Not used mine own; but now behold me come
To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm,
With Edyrn and with others. Have ye look’d
At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed?
This work of his is great and wonderful.
His very face 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
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,
Not rashly, but have proved him every way
One of our noblest, our most valorous,
Sanest and most obedient; and indeed
This work of Edyrn, wrought upon himself
After a life of violence, seems to me
A thousand-fold more great and wonderful
Than if some knight of 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,
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 came
The King’s own leech to look into his hurt;
And Enid tended on him there; and there
Her constant motion round him, and the breath
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him,
Fill’d all the genial courses of his blood
With deeper and with ever deeper love,
As the Southwest that blowing Bala lake
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,
He 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
Clear’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 name was breathed upon,
He rested well content that all was well.
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores
Of Severn, and they past to their own land.
And there he kept the justice of the King
So vigorously yet mildly that all hearts
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died;
And being ever foremost in the chase,
And victor at the tilt and tournament,
They call’d him the great prince and man of 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 fair death, and fell
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea
In battle, fighting for the blameless King.
BALIN AND BALAN
PELLAM the king, who held and lost with Lot
In that first war, and had his realm restored
But render’d tributary, fail’d of late
To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur call’d
His treasurer, one of many years, and spake:
“Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,
Lest we should set one truer on his throne.
Man’s word is God in man.”
His baron said:
“We go, but harken: there be two strange knights
Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side
A mile beneath the forest, challenging
And overthrowing every knight who comes.
Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass,
And send them to thee?”
Arthur laugh’d upon him:
“Old friend, too old to be so young, depart,
Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,
Until they find a lustier than themselves.”
So these departed. Early, one fair dawn,
The light-wing’d spirit of his youth return’d
On Arthur’s heart; he arm’d himself and went,
So coming to the fountain-side beheld
Balin and Balan sitting statue-like,
Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,
From underneath a plume of lady-fern,
Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it.
And on the right of Balin Balin’s horse
Was fast beside an alder, on the left
Of Balan Balan’s near a poplar-tree.
“Fair sirs,” said Arthur, “wherefore sit ye here?”
Balin and Balan answer’d: “For the sake
Of glory; we be mightier men than all
In Arthur’s court; that also have we proved,
For whatsoever knight against us came
Or I or he have easily overthrown.”
“I too,” said Arthur, “am of Arthur’s hall,
But rather proven in his Paynim wars
Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not,
Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.”
And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down,
And lightly so return’d, and no man knew.
Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside
The carolling water set themselves again,
And spake no word until the shadow turn’d;
When from the fringe of coppice round them burst
A spangled pursuivant, and crying, “Sirs,
Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,”
They follow’d; whom when Arthur seeing ask’d,
“Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?”
Balin the stillness of a minute broke
Saying, “An unmelodious name to thee,
Balin, ‘the Savage’—that addition thine—
My brother and my better, this man here,
Balan. I smote upon the naked skull
A thrall of thine in open hall; my hand
Was gauntleted, half slew him, for I heard
He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath
Sent me a three-years’ exile from thine eyes.
I have not lived my life delightsomely;
For I that did that violence to thy thrall,
Had often wrought some fury on myself,
Saving for Balan. Those three kingless years
Have past—were wormwood-bitter to me. King,
Methought that if we sat beside the well,
And hurl’d to ground what knight soever spurr’d
Against us, thou would’st take me gladlier back,
And
make, as ten times worthier to be thine
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said.
Not so—not all. A man of thine today
Abash’d us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?”
Said Arthur: “Thou hast ever spoken truth;
Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie.
Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou
Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move
To music with thine Order and the King.
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands
Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!”
Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter’d hall,
The lost one found was greeted as in heaven
With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth
Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers,
Along the walls and down the board; they sat,
And cup clash’d cup; they drank, and someone sang,
Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon
Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made
Those banners of twelve battles overhead
Stir as they stirr’d of old, when Arthur’s host
Proclaim’d him victor and the day was won.
Then Balan added to their Order lived
A wealthier life than heretofore with these
And Balin, till their embassage return’d.
“Sir King,” they brought report, “we hardly found,
So bush’d about it is with gloom, the hall
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once
A Christless foe of thine as ever dash’d
Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm
Hath prosper’d in the name of Christ, the King
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things,
And finds himself descended from the Saint
Arimathaean Joseph, him who first
Brought the great faith to Britain over seas.
He boasts his life as purer than thine own;
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse a-beat;
Hath push’d aside his faithful wife, nor lets
Or dame or damsel enter at his gates
Lest he should be polluted. This gray king
Show’d us a shrine wherein were wonders—yea,
Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,
Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross,
And therewithal,—for thus he told us,—brought
By Holy Joseph hither, that same spear
Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.
He much amazed us; after, when we sought
The tribute, answer’d, ‘I have quite foregone
All matters of this world. Garlon, mine heir,
Of him demand it,’ which this Garlon gave
With much ado, railing at thine and thee.
“But when we left, in those deep woods we found
A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind,
Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there
Reported of some demon in the woods
Was once a man, who, driven by evil tongues
From all his fellows, lived alone, and came
To learn black magic, and to hate his kind
With such a hate that when he died his soul
Became a fiend, which, as the man in life
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence,
Strikes from behind. This woodman show’d the cave
From which he sallies and wherein he dwelt.
We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.”
Then Arthur, “Let who goes before me see
He do not fall behind me. Foully slain
And villainously! who will hunt for me
This demon of the woods?” Said Balan, “I!”
So claim’d the quest and rode away, but first,
Embracing Balin: “Good my brother, hear!
Let not thy moods prevail when I am gone
Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends,
Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside,
Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream
That any of these would wrong thee wrongs thyself.
Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they
To speak no evil. Truly, save for fears,
My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship
Would make me wholly blest; thou one of them,
Be one indeed. Consider them, and all
Their bearing in their common bond of love,
No more of hatred than in heaven itself,
No more of jealousy than in Paradise.”
So Balan warn’d, and went; Balin remain’d,
Who—for but three brief moons had glanced away
From being knighted till he smote the thrall,
And faded from the presence into years
Of exile—now would strictlier set himself
To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy,
Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hover’d
round
Lancelot, but when he mark’d his high sweet smile
In passing, and a transitory word
Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem
From being smiled at happier in themselves—
Sigh’d, as a boy, lame-born beneath a height
That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak
Sun-flush’d or touch at night the northern star;
For one from out his village lately climb’d
And brought report of azure lands and fair,
Far seen to left and right; and he himself
Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet
Up from the base. So Balin, marvelling oft
Groan’d, and at times would mutter: “These be gifts,
Born with the blood, not learnable, divine,
Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten—well—
In those fierce wars, struck hard—and had I crown’d
With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew—
So—better!—But this worship of the Queen,
That honor too wherein she holds him—this,
This was the sunshine that hath given the man
A growth, a name that branches o’er the rest,
And strength against all odds, and what the King
So prizes—overprizes—gentleness.
Her likewise would I worship an I might.
I never can be close with her, as he
That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King
To let me bear some token of his Queen
Whereon to gaze, remembering her—forget
My heats and violences? live afresh?
What if the Queen disdain’d to grant it! nay,
Being so stately-gentle, would she make
My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace
She greeted my return! Bold will I be—
Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere,
In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield,
Langued gules, and tooth’d with grinning savagery.”
And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said,
“What wilt thou bear?” Balin was bold, and ask’d
To bear her own crown-royal upon shield,
Whereat she smiled and turn’d her to the King,
Who answer’d: “Thou shalt put the crown to use.
The crown is but the shadow of the king,
And this a shadow’s shadow, let him have it,
So this will help him of his violences!”
“No shadow,” said Sir Balin, “O my Queen,
But light to me! no shadow, O my King,
But golden earnest of a gentler life!”
So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights
Approved him, and the Queen; and all the world
Made music, and he felt his being move
In music with his Order and the King.
The nightingale, full-toned in middle May,
Hath ever and anon a note so thin
It seems another voice in other groves;
Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath,
The music in him seem’d to change and grow
Faint and far-off.
And once he saw the thrall
His passion half had gauntleted to death,
That causer of his banishment and shame,
Smile at him, as he deem’d, presumptuously.
His arm half rose to strike again, but fell;
The memory of that cognizance on shield
Weighted it down, but in himself he moan’d:
“Too high this mount of Camelot for me;
These high-set courtesies are not for me.
Shall I not rather prove the worse for these?
Fierier and stormier from restraining, break
Into some madness even before the Queen?”
Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home,
And glancing on the window, when the gloom
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame
That rages in the woodland far below,
So when his moods were darken’d, court and king
And all the kindly warmth of Arthur’s hall
Shadow’d an angry distance; yet he strove
To learn the graces of their Table, fought
Hard with himself, and seem’d at length in peace.
Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat
Close-bower’d in that garden nigh the hall.
A walk of roses ran from door to door,
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower;
And down that range of roses the great Queen
Came with slow steps, the morning on her face;
And all in shadow from the counter door
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once,
As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced
The long white walk of lilies toward the bower.
Follow’d the Queen; Sir Balin heard her “Prince,
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen
As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?”
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth,