A Spring Harvest/Glastonbury
I. TWO LEGENDS
GLASTONBURY
Thither through moaning woods came Bedivere,At gloomy breaking of a winter's day,Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart,With a great wound gotten in that last frayEre he stood by, and watched the King departDown the long, silent reaches of the mere:And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear,And the wind cried, and chased the relict leavesLike ships,that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves,And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear.
So he found at the last an hermitageHard by a little hill, and sheltering treesThat bent gaunt branches in the winter's breeze;And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door:Then presently came forth an hermit sageAnd helped him to dismount with labour sore:Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lameStumbled against the open door, and swooned,And would have fallen, but the hermit caughtAnd laid him gently down; then hurrying broughtFrom a great chest a cordial, and cameThat he might drink, and so beheld his wound.
Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death,Like a torn traveller on a stormy height'Twixt one wind and another: till his breathCame easier, and he prospered. Then did sleepBathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep,And left him whole, at breaking of the light,So he beheld the old man, and desiredThat he would tell of whom he was, and whence.
Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired:"I, I was Arthur's bishop, at his courtAnd in his church I ministered, and thenceWhen at the last the whole was overthrownWith wrath and ill designings, straight I soughtA place where I might die, too feeble grownTo endure a new beginning to my yearsWhen once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears.Hither I came, where, in the dawns of timeDim peoples, that the very stones forget,Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rimeOn a lake island mystically set.They passed, and after ages manifoldCame wandering sainted Joseph (even heThat tended God's frail body, and enrolledIn linen clothes of spicèd fragrancy).He brought the vessel, vanished now from earthThat wrought destruction to the Table Round,Since many deemed themselves above their worthAnd sought in vain, and perished ere they found."
Then Bedivere: "Alas the King! I sawThe unstayed overwhelming tide of war:And when the opposèd standards were unfurledOf Arthur and of Mordred, his base son,Ere yet the noise of battle was begunI heard the heralds crying to the world:
"'Ye that have sought out pallid harmoniesWhere never wind blows, save the gentle south:Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seasAnd fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth:
"'Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened cropsOf word and measure, till the rime, grown proud,Did straight contemn the leaping mountain topsAnd lose itself in air, and riven cloud:
"'Ye that have lived a dangerous life of warWhose speech has been bold words and heady boastsGather, for strife and death unknown before,Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.'
"I saw the last dim battle in the mistThere, where a dreary waste of barren sandDoth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wistWhich party had advantage: like thin wraithsFit to throng Lethe banks the warriorsStruck and o'ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faithsWere all confounded on those desolate shores.And ever the mist seethed, and the waves keptA hollow chanting, as they mourned the endOf all mankind, and of created time.How many fell therein of foe or friendI know not, save that when the darkness cameAnd the mist cleared, I found at last the King,His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime,And fading in his eyes the ancient flame.
"I saw him make on Mordred with his spear,And crying 'Tide me death, betide me life,He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,'Put a dread ending to the outworn strife.I saw them fall together, and, drawn near,Knew that the King was wounded unto death.
"Then as he drew with growing pain his breathI looked, and saw a long, black barge that stoleAcross the waters, like a wandering soulReturned from the woeful realm, to viewThe ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew.And when it touched the shallows I did bearThe dying Arthur as he bade, and there I placed him 'mid dark forms: I could not tellWhose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell."
Then spake the eremite: "Beyond yon doorThere stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn,And there did worship in the days of yoreThe sons of kings. The night ere you came hitherI was awakened by the sound of feet,And I looked forth, and saw a body borneBy veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither,In at the chapel gateway. I went downAnd found that they had digged a grave, most meetFor one of saintly life, or king by birth:They seemed some score, and by blown candles' lightI saw that each with tears bedewed his gownEre sank the corse into the waiting earth,Then prayed, and so went out into the night."
Thereon the twain arose, and went straightwayToward the old, dim chapel, and beheldThe stone beneath whose length the body lay:Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelledGraven in golden character, "ArcturusRex Quondamque Futurus."
Quoth Bedivere:"Thank God this voice remaineth unto us;Now I do mind me of a prophecySpoken long since in some emblazoned year,How Arthur should escape mortalityAnd lie beneath the hills, in cavern deepOr on some shore, where faery seas do break:Around him all his warriors shall sleep,Who at a great bell's sounding shall awakeWhat time th' old enemy spreads death and harmThorough his ancient realm, and the last woesGo over her; his own victorious armShall rid the stricken land of hate and foes."
So leave we them, each head inaureoledWith the awakening spring's young sunlight-gold.
Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rungWithout the door, and straight 'twas open flung,They saw who stood therein, and each one knewThe face unspared by years and strife and shame,Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that fewHad looked on and forgot; in such wise cameLancelot, the hero of immortal fights,Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.
"Whence cam'st thou, Lancelot?" "Even from the Queen,The Queen that was, whom now a convent's shadeImprisons, and a dark and tristful veilEnwraps those brows, that in old days were seenMost puissant proud of all that ever madeThe traitor honest, and the valorous frail.
"Yet evermore about her form there clingsAnd evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:And till the end of all created thingsThere shall be some one found, shall strive to traceThe immortal loveliness of Guinevere.
"Shall I not mind me of old ecstasiesIn Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,In shady paths, and marble terracesRose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.But ah! the last long kiss is ta'en and given,And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.
"Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind,Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago,Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf,The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,Gods half-forgot in the wild ages' flowYours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned."
Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rainSwelled the lean brooks, until the gelid yearShot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.Again the hanging clouds were struck and furledBy winds of winter, until skies were clear,And there was frost o' nights, and all the worldLay glistening to the newly risen sun.
Till came that season, wherein solemn daysDo celebrate the reign on earth begunOf the most blessèd Child, whenas all waysWere bound, and all the fields were white with snow.Then in the chapel at high noon they threeOffered their quiet orisons and soCame forth and looked upon the purity,And when he saw the fields all stainless-whiteLancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: "How soreAnd no wise joyous to a sinner's sightIs this dear land, where the snow lies untrod.Even so once before the eyes of GodMy soul lay all unspotted; now no more."
"Courage, my son, and patience," quoth the sage;No sin there is, that shall not lose its stainThrough the great love of God, and His dear Son,Repent and be forgiven: know that noneShall sue before His throne, and sue in vain,Nor shall one name be blotted from the pageIf he that bears it turn to prayer and tears."
Then Lancelot: "Though through the tale of yearsThat still are left before the longed-for earthReceive my body, I should strive amainTo slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,Alas it were all profitless and vain.Verily, when I came unto this placeI railed on God, that I had lost my soulAnd nothing gained: until a heavenly graceEnwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,And now my grief is only for old sin.But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree(He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom beforeI pass the gates divine, and enter inTo the fair country I must never see."
But even as he spoke, the hand of GodWorked on the sombre branches, and straightwayThey were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,As at the very bidding of the spring,Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gayWith flowers that nodded in the winter's breeze(So blossomed in old time the prophet's rod),And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.
Then softly spake the hermit, "Now is griefReproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;For God beholds the living, not the dead;And He that took the semblance of a childLoves He but penance, and the drooping head,Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?"
So they grew old together, and the yearsPressed no more to their lips the cup of tears(They had drained all, maybe). And ever lessSeemed all things mortal, as in quietnessThey pondered the eternal mysteries(The noblest heritage of all men born), Such as are writ upon the face of dawn,Or in the glamour of a moonlit night,Or in the autumn swallow's southern flight,Or in the breaking of the restless seas:Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate daysWhile yet the King was young, and sunlight fellOn bower and roof of ancient Camelot:Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell,When all was song, and laughter, and high praise,Even when as yet the accursed thing was not.
Then would loom out from the chill mists of timeThe faces and the forms remembered still,The King and Guinevere, and Galahad,That rode upon a peerless quest and dire,Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire,And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad;Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime,And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill.
So as the day draws ever toward the dark,Ever toward peace the great wind's sounding breath,And ever toward the further shore the barkThey drew to the dark, silent realm of death.
Far, far away from their old palace-hallsWhere once they lived a splendid life and vain,That now are scattered stones and crumbled wallsIn some soft vale, or by the echoing main,
Beneath the springing grass, and very deepThey three do lie, where never mornings riseTo ope the portals of their dazed eyes,Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep,
And near beside lies Arthur, even heThat was King once, and yet again shall be.