I saw you moving by me on the bridge,
Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state
And presence might have guess’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.
O, 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
I 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;
And since the proud man often is the mean,
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, sack’d my house;
From my 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
arms,
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,
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 earn’d himself the name of sparrow-hawk.
But thou, that has 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
Untarnish’d as before; but if I live,
So aid me heaven when at mine uttermost
As I will make her truly 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 stolen 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
So spake the kindly-hearted earl, and she
With frequent smile and nod departing found,
Half disarray’d as to her rest, the girl;
Whom first she 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 her sweet head upon her gentle breast;
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,
Rapt 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 moved
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
Prince-like his bearing shone; and errant knights
And ladies came, and by and by the town
Flow’d in and settling circled all the lists.
And there they fixt the forks into the ground,
And over these they placed the silver wand,
And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.
Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown,
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim’d,
“Advance and take, the fairest of the fair,
What I these two years past have won for thee,
The prize of beauty.” Loudly spake the prince,
“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,
“Do battle for it then,” no more; and thrice
They clash’d together, and thrice they brake 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
There came a clapping as of phantom hands.
So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and
still
The dew of their great labor and the blood
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain’d their force.
But either’s force was match’d till Yniol’s cry,
“Remember that great insult done the Queen,”
Increase
d 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, son 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 thou diest.
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,
And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,
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 splendor 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;
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,
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!
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,
To seek a second favor 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
All branch’d and flower’d with gold, a costly gift
Of her good mother, given 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;
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,
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
The prince had found her in her ancient home;
Then let her fancy flit across the past,
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;
And one was patch’d and blurr’d and lustreless
Among his burnish’d brethren of the pool;
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
Among 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;
And 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
Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now
To pick the faded creature from the pool,
And cast it on the mixen that it die.”
And therewithal one came and seized on her,
And Enid started waking, with her heart
All overshadowed 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 colors look,
How fast they hold, like colors 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.”
And Enid look’d, but, all confused at first,
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,
“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,
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 favor of us,
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 surprise?
For I myself unwillingly have worn
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,
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
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,
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,
And like a madman brought her to the court,
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame
the prince
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
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
Parts from a bank of snow, 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;
Who, after, turn’d her daughter round, and said
She never 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,
Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first
Invaded Britain: “But 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,
For old am I, 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.”
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,