Idylls of the King, Alfred Lord Tennyson [the reading strategies book TXT] 📗

canst not fight.’

 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,

Leaning a little toward him, ‘Thy leave!

Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,

For this dear child, because I never saw,

Though having seen all beauties of our time,

Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.

And if I fall her name will yet remain

Untarnished as before; but if I live,

So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,

As I will make her truly my true wife.’

 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol’s heart

Danced in his bosom, seeing better days,

And looking round he saw not Enid there,

(Who hearing her own name had stolen away)

But that old dame, to whom full tenderly

And folding all her hand in his he said,

‘Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,

And best by her that bore her understood.

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest

Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.’

 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she

With frequent smile and nod departing found,

Half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl;

Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then

On either shining shoulder laid a hand,

And kept her off and gazed upon her face,

And told them all their converse in the hall,

Proving her heart: but never light and shade

Coursed one another more on open ground

Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale

Across the face of Enid hearing her;

While slowly falling as a scale that falls,

When weight is added only grain by grain,

Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast;

Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,

Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;

So moving without answer to her rest

She found no rest, and ever failed to draw

The quiet night into her blood, but lay

Contemplating her own unworthiness;

And when the pale and bloodless east began

To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised

Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved

Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,

And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

 

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint

Beheld her first in field, awaiting him,

He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,

Himself beyond the rest pushing could move

The chair of Idris. Yniol’s rusted arms

Were on his princely person, but through these

Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights

And ladies came, and by and by the town

Flowed in, and settling circled all the lists.

And there they fixt the forks into the ground,

And over these they placed the silver wand,

And over that the golden sparrow-hawk.

Then Yniol’s nephew, after trumpet blown,

Spake to the lady with him and proclaimed,

‘Advance and take, as fairest of the fair,

What I these two years past have won for thee,

The prize of beauty.’ Loudly spake the Prince,

‘Forbear: there is a worthier,’ and the knight

With some surprise and thrice as much disdain

Turned, and beheld the four, and all his face

Glowed like the heart of a great fire at Yule,

So burnt he was with passion, crying out,

‘Do battle for it then,’ no more; and thrice

They clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears.

Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each

So often and with such blows, that all the crowd

Wondered, and now and then from distant walls

There came a clapping as of phantom hands.

So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still

The dew of their great labour, and the blood

Of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force.

But either’s force was matched till Yniol’s cry,

‘Remember that great insult done the Queen,’

Increased Geraint’s, who heaved his blade aloft,

And cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone,

And felled him, and set foot upon his breast,

And said, ‘Thy name?’ To whom the fallen man

Made answer, groaning, ‘Edyrn, son of Nudd!

Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.

My pride is broken: men have seen my fall.’

‘Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,’ replied Geraint,

‘These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.

First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf,

Shalt ride to Arthur’s court, and coming there,

Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,

And shalt abide her judgment on it; next,

Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.

These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.’

And Edyrn answered, ‘These things will I do,

For I have never yet been overthrown,

And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride

Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!’

And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,

And there the Queen forgave him easily.

And being young, he changed and came to loathe

His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself

Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last

In the great battle fighting for the King.

 

But when the third day from the hunting-morn

Made a low splendour in the world, and wings

Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay

With her fair head in the dim-yellow light,

Among the dancing shadows of the birds,

Woke and bethought her of her promise given

No later than last eve to Prince Geraint—

So bent he seemed on going the third day,

He would not leave her, till her promise given—

To ride with him this morning to the court,

And there be made known to the stately Queen,

And there be wedded with all ceremony.

At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,

And thought it never yet had looked so mean.

For as a leaf in mid-November is

To what it is in mid-October, seemed

The dress that now she looked on to the dress

She looked on ere the coming of Geraint.

And still she looked, and still the terror grew

Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,

All staring at her in her faded silk:

And softly to her own sweet heart she said:

 

‘This noble prince who won our earldom back,

So splendid in his acts and his attire,

Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him!

Would he could tarry with us here awhile,

But being so beholden to the Prince,

It were but little grace in any of us,

Bent as he seemed on going this third day,

To seek a second favour at his hands.

Yet if he could but tarry a day or two,

Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame,

Far liefer than so much discredit him.’

 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress

All branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift

Of her good mother, given her on the night

Before her birthday, three sad years ago,

That night of fire, when Edyrn sacked their house,

And scattered all they had to all the winds:

For while the mother showed it, and the two

Were turning and admiring it, the work

To both appeared so costly, rose a cry

That Edyrn’s men were on them, and they fled

With little save the jewels they had on,

Which being sold and sold had bought them bread:

And Edyrn’s men had caught them in their flight,

And placed them in this ruin; and she wished

The Prince had found her in her ancient home;

Then let her fancy flit across the past,

And roam the goodly places that she knew;

And last bethought her how she used to watch,

Near that old home, a pool of golden carp;

And one was patched and blurred and lustreless

Among his burnished brethren of the pool;

And half asleep she made comparison

Of that and these to her own faded self

And the gay court, and fell asleep again;

And dreamt herself was such a faded form

Among her burnished sisters of the pool;

But this was in the garden of a king;

And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew

That all was bright; that all about were birds

Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work;

That all the turf was rich in plots that looked

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it;

And lords and ladies of the high court went

In silver tissue talking things of state;

And children of the King in cloth of gold

Glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks;

And while she thought ‘They will not see me,’ came

A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,

And all the children in their cloth of gold

Ran to her, crying, ‘If we have fish at all

Let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now

To pick the faded creature from the pool,

And cast it on the mixen that it die.’

And therewithal one came and seized on her,

And Enid started waking, with her heart

All overshadowed by the foolish dream,

And lo! it was her mother grasping her

To get her well awake; and in her hand

A suit of bright apparel, which she laid

Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly:

 

‘See here, my child, how fresh the colours look,

How fast they hold like colours of a shell

That keeps the wear and polish of the wave.

Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow:

Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.’

 

And Enid looked, but all confused at first,

Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream:

Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced,

And answered, ‘Yea, I know it; your good gift,

So sadly lost on that unhappy night;

Your own good gift!’ ‘Yea, surely,’ said the dame,

‘And gladly given again this happy morn.

For when the jousts were ended yesterday,

Went Yniol through the town, and everywhere

He found the sack and plunder of our house

All scattered through the houses of the town;

And gave command that all which once was ours

Should now be ours again: and yestereve,

While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince,

Came one with this and laid it in my hand,

For love or fear, or seeking favour of us,

Because we have our earldom back again.

And yestereve I would not tell you of it,

But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.

Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise?

For I myself unwillingly have worn

My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,

And howsoever patient, Yniol his.

Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,

With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,

And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,

And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all

That appertains to noble maintenance.

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house;

But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade,

And all through that young traitor, cruel need

Constrained us, but a better time has come;

So clothe yourself in this, that better fits

Our mended fortunes and a Prince’s bride:

For though ye won the prize of fairest fair,

And though I heard him call you fairest fair,

Let never maiden think, however fair,

She is not fairer in new clothes than old.

And should some great court-lady say, the Prince

Hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge,

And like a madman brought her to the court,

Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince

To whom we are beholden; but I know,

That when my dear child is set forth at her best,

That neither court nor country, though they sought

Through all the provinces like those of old

That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.’

 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath;

And Enid listened brightening as she lay;

Then, as the white and glittering star of morn

Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by

Slips