The Last Tournament | Page 3

"Ay, but
wherefore toss me this
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?

Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart
And might of
limb, but mainly use and skill,
Are winners in this pastime of our
King.
My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it--
No blood of
mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
Right arm of Arthur in the
battlefield,
Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
Be happy
in thy fair Queen as I in mine."
And Tristram round the gallery made
his horse
Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying,
"Fair
damsels, each to him who worships each
Sole Queen of Beauty and
of love, behold
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here."
Then
most of these were mute, some anger'd, one
Murmuring "All courtesy
is dead," and one,
"The glory of our Round Table is no more."
Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
And pettish cries
awoke, and the wan day
Went glooming down in wet and weariness:

But under her black brows a swarthy dame
Laught shrilly, crying
"Praise the patient saints,
Our one white day of Innocence hath past,

Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
The snowdrop only,
flow'ring thro' the year,
Would make the world as blank as wintertide.

Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's
And Lancelot's,
at this night's solemnity

With all the kindlier colors of the field."

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast
Variously gay: for he that
tells the tale
Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold
Falls on
the mountain in midsummer snows,
And all the purple slopes of
mountain flowers
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
With
veer of wind, and all are flowers again;"
So dame and damsel cast the
simple white,
And glowing in all colors, the live grass,

Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
About the revels,
and with mirth so loud
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,

And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports,
then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
High over all the yellowing
Autumn-tide,
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
Then
Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"
Wheel'd round on either
heel, Dagonet replied,
"Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being
fool, and seeing too much wit
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I
skip
To know myself the wisest knight of all."
"Ay, fool," said
Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry
To dance without a catch, a roundelay

To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp,
And while he twangled
little Dagonet stood,
Quiet as any water-sodden log
Stay'd in the
wandering warble of a brook;
But when the twangling ended, skipt
again;
Then being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?"
Made
answer, "I had liefer twenty years
Skip to the broken music of my
brains
Than any broken music ye can make."
Then Tristram,
waiting for the quip to come,
"Good now, what music have I broken,
fool?"
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the king's;
For when
thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
Thou makest broken music
with thy bride,
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany--
And so
thou breakest Arthur's music too."
"Save for that broken music in thy
brains,
Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head.
Fool, I

came late, the heathen wars were o'er,
The life had flown, we sware
but by the shell--
I am but a fool to reason with a fool
Come, thou
art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down,
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long
asses' ears,
And hearken if my music be not true.
"'Free love--free field--we love but while we may:
The woods are
hush'd, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning past
away:
New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er:
New life, new
love to suit the newer day:
New loves are sweet as those that went
before:
Free love,--free field--we love but while we may.'
"Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune,
Not stood stockstill.
I made it in the woods,
And found it ring as true as tested gold."
But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
"Friend, did ye mark
that fountain yesterday
Made to run wine?--but this had run itself

All out like a long life to a sour end--
And them that round it sat with
golden cups
To hand the wine to whomsoever came--
The twelve
small damosels white as Innocence,
"In honor of poor Innocence the babe,
Who left the gems which
Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King

Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips
Handed her cup and
piped, the pretty one,
'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank,

Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud."
And Tristram,
"Was it muddier than thy gibes?
Is all the laughter gone dead out of
thee?--
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool--
'Fear
God: honor the king--his one true knight--
Sole follower of the
vows'--for here be they
Who knew thee swine enow before I came,

Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King
Had made thee fool,
thy vanity so shot up
It frighted all free fool from out