
 
 Imd 
 
 And answer'd, * Pardon me, strangor knight ; 
 We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, .; . 
 
 And there is scantly time for half the work. 
 Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here. 
 Harbourage ? truth, good truth, I know not, save, 
 It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 
 Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again. 
 
 Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
 
 Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine 
 
 There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
 
 (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, . . >. 
 
 Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : . , • , . 
 
 * Whither, fair son ? ' to whom G eraint replied, 
 'O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.' 
 Then Yniol, ' Enter therefore and partake 
 The slender entertainment of a house 
 
 Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd.' • ... 
 ' Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint ; 
 
 * So that ye do not serve me sparrow hawks 
 
 For supper, I will enter, I will eat : 
 
 With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.' 
 Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, 
 And answer'd, ' Graver cause than yours is mine 
 To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk : 
 But in, go in ; for save yourself <lesire it, 
 We will not touch upon Inm ev'n in jest.' • 
 
 Then rode Geraint into the castle court, ; 
 
 His charger trampling many a prickly star 
 Of sprouted thistle on the the broken stones. 
 He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
 Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with foi'n ; 
 And here had fall'n a great part of a tower. 
 Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff', 
 
 290 
 
 295 
 
 300 
 
 305 
 
 310 
 
 315 
 
70 
 
 ENID. 
 
 And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers : 
 320 And high above a piece of turret stair, 
 
 Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
 Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
 Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, 
 And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd 
 32 ■» A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 
 
 And while he waited in the castle court, 
 The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang ' ' ' 
 Clear thro' the open casement of the hall, 
 Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
 
 330 Heard by the lander in a lonely isle. 
 
 Moves him to think what kind of a bird it is 
 That siags so delicately clear, and make 
 Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
 So the sweet voice o£ Enid moved Geraint ; 
 
 335 And made him like a man abroad at morn 
 
 When first the liquid note beloved of men 
 Comes flying over many a windy wave 
 To Britain, and in April suddenly 
 Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 
 And he suspends his converse with a friend. 
 Or it may be the labour of his hands. 
 To think or say, ' There :s the nightingale ; * 
 So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 
 ' Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.' 
 
 345 It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 
 
 Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang : 
 
 340 
 
 Ji 
 
 1 • 
 
 ' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud , 
 Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud j 
 Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 
 
 350 » Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown } 
 
 _... r . 
 
ENID. 
 
 71 
 
 fs: 
 
 nd 
 
 ok'd 
 
 IS 
 
 .nd red, 
 
 said, 
 
 ne. 
 
 >ne 
 
 , f r 
 
 ,1 
 
 r the proud , 
 md cloud ; 
 
 \e or frown; 
 
 With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
 Our hoard is little, but our hearts ar-e great. 
 
 ' Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; . . 
 
 Frown and \vc smile, the lords of our own hands ', 
 For man is man and master of his fate. 355 
 
 ' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; 
 Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; 
 Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.' . ■ 
 
 ' Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,' 
 Said Yniol ; ' enter quickly.' Entering then, 360 
 
 Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, 
 The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd hall. 
 He found an ancient dame in dim brocade ; 
 And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, 
 That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 365 
 
 Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 
 Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 
 'Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.' 
 But none spake word except the hoary Earl : 
 ' Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court ' ' 370 
 
 Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then 
 Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; 
 And we will make us merry as we may. 
 Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.' 
 
 He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain j^g 
 
 To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught 
 His purple scarf, and held, and said, ' Forbear ! 
 Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my son. 
 Endures not that her guest should serve himself.* 
 And reverencing the custom of the house 380 
 
 Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore, 
 
72 
 
 ENID. 
 
 lii |'f!l 
 
 So Enid took his charger to the stall ; 
 And after went her way across the bridge, 
 And reached the town, and while the Prince and Earl 
 
 385 Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
 
 A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
 The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. 
 And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheei , 
 And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
 
 390 And then, because their hall must also serve 
 
 For kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board, 
 And stood behind, and waited on the three, 
 And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
 Geraint had longing in him evermore 
 
 395 To stoop and kiss tl tender little thumb, 
 
 That crost the trencher as she laid it down : 
 But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
 For now the wine made summer in his veins. 
 Let his eye rove in f Uowing, or rest 
 
 400 On Enid at her lowly hand-maid work, 
 
 Now here, now there about the dusky hall ; 
 Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 
 
 'Fair host and Earl, I pray your courtesy ; 
 This sparrow-hawk, what is he ? tell me of him. 
 His name; but no, good faith, I will not have it : 
 For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
 Ride into that new fortress by your town. 
 White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn 
 From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
 Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen 
 Sent her own maiden to demand the name ; 
 His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, 
 Struck at her with his whip, and she returned 
 Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
 415 That I would track this caitifl' to his hold, 
 
e and Earl 
 
 le. 
 
 ;m cheer, 
 
 'e 
 
 e board, 
 
 i: 
 
 IS. 
 
 
 f 
 him. 
 
 ave it 
 
 sworn 
 
 it 
 
 en 
 
 ned 
 
 ENID. 
 
 And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. 
 And all unarm'd I rode and thought to find 
 Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; 
 They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
 For the great wave that echoes round the world ; 
 They would not hear me speak : but if ye know 
 Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
 Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn 
 That I will break his pride and learn his name. 
 Avenging this great insult done the Queen.' 
 
 Then cried Earl Yniol, * Art thou he indeed, 
 Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
 For noble deeds? and truly I, when first 
 I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
 Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state 
 And presence might have guoss'd you one of those 
 That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
 Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
 For this dear child hath often heard me praise 
 Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 
 Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear ; 
 So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
 To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : 
 
 never yet had woman such a pair 
 
 Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, , . 
 
 A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, , 
 Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead ;- 
 
 1 know not, but he past to the wild land. / 
 The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, > 
 My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name 
 Slip from my lips if I can help it — he. 
 
 When I that knew him fierce and turbulent , , 
 
 Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; . . i 
 And since the proud man oiUm is the mean, ^' ^ 
 
 73 
 
 420 
 
 425 
 
 430 
 
 435 
 
 440 
 
 445 
 
 ^ » t 
 
74 
 
 ENID. 
 
 450 
 
 455 
 
 IlliMlli 
 
 460 
 
 465 
 
 nili 
 
 Ji^l' 
 
 470 
 
 ti li 
 
 475 
 
 480 
 
 ■>'i 
 
 He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
 
 Affirming that his father left him gold, ''•'' 
 
 And in my charge, which was not render'd to him ; 
 
 Bribed with large promises the men who served 
 
 About my person, the more easily 
 
 Because my means were somewhat broken into "' '•' 
 
 Thro' open doors and hospitality; ' ' ■■ •' 
 
 Raised my own town against me in the night 
 
 Before my Enid's birthday, sacked my house ; 
 
 From mine own earldom foully ousted me ; 
 
 Built that new fort to overawe my friends. 
 
 For truly there are those who love me yet ; 
 
 And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. 
 
 Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, 
 
 But that his pride too much despises me : 
 
 And I myself sometimes despise myself; 
 
 For I have let men be, and have their way ; 
 
 Am much too gentle, have not used my power; ' • 
 
 Nor know I whether I be very base ' 
 
 Or very manful, whether very wise 
 
 Or very foolish ; only this I know, - . ^- . 
 
 That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
 
 I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
 
 But can endure it all most patiently.' 
 
 ' Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, * but arras. 
 That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight 
 In next day's tourney, I may break his pride.' 
 
 And Yniol answer'd. * Arms, indeed, but old 
 And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, 
 Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, thine. 
 But in this tournament can no man tilt. 
 Except the lady he loves best be there. 
 Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, 
 
 birf 
 
 
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 ./, 
 
 ;i » 
 
 ■■'.'. f: 
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 rved 
 
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 hto ■ ' 
 
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 t 
 
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 death, 
 
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 t 
 
 le.' t/s 
 
 old 
 
 ine. 
 
 , .;! f or) 
 
 ■ .i"." 
 
 ENID. 
 
 And over these is placed a silver wand, 
 
 And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 
 
 The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
 
 And this, what knight soever be in field 
 
 Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 
 
 And tilts with my good nephew thereupon. 
 
 Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
 
 Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
 
 And toppling over all antagonism 
 
 Has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk. ; 
 
 But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.' 
 
 To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, 
 Leaning a little toward him, * Thy leave ! »• 
 
 Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host. 
 For this dear child, because I never saw, . '' 
 Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
 Nor can see elsewhere anything, so fair. '■ • 
 
 And if I fall her name will yet remain ' v I y. 
 Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, '. ?" : * 
 
 So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, • ' 
 As I will make her rruly my true wife.' > 
 
 Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart *'? ? ' 
 Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 
 And looking round he saw not Enid there, 
 (Who hearing her own name had stol'n away) 
 But that old dame, to whom full tenderly 
 And fondling all her hand in his he said, ;. 
 
 ' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 
 And best by her that bore her understood. 
 Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
 Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.' 
 
 So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
 
 76 
 
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 A' 
 
 485 
 
 490 
 
 •i'l,i 
 
 495 
 
 600 
 
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 505 
 
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76 
 
 ENID. 
 
 515 
 
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 545 
 
 Witli frequent smile and nod departing found, 
 
 Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
 
 Whom first ^he kiss'd on either cheek, and then 
 
 On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
 
 And kept her off and gazed upon her face, 
 
 And told her all their converse in the hall, 
 
 Proving her heart : but never light and shade 
 
 Coursed one another more on open ground 
 
 Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale 
 
 Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
 
 While slowly falling as a scale that falls, 
 
 When weight is added only grain by grain, 
 
 Sank hex sweet head upon her gentle breast; .• „ 
 
 Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
 
 Eapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; 
 
 So moving without answer to her rest 
 
 She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
 
 The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
 
 Contemplating her own unworthiness ; ' . 
 
 And when the pale and bloodless east began 
 
 To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
 
 Her mother too, and hand in hand they mo^•ed 
 
 Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, 
 
 And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. 
 
 And thither came the twain, and when Geraint 
 Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
 He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
 Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 
 The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms 
 Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
 Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant knights 
 And ladies came, and by and by the town 
 Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 
 ^nd there they fixt the forks into the ground. 
 
 .- / 
 
 ■ I 
 
ml, 
 then 
 
 ENID. 
 
 77 
 
 ade 
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 it; . .'„ ..': 
 
 m 
 
 loved 
 re held, 
 
 Geraint 
 
 )ve 
 
 I knights 
 
 )und, 
 
 And over the.se they placed the silver wand, 
 
 And over that the golden spa now -hawk. 550 
 
 Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, 
 
 Spake to the lady with hira and proelaim'd, 
 
 ' Advance and take, as fairest of the fair. 
 
 What I these two years past have won for thee, 
 
 Tht; prize of beauty.' Loudly spake the Prince, 555 
 
 ' Forbear : there is a worthier,' and the knight 
 
 With some surprise and thrice as much disdain 
 
 Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
 
 Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
 
 So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 560 
 
 ' Do battle for it then,' no more ; and thrice 
 
 They clash'd together, and thrice they break their spears. 
 
 Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each 
 
 So often and with such blows, that all the crowd 
 
 Wonder'd and now and then from distant walls 565 
 
 There came a clapping as of pnantom hands. 
 
 So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still 
 
 The dew of their great labour, and the blood 
 
 Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. 
 
 But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, .570 
 
 * Remember that great insult done the Queen,' 
 
 Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, 
 
 And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone. 
 
 And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast, 
 
 And said, ' Thy name ? ' To whom the fallen man ^# 
 
 Made answer, groaning, ' Edyrn, s^n of Nudd ! 
 
 Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
 
 My pride is broken : men have seen my fall.' 
 
 'Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint, 
 
 ' These two things shalt thou do, or else thoi diest. 580 
 
 First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, 
 
 Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there 
 
 Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 
 
78 
 
 ENID. 
 
 585 
 
 590 
 
 595 
 
 600 
 
 ' 1 
 
 G05 
 610 
 615 
 
 And shalt abide her judgment on it ; next, i 
 
 Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 
 These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.* 
 And Edyrn answer'd, ' These things will I do, 
 For I have never yet been overthrown, 
 And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 
 Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! * 
 And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, 
 And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
 And being young, he changed and came to loathe 
 His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself 
 Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last 
 In the great battle fighting for the King. 
 
 But when the third day from the hunting-morn 
 Made a low splendour in the world, and wings 
 Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
 With her fair head in the dim-yellow light. 
 Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
 Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
 No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
 So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
 He would not leave her, till her promise given — 
 To ride with him this morning to the court. 
 And there be made known to the stately Queen, 
 And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
 At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 
 And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. 
 For as a leaf in mid-November is 
 To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
 The dress that now she look'd on to the dress 
 She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
 And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
 Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, 
 All staring at her in her faded silk : 
 
 i; 
 
:t, •■ 
 ^ kin. 
 halt die.' 
 I do, 
 
 iride 
 
 ENID. 
 
 79 
 
 
 to loathe 
 
 last 
 
 ting-morn 
 wings 
 
 rht, 
 
 given 
 
 given — 
 [urt, 
 Queen, 
 
 1 
 
 lean. 
 
 dress 
 
 grew 
 Ig, a court, 
 
 And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 
 
 ' This noble prince who won our earldom back, 
 So splendid in his acts and his attire, 620 
 
 Sweet heaven, how much T shall discredit him I 
 Would he could tarry with us here awhile. 
 But being so beholden to the Prince, • ■• 
 
 It were but little grace in any of us, 
 
 Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, 625 
 
 To seek a second favour at his hands. 
 Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
 Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, •■ 
 
 Far liefer than so much discredit him.' 
 
 And Enid fell in longing for a dress , • 630 
 
 All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift 
 Of her good mother, gk* a her on the night 
 Before her birthday, three sad years ago, 
 That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, 
 And scatter'd all they had to all the winds : , 685 
 
 For while the mother show'd it, and the two 
 Were turning and admiring it, the work 
 To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry ; ; ■"■'"' 
 
 That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled , >;■ 
 With little save the jewels they had on, §40 
 
 Which being sold and sold had bought them bread : 
 And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight. 
 And placed them in this ruin ; and she wish'd ''K.' 
 
 The Prince had found her in her ancient home ; 
 Then let her fancy flit across the past, 645 
 
 And roam the goodly places that she knew ; , 
 
 And last bethought her how she used to watch, 
 Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ; . : 1 
 
 And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless 
 Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool ; qqq 
 
80 
 
 ENID. 
 
 655 
 
 660 
 
 665 
 
 670 
 
 675 
 
 680 
 
 il4-,' 
 
 And half asleep she made comparison 
 
 Of that and these to her own faded self 
 
 And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; 
 
 And dreamt herself was such a faded form 
 
 Amorg her burnish'd sisters of the pool ; 
 
 But this was in the garden of a king ; 
 
 And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 
 
 That all was bright ; that all about were birds 
 
 Of sunny plume in gilded trellis work ; 
 
 That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd 
 
 Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
 
 An t lords and ladies of the high court went 
 
 In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
 
 And children of the King in cloth of gold 
 
 Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ; 
 
 And while she thought ' They will not see me,' came 
 
 A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 
 
 And all the children in their cloth of gold 
 
 Ran to her, crying, ' If we have fish at all 
 
 'Lti '.hem be gold ; and charge the gardnors now 
 
 To pick the faded creature from the pool. 
 
 And cast it on the mixen that it die.' ,. i 
 
 And therewithal one came and seized on her, 
 
 And Enid started waking, with her heart . . 
 
 All overshadow'd by the foolish dream. 
 
 And lo ! it was her mother grasping her ', . : ' 
 
 To get her well awake ; and in her hand . ; . : 
 
 A suit of bright apparel, which she laid ,. 
 
 Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly : ... 
 
 'See here, my child, how fresh the colours look. 
 How fast they hold like colours of a shell 
 That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. 
 Why not ? It never yet was worn, I trow : 
 Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.' 
 
ENID. 
 
 81 
 
 3W 
 
 birds 
 
 ok'd 
 
 Bnt 
 
 he walks ; 
 36 me,' came 
 ere, 
 d 
 11 
 lers now •. 
 
 1, 
 
 her, 
 
 [ours look, 
 
 111 
 rave. 
 
 Ivit.' 
 
 And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, 685 
 
 Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : 
 Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, 
 And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your good gift. 
 So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
 
 Your own good gift !' ' Yea, surely,' said the dame, 690 
 
 ' And gladly given again this happy morn. 
 For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
 Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 
 He found the sack and plunder of our house 
 All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town ; 695 
 
 And gave command that all which once was ours 
 Should now be ours again : and yester-eve, 
 While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, 
 Came one with this and laid it in my hand. 
 For love or fear, or seeking favour of us, 700 
 
 Because we have our earldom back again. 
 And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, , 
 
 But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
 Yea, truly is it not a sweet suiprise ? 
 
 For I myself unwillingly have worn 705 
 
 My faded suit, as you, my child^have yours, 
 And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
 Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, - • 
 
 With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, ' ' 
 
 And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, 710 
 
 And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all 
 That appertains to noble maintenance. '•> 
 
 Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 
 But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade. 
 And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 715 
 
 Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; 
 So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
 Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : 
 For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, 
 
82 
 
 ENID. 
 
 j 1 
 
 I 
 
 ' I 
 
 720 And tho' I. heard him call you fairest fair, 
 
 Let never maiden think, however fair, 
 She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
 And should some great court-lady say, the Prince 
 Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, 
 
 725 And like a madman brought her to the court, » ' ' 
 
 .-■*' Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the 
 
 To whom we are beholden ; but I know. 
 When my dear child is set forth at her best. 
 That neither court nor country, tho' they sought 
 
 730 Thro' all the provinces like those of old 
 
 That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.' 
 
 Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; 
 And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay ; 
 Then, as the white and glittering star of morn 
 
 735 Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
 
 Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, 
 And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, 
 Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye. 
 Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; 
 
 740 Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, 
 
 She ne /er yet had seen her half so fair ; 
 And call'd her like that maiden in the tale, 
 Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers, . 
 And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
 
 745 Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first 
 
 ..\ ? Invaded Britain, ' JBut we beat him back. 
 
 As this great Prince invaded us, and we. 
 Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. 
 And I can scarcely ride with you to court, 
 
 750 For old am 1, and rough the ways and wild ; 
 
 But Yniol goes, and i full oft shall dream 
 I see my princess as I see her now. 
 Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.' 
 
 Al 
 PrinceJ 
 
 f i 
 
ENID. 
 
 83 
 
 .< i 
 
 iir, 
 
 d. 
 
 the Prince 
 
 3dge, 
 
 s court, 
 
 t shame the Princej 
 
 w, 
 
 ? best, 
 
 ley sought 
 
 i 
 
 • match.' 
 
 of breath ; 
 lay ; 
 
 of morn 
 id by 
 3se, 
 herself, 
 md eye, 
 vn ; 
 i, and said, 
 
 3 tale, 
 
 of flowers, 
 
 laun, 
 r first . ' 
 
 ck. 
 
 m 
 
 '/>, 
 
 Iwe, t '» 
 
 with joy. 
 |;oiirt, 
 
 wild ; 
 ream 
 
 the gay.' 
 
 But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint 
 Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd 
 For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
 Of that good mother making Enid gay 
 In such apparel as might well beseem 
 His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, 
 He answer'd : * Earl, entreat her by my love, 
 Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
 That she ride with me in her faded silk,' 
 Yniol with that hard message went ; it fell 
 Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : 
 For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why. 
 Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, 
 But silently, in all obedience. 
 Her mother silent too, nor helping her. 
 Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, 
 And robed them in her ancient suit again. 
 And go descended. Never man rejoiced 
 More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; 
 And glancing all at once as keenly at her 
 As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 
 Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
 But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 
 Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow. 
 Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said, 
 
 • my new mother, be not wroth or grieved 
 At thy new son, for my petition to her. 
 When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
 In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet. 
 Made promise, that whatever bride I brought. 
 Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. 
 Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall, 
 Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
 I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair Queen, 
 
 755 
 
 760 
 
 765 
 
 770 
 
 77^ 
 
 780 
 
 785 
 
84 
 
 ENID. 
 
 ii! 
 
 !! 
 
 790 No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst 
 
 Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perhaps, 
 That service done so graciously would bind 
 The two together ; fain I would the two 
 Should love each other : how can Enid find 
 
 795 A nobler friend? Another thought was mine ; 
 
 I came amon^- you here so suddenl 
 That tho' her gentle presence at tiiv. lists 
 Might well have served for proof that I was loved, 
 I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, 
 
 800 Or easy nature, might not let itself 
 
 :' Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
 
 Or whether seme false sense in her own self 
 Of my contrasting brightness, overbore * 
 Her fancy, dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
 
 805 And such a sense might make her long for court 
 
 And all its perilous glories ; and I thought, 
 That could I someway prove such force in her 
 Link'd with such love for me, that at a word . „ .• 
 (No reason given her) she could cast aside 
 
 810 A splendour dear to women, new to her, 
 
 And therefore dearer ; or if not so new. 
 Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
 Of intermitted usage : then I felt 
 That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 
 
 815 Fixt on her faith. Now thei'efore I do rest, 
 
 A prophet certain of my prophecy, -• 
 
 That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
 Between us. Grant me pardon or my thoughts : 
 And for my strange petition I will make 
 
 820 Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, 
 
 When your fair child shall wear your costly gift 
 Beside your own wai-iii hearth, with, on her knees, 
 Who know?:? another gift of the high God, 
 Which, mayl)e, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.' 
 
ENID. 
 
 86 
 
 tiid burst 
 jht perhaps, 
 3ind 
 
 
 
 find 
 mine ; 
 
 ;ts 
 
 [ was loved, 
 
 ss, 
 
 tl; 
 a self 
 
 y for court 
 ught, 
 i in her 
 , word 
 lide 
 
 >wer 
 
 lows, 
 o rest, 
 
 )SS 
 
 r thoughts : 
 ke 
 
 He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in tears, 825 
 
 Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, 
 And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away. 
 
 Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd 
 The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, 
 Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 830 
 
 And white sails flying on the yellow sea ; 
 But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
 Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, 
 By the flat meadow, till she saw them come ; 
 And then descending met them at the gates, ^^35 
 
 Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, 
 And did her honour as the Prince's bride. 
 And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; 
 And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 
 For by the hands of Dubric ;Ve high saint, 340 
 
 They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 
 
 And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. 
 But Enid ever kept the faded silk. 
 Remembering how first he came on her, 
 Drest in that dress,| and how he loved her in it, 315 
 
 And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
 And all his journey toward her as himself 
 Had told her, and their coming to the court. 
 
 And now^ this morning when he said to her, 
 * Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found 850 
 
 And took it, and arrayed lit-rsolf therein. 
 
 )stly gift 
 »n her knees, 
 God, 
 isp you thanks. 
 
£NID. 
 
 85r> 
 
 860 
 
 870 
 
 875 
 
 B30 
 
 GERAINT AND ENID. 
 
 O Purblind race of miserable men, 
 How many among us at this very hour 
 Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
 By taking true for false, or false for true ; 
 Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
 Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
 That other, where we see as we are seen ! 
 
 So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth 
 That morning, when they both had got to horse, 
 Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
 And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, 
 Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce 
 Upon a head so dear, in thunder, said : 
 * Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, 
 Ever a good way on before ; and this 
 I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife. 
 Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
 No, not a word !' and Enid was aghast ; 
 And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, 
 When crying out, * Effeminate as I am, 
 T will not fight my way with gilded arms. 
 All shall be iron ;' he loosed a mighty purse. 
 Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. 
 So the last sight that Enid had of home 
 Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 
 With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire 
 Chafing his shoulder : then he cried again, 
 ' To the wilds !' and Enid leading down the tracks 
 Thro' which he bad her lead him on, they past 
 
ENID. 
 
 87 
 
 The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, 
 
 Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, 
 
 And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode ; 
 
 Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon : 
 
 A stranger meeting them had surely thought, 
 
 They rode so slowly and they looked so pale, . ; 
 
 That each had suffer'd some exceeding wrong. 
 
 For he was ever saying to himself, 
 
 ' O i that wasted time to tend upon her, 
 
 To compass her with sweet observances. 
 
 To dress her beautifully and keep her true — ' 
 
 And there he broke the sentence in his heart 
 
 Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
 
 May break it, when his passion masters him. ' 
 
 And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 
 
 To save her dear lord whole from any wound. 
 
 And ever in her mind she cast about 
 
 For that unnoticed failing in herself, ' ' 
 
 Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; 
 
 Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 
 
 Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd 
 
 In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
 
 Then thought again, ' If there be such in me, 
 
 I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, 
 
 If he would only speak and tell me of it.' 
 
 But when the fourth part of the day was gone, 
 Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
 On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock . 
 
 In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; 
 And heard one crying to his fellow, ' Look, 
 Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, 
 Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; 
 Come, we will slay him and will have his horse 
 And armour, and his damsel shall l)e ours.' 
 
 886 
 
 896 
 
 iif'.' 
 
88 
 
 ENID. 
 
 915 Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said : 
 
 * I will go back a little to my lord, 
 And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
 For, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
 Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, 
 
 920 Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' 
 
 Then she went back some paces of return, 
 Met his full frown timidly firm, and said ; 
 ' My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
 Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast 
 925 That they would slay you, and possess your horse 
 
 And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' 
 
 He made a wrathful answer : ' Did I wish 
 Your warning or your silence ? one command 
 I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
 930 And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look — for now. 
 
 Whether ye wish me victory or defeat. 
 Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
 Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' 
 
 Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, 
 935 And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
 
 And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint 
 Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
 A.nd out beyond ; and then against his brace 
 Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him 
 940 A lance that splinter'd like an icicle. 
 
 Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
 Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain 
 Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
 That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
 945 Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born 
 
 The three gay suits of armour which they wore, 
 And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
 
ENID. 
 
 89 
 
 n(i said : 
 Ik; 
 
 n' shame.' 
 
 return, 
 aid ; 
 rock 
 m boast 
 1 your horse 
 be theirs.' 
 
 I wish 
 )mmand 
 
 k — for now, 
 
 > 
 ath, 
 
 t.' 
 
 hree. 
 -eraint 
 breast 
 
 brace 
 
 on him 
 
 )ut 
 
 'd the twain 
 ■nan 
 him, 
 
 Oman born 
 ey wore, 
 Liits 
 
 .1 
 
 ; 
 
 Of armour on their horses, each on each. 
 And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
 Together, and said to her, * Diive them on 
 Before you ;' and she drove them thro' the WMste. 
 
 He follow'd nearer : ruth began to work 
 Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
 The being he loved test in all the world, 
 With difficulty in mild obedience 
 Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her. 
 And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath 
 And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all within ; 
 But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
 At once without remorse to strike her dead. 
 Than to cry ' Halt,' and to her own bright face 
 Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
 And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more 
 That she could speak whom his own ear had heard 
 Call herself false : and suffering thus he made 
 Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
 Than at Caerleon the full-tided TJsk', 
 Before he turn to fall seaward again. 
 Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
 In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
 Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, « • ■ 
 
 Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd, 
 Whereof one seen/d far larger than her lord, 
 And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, a prize ! 
 Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, 
 And all in charge of whom 1 a girl : set on.' 
 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.* 
 The third, 'A craven ; how he hangs his head.' 
 The giant answer'd merrily, ' Yea, but one ? 
 Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' 
 
 950 
 
 955 
 
 960 
 
 965 
 
 970 
 
 975 
 
 980 
 
90 
 
 ENID. 
 
 985 
 
 f.< v;? 
 
 990 
 
 995 
 
 .«fi;' 
 
 M'!lh 
 
 1000 
 
 Ipi. 
 
 1005 
 
 ;ifi., 
 
 1010 
 
 ■. it 
 
 f?; 
 
 And Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said, 
 *I will abide the coming of my lord, 
 And I will tell him all their villainy. 
 My lord is v/eary with the fight before, 
 And they will fall upon him unawares. ' ' • >'^ 
 
 I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
 How should I dare obey him to his harm ? 
 Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, 
 I save a life dearer to me than mine.' • • 
 
 And she abode his coming, and said to him 
 With timid firmness, * Have I leave to speak V 
 He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoko, 
 
 * There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, 
 And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
 Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
 That they will fall upon you while ye pass.' 
 
 To which he flung a wrathful answer back : 
 * And if there were an hundred in the wood, 
 And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
 And all at once should sally out upon me, 
 I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
 As you that not obey me. Stand aside, • ' 
 And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' 
 
 And Enid stood aside to wait the event, ■ '' 
 Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe ' ' 
 Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
 And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. 
 Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, 
 A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
 Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, 
 And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd 
 And there lay still ; as he that tells the tale 
 
 , ' "f '■ 
 
 ','.'.■•-,. ■ 
 
BNID. 
 
 91 
 
 1 said, 
 
 >re. 
 
 irm ? 
 lie for it, 
 
 . to him >, 
 3 speak?' 
 1 she spoko, 
 
 1 the wood, 
 id one 
 y say 
 pass. 
 
 .' lU.- 
 
 3r back : 
 jhe wood, 
 lan I, 
 lon me, 
 ich 
 side, 
 Qan.* 
 
 .i,.»,„,.-. 
 
 i •; 
 
 event, 
 breathe ' ' 
 a breath. ' ' 
 '^n upon him. 
 but Geraint's, 
 
 let home, 
 
 s enemy roll'd 
 
 the tale 
 
 Saw once a great piece of a promontory. 
 
 That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
 
 From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, 1015 
 
 And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : 
 
 So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair ' 
 
 Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, 
 
 When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; 
 
 On whom the victor, to confound them more, 1020 
 
 Spurr'd with his terrible war cry ; for as one, 
 
 That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, 
 
 All thro* the crash of the near cataract hears 
 
 The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
 
 At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear "' ' i026 
 
 His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, • 
 
 And foeman scared, like that false pair who tum'd . 
 
 Flying, but, overtaken, died the death , , 
 
 Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. .; ,• 
 
 Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance 1030 
 
 That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves 
 Their three gay suits of armour, each from each. 
 
 And bound them on their horses, each on each, ». /.'sf 
 
 And tied the bridle-reins of all the three ; 
 
 Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on ,» 
 
 Before you,' and she drove them thro' the wood. , .» ^^^ 
 
 He followed nearer still : the pain she had 
 To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, .'^v 
 
 Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, i 
 
 Together, served a little to disedge • 1040 
 
 The sharpness of that pain about her heart, . ; 
 
 And they themselves, like creatures gently born : • .-^ 
 But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long • •.: '5 I'M 
 
 By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt 
 Her low firm voice and tender government. , 1045 
 
ill 
 
 92 ENID. 
 
 So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, 
 And issuing under open heavens beheld 
 A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
 And close beneath, a meadow gem-like chased 
 
 1050 In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it : 
 
 And down a rocky pathway from the place 
 There came a fViir-haired youth, that in his hand 
 Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint 
 Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
 
 1055 Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, 
 
 He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, 
 
 * Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint.' 
 
 * Yea, willingly,' replied the youth, * and thou. 
 My Lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, 
 
 1060 And only meet for mowers ;' then set down 
 
 His basket, and dismounting on the sward 
 They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 
 And Enid took a little delicately. 
 Less having stomach for it than desire ' • 
 
 1066 To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint 
 Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 
 
 '^^- And when he found all empty, was amazed ; ' 
 
 And ' Boy,' said he, * I have eaten all, but take 
 A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best.* 
 
 1070 He, reddening in extremity of delight, '""'i 
 
 * My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 
 
 * Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. 
 
 * I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 
 
 * Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, 
 
 1075 While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch 
 
 Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; 
 
 '_'' For these are his, and all the field is his, 
 
 And I myself am his ; and I will tell him 
 How great a man thou art : he loves to know 
 
 1080 When men of mark are in his territory : 
 
OBUAINT AND RNID. 
 
 93 
 
 And he will have thoe to his palac€^ hoi*e, 
 
 And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.* 
 
 Then said Geraint, ' I wish no better fare : 
 I never ate with argrier appetite 
 Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. 
 And into no Eai-l's palace will I go. 
 I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! 
 And if he want me, let him come to me, 
 But hire us some fair chamber for the night, 
 And stalling for the horses, and return 
 With victual for these men, and let us know.' 
 
 'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, 
 Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, 
 And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
 Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 
 
 But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes 
 Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance 
 At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom. 
 That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
 Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; 
 Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
 The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, 
 And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe, 
 And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
 But she, remembering her oldruin'd hall, ••. ; .< 
 And all the windy clamour of the daws 
 About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass 
 There growing longest by the meadow's edge, 
 And into many a listless annulet, 
 Now over, now beneath her marriage ring. 
 Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd 
 And told them of a chamlwr, and they \\'ent; 
 Where, after saying to her, ' If yc will. 
 
 1085 
 
 1090 
 
 1095 
 
 1100 
 
 1105 
 
 1110 
 
 I 
 
1120 
 
 1125 
 
 ti 
 
 94 OERAINT AND ENID. 
 
 Call for the woman of the house, to which .. . r 
 
 1115 She answer'd, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remain'd 
 
 ,^,,, Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 
 
 As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, *. 
 
 Or two wild men supporters of a shield, 
 Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance 
 The one at other, parted by the shield. 
 
 On a sudden, many a voice along the street. 
 And heel against the pavement echoing, burst 
 Their drowse; and either started while the door, 
 Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, 
 And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
 ;,;,;■ Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, .; . . ,' a- 
 
 Her suitor in old years before Geraint, ,, /-^ 
 
 Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. 
 He moving up with pliant courtliness, > ? 
 
 1130 Greeted Gerain'.. full face, but stealthily, 
 
 - - In the mid- warmth of welcome, and graspt hand, 
 
 Found Enid with the corner of his eye, , . . j 
 
 And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 
 Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer j. f. 
 1135 To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously ^ ,,< » 
 
 ,,, . According to his fashion, bad the host ...;</ 
 
 Call in what men soever were his friends, ,,. f 
 
 And feast with these in honour of their Earl ; . / 
 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' 
 
 1140 And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours 
 
 Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
 Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it, 
 And made it of two colours ; for his talk. 
 When wine and free companions kindled him, 
 
 lit') Was wont to glance and t.'^arkle like a gem 
 
 Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince 
 To laughter and his comrades io applause. 
 
 
BNIt). 
 
 95 
 
 ich . ;■ 
 
 le two remain'd 
 md mute 
 b of birth, *. 
 ield, ; » 
 
 or glance 
 eld. . 
 
 the street, 
 ing, burst 
 tiile the door, 
 d to the wall, 
 
 Limoura. 
 ss, :,; 
 
 hily, 
 graspt hand, 
 
 eye, .. . t .i 
 
 iry. 
 
 ily cheer 
 
 tuously 
 
 )St .;..', 
 
 [■lends, •• 
 
 their Earl j / 
 t is mine.' 
 
 and Earl Limours 
 
 d told 
 
 lay'd upon it, 
 
 talk, 
 
 idled him, 
 ) a gem 
 i*rince 
 lause. 
 
 'i 
 
 :i i 
 
 Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, 
 ' Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak 
 To your good damsel there who sits apart, 
 And seems so lonely ? ' * My free leave,' he said ; 
 ' Get her to speak : she doth not speak to me.' 
 Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet. 
 Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, 
 Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
 Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : 
 
 ' Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, ' 
 
 Enid, my early and my only love, 
 Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me wild — 
 What chance is this 1 how is it I see you here ? 
 Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. * 
 Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild, 
 But keep a touch of sweet civility 
 Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 
 I thought, but that your father came between, 
 In former days you saw me favourably. ' ' ' • 
 And if it were so do not keep it back : .; i 
 
 Make me a little happier : let me know it : ' 
 Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? '* •• ' » 
 Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. ' '"' -'^' 
 And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, ** ^ 
 
 Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, ' '" 
 
 You come with no attendance, page or maid, ■ 
 To serve you — doth he love you as of old ? , .. 
 For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
 Tho' men may bicker with the things they love. 
 They would not make them laughable in all eyes, 
 Not while they loved them ; and your wretched dress, 
 A wretched insult on you, di^mbly speaks 
 Your story, that this man loves you no more. 
 Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
 
 
 150 
 
 ;i55 
 
 IIGO 
 
 .u=j; 
 
 ll()d 
 
 ' s 
 
 1170 
 
 1175 
 
 1180 
 
96 
 
 ENID. 
 
 1185 
 
 1190 
 
 1195 
 
 ' ■-**: 
 
 120: 
 
 1205 
 
 A common chance — right well I know it — pall'd — 
 
 For I know men : nor will ye win him back, 
 
 For the man's love once gone, never returns. 
 
 But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
 
 With more exceeding passion than of old : 
 
 Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round 
 
 He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
 
 They understand : nay ; I do not mean blood : 
 
 Nor need ye look so scared at what I say : . 
 
 My malice is no deeper than a moat. 
 
 No stronger than a wall : there is the keep ; 
 
 He shall not cross us more ; speak but the word : 
 
 Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me 
 
 The one true lover whom you ever own'd, 
 
 I will make use of all the power I have. 
 
 O pardon me! the madness of that hour, 
 
 When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.' 
 
 At this the tender sound of his own voice 
 And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it. 
 Made his eye moist ; But Enid fear'd his eyes, 
 Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; 
 And answered with such craft as women use. 
 Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
 That breaks upon them perilously, and said : 
 
 ' Earl, if you love me as in former years, 
 And do not practise on me, come with morn, 
 And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
 Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death.' 
 
 1210 
 
 Low at leave-taking, with his brandisli'd plume, 
 Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, 
 And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. 
 He moving homeward babbled to his men, 
 
ENID. 
 
 97 
 
 vn voice 
 
 How Enid never loved a man but him, 
 Nor cared a broken egg-sliell for her lord. 
 
 But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
 Debating his command of silence given, 
 And that she now perforce must violate it, 
 Held commune with herself, and while she held 
 He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
 To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased 
 To find him yet unwounded after fight. 
 And hear him breathing low and equally. 
 Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
 The pieces of his armour in one place. 
 All to be there against a sudden need ; 
 Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
 By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
 Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
 W'ent slipping down horrible precipices. 
 And strongly striking out her limV)s awoke ; 
 Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door. 
 With all his rout of random followers, 
 Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her ; 
 Which was the red cock shouting to the light, 
 As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, 
 And glimmor'd on his armour in the room. 
 And once again she rose to look at it, 
 But touch'd it unawares : jangling, the casque 
 Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
 Then breaking his command of silence given. 
 She told him all that Earl Limours had said, 
 Except the passage that he loved her not ; 
 Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; 
 But ended with apology so sweet. 
 Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd 
 So justified by that necessity, 
 
 1215 
 
 1220 
 
 1225 
 
 1230 
 
 1235 
 
 1240 
 
 1246 
 
98 
 
 £NID. 
 
 1250 
 
 1255 
 
 1260 
 
 1205 
 
 ■^fvr» i 
 
 1270 
 
 ..Xu 
 
 1275 
 
 i:v'(*-(- 
 
 1280 
 
 > » K 
 
 ij 
 
 *i 
 
 That tho' he thought ' was it for him she wept 
 
 In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan, 
 
 Saying ' Your sweet faces make good fellows fools 
 
 And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring ^ -" 
 
 Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out • -■' 
 
 Among the heavy breathings of the house, 
 
 And like a household Spirit at the walls 
 
 Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned : 
 
 Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd, 
 
 In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
 
 Till issuing arm'd he found the iiost and cried, 
 
 ' Thy reckoning, friend 1 ' and, ere he learnt it, ' Take 
 
 Five horses and their armours ; ' and the host 
 
 Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
 
 ' My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one 1 ' 
 
 ' Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the prince, 
 
 And then to Enid, * Forward ! and to-day 
 
 I charge you, Enid, more especially. 
 
 What thing soever ye may hear, or see, 
 
 Or fancy (tho' I count it of email use 
 
 To charge you) that ye speak not but obey,' 
 
 And Enid answer'd, * Yea, my lord, I know 
 Your wish, and would obey ; but riding first, 
 I hear the violent threats you do not hear, . • u 
 I see the danger which you cai not see: •:•■'! 
 
 Then not to give ycu warning, th.at seems hard ; /i 
 Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.' ,,A 
 
 ' Yea so,' said he, 'do it : be not too wise; 
 Seeing tlmt ye are wedtled to a man. 
 Not all inismated with a yawning clown, • '; 
 
 But one with arms to guard his head and yours, 
 With eyes to find you out however far, 
 And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' 
 
 With that he turn'd nnd look'd as keenly at her 
 
 1 /A 
 
 '.I 
 
ENID. 
 
 99 
 
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 ng first, 
 
 » V 
 
 hear, . •> 
 
 ty-.. 
 
 e : 
 
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 eras hard ; 
 
 /' 
 
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 00 wise ; 
 
 o: 
 
 
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 wn, 
 
 \i 
 
 and yours, 
 
 A 
 
 f", 
 
 T .' 
 
 ,ms.' 
 
 
 ceenly at her 
 
 
 As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
 And that within her, which a wanton fool, 
 Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, 
 Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
 And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 
 
 Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, 
 Led from the territory of false Limours 
 To the waste earldom of another earl, 
 Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, 
 Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
 Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride 
 More near by many a rood than yestermorn, 
 It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till Geraint 
 Waving an angry hand as who should say 
 'Ye watch me,' sadden'd all her heart again. 
 But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade. 
 The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof 
 Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw 
 Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 
 Then not to disobey her lord's behest. 
 And yet to give him warning, for he rode 
 As if he heard not, moving back she held 
 Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
 At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
 Because she kept the letter of his word. 
 Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 
 And in the moment after, wild Li)nours, 
 Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 
 Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, 
 Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 
 And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 
 Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore 
 Down by the length of lance and arm beyond 
 The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or <^lead, 
 
 1135 
 
 1290 
 
 1295 
 
 1300 
 
 1305 
 
 1310 
 
 1315 
 
100 
 
 ENID. 
 
 1320 
 
 1325 
 
 1330 
 
 i 
 
 1335 
 
 1340 
 
 1345 
 
 ;>;:;, 
 
 1350 
 
 And overthrew the next that follow'd him, 
 And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. 
 But at the flash and motion of the man 
 They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 
 Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
 Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot ' 
 
 Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, 
 But if a man who stands upon the brink 
 But lift a shining hand against the sun. 
 There is not left the twinkle of a fin . 
 
 Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ; 
 So, scared but at the motion of the man, 
 Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 
 And left him lying in the public way ; 
 So vanish friendships only made in wine. 
 
 Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, " 
 Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
 Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
 Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and man,' he said, 
 'All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! 
 Not a hoof left : and I methinks till no .v 
 Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; 
 I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
 And so what say ye, shall we strip him there ' 
 Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough 
 To bear his armour ? shall we fast, or dine ? 
 No ? — then do thou, being right honest, pray 
 That we meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, 
 I too would still be honest,' Thus he said : 
 And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 
 And answering not one word, she led the way. 
 
 But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
 Falls in a far land and he knows it not, ■ 
 
1355 
 
 ENID. 101 
 
 But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
 
 So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
 
 So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
 
 In combat with the follower of Limours, 
 
 Bled underneath his armour secretly, 
 
 And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
 
 What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, 
 
 Till his eye darken'd, and his helmet wagg'd ; ' 
 
 And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
 
 Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 1360 
 
 The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. 
 
 And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
 Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
 Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, 
 Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 1365 
 
 Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound. 
 And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
 Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, 
 And swathed the hurt that drain'd lier dear lord's Kf ■. 
 Then after all was done that hand could do, 
 She rested, and her desolation came 
 Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 
 
 And many past, but none i-egarded her, 
 For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
 A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
 Was cared ?s nmcli for as a summer shower : 
 One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, •♦*'t 
 
 Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : 
 Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms. 
 
 Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; • ' 13S0 
 
 Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, 
 He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : 
 Am)ther, tlying from the wrath of Doorm 
 
 1370 
 
 >ii.^ 
 
 1375 
 
j 
 
 1 
 
 V 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 [ 
 
 ■i 
 
 j 
 
 M . 
 
 1390 
 
 , !l i 
 
 102 ENID. 
 
 Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
 1336 The long way smoke beneath him in his fear ; 
 
 At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, 
 And scour'd into the coppices and was lost. 
 While the grf ro charger stood, grieved like a man. 
 
 But at t^e point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, 
 Brc c "f; i with under-fringe of russet beard, 
 Boui^ . t foray, rolling eyes of prey, 
 Came uiig "''!h a hundred lances up ; 
 But ere he came, like one that hails a ship. 
 Cried out with a big voice, ' What, is he dead ? ' 
 1395 ' No, no, not dead ! * she answer'd in all haste. 
 
 ' Would some of your kind people take him up, 
 And bear him hence out of this cruel sun 1 
 Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' 
 
 Then said Earl Doorm : 'Well, if he be not dead, 
 
 1400 Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a child. 
 
 And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
 Your wailing will npt quicken him : dead or not, 
 Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
 Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, 
 
 1405 Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall. 
 
 An if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
 And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
 To hide him. See ye take the charger too, 
 A noble one.' 
 
 1410 He spake, and past away, 
 
 But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
 Each growling like a dog, when his good bono 
 Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys 
 Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
 
 1415 To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it. 
 
 Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians growl'd, 
 
ENID. 
 
 103 
 
 Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
 
 Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, 
 
 Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, 
 
 Such as they brought upon their forays out 
 
 For thase that inight be wounded ; laid him on it 
 
 All in the hollow of his shield, and took 
 
 And bore him to the naked haF Of Doorra, 
 
 (His gentle charger following him unled) 
 
 And cast him and the bier in which he lay ■ .. 
 
 Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
 
 And then departed, hot in haste to join f -. 
 
 Their luckier mates, but growling as before. 
 
 And cursing their lost time, and the dead man. 
 
 And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. 
 
 They might as well have blest her, she was deaf 
 
 To blessing or to cursing save from one. 
 
 1420 
 
 1425 
 
 14.30 
 
 So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, 
 There in the naked hall, propping his head, 
 And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. 
 Till at the last he waken'd from his swoon, 
 And found his own dear bride propping his head, 
 i^.nd chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; 
 And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; 
 And said tO his own heart, ' She weeps for me : ' 
 And yet lay still, and t'eign'd himself as dead, 
 That he might prove her to the uttermost, 
 And say to his own heart, ' She weeps for me.' 
 
 1435 
 
 •' » » 
 
 1440 
 
 But in the falling afternoon return'd 
 The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. 
 His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise : 
 Each hurling down a heap of things that rang 
 Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, 
 And dofrVl his hehn : and then there flutter'd in. 
 
 1445 
 
 f II * 
 
1455 
 
 1465 
 
 104 ENID. 
 
 1450 Half-bold, half -frighted, with dilated eyes, 
 
 A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, 
 And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm 
 Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, 
 And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
 And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, 
 And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh ; 
 And none spake word, but all sat down at once. 
 And ate with tumult in the naked hall. 
 Feeding like horses when you hear them feed ; . 
 
 14G0 Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
 
 ^ ., To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 
 
 But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, 
 He roU'd his eyes about the hall, and found 
 A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
 Then he remember'd her, and how she wept ; 
 And out of her there came a power upon him ; 
 And rising on the sudden he said, ' Eat ! 
 I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
 God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. 
 Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, 
 For were I dead who is it would weep for me ? 
 Sweet lady, never since I flrst drew breath 
 Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
 And so there lived some colour in your cheek. 
 There is not one among my gentlewomen 
 Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 
 But listen to me, and by me be ruled, 
 ,ii-, And I will do the thing I have not done. 
 
 For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, 
 
 1480 And we will live like two birds in one nest, 
 
 And I will fetch you forage from all fields, ' ' " ' • 
 For I compel all creatures to my will.' 
 
 1470 
 
 •V :i: i 
 
 1475 
 
 He spoke : the brawny spearman let his tlieek 
 
ENID. 
 
 105 
 
 et his tlieek 
 
 Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning stuiod ; 
 While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn 1485 
 ^ Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
 And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
 What shall not be recorded — women they. 
 Women, or what had been those gracious things, 
 But now desired the humbling of their best, 1490 
 
 Yea, would have help'd him to it : and all at once 
 They hated her, who took no thought of them, 
 But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet 
 Drooping, ' I pray you of your courtesy, 
 He being as he is, to let me be.' 1495 
 
 She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, 
 But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
 
 With what himself had done so graciously, ■ •'. 
 
 Assumed, that she had thank'd him, adding, ' Yea, 
 Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' 1500 
 
 She answer'd meekly, ' How should I be glad 
 Henceforth in all the world at anything, ^'. 
 
 Until my lord arise and look upon me ? ' 
 
 Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, ,',,' J505 
 
 As all but empty heart and weariness 
 
 And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, - 
 
 And bare her by main violence to the board, " " 
 
 And thrust the dish before her, crying, ' Eat.' 
 
 * No, no,' said Enid, vext, ' I will not eat 1510 
 
 Till yonder man upon the bier arise, . " 
 
 And eat with me.' * Drink, then,' he answer'd. 'Here!' 
 (And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) 
 *Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, 
 God's curse, with anger — often I myself, > i- - 1515 
 
 Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : 
 
106 
 
 ENID. 
 
 1625 
 
 v\«' 
 
 - '< • Drink therefore and the wine will change your will.** 
 
 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink 
 Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, 
 1520 And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, 
 
 I will not look at wine until I die.' 
 
 At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, 
 Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
 And coming up close to her, said at last : 
 * Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, 
 Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; 
 And I compel all creatures to my will. 
 Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail for one. 
 Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
 
 1530 By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
 
 Beholding how ye butt against my wish, 
 
 '3 v.- * That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. 
 
 At least put off to please me this poor gown. 
 This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
 
 1635 I love that beauty should go beautifully : 
 
 For see ye not my gentlewomen here. 
 How gay, how suited to the house of one 
 Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ? 
 Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey.' 
 He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen 
 Display 'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, , ,- 
 
 Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
 Fiay'd into green, and thicker down the front 
 AVith jewels than the sward with drops of dew, 
 
 1845 When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, 
 
 And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
 Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gems. 
 
 But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
 Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, *, 
 
 1640 
 
 The 
 Andt 
 Last, ( 
 Cryinj 
 Dame, 
 Takei 
 m Howe 
 
BNID. 
 
 107 
 
 lange your will." 
 
 10 more. 
 
 With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 
 And now their hour has come ; and Enid said : 
 
 ' In this poor gown my dear lord fouml me first, 
 And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
 In this poor gown I rode with him to court. 
 And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : , 
 In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, 
 When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
 Of honour, where no honour can be gain'd : 
 And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
 Until himself arise a living man. 
 And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : 
 Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : . ., , 
 I never loved, can never love but him : 
 Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, 
 He being as he is, to let me be.' " 
 
 Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, 
 
 And took his russet beard between his teeth : 
 
 Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
 
 Crying, * I count it of no more avail, j , 
 
 Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; 
 
 Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, 
 
 However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 
 
 ■I 
 
 Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, ' , 
 
 And since she thought, * He had not dared to do it, 
 Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' 
 Sent forth a sudd* n sharp and bitter cry. 
 As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
 Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 
 
 This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, 
 (It lay beside him in the hollow shield). 
 
 1560 
 
 1555 
 
 1560 
 
 1565 
 
 v.". A' 
 
 1570 
 
 (V 
 
 1675 
 

 J! 
 
 1580 
 
 1685 
 
 1590 
 
 1595 
 
 1600 
 
 1605 
 
 1610 
 
 108 ENID. 
 
 Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 
 Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
 The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor, 
 So died Earl Doorra by him he counted dead. 
 And all the men and women in the hall 
 Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled 
 Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
 Were left alone together, and he said : 
 
 * Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man ; 
 Done you more wrong : we both have undergone 
 That trouble which has left me thrice your own : 
 Henceforward I will rather die than doubt, 
 And here I lay this penance on myself. 
 Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yestermorn — 
 You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, 
 I heard you say, that you were no true wife ; 
 I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : 
 I do believe yourself against yourself, 
 And will henceforward rather die than doubt.' 
 
 And Enid could not say one tender word, 
 She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : 
 She only pray'd him, ' Fly, they will return 
 And slay you; fly, your -harger is without, 
 My palfrey lost.' ' TLcri, Ei id, shall you ride 
 Behind me.' * Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.' 
 And moving out they found the stately horse. ; 
 Who now no more a vassal to the thief. 
 But free to stretch his limbs in lawful light, 
 Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd 
 With a low whinny toward the pair : and she 
 Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
 Glad also ; then Ger.iint upon the horse 
 Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot 
 
 
 'I 
 
ENID. 
 
 109 
 
 She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face 
 And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms 
 About him, and at once they rode away. 
 
 And never yet, since high in Paradise 
 O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
 Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
 Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour 
 Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, 
 And ^"It him ^ers again : she did not weep, ^ 
 
 But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
 Like that which kept the heart of Eden green 
 Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
 Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes t 
 
 As not to see before them on the path, 
 Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
 A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance 
 In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. _ , 
 
 Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, • '■ 
 She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, 
 Shriek'd to the stranger ' Slay not a dead man ! ' 
 * The voice of Enid,' said the knight ; but she, 
 Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, * 
 
 Was moved so mucl- the more, and shriek'd again, 
 *0 cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' 
 And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : ' ' , ' 
 ' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all iove ; 
 I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 
 And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, 
 Who love you. Prince, with something of the love 
 Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. 
 For once, when I was up so high in pride 
 That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, 
 By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
 Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
 
 I Jr 
 
 1615 
 
 ^v.iii 
 
 1620 
 
 1625 
 
 1630 
 
 1635 
 
 1640 
 
 1645 
 

 I 
 
 lip. ENID. 
 
 {;>< .r And since I knew this Earl, when I myself 
 Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
 I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 
 1650 (The King is close behind me) bidding him 
 
 Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, 
 .•sv; ;? Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 
 
 ' He hears the judgment of the King of kings/ 
 Cried the wan Prince ; ' and lo, the powers of Doorm 
 
 1G55 Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the field. 
 
 Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll. 
 Were men and women staring and aghast, 
 jv While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told 
 
 How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. 
 
 1660 But when the knight besought him, ' Follow me, 
 
 Prince, to the camp, and in the King's o\vn ear 
 Speak what has chanced ; ye surely have endured 
 Strange chances here alone ; ' that other flush'd, 
 And hung his head, and halted in reply, 
 
 1665 Fearing the n;ild face of the blameless King, 
 
 And after madness acted question ask'd : 
 Till Edyrn crying, ' If ye will not go 
 To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 
 ' Enough/ he said, * I follow,' and they went. ' 
 
 1670 But Enid in their going had two fears. 
 
 One from the bandit scatter'd in the field. 
 And one from Edyrn. Every now and then. 
 When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, 
 She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
 
 1675 From which old fires have broken, men may fear 
 
 Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : 
 
 •Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause 
 To fear nie, fear no longer, T am changed. 
 Yourself were first the blameless cause to make 
 
ENID. 
 
 Ill 
 
 lyself 
 
 Doorm 
 
 him 
 )wers, 
 3 King.' 
 
 ng of kings,* 
 
 )wers of Doorm 
 
 eld, 
 
 )und and knoll, 
 
 last, 
 
 linlier told 
 
 is hall. 
 
 Follow me, 
 
 s own ear 
 
 ave endured 
 
 ler flush'd, 
 
 'ly, 
 
 ;s King, 
 :'d : 
 
 ey went. ■ ' 
 
 s, ■ ■■ 
 
 field, 
 
 id then, 
 
 r side, 
 
 I, 
 
 m may fear 
 
 , said : 
 
 st had cause 
 
 iiged. 
 
 ise to make 
 
 My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
 
 Break into furious flame ; being repulsed 
 
 By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought 
 
 Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 
 
 (With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
 
 My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; '' • •' 
 
 Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, 
 
 And, toppling over all antagonism, " . 
 
 So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
 
 Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : 
 
 And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, 
 
 I should have slain your father, seized yourself. 
 
 I lived in hope that sometime you would come, , 
 
 To these ray lists with him whom best you loved ; 
 
 And there, poor cousin, with y ur meek bluo eyes, 
 
 The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, 
 
 Behold me overturn and trample on him. 
 
 Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, 
 
 I should not less have kill'd him. And you came,— 
 
 But once you came, — and with your own true eyes 
 
 Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
 
 Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
 
 My proud self, and my purpose three years old, 
 
 And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
 
 There was T jroken down ; there was T saved : 
 
 Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life 
 
 He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. . 
 
 And all the penance the Queen laid upon me 
 
 Was but to rest awhile within her court ; 
 
 Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, 
 
 And waiting to be treated like a wolf. 
 
 Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, 
 
 Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
 
 Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 
 
 Ma inera so kind, yet stately, such a grace 
 
 1680 
 
 1685 
 
 ;::r 5 
 
 1690 
 
 1695 
 
 1700 
 
 1706 
 
 .»'. \ 
 
 1710 
 
 ■J0 
 
 ^» 
 
112 
 
 ENID. 
 
 if 
 
 Iff 
 
 1715 Of fcenderest courtesy, that I began 
 
 To glance behind me at my former life, 
 And find that it hnd been the wolf's indeed : 
 And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint, 
 Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
 
 1720 Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, 
 
 Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. 
 And you were often there about the Queen. 
 But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw ; 
 Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, 
 
 1725 But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; 
 
 And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed.' 
 
 He spoke, and Enid easily believsd, 
 Like simple noble natures, credulous 
 Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, 
 
 1730 There most in those who most have done thoni ill. 
 
 And when they reach'd the camp the King himself 
 Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
 Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, 
 But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
 
 1735 In converse for a little, n rid return'd, 
 
 And, graveiy smiling, iiii.cd her from horse, 
 And kiss'd her with all pureness, brotherlike, 
 And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
 And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
 
 1740 Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said : 
 
 ' Prince, when of late ye pray'd mo for my leave 
 To move to your own land, and there defiMid 
 Your marches, I was prick'd with some repioof, , 
 As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, 
 1745 By having look'd t(io much thro' alien eyes, 
 
 And wrought too long with delegated hands, 
 ITot used mine own : but now behold me come 
 
■<1t.** 
 
 ENID. 113 
 
 To cleanse this common sewer of all my realir^ 
 
 With E lyrn and with others : have ye loolc'd 
 
 At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly changed ? ' 1750 
 
 This work of his is great and wonderful. 
 
 His very fa^e with change of heart is changed. 
 
 The world will not believe a man repents : 
 
 And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 
 
 Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 1755 
 
 Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
 
 Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
 
 And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. 
 
 Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
 
 As I will weed this land before I go. 
 
 I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, ^760 
 
 Not rashly, but have proved him everyway 
 
 One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
 
 Sanest and -uost obedient : and indeed 
 
 This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
 
 After a life of violence, seems to me 1765 
 
 A thousand-fold more gren,t and wonderful 
 
 Than if some knight or mine, risking his life, 
 
 My subject with my subjects under him, 
 
 Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
 
 Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, 1770 
 
 And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' 
 
 So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt 
 His work was neither great nor wonderful. 
 And past to Enid's tent ; and thither carae 
 The King's own leech to look into his hu . t ; 1775 
 
 And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
 Her constant motion round him, and the breath 
 Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
 Fili'd all the genial courses of his blood 
 With deeper and with ever deeper love, 178Q 
 
■^li 
 
 ' i 
 
 ■|:i ' 
 
 I 
 
 1785 
 
 1800 
 
 1805 
 
 s.lt 
 
 
 
 114 ENID. . 
 
 As the south-west that blowing Bala lake '• 'i 
 
 ,. Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 
 
 But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, 
 
 The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes 
 On each of all whom Uther left in charge 
 Long since, to guard the justice of the King: ,,., . 
 He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now . 
 Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills . 
 To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, 
 
 1790 jje rooted out the slothful officer 
 
 Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong. 
 And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
 With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men 
 To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
 
 1795 Olear'd the dark places and let in the law, 
 
 And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. 
 
 Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past 
 With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
 There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, 
 And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
 And tho' Geraint could never take again 
 That comfort from their converse which he took 
 Before the Queen's fair nr.me was breathed upon, 
 He rested well content that all was well. 
 Thonco after tarrying for a space they rodo, 
 And titty knights rodo with them to the shores 
 0-V Roveif.'i, and they past to their own land. 
 And tlicre he kept the justice of the King 
 So vigorou >ly yet mildly, that all hearts 
 1810 Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : 
 
 And oing ever foremost in the chase, 
 And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
 They callM him the great Prince and man of men. 
 
ENID. 
 
 115 
 
 
 ■h'X 
 
 ^' 
 
 ■'U'l 
 
 eyes 
 
 ■ tvj 
 
 
 •'■•-i 
 
 g : 
 
 ■ .^_ 
 
 5 now 
 
 ■j 
 
 hills : 
 
 
 •ong, 
 
 
 d men 
 
 
 But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
 Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
 Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 
 The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
 Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more, 
 But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
 A happy life with a ftir death, and fell 
 Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
 In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 
 
 1815 
 
 1820 
 
 le land. 
 ley past 
 
 her friend, 
 
 took 
 upon, 
 
 ores 
 
 f men. 
 
116 
 
 THE REVENGE. 
 
 THE REVENGE. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 
 
 I. 
 
 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
 
 And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far 
 
 away : 
 ' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three ! ' 
 Then swajfe Lord Thomas Howard : ' 'Fore God I am no 
 
 coward ; 
 6 But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear. 
 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. 
 We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three ? ' 
 
 Then sp. .':e Sir Richard Grenville : 'I know you are no coward; 
 You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
 10 But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore, 
 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord 
 
 Hov/ard, 
 To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' 
 
 - ^^, 
 
 So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day 
 Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; 
 15 But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 
 Very carefully and slow. 
 Men of Bideford in Devon, 
 
 And we laid them on the ballast down below; ' 
 
 For we brought them all aboard, , . 
 
 And the 
 
 S] 
 To the t 
 
 He had c 
 And he 
 
 si; 
 
 With his 
 ' Shall w( 
 Good Sir 
 For to fi^ 
 There'll I 
 And Sir 
 Let us hi 
 For I ne^ 
 
 Sir Rich 
 
 The litt 
 With he 
 For hai 
 
 And the 
 
 Thousai 
 
 Thousai 
 Runnin 
 By thei 
 i 
 And uf 
 
THE REVENGE. 
 
 117 
 
 rom far 
 
 iree ! ' 
 am no 
 
 gear, 
 ¥ quick, 
 three ? ' 
 
 coward; 
 
 ore, 
 
 ny Lord 
 
 )hat day^ 
 
 n; 
 
 the land 
 
 And they blest hira in their pain, that they were not left to 20 
 
 Spain, 
 To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, 
 And he sailed away from Floras till the Spaniard came in 
 
 sight. 
 With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 
 ' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? ' ' ' 25 
 
 Good Sir Richard, tell us now. 
 For to fight is but to die ! 
 
 There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.* 
 And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English men. 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil. 30 
 For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' 
 
 r. 
 
 Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, 
 
 and so 
 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe. 
 With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; 
 For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were 35 
 
 seen. 
 And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and 
 laugh'd, . 
 
 Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft 
 Running on and on, till delay 'd - 
 
 By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred 40 
 
 tons. 
 And up-shadowing high al)ove us with her yawning tiers of 
 guns. 
 
118 THE REVKNGK. 
 
 Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a 
 
 cloud 
 Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
 46 Long and loud, 
 
 Four galleons drew away 
 
 From the Spanish fleet that day, 
 
 And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, 
 
 And the battle-thr.nder broke from them all. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 50 But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and 
 went 
 Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; 
 And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to 
 
 hand. 
 For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, 
 And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his 
 ears 
 56 When he leaps from the water to the land. 
 
 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the 
 summer sea, 
 
 But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty- 
 three. 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons 
 came. 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder 
 and flame ; 
 60 Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead 
 and her shame. 
 
 For some 
 fig 
 
 God of 1 
 be 
 
 For he sa 
 Tho' his 
 And it c 
 w 
 With a g 
 But a bu 
 And him 
 And he s 
 
 And the 
 
 SI 
 
 And the 
 r 
 But the; 
 c 
 So they 
 And we 
 But in ] 
 Seeing 
 And ha 
 In the 
 . AncJ th 
 
 ; And th 
 
 . And tl 
 But Si 
 
like a 
 
 THE KKVKNGE. 
 
 119 
 
 For some were sunk and many w»'re slialtor'd, and so could 
 
 fight us no more — 
 God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 
 
 before 1 
 
 For he said ' Fifjht on ! fisjht on ! ' . . ., 
 
 Tho' his vessel was all })ut a wreck ; 
 
 And it chanced that, when half of the short sunmier night 65 
 
 was gone, 
 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
 But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, 
 And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, 
 And he said ' Fight on ! iight on 1 ' 
 
 ,i,v 
 
 XI. 
 
 -i- -,- 
 
 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the 70 
 
 summer sea, 
 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a 
 -! ring; 
 
 But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still 
 
 could sting, ...- -- • -v .,-•... ... • , ,y . < 
 
 So they watch'd what the end would be. 
 
 And we had not fought them in vain, 
 
 But in perilous plight were we, . . _ . , 75 
 
 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
 
 And half of the rest of us maira'd for life ^ . , , . . 
 
 In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 
 
 And the sick men down in tho hold were most of them stark 
 
 and cold, 
 And the pikes were all broken or bent, and tho powder was all SO 
 
 of it spent ; 
 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side j ^ . . 
 But Sir Bichard cried in his English pride, 
 
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 (716) 872-4503 
 
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120 
 
 THE KEVENGB. 
 
 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
 
 As may never be fought again ! 
 85 We have won great glory, my men ! 
 
 And a day less or more 
 
 At sea or ashore, 
 
 We die — does it matter when ? 
 
 Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! 
 90 Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! ' 
 
 ■'■■■• "'-"' XII. 
 
 And the gunner said * Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply : 
 'We have children, we have wives. 
 And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
 
 We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go ; 
 96 We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 
 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And the sta-tely Spanish men to their flagship bore him then 
 Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at 
 
 last, 
 And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign 
 
 grace ; 
 100 But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 
 
 ' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and 
 
 true; 
 I have only done ray duty as a man is bound to do : 
 With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' 
 And ho fell upon their decks, and he died. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 106 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and 
 true, 
 And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
 
 That he 
 Was he 
 But the 
 And th( 
 And aw 
 When a 
 And th( 
 And or 
 And a 
 
 Till it s 
 t 
 
 And th( 
 ( 
 
 And th( 
 
 To be Ic 
 
 Our do 
 But he 
 
 Fresh f 
 Harsh : 
 Wonde 
 
IN THE children's HOSPITAL. 
 
 121 
 
 ' in twain ! 
 pain ! ' 
 
 e reply : 
 
 let us go ; 
 
 3W.' 
 
 e foe. 
 
 That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; 
 
 Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, 
 
 But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, 
 
 And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, 110 
 
 And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; 
 
 When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep 
 
 And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
 
 And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
 
 And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake 1 15 
 
 grew. 
 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and 
 
 their flags, 
 And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy 
 
 of Spain, 
 And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags 
 To be lost evermore in the main. 
 
 him then 
 > 
 
 caught at 
 
 ly foreign 
 
 man and 
 
 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 
 EMMIE. 
 
 Hant and 
 ip 
 
 I. 
 
 Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him before 
 But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at 
 
 the door. 
 Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands- 
 Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands ! 
 Wonderful cures he had done, yes, but they said too of him 6 
 
122 
 
 IN THE children's HOSPITAL. 
 
 He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the 
 
 limb, 
 And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse and so red, 
 I could think he was one of those v^ho would break their jests 
 
 on the dead. 
 And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn'd at 
 
 his knee — 
 10 Drench'd with hellish oorali — that ever such things should be ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children would 
 
 die 
 But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting 
 
 eye — 
 Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of its 
 
 place — 
 Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all but a hopeless case : 
 15 And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice and his face 
 
 were not kind, ' 
 
 And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up 
 
 his mind, " 
 
 And he said to me roughly 'The lad will need little more o 
 '' ~ your care.' " 
 
 *A11 the more need,' I told him, 'to seek the Lord Jesus in 
 
 prayer; 
 They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my 
 
 own ; ' 
 20 But he turn'd to me, *Ay, good woman, can prayer set a 
 
 broken bone V 
 Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him 
 
 say 
 •All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his day.* 
 
 III. 
 
 Had? has it come? It has only dawn'd. It will come by 
 and by. 
 
save the 
 
 eind so red, 
 their jests 
 
 1 fawn'd at 
 should be ! 
 
 iren would 
 
 comforting 
 
 out of its 
 
 jeless case : 
 ,nd his face 
 
 id made up 
 
 jtle more o 
 
 rd Jesus in 
 
 n all as my 
 
 'ayer set a 
 
 [ heard him 
 
 ds day.' 
 
 ill come by 
 
 IN THE CHILDREN S HOSPITAL. 
 
 123 
 
 how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world 
 
 were a lie ? 
 How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of 25 
 
 disease 
 But that He said * Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these '1 
 
 IV. 
 
 So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger 
 
 children are laid : 
 Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little 
 
 maid; 
 . Empty you see just now ! We have lost her who loved her 
 
 so much — 
 Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch ; 30 
 Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears. 
 Hers was the gratefuUest heart I have found in a child of her 
 
 years — 
 Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used to send her the 
 
 flowers : . ; .. 
 
 How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours 
 
 after hours ! 
 They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord 36 
 
 are reveal'd 
 Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the 
 
 field; 
 Flowers to these ' spirits in prison ' are all they can know of 
 
 the spring, 
 They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an 
 
 Angel's wing ; 
 And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands 
 
 crost on her breast — 
 Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her 40 
 
 at rest. 
 Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said * Poor little dear, 
 
124 
 
 IN THE OHILDRBNS HOSPITAL. 
 
 I 
 
 Nurse, I m^ st do it to-morrow ; she'll never live thro* it, 1 
 fear.' 
 
 V. 
 
 I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as t]ie head of tho 
 
 stair, 
 Then I return'd to the ward ; the child didn't see I was there. 
 
 VI. 
 
 45 Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext ! 
 
 Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her cot to the 
 
 next, 
 
 ' He says I shall never live thro' it, Annie what shall I do?' 
 
 Annie consider'd. 'If I.' said the wise little Annie, 'was you, 
 
 I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, 
 
 you see, 
 
 50 It's all in the picture there : " Little children should come to 
 
 me. 
 
 (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can 
 please 
 
 Our children, the dear Lo'd Jesus with children about his 
 
 knees.) 
 ' Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, ' but then if I call to the Lord 
 How should he know that it's me ? such a lot of beds in the 
 
 ward !' 
 65 That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and said : 
 'Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on 
 
 the bed — 
 The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you tell it him 
 
 plain, 
 It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch her for 
 four — 
 
 
IN THE children's HOSPITAL. 
 
 125 
 
 thro' it, 1 
 
 head of tho 
 '. was there. 
 
 nd so vext ! 
 r cot to the 
 
 shall I dof 
 e, 'was you, 
 :or, Emmie, 
 
 My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no more. 60 
 That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never 
 
 would pass. 
 There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the 
 
 glass, 
 And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about, 
 The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness 
 
 without ; 
 My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife, gg 
 And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape 
 
 with her life ; 
 Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by Dae 
 
 and smiled, 
 And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the 
 
 child. 
 
 uld come to 
 
 always can 
 I about his 
 
 the Lord 
 beds in the 
 
 d and said : 
 
 1 outside on 
 
 I tell it him 
 )unterpane. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her asleep 
 
 again — 
 Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane ; 70 
 Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care what they 
 
 say? 
 
 The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past 
 away. 
 
 itch her for