Tales and Legends of the English Lakes Part 25

Full fain would I this hour delay, Thought weak the wish--yet wilt thou stay?

--No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,-- Part we like lover and like friend.'

She raised the cup--'Not this the juice The sluggish vines of earth produce; Pledge we, at parting, in the draught Which Genii love!'--she said and quaffed; And strange unwonted l.u.s.tres fly From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye.

"The courteous monarch bent him low, And, stooping down from saddlebow, Lifted the cup, in act to drink.

A drop escaped the goblet's brink-- Intense as liquid fire from h.e.l.l, Upon the charger's neck it fell.

Screaming with agony and fright, He bolted twenty feet upright-- --The peasant still can show the dint Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.-- From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, Scattering a shower of fiery dew, That burned and blighted where it fell![24]

The frantic steed rushed up the dell, As whistles from the bow the reed; Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, Until he gained the hill; Then breath and sinew failed apace, And, reeling from the desperate race, He stood, exhausted, still.

The Monarch, breathless and amazed, Back on the fatal castle gazed---- Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, Darkening against the morning sky; But, on the spot where once they frowned, The lonely streamlet brawled around A tufted knoll, where dimly shone Fragments of rock and rifted stone.

Musing on this strange hap the while, The King wends back to fair Carlisle; And cares, that c.u.mber royal sway, Wore memory of the past away.

"Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head.

Twelve b.l.o.o.d.y fields, with glory fought, The Saxons to subjection brought: Rython, the mighty giant, slain By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: The Pictish Gillamore, in fight, And Roman Lucius, owned his might; And wide were through the world renowned The glories of his Table Round.

Each knight, who sought adventurous fame, To the bold court of Britain came, And all who suffered causeless wrong, From tyrant proud or faitour strong, Sought Arthur's presence to complain, Nor there for aid implored in vain.

"For this the King, with pomp and pride, Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, And summoned Prince and Peer-- All who owed homage for their land, Or who craved knighthood from his hand, Or who had succour to demand-- To come from far and near.

"The heralds named the appointed spot, As Caerleon or Camelot, Or Carlisle fair and free.

At Penrith, now, the feast was set, And in fair Eamont's vale were met The flower of chivalry.

"When wine and mirth did most abound, And harpers played their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, And marshals cleared the ring; A maiden, on a palfrey white, Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle, to alight And kneel before the King.

Arthur, with strong emotion, saw Her graceful boldness checked by awe, Her dress like huntress of the wold, Her bow and baldric trapped with gold, Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare, And the eagle-plume that decked her hair.

Graceful her veil she backward flung-- The King, as from his seat he sprung, Almost cried,'Guendolen!'

But 'twas a face more frank and wild, Betwixt the woman and the child, Where less of magic beauty smiled Than of the race of men; And in the forehead's haughty grace, The lines of Britain's royal race, Pendragon's you might ken.

"Faltering, yet gracefully she said-- 'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid, In her departed mother's name, A father's vowed protection claim!

The vow was sworn in desert lone, In the deep valley of St. John.'

At once the King the suppliant raised, And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; His vow, he said, should well be kept, Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,-- Then conscious glanced upon his queen: But she, unruffled at the scene, Of human frailty construed mild, Looked upon Lancelot and smiled.

"'Up! up! each knight of gallant crest Take buckler, spear, and brand!

He that to-day shall bear him best, Shall win my Gyneth's hand.

And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, Shall bring a n.o.ble dower; Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, And Carlisle town and tower.'

Then might you hear each valiant knight, To page and squire that cried, 'Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight!

'Tis not each day that a warrior's might May win a royal bride.'

Then cloaks and caps of maintenance In haste aside they fling; The helmets glance, and gleams the lance, And the steel-weaved hauberks ring.

Small care had they of their peaceful array, They might gather it that wolde; For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, With pearls and cloth of gold.

"Within trumpet sound of the Table Round Were fifty champions free, And they all arise to fight that prize,-- They all arise but three.

The knights they busied them so fast, With buckling spur and belt, That sigh and look, by ladies cast, Were neither seen nor felt.

"From pleading, or upbraiding glance, Each gallant turns aside, And only thought, 'If speeds my lance, A queen becomes my bride!

She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide, And Carlisle tower and town; She is the loveliest maid, beside, That ever heired a crown.'

So in haste their coursers they bestride, And strike their visors down.

"The champions, arm'd in martial sort, Have throng'd into the list, And but three knights of Arthur's court Are from the tourney miss'd.

"Now caracol'd the steeds in air, Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, As all around the lists so wide In panoply the champions ride.

King Arthur saw, with startled eye, The flower of chivalry march by, The kingdom's s.h.i.+eld in hour of need, Too late he thought him of the woe Might from their civil conflict flow; For well he knew they would not part Till cold was many a gallant heart.

His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, And Gyneth then apart he drew; To her his leading-staff resign'd, But added caution grave and kind.

"'Thou see'st my child, as promise-bound, I bid the trump for tourney sound.

Take thou my warder, as the queen And umpire of the martial scene; But mark thou this:--as Beauty bright Is polar star to valiant knight, As at her word his sword he draws, His fairest guerdon her applause, So gentle maid should never ask Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; And Beauty's eyes should ever be Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should whisper peace, And bid the storm of battle cease.

I tell thee this, lest all too far These knights urge tourney into war.

Blithe at the trumpet let them go, And fairly counter blow for blow:-- No striplings these, who succour need, For a raised helm or fallen steed.

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, And threatens death or deadly harm, Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, Thou drop the warder from thy hands.

Trust thou thy father with thy fate, Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate; Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.'

"A proud and discontented glow O'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow; She put the warder by:-- 'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 'Thus chaffer'd down and limited.

Debased and narrow'd, for a maid, Of less degree than I.

No petty chief, but holds his heir At a more honour'd price and rare Than Britain's King holds me!

Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower, Has but her father's rugged tower, His barren hill and lee.'

King Arthur swore, 'By crown and sword, As belted Knight, and Britain's lord, That a whole summer's day should strive His knights, the bravest knights alive!'-- 'Recal thine oath! and to her glen Poor Gyneth can return agen; Not on thy daughter will the stain, That soils thy sword and crown, remain.

But think not she will e'er be bride Save to the bravest, proved and tried; Pendragon's daughter will not fear For clas.h.i.+ng sword or splinter'd spear, Nor shrink though blood should flow.'

"He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch bold:-- 'I give--what I may not withhold; For not for danger, dread, or death, Must British Arthur break his faith.

Too late I mark thy mother's art Hath taught thee this relentless part.

Use, then, the warder, as thou wilt; But, trust me, that, if life be spilt, In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.'

With that he turn'd his head aside, Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride, As, with the truncheon raised, she sate The arbitress of mortal fate; Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, How the bold champions stood opposed, For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell Upon his ear like pa.s.sing bell!

Then first from sight of martial fray Did Britain's hero turn away.

"But Gyneth heard the clangour high, As hears the hawk the partridge cry.

So well accomplish'd was each knight, To strike and to defend in fight, Their meeting was a goodly sight, While plate and mail held true.

The lists with painted plumes were strown, Upon the wind at random thrown, But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, It seem'd their feather'd crests alone Should this encounter rue.

"But soon too earnest grew their game, The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame, And, horse and man, to ground there came Knights, who shall rise no more!

Gone was the pride the war that graced, Gay s.h.i.+elds were cleft, and crests defaced, And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced, And pennons stream'd with gore.

Gone, too, were fence and fair array, And desperate strength made deadly way At random through the b.l.o.o.d.y fray, And blows were dealt with headlong sway, Unheeding where they fell; And now the trumpet's clamour seem Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream, Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, The sinking seaman's knell!

"Already gasping on the ground Lie twenty of the Table Round, Of chivalry the prime.

Arthur, in anguish, tore away From head and beard his tresses gray, And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay, And quaked with ruth and fear; But still she deem'd her mother's shade Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade The sign that had the slaughter staid, And chid the rising tear.

Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, Helias the White, and Lionel, And many a champion more; Rochemont and Dinadam are down, And Ferrand of the Forest Brown Lies gasping in his gore.

Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's-blood died her sandals red.

But then the sky was overcast.

Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulf,--tremendous birth!-- The form of Merlin rose.

"Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, And sternly raised his hand;-- 'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear!

And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear The doom thy fates demand!

Long shall close in stony sleep Eyes for ruth that would not weep; Iron lethargy shall seal Heart that pity scorn'd to feel.

Yet, because thy mother's art Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, And for love of Arthur's race, Punishment is blent with grace, Thou shalt bear thy penance lone In the valley of Saint John, And this doom shall overtake thee; Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee, For feats of arms as far renown'd As warrior of the Table Round.

Long endurance of thy slumber Well may teach the world to number All their woes from Gyneth's pride, When the Red Cross champions died.'

"As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye Slumber's load begins to lie; Fear and anger vainly strive Still to keep its light alive.

Twice, with effort and with pause, O'er her brow her hand she draws; Twice her strength in vain she tries, From the fatal chair to rise; Merlin's magic doom is spoken, Vanoc's death must now be wroken.

Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, Curtaining each azure ball, Slowly as on summer eves Violets fold their dusky leaves.

The weighty baton of command Now bears down her sinking hand, On her shoulder droops her head: Net of pearl and golden thread, Bursting, gave her locks to flow O'er her arm and breast of snow.

And so lovely seem'd she there, Spell-bound in her ivory chair, That her angry sire, repenting, Craved stern Merlin for relenting, And the champions, for her sake, Would again the contest wake; Till, in necromantic night, Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.

"Still she bears her weird alone, In the Valley of Saint John; And her semblance oft will seem, Mingling in a champion's dream, Of her weary lot to plain, And crave his aid to burst her chain.

While her wondrous tale was new, Warriors to her rescue drew, East and west, and south and north, From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.

Most have sought in vain the glen, Tower nor castle could they ken; Not at every time or tide, Nor by every eye descried, Fast and vigil must be borne, Many a night in watching worn, Ere an eye of mortal powers Can discern those magic towers.