The Tale of Balen | Page 5

Fared even as Launcelot.
Then Lamoracke, with hardier cheer, As one that held all hope and fear Wherethrough the spirit of man may steer In life and death less dark or dear, Laid hand thereon, and fared as they. With half a smile his hand he drew Back from the spell-bound thing, and threw With half a glance his heart anew Toward no such blameless may.
Between Iseult and Guenevere Sat one of name as high to hear, But darklier doomed than they whose cheer Foreshowed not yet the deadlier year That bids the queenliest head bow down, The queen Morgause of Orkney: they With scarce a flash of the eye could say The very word of dawn, when day Gives earth and heaven their crown.
But bright and dark as night or noon And lowering as a storm-flushed moon When clouds and thwarting winds distune The music of the midnight, soon To die from darkening star to star And leave a silence in the skies That yearns till dawn find voice and rise, Shone strange as fate Morgause, with eyes That dwelt on days afar.
A glance that shot on Lamoracke As from a storm-cloud bright and black. Fire swift and blind as death's own track Turned fleet as flame on Arthur back From him whose hand forsook the hilt: And one in blood and one in sin Their hearts caught fire of pain within And knew no goal for them to win But death that guerdons guilt.
Then Gawain, sweet of soul and gay As April ere he dreams of May, Strove, and prevailed not: then Sir Kay, The snake-souled envier, vile as they That fawn and foam and lurk and lie, Sire of the bastard band whose brood Was alway found at servile feud With honour, faint and false and lewd, Scarce grasped and put it by.
Then wept for woe the damsel bound With iron and with anguish round, That none to help her grief was found Or loose the inextricably inwound Grim curse that girt her life with grief And made a burden of her breath, Harsh as the bitterness of death. Then spake the king as one that saith Words bitterer even than brief.
"Methought the wide round world could bring Before the face of queen or king No knights more fit for fame to sing Than fill this full Round Table's ring With honour higher than pride of place: But now my heart is wrung to know, Damsel, that none whom fame can show Finds grace to heal or help thy woe: God gives them not the grace."
Then from the lowliest place thereby, With heart-enkindled cheek and eye Most like the star and kindling sky That say the sundawn's hour is high When rapture trembles through the sea, Strode Balen in his poor array Forth, and took heart of grace to pray The damsel suffer even him to assay His power to set her free.
Nay, how should he avail, she said, Averse with scorn-averted head, Where these availed not? none had sped Of all these mightier men that led The lists wherein he might not ride, And how should less men speed? But he, With lordlier pride of courtesy, Put forth his hand and set her free From pain and humbled pride.
But on the sword he gazed elate With hope set higher than fear or fate, Or doubt of darkling days in wait; And when her thankful praise waxed great And craved of him the sword again, He would not give it. "Nay, for mine It is till force may make it thine." A smile that shone as death may shine Spake toward him bale and bane.
Strange lightning flickered from her eyes. "Gentle and good in knightliest guise And meet for quest of strange emprise Thou hast here approved thee: yet not wise To keep the sword from me, I wis. For with it thou shalt surely slay Of all that look upon the day The man best loved of thee, and lay Thine own life down for his."
"What chance God sends, that chance I take," He said. Then soft and still she spake; "I would but for thine only sake Have back the sword of thee, and break The links of doom that bind thee round. But seeing thou wilt not have it so, My heart for thine is wrung with woe." "God's will," quoth he, "it is, we know, Wherewith our lives are bound."
"Repent it must thou soon," she said, "Who wouldst not hear the rede I read For thine and not for my sake, sped In vain as waters heavenward shed From springs that falter and depart Earthward. God bids not thee believe Truth, and the web thy life must weave For even this sword to close and cleave Hangs heavy round my heart."
So passed she mourning