The Tale of Balen | Page 7

king, "too high of heart To stand before a king thou art;
Yet irks it me to bid thee part And take thy penance for thy part, That
God may put upon thy pride." Then Balen took the severed head And
toward his hostry turned and sped As one that knew not quick from
dead Nor good from evil tide.
He bade his squire before him stand And take that sanguine spoil in
hand And bear it far by shore and strand Till all in glad

Northumberland That loved him, seeing it, all might know His
deadliest foe was dead, and hear How free from prison as from fear He
dwelt in trust of the answering year To bring him weal for woe.
"And tell them, now I take my way To meet in battle, if I may, King
Ryons of North Wales, and slay That king of kernes whose fiery sway
Doth all the marches dire despite That serve King Arthur: so shall he
Again be gracious lord to me, And I that leave thee meet with thee
Once more in Arthur's sight."
So spake he ere they parted, nor Took shame or fear to counsellor, As
one whom none laid ambush for; And wist not how Sir Launceor, The
wild king's son of Ireland, hot And high in wrath to know that one
Stood higher in fame before the sun, Even Balen, since the sword was
won, Drew nigh from Camelot.
For thence, in heat of hate and pride, As one that man might bid not
bide, He craved the high king's grace to ride On quest of Balen far and
wide And wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought. "Yea," Arthur said,
"for such despite Was done me never in my sight As this thine hand
shall now requite If trust avail us aught."
But ere he passed, in eager mood To feed his hate with bitter food,
Before the king's face Merlin stood And heard his tale of ill and good,
Of Balen, and the sword achieved, And whence it smote as heaven's red
ire That direful dame of doom as dire; And how the king's wrath turned
to fire The grief wherewith he grieved.
And darkening as he gave it ear, The still face of the sacred seer Waxed
wan with wrath and not with fear, And ever changed its cloudier cheer
Till all his face was very night. "This damosel that brought the sword,"
He said, "before the king my lord, And all these knights about his board,
Hath done them all despite.
"The falsest damosel she is That works men ill on earth, I wis, And all
her mind is toward but this, To kill as with a lying kiss Truth, and the
life of noble trust. A brother hath she,--see but now The flame of shame
that brands her brow! - A true man, pure as faith's own vow, Whose
honour knows not rust.
"This good knight found within her bower A felon and her paramour,
And slew him in his shameful hour, As right gave might and righteous
power To hands that wreaked so foul a wrong. Then, for the hate her
heart put on, She sought by ways where death had gone The lady Lyle

of Avalon, Whose crafts are strange and strong.
"The sorceress, one with her in thought, Gave her that sword of magic,
wrought By charms whereof sweet heaven sees nought, That hither girt
on her she brought To be by doom her brother's bane. And grief it is to
think how he That won it, being of heart so free And perfect found in
chivalry, Shall by that sword lie slain.
Great pity it is and strange despite That one whose eyes are stars to
light Honour, and shine as heaven's own height, Should perish, being
the goodliest knight That even the all-glorious north has borne. Nor
shall my lord the king behold A lordlier friend of mightier mould Than
Balen, though his tale be told Ere noon fulfil his morn."

IV

As morning hears before it run The music of the mounting sun, And
laughs to watch his trophies won From darkness, and her hosts undone,
And all the night become a breath, Nor dreams that fear should hear
and flee The summer menace of the sea, So hears our hope what life
may be, And knows it not for death.
Each day that slays its hours and dies Weeps, laughs, and lightens on
our eyes, And sees and hears not: smiles and sighs As flowers
ephemeral fall and rise About its birth, about its way, And pass as love
and sorrow pass, As shadows flashing down a glass, As dew-flowers
blowing in flowerless grass, As hope from yesterday.
The blossom of the sunny dew