  GlastonburyThither through moaning woods came Bedivere, At gloomy breaking of a winter’s day, Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart, With a great wound gotten in that last fray Ere he stood by, and watched the King depart Down the long, silent reaches of the mere: And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear, And the wind cried, and chased the relict leaves Like ships, that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves, And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear. So he found at the last an hermitage Hard by a little hill, and sheltering trees That bent gaunt branches in the winter’s breeze; And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door: Then presently came forth an hermit sage And helped him to dismount with labour sore: Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lame Stumbled against the open door, and swooned, And would have fallen, but the hermit caught And laid him gently down; then hurrying brought From a great chest a cordial, and came That he might drink, and so beheld his wound. Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death, Like a torn traveller on a stormy height ’Twixt one wind and another: till his breath Came easier, and he prospered. Then did sleep Bathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep, And left him whole, at breaking of the light, So he beheld the old man, and desired That he would tell of whom he was, and whence. [pg 14] Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired: “I, I was Arthur’s bishop, at his court And in his church I ministered, and thence When at the last the whole was overthrown With wrath and ill designings, straight I sought A place where I might die, too feeble grown To endure a new beginning to my years When once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears. Hither I came, where, in the dawns of time Dim peoples, that the very stones forget, Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rime On a lake island mystically set. They passed, and after ages manifold Came wandering sainted Joseph (even he That tended God’s frail body, and enrolled In linen clothes of spicÈd fragrancy). He brought the vessel, vanished now from earth That wrought destruction to the Table Round, Since many deemed themselves above their worth And sought in vain, and perished ere they found.” Then Bedivere: “Alas the King! I saw The unstayed overwhelming tide of war: And when the opposÈd standards were unfurled Of Arthur and of Mordred, his base son, Ere yet the noise of battle was begun I heard the heralds crying to the world: “‘Ye that have sought out pallid harmonies Where never wind blows, save the gentle south: Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seas And fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth: “‘Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened crops Of word and measure, till the rime, grown proud, Did straight contemn the leaping mountain tops And lose itself in air, and riven cloud: [pg 15] “‘Ye that have lived a dangerous life of war Whose speech has been bold words and heady boasts Gather, for strife and death unknown before, Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.’ “I saw the last dim battle in the mist There, where a dreary waste of barren sand Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land; Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept; And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths Were all confounded on those desolate shores. And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end Of all mankind, and of created time. How many fell therein of foe or friend I know not, save that when the darkness came And the mist cleared, I found at last the King, His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime, And fading in his eyes the ancient flame. “I saw him make on Mordred with his spear, And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life, He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’ Put a dread ending to the outworn strife. I saw them fall together, and, drawn near. Knew that the King was wounded unto death. “Then as he drew with growing pain his breath I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole Across the waters, like a wandering soul ReturnÈd from the woeful realm, to view The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew. And when it touched the shallows I did bear The dying Arthur as he bade, and there [pg 16] I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.” Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn, And there did worship in the days of yore The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither I was awakened by the sound of feet. And I looked forth, and saw a body borne By veilÈd figures straight, as they knew whither, In at the chapel gateway. I went down And found that they had digged a grave, most meet For one of saintly life, or king by birth: They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth, Then prayed, and so went out into the night.” Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld The stone beneath whose length the body lay: Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled Graven in golden character, “Arcturus Rex Quondamque Futurus.” Quoth Bedivere: “Thank God this voice remaineth unto us; Now I do mind me of a prophecy Spoken long since in some emblazoned year, How Arthur should escape mortality And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep Or on some shore, where faery seas do break: Around him all his warriors shall sleep, Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes Go over her; his own victorious arm Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.” [pg 17] So leave we them, each head inaureoled With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold. Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung, They saw who stood therein, and each one knew The face unspared by years and strife and shame, Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights, With deep eyes dreaming like September haze, Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights, Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days. “Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the Queen, The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen Most puissant proud of all that ever made The traitor honest, and the valorous frail. “Yet evermore about her form there clings And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace, Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere: And till the end of all created things There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace The immortal loveliness of Guinevere. “Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls, In shady paths, and marble terraces Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls. But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given, And the last look in those unfathomed eyes, The passionate last embrace is coldly riven, And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies. [pg 18] “Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind, Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago, Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf. The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf, Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.” Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again. Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled By winds of winter, until skies were clear, And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world Lay glistening to the newly risen sun. Till came that season, wherein solemn days Do celebrate the reign on earth begun Of the most blessÈd Child, whenas all ways Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow. Then in the chapel at high noon they three Offered their quiet orisons and so Came forth and looked upon the purity, And when he saw the fields all stainless-white Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod. Even so once before the eyes of God My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.” “Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage; No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain Through the great love of God, and His dear Son. Repent and be forgiven: know that none Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain, Nor shall one name be blotted from the page If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.” [pg 19] Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years That still are left before the longed-for earth Receive my body, I should strive amain To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth, Alas it were all profitless and vain. Verily, when I came unto this place I railed on God, that I had lost my soul And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole, And now my grief is only for old sin. But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree (He touched a shrub that grew beside the door), This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before I pass the gates divine, and enter in To the fair country I must never see.” But even as he spoke, the hand of God Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf, As at the very bidding of the spring, Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze (So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod), And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing. Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees; For God beholds the living, not the dead; And He that took the semblance of a child Loves He but penance, and the drooping head, Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?” So they grew old together, and the years Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears (They had drained all, maybe). And ever less Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness They pondered the eternal mysteries (The noblest heritage of all men born), [pg 20] Such as are writ upon the face of dawn, Or in the glamour of a moonlit night, Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight, Or in the breaking of the restless seas: Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell On bower and roof of ancient Camelot: Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell, When all was song, and laughter, and high praise, Even when as yet the accursed thing was not. Then would loom out from the chill mists of time The faces and the forms remembered still, The King and Guinevere, and Galahad, That rode upon a peerless quest and dire, Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire, And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad; Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime, And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill. So as the day draws ever toward the dark, Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath, And ever toward the further shore the bark They drew to the dark, silent realm of death. Far, far away from their old palace-halls Where once they lived a splendid life and vain, That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls In some soft vale, or by the echoing main, Beneath the springing grass, and very deep They three do lie, where never mornings rise To ope the portals of their dazÈd eyes, Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep, And near beside lies Arthur, even he That was King once, and yet again shall be. [pg 21] LegendGrey, ancient abbeys, you may see them yet, In that high plain above the western sea: A broken arch or two, a few worn stones Piled one upon another, and for paving Uneven fragments with tall grass between: Grass that is always green, winter and summer, The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves. It was a springtime morning long ago, A morning of blue skies and whitest clouds, And singing birds, and singing streams, and woods That shone like silver, yet untouched with green: The brethren of an abbey of the plain —Whereof what now is ruin yet was whole— Were labouring as holy brethren must, Quietly, and in peace: and elder ones Paced in the cloister, and some, older still, Too old to work or dream, sat in the sunlight, The sunlight which they soon should see no more. And there came from the wood upon the hill One clothed in the sere habit of a monk, That passed in at the portal of the abbey: Brighter his face than is the face of spring, And joy was in his tread, as in his soul. And some that paced the cloister paused to glance at him, And one that went upon an errand stayed, And some that laboured left their work, and came Gathering round him, and he spake, and said: [pg 22] “Very fair the golden morning As in yonder wood I strayed, And I heard diviner music Than the greatest harpers made, For a sweet bird sang before me Songs of laughter, and of tears. All that I have loved and longed for, As I measured out my years. Sang of blessed shores and golden Where the old, dim heroes be, Distant isles of sunset glory, Set beyond the western sea. Sang of Christ and Mary Mother Hearkening unto angels seven Playing on their golden harp-strings In the far courts of high Heaven.” So they stood by, and listened to his speech, Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul: But while they wondered whence he was, and who, He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried: “Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers? Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they I left behind me but an hour ago?” Then was there whispering among the throng, And wonder not a little, and some scorn; Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye, Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray.” ’Twas done, and in the golden afternoon A brother entered, and found none within, Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust, As of a body crumbled in the grave. [pg 23] And while they wondered what these things might be, At last spake forth the oldest of them all, Burdened with hundred winters in his soul: “I can remember, when my years were young, Hearing the old monks say, one went from here When spring was on the earth, as it is now, Some five-score years ago, and was not seen Again, though search was made in all the land.” And some believed this was the same, and all Forgot it in a sennight’s silent toil. Save one, that saw, and seeing understood, And for the greater glory of High God Wrote down the story in a mighty book, And limned the old saint hearkening to the bird With bright hues, and you still may read and see. [pg 24] |
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