Merlin (Robinson)/Canto 1

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

MERLIN

I

"Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see,So far beyond the faint edge of the world?D'ye look to see the lady Vivian,Pursued by divers ominous vile demonsThat have another king more fierce than ours?Or think ye that if ye look far enoughAnd hard enough into the feathery westYe'll have a glimmer of the Grail itself?And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady,What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?" So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knightBecause he loved him as he laughed at him,Intoned his idle presence on a dayTo Gawaine, who had thought himself alone,Had there been in him thought of anythingSave what was murmured now in CamelotOf Merlin's hushed and all but unconfirmedAppearance out of Brittany. It was heardAt first there was a ghost in Arthur's palace,But soon among the scullions and anonAmong the knights a firmer credit heldAll tongues from uttering what all glances told—Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon,Fearing he might say more to LancelotOf Merlin's rumor-laden resurrectionThan Lancelot would have an ear to cherish,Had sauntered off with his imagination To Merlin's Rock, where now there was no MerlinTo meditate upon a whispering townBelow him in the silence.—Once he saidTo Gawaine: "You are young; and that being so,Behold the shining city of our dreamsAnd of our King."—"Long live the King," said Gawaine.—"Long live the King," said Merlin after him;"Better for me that I shall not be King;Wherefore I say again, Long live the King,And add, God save him, also, and all kings—All kings and queens. I speak in general.Kings have I known that were but weary menWith no stout appetite for more than peaceThat was not made for them."—"Nor were they madeFor kings," Gawaine said, laughing.—"You are young Gawaine, and you may one day hold the worldBetween your fingers, knowing not what it isThat you are holding. Better for you and me,I think, that we shall not be kings."

I think, that we shall not be kings." Gawaine,Remembering Merlin's words of long ago,Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again,He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard:"There's more afoot and in the air to-dayThan what is good for Camelot. MerlinMay or may not know all, but he said wellTo say to me that he would not be King.No more would I be King." Far down he gazedOn Camelot, until he made of itA phantom town of many stillnesses,Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings To reign in, without omens and obscureFamiliars to bring terror to their days;For though a knight, and one as hard at armsAs any, save the fate-begotten fewThat all acknowledged or in envy loathed,He felt a foreign sort of creeping upAnd down him, as of moist things in the dark,—When Dagonet, coming on him unawares,Presuming on his title of Sir Fool,Addressed him and crooned on till he was done:"What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?"

"Sir Dagonet, you best and wariestOf all dishonest men, I look through Time,For sight of what it is that is to be.I look to see it, though I see it not.I see a town down there that holds a king, And over it I see a few small clouds—Like feathers in the west, as you observe;And I shall see no more this afternoonThan what there is around us every day,Unless you have a skill that I have notTo ferret the invisible for rats."

"If you see what's around us every day,You need no other showing to go mad.Remember that and take it home with you;And say tonight, 'I had it of a fool—With no immediate obliquityFor this one or for that one, or for me'"

Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously"I'll not forget I had it of a knight,Whose only folly is to fool himself; And as for making other men to laugh,And so forget their sins and selves a little,There's no great folly there. So keep it up,As long as you've a legend or a song,And have whatever sport of us you likeTill havoc is the word and we fall howling.For I've a guess there may not be so loudA sound of laughing here in CamelotWhen Merlin goes again to his gay graveIn Brittany. To mention lesser terrors,Men say his beard is gone."

Men say his beard is gone." "Do men say that?"A twitch of an impatient wearinessPlayed for a moment over the lean faceOf Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly:"The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing,One of these days."—Gawaine looked hard at him:"If I be too familiar with a fool,I'm on the way to be another fool,"He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him:"Yes, Dagonet," he ventured, with a laugh,"Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly,And that he shines now as the Lord's anointed,And wears the valiance of an ageless youthCrowned with a glory of eternal peace."

Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head:"I grant your valiance of a kind of youthTo Merlin, but your crown of peace I question;For, though I know no more than any churlWho pinches any chambermaid soeverIn the King's palace, I look not to Merlin For peace, when out of his peculiar tombHe comes again to Camelot. Time swingsA mighty scythe, and some day all your peaceGoes down before its edge like so much clover.No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes,Without a trumpet—and without a beard,If what you say men say of him be true—Nor yet for sudden war."

Nor yet for sudden war." Gawaine, for a moment,Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet,And, making nothing of it, looked abroadAs if at something cheerful on all sides,And back again to the fool's unasking eyes:"Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace,Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,"Said he, with admiration for the man Whom Folly called a fool: "And we have known him;We knew him once when he knew everything."

"He knew as much as God would let him knowUntil he met the lady Vivian.I tell you that, for the world knows all that;Also it knows he told the King one dayThat he was to be buried, and alive,In Brittany; and that the King should seeThe face of him no more. Then Merlin sailedAway to Vivian in Broceliande,Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers,And feeds him fruits and wines and many foodsOf many savors, and sweet ortolans.Wise books of every lore of every landAre there to fill his days, if he require them,And there are players of all instruments— Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she singsTo Merlin, till he trembles in her armsAnd there forgets that any town aliveHad ever such a name as Camelot.So Vivian holds him with her love, they say,And he, who has no age, has not grown old.I swear to nothing, but that's what they say.That's being buried in BroceliandeFor too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heardThis tale, or many like it, more than once;And you must know that Love, when Love invitesPhilosophy to play, plays high and wins,Or low and loses. And you say to me,'If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stayAway from Brittany.' Gawaine, you are young,And Merlin's in his grave."

And Merlin's in his grave." "Merlin said onceThat I was young, and it's a joy for meThat I am here to listen while you say it.Young or not young, if that be burial,May I be buried long before I die.I might be worse than young; I might be old."—Dagonet answered, and without a smile:"Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that;A fancy—a mere fancy." Then he smiled:"And such a doom as his may be for you,Gawaine, should your untiring divinationDelve in the veiled eternal mysteriesToo far to be a pleasure for the Lord.And when you stake your widsom for a woman,Compute the woman to be worth a grave,As Merlin did, and say no more about it.But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high! Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,—and her love.Gawaine, farewell."

Gawaine, farewell." "Farewell, Sir Dagonet,And may the devil take you presently."He followed with a vexed and envious eye,And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet'sDeparture, till his gaunt obscurityWas cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees."Poor fool!" he murmured. "Or am I the fool?With all my fast ascendency in arms,That ominous clown is nearer to the KingThan I am—yet; and God knows what he knows,And what his wits infer from what he seesAnd feels and hears. I wonder what he knowsOf Lancelot, or what I might know now,Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool To springe a friend. . . . No, I like not this day.There's a cloud coming over CamelotLarger than any that is in the sky,—Or Merlin would be still in Brittany,With Vivian and the viols. It's all too strange."

And later, when descending to the city,Through unavailing casements he could hearThe roaring of a mighty voice within,Confirming fervidly his own conviction:"It's all too strange, and half the world's half crazy!"—He scowled: "Well, I agree with Lamorak."He frowned, and passed: "And I like not this day."