The Tale of Balen | Page 4

of shot Fair toward the glimmering goal of fame, And all King Arthur's knightliest there Approved him knightly, swift to dare And keen to bid their records bear Sir Balen's northern name.
Sir Balen of Northumberland Gat grace before the king to stand High as his heart was, and his hand Wrought honour toward the strange north strand That sent him south so goodly a knight. And envy, sick with sense of sin, Began as poisonous herbs begin To work in base men's blood, akin To men's of nobler might.
And even so fell it that his doom, For all his bright life's kindling bloom And light that took no thought for gloom, Fell as a breath from the opening tomb Full on him ere he wist or thought. For once a churl of royal seed, King Arthur's kinsman, faint in deed And loud in word that knew not heed, Spake shame where shame was nought.
"What doth one here in Camelot Whose birth was northward? Wot we not As all his brethren borderers wot How blind of heart, how keen and hot, The wild north lives and hates the south? Men of the narrowing march that knows Nought save the strength of storms and snows, What would these carles where knighthood blows A trump of kinglike mouth?"
Swift from his place leapt Balen, smote The liar across his face, and wrote His wrath in blood upon the bloat Brute cheek that challenged shame for note How vile a king-born knave might be. Forth sprang their swords, and Balen slew The knave ere well one witness knew Of all that round them stood or drew What sight was there to see.
Then spake the great king's wrathful will A doom for six dark months to fill Wherein close prison held him, still And steadfast-souled for good or ill. But when those weary days lay dead His lordliest knights and barons spake Before the king for Balen's sake Good speech and wise, of force to break The bonds that bowed his head.

II

In linden-time the heart is high For pride of summer passing by With lordly laughter in her eye; A heavy splendour in the sky Uplifts and bows it down again. The spring had waned from wood and wold Since Balen left his prison hold And lowlier-hearted than of old Beheld it wax and wane.
Though humble heart and poor array Kept not from spirit and sense away Their noble nature, nor could slay The pride they bade but pause and stay Till time should bring its trust to flower, Yet even for noble shame's sake, born Of hope that smiled on hate and scorn, He held him still as earth ere morn Ring forth her rapturous hour.
But even as earth when dawn takes flight And beats her wings of dewy light Full in the faltering face of night, His soul awoke to claim by right The life and death of deed and doom, When once before the king there came A maiden clad with grief and shame And anguish burning her like flame That feeds on flowers in bloom.
Beneath a royal mantle, fair With goodly work of lustrous vair, Girt fast against her side she bare A sword whose weight bade all men there Quail to behold her face again. Save of a passing perfect knight Not great alone in force and fight It might not be for any might Drawn forth, and end her pain.
So said she: then King Arthur spake: "Albeit indeed I dare not take Such praise on me, for knighthood's sake And love of ladies will I make Assay if better none may be." By girdle and by sheath he caught The sheathed and girded sword, and wrought With strength whose force availed him nought To save and set her free.
Again she spake: "No need to set The might that man has matched not yet Against it: he whose hand shall get Grace to release the bonds that fret My bosom and my girdlestead With little strain of strength or strife Shall bring me as from death to life And win to sister or to wife Fame that outlives men dead."
Then bade the king his knights assay This mystery that before him lay And mocked his might of manhood. "Nay," Quoth she, "the man that takes away This burden laid on me must be A knight of record clean and fair As sunlight and the flowerful air, By sire and mother born to bear A name to shame not me."
Then forth strode Launcelot, and laid The mighty-moulded hand that made Strong knights reel back like birds affrayed By storm that smote them as they strayed Against the hilt that yielded not. Then Tristram, bright and sad and kind As one that bore in noble mind Love that made light as darkness blind,