Complete Works of William Morris, page 307
Within that very walk say last farewell
To her dear knight, just riding out to find
(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,
And their last kisses sunk into my mind,
Yea, for she stood lean’d forward on his breast,
Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,
That it might well be kiss’d, she held and press’d
Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann’d
By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind,
Till Mador de la porte a-going by,
And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined,
And parted like a dream. In this way I,
With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor,
Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly
A sharp bell rang from close beside the door,
And I leapt up when something pass’d me by,
Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind
I stagger’d after, a great sense of awe
At every step kept gathering on my mind,
Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw
One sitting on the altar as a throne,
Whose face no man could say he did not know,
And though the bell still rang, he sat alone,
With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.
Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,
Not as one kneels in church when mass is said,
But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt
The first time what a thing was perfect dread.
But mightily the gentle voice came down:
‘Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,
Good knight of God, for you will see no frown
Upon my face; I come to make you glad.
For that you say that you are all alone,
I will be with you always, and fear not
You are uncared for, though no maiden moan
Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot,
He in good time shall be my servant too,
Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight,
And who has loved him alway, yea, and who
Still trusts him alway, though in all men’s sight,
He is just what you know, O Galahad,
This love is happy even as you say,
But would you for a little time be glad,
To make ME sorry long, day after day?
Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME,
The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,
Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally
Will Launcelot at one time hang his head;
Yea, old and shrivell’d he shall win my love.
Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!
Not always is he able, son, to move
His love, and do it honour: needs must roll
The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust,
And then ’tis weary work; he strives beside
Seem better than he is, so that his trust
Is always on what chances may betide;
And so he wears away, my servant, too,
When all these things are gone, and wretchedly
He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who
Is no care now to Palomydes: see,
O good son Galahad, upon this day,
Now even, all these things are on your side,
But these you fight not for; look up, I say,
And see how I can love you, for no pride
Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down.
See now you have ME always; following
That holy vision, Galahad, go on,
Until at last you come to ME to sing
In Heaven always, and to walk around
The garden where I am.’ He ceased, my face
And wretched body fell upon the ground;
And when I look’d again, the holy place
Was empty; but right so the bell again
Came to the chapel-door, there entered
Two angels first, in white, without a stain,
And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed
Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath
The very altar-step, and while for fear
I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath,
Those holy ladies gently came a-near,
And quite unarm’d me, saying: ‘Galahad,
Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought
Of any other thing than being glad;
Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,
Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.’
Right so they went away, and I, being weary,
Slept long and dream’d of Heaven: the bell comes near,
I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!
Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, Four Ladies in
gowns of red and green; also an Angel, bearing in his hands a
surcoat of white, with a red cross.
AN ANGEL.
O servant of the high God, Galahad!
Rise and be arm’d: the Sangreal is gone forth
Through the great forest, and you must be had
Unto the sea that lieth on the north:
There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein
The spindles of King Solomon are laid,
And the sword that no man draweth without sin,
But if he be most pure: and there is stay’d,
Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet
In some short space upon that ship: first, though,
Will come here presently that lady sweet,
Sister of Percival, whom you well know,
And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,
These ladies will to arm you.
FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberk.
Galahad,
That I may stand so close beneath your brow,
I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad.
SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword.
That I may stand and touch you with my hand,
O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.
THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs.
That I may kneel while up above you stand,
And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,
I, Lucy, am most glad.
FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet.
O gentle knight,
That you bow down to us in reverence,
We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight
Must needs fall trembling.
ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat.
Galahad, we go hence,
For here, amid the straying of the snow,
Come Percival’s sister, Bors, and Percival.
[The Four Ladies carry out the bed,
and all go but Galahad.
GALAHAD.
How still and quiet everything seems now:
They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.
Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his Sister.
Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!
A many marvels have been here to-night;
Tell me what news of Launcelot you have,
And has God’s body ever been in sight?
SIR BORS.
Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,
As we were riding slowly side by side,
An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing,
And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,
With many-colour’d raiment, but far off;
And so pass’d quickly: from the court nought good;
Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff
Kept us all merry, in a little wood
Was found all hack’d and dead: Sir Lionel
And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest,
Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well
Your father Launcelot, at the king’s behest
Went out to seek him, but was almost slain,
Perhaps is dead now; everywhere
The knights come foil’d from the great quest, in vain;
In vain they struggle for the vision fair.
THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS
SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY. SIR GALAHAD. SIR BORS DE GANYS.
SIR OZANA.
All day long and every day,
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,
And no man came a-near.
Naked to the waist was I,
And deep within my breast did lie,
Though no man any blood could spy,
The truncheon of a spear.
No meat did ever pass my lips
Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips
From off the gilded parclose, dips,
And night comes on apace.
My arms lay back behind my head;
Over my raised-up knees was spread
A samite cloth of white and red;
A rose lay on my face.
Many a time I tried to shout;
But as in dream of battle-rout,
My frozen speech would not well out;
I could not even weep.
With inward sigh I see the sun
Fade off the pillars one by one,
My heart faints when the day is done,
Because I cannot sleep.
Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head;
Not like a tomb is this my bed,
Yet oft I think that I am dead;
That round my tomb is writ,
‘Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, of your part;
A true knight he was found.’
Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps.
SIR GALAHAD.
All day long and every day,
Till his madness pass’d away,
I watch’d Ozana as he lay
Within the gilded screen.
All my singing moved him not;
As I sung my heart grew hot,
With the thought of Launcelot
Far away, I ween.
So I went a little space
From out the chapel, bathed my face
In the stream that runs apace
By the churchyard wall.
There I pluck’d a faint wild rose,
Hard by where the linden grows,
Sighing over silver rows
Of the lilies tall.
I laid the flower across his mouth;
The sparkling drops seem’d good for drouth;
He smiled, turn’d round towards the south.
Held up a golden tress.
The light smote on it from the west;
He drew the covering from his breast,
Against his heart that hair he prest;
Death him soon will bless.
SIR BORS.
I enter’d by the western door;
I saw a knight’s helm lying there:
I raised my eyes from off the floor,
And caught the gleaming of his hair.
I stept full softly up to him;
I laid my chin upon his head;
I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,
I was so glad he was not dead.
I heard Ozana murmur low,
‘There comes no sleep nor any love.’
But Galahad stoop’d and kiss’d his brow:
He shiver’d; I saw his pale lips move.
SIR OZANA.
There comes no sleep nor any love;
Ah me! I shiver with delight.
I am so weak I cannot move;
God move me to thee, dear, to-night!
Christ help! I have but little wit:
My life went wrong; I see it writ,
‘Ozana of the hardy heart,
Knight of the Table Round,
Pray for his soul, lords, on your part;
A good knight he was found.’
Now I begin to fathom it. [He dies.
SIR BORS.
Galahad sits dreamily;
What strange things may his eyes see,
Great blue eyes fix’d full on me?
On his soul, Lord, have mercy.
SIR GALAHAD.
Ozana, shall I pray for thee?
Her cheek is laid to thine;
No long time hence, also I see
Thy wasted fingers twine
Within the tresses of her hair
That shineth gloriously,
Thinly outspread in the clear air
Against the jasper sea.
SIR PETER HARPDON’S END
In an English Castle in Poictou.
Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John
Curzon, his lieutenant.
JOHN CURZON.
Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John’s hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.
SIR PETER.
So:
What are their names?
JOHN CURZON.
Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but,
SIR PETER.
What colour’d hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?
JOHN CURZON.
Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques’ hair,
Or Peter’s legs to us?
SIR PETER.
O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason’s tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; They’re no good,
We shall not build, man.
JOHN CURZON (going).
Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We’d better keep them still; sir, fare you well.
[Muttering as he goes.
What have I done that he should jape at me?
And why not build? the walls are weak enough,
And we’ve two masons and a heap of tools.
[Goes, still muttering.
SIR PETER.
To think a man should have a lump like that
For his lieutenant! I must call him back,
Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,
He’ll hang our friends the masons: here, John! John!
JOHN CURZON.
At your good service, sir.
SIR PETER.
Come now, and talk
This weighty matter out; there, we’ve no stone
To mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone.
JOHN CURZON.
There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.
SIR PETER.
We are not strong enough to send ten men
Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.
In three hours’ time they would be taken or slain,
The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.
JOHN CURZON.
But we can send some villaynes to get stone.
SIR PETER.
Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back,
They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere,
And tell them we were weak in walls and men,
Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed,
And now no longer does the country shake
At sound of English names; our captains fade
From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac bridge
I daresay you may even yet see the hole
That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain
Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here;
Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse;
Oliver Clisson turn’d these years agone;
The Captal died in prison; and, over all,
Edward the prince lies underneath the ground,
Edward the king is dead, at Westminster
The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.
Everything goes to rack — eh! and we too.
Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French,
Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?
A man can die but once, will you die then,
Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart
Of all the deeds we have done here in France —
And yet may do? So God will have your soul,
Whoever has your body.
JOHN CURZON.
Why, sir, I
Will fight till the last moment, until then
Will do whate’er you tell me. Now I see
We must e’en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps
They’re stronger than I think for; pity, though!
For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes.
SIR PETER.
Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well,
I doubt them.
JOHN CURZON.
Truly, sir, I will watch well. [Goes.
SIR PETER.
Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said,
’Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes;
Some dozen stones from his petrariae,
And, under shelter of his crossbows, just
An hour’s steady work with pickaxes,
