The Last Tournament | Page 4

Alfred Tennyson
hast some touch?Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.?Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world?Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.?The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind?Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd--?I have had my day and my philosophies--?And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.?Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese?Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd?On such a wire as musically as thou?Some such fine song--but never a king's fool."
And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese?The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard?Had such a mastery of his mystery?That he could harp his wife up out of Hell."
Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,?"And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself?Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,?That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star?We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?"
And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King?Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,?Glorying in each new glory, set his name?High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven."
And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land?Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself?To babble about him, all to show your wit--?And whether he were king by courtesy,?Or king by right--and so went harping down?The black king's highway, got so far, and grew?So witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes?With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire.?Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?"?"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day."?And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear.?It makes a silent music up in heaven,?And I, and Arthur and the angels hear,?And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk?Fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?"?Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd,?"Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools*!?Conceits himself as God that he can make?Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk?From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs,?And men from beasts.--Long live the king of fools!"
And down the city Dagonet danced away.?But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues?And solitary passes of the wood?Rode Tristram toward Lyonesse and the west.?Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt?With ruby-circled neck, but evermore?Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood?Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye?For all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew.?Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown,?Unruffling waters re-collect the shape?Of one that in them sees himself, return'd;?But at the slot or fewmets of a deer,?Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again.
So on for all that day from lawn to lawn?Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length?A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs?Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself?Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt?Against a shower, dark in the golden grove?Appearing, sent his fancy back to where?She lived a moon in that low lodge with him:?Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king,?With six or seven, when Tristram was away,?And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame?Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word,?But bode his hour, devising wretchedness.
And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt?So sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank?Down on a drift of foliage random-blown;?But could not rest for musing how to smooth?And sleek his marriage over to the Queen.?Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all?The tonguesters of the court she had not heard.?But then what folly had sent him overseas?After she left him lonely here? a name??Was it the name of one in Brittany,?Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt?Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name?Allured him first, and then the maid herself,?Who served him well with those white hands of hers,?And loved him well, until himself had thought?He loved her also, wedded easily,?But left her all as easily, and return'd.?The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes?Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid?His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd.
He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany?Between Isolt of Britain and his bride,?And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both?Began to struggle for it, till his Queen?Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red.?Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red!?These be no rubies, this is frozen blood,?And melts within her hand--her hand is hot?With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look,?Is all as cool and white as any flower."?Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then?A whimpering of the spirit of the child,?Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet.
He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears?Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed,?And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle,?The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh?Glared on a huge machicolated tower?That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd?A roar of riot, as from men secure?Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease?Among their
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