The Last Tournament | Page 4

thy heart;

Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,
A naked
aught--yet swine I hold thee still,
For I have flung thee pearls, and
find thee swine."

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet,
"Knight, an ye fling those
rubies round my neck
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou 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