THE TALE OF BALEN

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

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  • I
  • II
  • III
  • IV
  • V
  • VI
  • VII

  • I


    In hawthorn-time the heart grows light,
    The world is sweet in sound and sight,
    Glad thoughts and birds take flower and flight,
    The heather kindles toward the light,
       The whin is frankincense and flame.
    And be it for strife or be it for love
    The falcon quickens as the dove
    When earth is touched from heaven above
       With joy that knows no name.

    And glad in spirit and sad in soul
    With dream and doubt of days that roll
    As waves that race and find no goal
    Rode on by bush and brake and bole
       A northern child of earth and sea.
    The pride of life before him lay
    Radiant: the heavens of night and day
    Shone less than shone before his way
       His ways and days to be.

    And all his life of blood and breath
    Sang out within him: time and death
    Were even as words a dreamer saith
    When sleep within him slackeneth,
       And light and life and spring were one.
    The steed between his knees that sprang,
    The moors and woods that shone and sang,
    The hours wherethrough the spring's breath rang,
       Seemed ageless as the sun.

    But alway through the bounteous bloom
    That earth gives thanks if heaven illume
    His soul forefelt a shadow of doom,
    His heart foreknew a gloomier gloom
       Than closes all men's equal ways.
    Albeit the spirit of life's light spring
    With pride of heart upheld him, king
    And lord of hours like snakes that sting
       And nights that darken days.

    And as the strong spring round him grew
    Stronger, and all blithe winds that blew
    Blither, and flowers that flowered anew
    More glad of sun and air and dew,
       The shadow lightened on his soul
    And brightened into death and died
    Like winter, as the bloom waxed wide
    From woodside on to riverside
       And southward goal to goal.

    Along the wandering ways of Tyne,
    By beech and birch and thorn that shine
    And laugh when life's requickening wine
    Makes night and noon and dawn divine
       And stirs in all the veins of spring,
    And past the brightening banks of Tees,
    He rode as one that breathes and sees
    A sun more blithe, a merrier breeze,
       A life that hails him king.

    And down the softening south that knows
    No more how glad the heather glows,
    Nor how, when winter's clarion blows
    Across the bright Northumbrian snows,
       Sea-mists from east and westward meet,
    Past Avon senseless yet of song
    And Thames that bore but swans in throng
    He rode elate in heart and strong
       In trust of days as sweet.

    So came he through to Camelot,
    Glad, though for shame his heart waxed hot,
    For hope within it withered not
    To see the shaft it dreamed of shot
       Fair toward the glimmering goal of fame.
    And all King Arthur's knightliest there
    Approved him knightly, swift to dare
    And keen to bid their records bear
       Sir Balen's northern name.

    Sir Balen of Northumberland
    Gat grace before the king to stand
    High as his heart was, and his hand
    Wrought honour toward the strange north strand
       That sent him south so goodly a knight.
    And envy, sick with sense of sin,
    Began as poisonous herbs begin
    To work in base men's blood, akin
       To men's of nobler might.

    And even so fell it that his doom,
    For all his bright life's kindling bloom
    And light that took no thought for gloom,
    Fell as a breath from the opening tomb
       Full on him ere he wist or thought.
    For once a churl of royal seed,
    King Arthur's kinsman, faint in deed
    And loud in word that knew not heed,
       Spake shame where shame was nought.

    "What doth one here in Camelot
    Whose birth was northward? Wot we not
    As all his brethren borderers wot
    How blind of heart, how keen and hot,
       The wild north lives and hates the south?
    Men of the narrowing march that knows
    Nought save the strength of storms and snows,
    What would these carles where knighthood blows
        A trump of kinglike mouth?"

    Swift from his place leapt Balen, smote
    The liar across his face, and wrote
    His wrath in blood upon the bloat
    Brute cheek that challenged shame for note
       How vile a king-born knave might be.
    Forth sprang their swords, and Balen slew
    The knave ere well one witness knew
    Of all that round them stood or drew
       What sight was there to see.

    Then spake the great king's wrathful will
    A doom for six dark months to fill
    Wherein close prison held him, still
    And steadfast-souled for good or ill.
       But when those weary days lay dead
    His lordliest knights and barons spake
    Before the king for Balen's sake
    Good speech and wise, of force to break
       The bonds that bowed his head.

    II


    In linden-time the heart is high
    For pride of summer passing by
    With lordly laughter in her eye;
    A heavy splendour in the sky
       Uplifts and bows it down again.
    The spring had waned from wood and wold
    Since Balen left his prison hold
    And lowlier-hearted than of old
       Beheld it wax and wane.

    Though humble heart and poor array
    Kept not from spirit and sense away
    Their noble nature, nor could slay
    The pride they bade but pause and stay
       Till time should bring its trust to flower,
    Yet even for noble shame's sake, born
    Of hope that smiled on hate and scorn,
    He held him still as earth ere morn
       Ring forth her rapturous hour.

    But even as earth when dawn takes flight
    And beats her wings of dewy light
    Full in the faltering face of night,
    His soul awoke to claim by right
       The life and death of deed and doom,
    When once before the king there came
    A maiden clad with grief and shame
    And anguish burning her like flame
       That feeds on flowers in bloom.

    Beneath a royal mantle, fair
    With goodly work of lustrous vair,
    Girt fast against her side she bare
    A sword whose weight bade all men there
       Quail to behold her face again.
    Save of a passing perfect knight
    Not great alone in force and fight
    It might not be for any might
       Drawn forth, and end her pain.

    So said she: then King Arthur spake:
    "Albeit indeed I dare not take
    Such praise on me, for knighthood's sake
    And love of ladies will I make
       Assay if better none may be."
    By girdle and by sheath he caught
    The sheathed and girded sword, and wrought
    With strength whose force availed him nought
       To save and set her free.

    Again she spake: "No need to set
    The might that man has matched not yet
    Against it; he whose hand shall get
    Grace to release the bonds that fret
       My bosom and my girdlestead
    With little strain of strength or strife
    Shall bring me as from death to life
    And win to sister or to wife
       Fame that outlives men dead."

    Then bade the king his knights assay
    This mystery that before him lay
    And mocked his might of manhood. "Nay,"
    Quoth she, "the man that takes away
       This burden laid on me must be
    A knight of record clean and fair
    As sunlight and the flowerful air,
    By sire and mother born to bear
       A name to shame not me."

    Then forth strode Launcelot, and laid
    The mighty-moulded hand that made
    Strong knights reel back like birds affrayed
    By storm that smote them as they strayed
       Against the hilt that yeilded not.
    Then Tristram, bright and sad and kind
    As one that bore in noble mind
    Love that made light as darkness blind,
       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 forth. But he,
    With heart of springing hope set free
    As birds that breast and brave the sea,
    Bade horse and arms and armour be
       Made straightway ready toward the fray.
    Nor even might Arthur's royal prayer
    Withhold him, but with frank and fair
    Thanksgiving and leave-taking there
       He turned him thence away.

    III


    As the east wind, when the morning's breast
    Gleams like a bird's that leaves the nest,
    A fledgeling halcyon's bound on quest,
    Drives wave on wave on wave to west
       Till all the sea be life and light,
    So time's mute breath, that brings to bloom
    All flowers that strew the dead spring's tomb,
    Drives day on day on day to doom
       Till all man's day be night.

    Brief as the breaking of a wave
    That hurls on man his thunderous grave
    Ere fear find breath to cry or crave
    Life that no chance may spare or save,
       The light of joy and glory shone
    Even as in dreams where death seems dead
    Round Balen's hope-exalted head,
    Shone, passed, and lightened as it fled
       The shadow of doom thereon.

    For as he bound him thence to fare,
    Before the stately presence there
    A lady like a windflower fair,
    Girt on with raiment strange and rare
       That rippled whispering round her, came.
    Her clear cold eyes, all glassy grey,
    Seemed lit not with the light of day
    But touched with gleams that waned away
       Of quelled and fading flame.

    Before the king she bowed and spake:
    "King, for thine old faith's plighted sake
    To me the lady of the lake,
    I come in trust of thee to take
       The guerdon of the gift I gave,
    Thy sword Excalibur." And he
    Made answer: "Be it whate'er it be,
    If mine to give, I give it thee,
       Nor need is thine to crave."

    As when a gleam of wicked light
    Turns half a low-lying water bright
    That moans beneath the shivering night
    With sense of evil sound and sight
       And whispering witchcraft's bated breath
    Her wan face quickened as she said:
    "This knight that won the sword—his head
    I crave or hers that brought it. Dead,
       Let these be one in death."

    "Not with mine honour this may be;
    Ask all save this thou wilt," quoth he,
    "And have thy full desire." But she
    Made answer: "Nought will I of thee,
       Nought if not this." Then Balen turned,
    And saw the sorceress hard beside
    By whose fell craft his mother died:
    Three years he had sought her, and here espied
       His heart against her yearned.

    "Ill be thou met," he said, "whose ire
    Would slake with blood thy soul's desire:
    By thee my mother died in fire;
    Die thou by me a death less dire."
       Sharp flashed his sword forth, fleet as flame,
    And shore away her sorcerous head.
    "Alas for shame," the high king said,
    "That one found once my friend lies dead;
       Alas for all our shame!

    "Thou shouldst have here forborne her; yea,
    Were all the wrongs that bid men slay
    Thine, heaped too high for wrath to weigh,
    Not here before my face to-day
       Was thine the right to wreak thy wrong."
    Still stood he then as one that found
    His rose of hope by storm discrowned,
    And all the joy that girt him round
       Brief as a broken song.

    Yet ere he passed he turned and spake:
    "King, only for thy nobler sake
    Than aught of power man's power may take
    Or pride of place that pride may break
       I bid the lordlier man in thee,
    That lives within the king, give ear.
    This justice done before thee here
    On one that hell's own heart holds dear,
       Needs might not this but be.

    "Albeit, for all that pride would prove,
    My heart be wrung to lose thy love,
    It yet repents me not hereof:
    So many an eagle and many a dove,
       So many a knight, so many a may,
    This water-snake of poisonous tongue
    To death by words and wiles hath stung,
    That her their slayer, from hell's lake sprung,
       I did not ill to slay."

    "Yea," said the king, "too high of heart
    To stand before a king thou art;
    Yet irks it me to bid thee part
    And take thy penance for thy part,
       That God may put upon thy pride."
    Then Balen took the severed head
    And toward his hostry turned and sped
    As one that knew not quick from dead
       Nor good from evil tide.

    He bade his squire before him stand
    And take that sanguine spoil in hand
    And bear it far by shore and strand
    Till all in glad Northumberland
       That loved him, seeing it, all might know
    His deadliest foe was dead, and hear
    How free from prison as from fear
    He dwelt in trust of the answering year
       To bring him weal for woe.

    "And tell them, now I take my way
    To meet in battle, if I may,
    King Ryons of North Wales, and slay
    That king of kernes whose fiery sway
       Doth all the marches dire despite
    That serve King Arthur: so shall he
    Again be gracious lord to me,
    And I that leave thee meet with thee
       Once more in Arthur's sight."

    So spake he ere they parted, nor
    Took shame or fear to counsellor,
    As one whom none laid ambush for;
    And wist not how Sir Launceor,
       The wild king's son of Ireland, hot
    And high in wrath to know that one
    Stood higher in fame before the sun,
    Even Balen, since the sword was won,
       Drew nigh from Camelot.

    For thence, in heat of hate and pride,
    As one that man might bid not bide,
    He craved the high king's grace to ride
    On quest of Balen far and wide
       And wreak the wrong his wrath had wrought.
    "Yea," Arthur said, "for such despite
    Was done me never in my sight
    As this thine hand shall now requite
       If trust avail us aught."

    But ere he passed, in eager mood
    To feed his hate with bitter food,
    Before the king's face Merlin stood
    And heard his tale of ill and good,
       Of Balen, and the sword achieved.
    And whence it smote as heaven's red ire
    That direful dame of doom as dire;
    And how the king's wrath turned to fire
       The grief wherewith he grieved.

    And darkening as he gave it ear,
    The still face of the sacred seer
    Waxed wan with wrath and not with fear.
    And ever changed its cloudier cheer
       Till all his face was very night.
    "This damosel that brought the sword,"
    He said, "before the king my lord,
    And all these knights about his board,
       Hath done them all despite.

    "The falsest damosel she is
    That works men ill on earth, I wis,
    And all her mind is toward but this,
    To kill as with a lying kiss
       Truth, and the life of noble trust.
    A brother hath she, —see but now
    The flame of shame that brands her brow!—
    A true man, pure as faith's own vow,
       Whose honour knows not rust.

    "This good knight found within her bower
    A felon and her paramour,
    And slew him in his shameful hour,
    As right gave might and righteous power
       To hands that wreaked so foul a wrong.
    Then, for the hate her heart put on,
    She sought by ways where death had gone
    The lady Lyle of Avalon,
       Whose crafts are strange and strong.

    "The sorceress, one with her in thought,
    Gave her that sword of magic, wrought
    By charms whereof sweet heaven sees nought,
    That hither girt on her she brought
       To be by doom her brother's bane.
    And grief it is to think how he
    That won it, being of heart so free
    And perfect found in chivalry,
       Shall by that sword lie slain.

    "Great pity it is and strange despite
    That one whose eyes are stars to light
    Honour, and shine as heaven's own height,
    Should perish, being the goodliest knight
       That even the all-glorious north had borne.
    Nor shall my lord the king behold
    A lordlier friend of mightier mould
    Than Balen, though his tale be told
       Ere noon fulfil his morn."

    IV


    As morning hears before it run
    The music of the mounting sun,
    And laughs to watch his trophies won
    From darkness, and her hosts undone,
       And all the night become a breath,
    Nor dreams that fear should hear and flee
    The summer menace of the sea,
    So hears our hope what life may be,
       And knows it not for death.

    Each day that slays its hours and dies
    Weeps, laughs, and lightens on our eyes,
    And sees and hears not: smiles and sighs
    As flowers ephemeral fall and rise
       About its birth, about its way,
    And pass as love and sorrow pass,
    As shadows flashing down a glass,
    As dew-flowers blowing in flowerless grass,
       As hope from yesterday.

    The blossom of the sunny dew
    That now the stronger sun strikes through
    Fades off the blade whereon it blew
    No fleetlier than the flowers that grew
       On hope's green stem in life's fierce light.
    Nor might the glory soon to sit
    Awhile on Balen's crest alit
    Outshine the shadow of doom on it
       Or stay death's wings from flight.

    Dawn on a golden moorland side
    By holt and heath saw Balen ride
    And Launceor after, pricked with pride
    And stung with spurring envy: wide
       And far he had ridden athwart strange lands
    And sought amiss the man he found
    And cried on, till the stormy sound
    Rang as a rallying trumpet round
       That fires men's hearts and hands.

    Abide he bade him: nor was need
    To bid when Balen wheeled his steed
    Fiercely, less fain by word than deed
    To bid his envier evil speed,
       And cried, "What wilt thou with me?" Loud
    Rang Launceor's vehement answer: "Knight,
    To avenge on thee the dire despite
    Thou hast done us all in Arthur's sight
       I stand toward Arthur vowed."

    "Ay?" Balen said: "albeit I see
    I needs must deal in strife with thee,
    Light is thy wyte thou layest on me;
    For her I slew and sinned not, she
       Was dire in all men's eyes as death,
    Or none were lother found than I
    By me to bid a woman die:
    As lief were loyal men to lie,
       Or scorn what honour saith."

    As the arched wave's weight against the reef
    Hurls, and is hurled back like a leaf
    Storm-shrivelled, and its rage of grief
    Speaks all the loud broad sea in brief,
       And quells the hearkening hearts of men,
    Or as the crash of overfalls
    Down under blue smooth water brawls
    Like jarring steel on ruining walls,
       So rang their meeting then.

    As wave on wave shocks, and confounds
    The bounding bulk whereon it bounds
    And breaks and shattering seaward sounds
    As crying of the old sea's wolves and hounds
       That moan and ravin and rage and wail,
    So steed on steed encountering sheer
    Shocked, and the strength of Launceor's spear
    Shivered on Balen's shield, and fear
       Bade hope within him quail.

    But Balen's spear through Launceor's shield
    Clove as a ploughshare cleaves the field
    And pierced the hauberk triple-steeled,
    That horse with horseman stricken reeled,
       And as a storm-breached rock falls, fell,
    And Balen turned his horse again
    And wist not yet his foe lay slain,
    And saw him dead that sought his bane
       And wrought and fared not well.

    Suddenly, while he gazed and stood,
    And mused in many-minded mood
    If life or death were evil or good,
    Forth of a covert of a wood
       That skirted half the moorland lea
    Fast rode a maiden flower-like white
    Full toward that fair wild place of fight,
    Anhungered of the woful sight
       God gave her there to see.

    And seeing the man there fallen and dead,
    She cried against the sun that shed
    Light on the living world, and said,
    "O Balen, slayer whose hand is red,
       Two bodies and one heart thou hast slain,
    Two hearts within one body: aye,
    Two souls thou hast lost; by thee they die,
    Cast out of sight of earth and sky
       And all that made them fain."

    And from the dead his sword she caught,
    And fell in trance that wist of nought,
    Swooning: but softly Balen sought
    To win from her the sword she thought
       To die on, dying by Launceor's side.
    Again her wakening wail outbroke
    As wildly, sword in hand, she woke
    And struck one swift and bitter stroke
       That healed her, and she died.

    And sorrowing for their strange love's sake
    Rode Balen forth by lawn and lake,
    By moor and moss and briar and brake,
    And in his heart their sorrow spake
       Whose lips were dumb as death, and said
    Mute words of presage blind and vain
    As rain-stars blurred and marred by rain
    To wanderers on a moonless main
       Where night and day seem dead.

    Then toward a sunbright wildwood side
    He looked and saw beneath it ride
    A knight whose arms afar espied
    By note of name and proof of pride
       Bare witness of his brother born,
    His brother Balan, hard at hand,
    Twin flower of bright Northumberland,
    Twin sea-bird of their loud sea-strand,
       Twin song-bird of their morn.

    Ah then from Balen passed away
    All dread of night, all doubt of day,
    All care what life or death might say,
    All thought of all worse months than May:
       Only the might of joy in love
    Brake forth within him as a fire,
    And deep delight in deep desire
    Of far-flown days whose full-souled quire
       Rang round from the air above.

    From choral earth and quiring air
    Rang memories winged like songs that bear
    Sweet gifts for spirit and sense to share:
    For no man's life knows love more fair
       And fruitful of memorial things
    Than this the deep dear love that breaks
    With sense of life on life, and makes
    The sundawn sunnier as it wakes
       Where morning round it rings.

    "O brother, O my brother!" cried
    Each upon each, and cast aside
    Their helms unbraced that might not hide
    From sight of memory single-eyed
       The likeness graven of face and face,
    And kissed and wept upon each other
    For joy and pity of either brother,
    And love engraffed by sire and mother,
       God's natural gift of grace.

    And each with each took counsel meet
    For comfort, making sorrow sweet,
    And grief a goodly thing to greet:
    And word from word leapt light and fleet
       Till all the venturous tale was told,
    And how in Balen's hope it lay
    To meet the wild Welsh king and slay,
    And win from Arthur back for pay
       The grace he gave of old.

    "And thither wilt not thou with me
    And win as great a grace for thee?"
    "That will I well," quoth Balan: "we
    Will cleave together, bound and free,
       As brethren should, being twain and one."
    But ere they parted thence there came
    A creature withered as with flame,
    A dwarf mismade in nature's shame,
       Between them and the sun.

    And riding fleet as fire may glide
    He found the dead lie side by side,
    And wailed and rent his hair and cried,
    "Who hath done this deed?" And Balen eyed
       The strange thing loathfully, and said,
    "The knight I slew, who found him fain
    And keen to slay me: seeing him slain,
    The maid I sought to save in vain,
       Self-stricken, here lies dead.

    "Sore grief was mine to see her die,
    And for her true faith's sake shall I
    Love, and with love of heart more high,
    All women better till I die."
       "Alas," the dwarf said, "ill for thee
    In evil hour this deed was done:
    For now the quest shall be begun
    Against thee, from the dawning sun
       Even to the sunset sea.

    "From shore to mountain, dawn to night,
    The kinsfolk of this great dead knight
    Will chase thee to thy death." A light
    Of swift blithe scorn flashed answer bright
       As fire from Balen's eye. "For that,
    Small fear shall fret my heart," quoth he:
    "But that my lord the king should be
    For this dead man's sake wroth with me,
       Weep might it well thereat."

    Then murmuring passed the dwarf away,
    And toward the knights in fair array
    Came riding eastward up the way
    From where the flower-soft lowlands lay
       A king whose name the sweet south-west
    Held high in honour, and the land
    That bowed beneath his gentle hand
    Wore on its wild bright northern strand
       Tintagel for a crest.

    And Balen hailed with homage due
    King Mark of Cornwall, when he knew
    The pennon that before him flew:
    And for those lovers dead and true
       The king made moan to hear their doom;
    And for their sorrow's sake he sware
    To seek in all the marches there
    The church that man might find most fair
       And build therein their tomb.

    V


    As thought from thought takes wing and flies,
    As month on month with sunlit eyes
    Tramples and triumphs in its rise,
    As wave smites wave to death and dies,
       So chance on hurtling chance like steel
    Strikes, flashes, and is quenched, ere fear
    Can whisper hope, or hope can hear,
    If sorrow or joy be far or near
       For time to hurt or heal.

    Swift as a shadow and strange as light
    That cleaves in twain the shadow of night
    Before the wide-winged word takes flight
    That thunder speaks to depth and height
       And quells the quiet hour with sound,
    That came before King Mark and stood
    Between the moorside and the wood
    The man whose word God's will made good,
       Nor guile was in it found.

    And Merlin said to Balen: "Lo,
    Thou hast wrought thyself a grievous woe
    To let this lady die, and know
    Thou mightst have stayed her deadly blow."
       And Balen answered him and said,
    "Nay, by my truth to faith, not I,
    So fiercely fain she was to die;
    Ere well her sword had flashed on high,
       Self-slain she lay there dead."

    Again and sadly Merlin spake:
    "My heart is wrung for this deed's sake,
    To know thee therefore doomed to take
    Upon thine hand a curse, and make
       Three kingdoms pine through twelve years' change,
    In want and woe: for thou shalt smite
    The man most noble and truest knight
    That looks upon the live world's light
       A dolorous stroke and strange.

    "And not till years shall round their goal
    May this man's wound thou hast given be whole."
    And Balen, stricken through the soul
    By dark-winged words of doom and dole,
       Made answer: "If I wist it were
    No lie but sooth thou sayest of me,
    Then even to make a liar of thee
    Would I too slay myself, and see
       How death bids dead men fare."

    And Merlin took his leave and passed
    And was not: and the shadow as fast
    Went with him that his word had cast,
    Too fleet for thought thereof to last:
       And there those brethren bade King Mark
    Farewell: but fain would Mark have known
    The strong knight's name who had overthrown
    The pride of Launceor, when it shone
       Bright as it now lay dark.

    And Balan for his brother spake,
    Saying: "Sir, albeit him list not break
    The seal of secret time, nor shake
    Night off him ere his morning wake,
       By these two swords he is girt withal
    May men that praise him, knights and lords,
    Call him the knight that bears two swords,
    And all the praise his fame accords
       Make answer when they call."

    So parted they toward eventide;
    And tender twilight, heavy-eyed,
    Saw deep down glimmering woodlands ride
    Balen and Balan side by side,
       Till where the leaves grew dense and dim
    Again they spied from far draw near
    The presence of the sacred seer,
    But so disguised and strange of cheer
       That seeing they knew not him.

    "Now whither ride ye," Merlin said,
    "Through shadows that the sun strikes red,
    Ere night be born or day be dead?"
    But they, for doubt half touched with dread,
       Would say not where their goal might lie.
    "And thou," said Balen, "what art thou,
    To walk with shrouded eye and brow?"
    He said: "Me lists not show thee now
       By name what man am I."

    "Ill seen is this of thee," said they,
    "That thou art true in word and way
    Nor fain to fear the face of day,
    Who wilt not as a true man say
       The name it shames not him to bear."
    He answered: "Be it or be it not so,
    Yet why ye ride this way I know,
    To meet King Ryons as a foe,
       And how your hope shall fare.

    "Well, if ye hearken toward my rede,
    Ill, if ye hear not, shall ye speed."
    "Ah, now," they cried, "thou art ours at need:
    What Merlin saith we are fain to heed."
       "Great worship shall ye win," said he,
    "And look that ye do knightly now,
    For great shall be your need, I trow."
    And Balen smiled: "By knighthood's vow,
       The best we may will we."

    Then Merlin bade them turn and take
    Rest, for their good steeds' weary sake,
    Between the highway and the brake,
    Till starry midnight bade them wake:
       Then "Rise," he said, "the king is nigh,
    Who hath stolen from all his host away
    With threescore horse in armed array,
    The goodliest knights that bear his sway
       And hold his kingdom high.

    "And twenty ride of them before
    To bear his errand, ere the door
    Turn of the night, sealed fast no more,
    And sundawn bid the stars wax hoar;
       For by the starshine of to-night
    He seeks a leman where she waits
    His coming, dark and swift as fate's,
    And hearkens toward the unopening gates
       That yield not him to sight."

    Then through the glimmering gloom around
    A shadowy sense of light and sound
    Made, ere the proof thereof were found,
    The brave blithe hearts within them bound,
       And "Where," quoth Balen, "rides the king?"
    But softer spake the seer: "Abide,
    Till hither toward your spears he ride,
    Where all the narrowing woodland side
       Grows dense with boughs that cling."

    There in that straitening way they met
    The wild Welsh host against them set,
    And smote their strong king down, ere yet
    His hurrying horde of spears might get
       Fierce vantage of them. Then the fight
    Grew great and joyous as it grew,
    For left and right those brethren slew,
    Till all the lawn waxed red with dew
       More deep than dews of night.

    And ere the full fierce tale was read
    Full forty lay before them dead,
    And fast the hurtling remnant fled
    And wist not whither fear had led:
       And toward the king they went again,
    And would have slain him: but he bowed
    Before them, crying in fear aloud
    For grace they gave him, seeing the proud
       Wild king brought lowest of men.

    And ere the wildwood leaves were stirred
    With song or wing of wakening bird,
    In Camelot was Merlin's word
    With joy in joyous wonder heard
       That told of Arthur's bitterest foe
    Diskingdomed and discomfited.
    "By whom?" the high king smiled and said.
    He answered: "Ere the dawn wax red,
       To-morrow bids you know.

    "Two knights whose heart and hope are one
    And fain to win your grace have done
    This work whereby if grace be won
    Their hearts shall hail the enkindling sun
       With joy more keen and deep than day."
    And ere the sundawn drank the dew
    Those brethren with their prisoner drew
    To the outer guard they gave him to
       And passed again away.

    And Arthur came as toward his guest
    To greet his foe, and bade him rest
    As one returned from nobler quest
    And welcome from the stormbright west,
       But by what chance he fain would hear.
    "The chance was hard and strange, sir king,"
    Quoth Ryons, bowed in thanksgiving.
    "Who won you?" Arthur said: "the thing
       Is worth a warrior's ear."

    The wild king flushed with pride and shame,
    Answering: "I know not either name
    Of those that there against us came
    And withered all our strength like flame:
       The knight that bears two swords is one,
    And one his brother: not on earth
    May men meet men of knightlier worth
    Nor mightier born of mortal birth
       That hail the sovereign sun."

    And Arthur said: "I know them not;
    But much am I for this, God wot,
    Beholden to them: Launcelot
    Nor Tristram, when the war waxed hot
       Along the marches east and west,
    Wrought ever nobler work than this."
    "Ah," Merlin said, "sore pity it is
    And strange mischance of doom, I wis,
       That death should mar their quest.

    "Balen, the perfect knight that won
    The sword whose name is malison,
    And made his deed his doom, is one:
    Nor hath his brother Balan done
       Less royal service: not on earth
    Lives there a nobler knight, more strong
    Of soul to win men's praise in song,
    Albeit the light abide not long
       That lightened round his birth.

    "Yea, and of all sad things I know
    The heaviest and the highest in woe
    Is this, the doom whose date brings low
    Too soon in timeless overthrow
       A head so high, a hope so sure.
    The greatest moan for any knight
    That ever won fair fame in fight
    Shall be for Balen, seeing his might
       Must now not long endure."

    "Alas," King Arthur said, "he hath shown
    Such love to me-ward that the moan
    Made of him should be mine alone
    Above all other, knowing it known
       I have ill deserved it of him." "Nay,"
    Said Merlin, "he shall do for you
    Much more, when time shall be anew,
    Than time hath given him chance to do
       Or hope may think to say.

    "But now must be your powers purveyed
    To meet, ere noon of morn be made
    To-morrow, all the host arrayed
    Of this wild foe's wild brother, laid
       Around against you: see to it well,
    For now I part from you." And soon,
    When sundawn slew the withering moon,
    Two hosts were met to win the boon
       Whose tale is death's to tell.

    A lordly tale of knights and lords
    For death to tell by count of swords
    When war's wild harp in all its chords
    Rang royal triumph, and the hordes
       Of hurtling foemen rocked and reeled
    As waves wind-thwarted on the sea,
    Was told of all that there might be,
    Till scarce might battle hear or see
       The fortune of the field.

    And many a knight won fame that day
    When even the serpent soul of Kay
    Was kindled toward the fiery play
    As might a lion's be for prey,
       And won him fame that might not die
    With passing of his rancorous breath
    But clung about his life and death
    As fire that speaks in cloud, and saith
       What strong men hear and fly.

    And glorious works were Arthur's there,
    That lit the battle-darkened air:
    But when they saw before them fare
    Like stars of storm the knight that bare
       Two swords about him girt for fray,
    Balen, and Balan with him, then
    Strong wonder smote the souls of men
    If heaven's own host or hell's deep den
       Had sent them forth to slay.

    So keen they rode across the fight,
    So sharp they smote to left and right,
    And made of hurtling darkness light
    With lightning of their swords, till flight
       And fear before them flew like flame,
    That Arthur's self had never known,
    He said, since first his blast was blown,
    Such lords of war as these alone
       That whence he knew not came.

    But while the fire of war waxed hot
    The wild king hearkened, hearing not,
    Through storm of spears and arrow-shot,
    For succour toward him from King Lot
       And all his host of sea-born men,
    Strong as the strong storm-baffling bird
    Whose cry round Orkney's headlands heard
    Is as the sea's own sovereign word
       That mocks our mortal ken.

    For Merlin's craft of prophecy,
    Who wist that one of twain must die,
    Put might in him to say thereby
    Which head should lose its crown, and lie
       Stricken, though loth he were to know
    That either life should wane and fail;
    Yet most might Arthur's love avail,
    And still with subtly tempered tale
       His wile held fast the foe.

    With woven words of magic might
    Wherein the subtle shadow and light
    Changed hope and fear till fear took flight,
    He stayed King Lot's fierce lust of fight
       Till all the wild Welsh war was driven
    As foam before the wind that wakes
    With the all-awakening sun, and breaks
    Strong ships that rue the mirth it makes
       When grace to slay is given.

    And ever hotter lit and higher,
    As fire that meets encountering fire,
    Waxed in King Lot his keen desire
    To bid revenge within him tire
       On Arthur's ravaged fame and life:
    Across the waves of war between
    Floated and flashed, unseen and seen,
    The lustrous likeness of the queen
       Whom shame had sealed his wife.

    But when the woful word was brought
    That while he tarried, doubting nought,
    The hope was lost whose goal he sought
    And all the fight he yearned for fought,
       His heart was rent for grief and shame,
    And half his hope was set on flight
    Till word was given him of a knight
    Who said: "They are weary and worn with fight.
       And we more fresh than flame."

    And bright and dark as night and day
    Ere either find the unopening way
    Clear, and forego the unaltering sway,
    The sad king's face shone, frowning: "Yea,
       I would that every knight of mine
    Would do his part as I shall do,"
    He said, "till death or life anew
    Shall judge between us as is due
       With wiser doom than thine."

    Then thundered all the awakening field
    With crash of hosts that clashed and reeled,
    Banner to banner, shield to shield,
    And spear to splintering spear-shaft, steeled
       As heart against high heart of man,
    As hope against high hope of knight
    To pluck the crest and crown of fight
    From war's clenched hand by storm's wild light,
       For blessing given or ban.

    All hearts of hearkening men that heard
    The ban twin-born with blessing, stirred
    Like springtide waters, knew the word
    Whereby the steeds of storm are spurred
       With ravenous rapture to destroy,
    And laughed for love of battle, pierced
    With passion of tempestuous thirst
    And hungering hope to assuage it first
       With draughts of stormy joy.

    But sheer ahead of the iron tide
    That rocked and roared from side to side
    Rode as the lightning's lord might ride
    King Lot, whose heart was set to abide
       All peril of the raging hour,
    And all his host of warriors born
    Where lands by warring seas are worn
    Was only by his hands upborne
       Who gave them pride and power.

    But as the sea's hand smites the shore
    And shatters all the strengths that bore
    The ravage earth may bear no more,
    So smote the hand of Pellinore
       Charging, a knight of Arthur's chief,
    And clove his strong steed's neck in twain,
    And smote him sheer through brow and brain,
    Falling: and there King Lot lay slain,
       And knew not wrath or grief.

    And all the host of Orkney fled,
    And many a mother's son lay dead:
    But when they raised the stricken head
    Whence pride and power and shame were fled
       And rage and anguish now cast out,
    And bore it toward a kingly tomb,
    The wife whose love had wrought his doom
    Came thither, fair as morning's bloom
       And dark as twilight's doubt.

    And there her four strong sons and his,
    Gawain and Gareth, Gaherys
    And Agravain, whose sword's sharp kiss
    With sound of hell's own serpent's hiss
       Should one day turn her life to death,
    Stood mourning with her: but by these
    Seeing Mordred as a seer that sees,
    Anguish of terror bent her knees
       And caught her shuddering breath.

    The splendour of her sovereign eyes
    Flashed darkness deeper than the skies
    Feel or fear when the sunset dies
    On his that felt as midnight rise
       Their doom upon them, there undone
    By faith in fear ere thought could yield
    A shadowy sense of days revealed,
    The ravin of the final field,
       The terror of their son.

    For Arthur's, as they caught the light
    That sought and durst not seek his sight,
    Darkened, and all his spirit's might
    Withered within him even as night
       Withers when sunrise thrills the sea.
    But Mordred's lightened as with fire
    That smote his mother and his sire
    With darkling doom and deep desire
       That bade its darkness be.

    And heavier on their hearts the weight
    Sank of the fear that brings forth fate,
    With all the grief and love and hate
       That turn to fire men's days on earth.
    And glorious was the funeral made,
    And dark the deepening dread that swayed
    Their darkening souls whose light grew shade
       With sense of death in birth.

    VI


    In autumn, when the wind and sea
    Rejoice to live and laugh to be,
    And scarce the blast that curbs the tree
    And bids before it quail and flee
       The fiery foliage, where its brand
    Is radiant as the seal of spring,
    Sounds less delight, and waves a wing
    Less lustrous, life's loud thanksgiving
       Puts life in sea and land.

    High hope in Balen's heart alight
    Laughed, as from all that clamorous fight
    He passed and sought not Arthur's sight,
    Who fain had found his kingliest knight
       And made amend for Balen's wrong.
    But Merlin gave his soul to see
    Fate, rising as a shoreward sea,
    And all the sorrow that should be
       Ere hope or fear thought long.

    "O where are they whose hands upbore
    My battle," Arthur said, "before
    The wild Welsh host's wide rage and roar?
    Balen and Balan, Pellinore
       Where are they?" Merlin answered him:
    "Balen shall be not long away
    From sight of you, but night nor day
    Shall bring his brother back to say
       If life burn bright or dim."

    "Now, by my faith," said Arthur then,
    "Two marvellous knights are they, whose ken
    Toward battle makes the twain as ten,
    And Balen most of all born men
       Passeth of prowess all I know
    Or ever found or sought to see:
    Would God he would abide with me
    To face the times foretold of thee
       And all the latter woe."

    For there had Merlin shown the king
    The doom that songs unborn should sing,
    The gifts that time should rise and bring
    Of blithe and bitter days to spring
       As weeds and flowers against the sun.
    And on the king for fear's sake fell
    Sickness, and sorrow deep as hell,
    Nor even might sleep bid fear farewell
       If grace to sleep were won.

    Down in a meadow green and still
    He bade the folk that wrought his will
    Pitch his pavilion, where the chill
    Soft night would let not rest fulfil
       His heart wherein dark fears lay deep.
    And sharp against his hearing cast
    Came a sound as of horsehoofs fast
    Passing, that ere their sound were past
       Aroused him as from sleep.

    And forth he looked along the grass
    And saw before his portal pass
    A knight that wailed aloud, "Alas
    That life should find this dolorous pass
       And find no shield from doom and dole!"
    And hearing all his moan, "Abide,
    Fair sir," the king arose and cried,
    "And say what sorrow bids you ride
       So sorrowful of soul."

    "My hurt may no man heal, God wot,
    And help of man may speed me not,"
    The sad knight said, "nor change my lot."
    And toward the castle of Melyot
       Whose towers arose a league away
    He passed forth sorrowing: and anon,
    Ere well the woful sight were gone,
    Came Balen down the meads that shone,
       Strong, bright, and brave as day.

    And seeing the king there stand, the knight
    Drew rein before his face to alight
    In reverence made for love's sake bright
    With joy that set his face alight
       As theirs who see, alive, above,
    The sovereign of their souls, whose name
    To them is even as love's own flame
    To enkindle hope that heeds not fame
       And knows no lord but love.

    And Arthur smiled on him, and said,
    "Right welcome be thou: by my head,
    I would not wish me better sped.
    For even but now there came and fled
       Before me like a cloud that flies
    A knight that made most heavy cheer,
    I know not wherefore; nor may fear
    Or pity give my heart to hear
       Or lighten on mine eyes.

    "But even for fear's and pity's sake
    Fain were I thou shouldst overtake
    And fetch again this knight that spake
    No word of answering grace to make
       Reply to mine that hailed him: thou,
    By force or by goodwill, shalt bring
    His face before me." "Yea, my king,"
    Quoth Balen, "and a greater thing
       Were less than is my vow.

    "I would the task required and heard
    Were heavier than your sovereign word
    Hath laid on me:" and thence he spurred
    Elate at heart as youth, and stirred
       With hope as blithe as fires a boy:
    And many a mile he rode, and found
    Far in a forest's glimmering bound
    The man he sought afar around
       And seeing took fire for joy.

    And with him went a maiden, fair
    As flowers aflush with April air.
    And Balen bade him turn him there
    To tell the king what woes they were
       That bowed him down so sore: and he
    Made woful answer: "This should do
    Great scathe to me, with nought for you
    Of help that hope might hearken to
       For boot that may not be."

    And Balen answered: "I were loth
    To fight as one perforce made wroth
    With one that owes by knighthood's oath
    One love, one service, and one troth
       With me to him whose gracious hand
    Holds fast the helm of knighthood here
    Whereby man's hope and heart may steer:
    I pray you let not sorrow or fear
       Against his bidding stand."

    The strange knight gazed on him, and spake:
    "Will you, for Arthur's royal sake,
    Be warrant for me that I take
    No scathe from strife that man may make?
       Then will I go with you." And he
    Made joyous answer: "Yea, for I
    Will be your warrant or will die."
    And thence they rode with hearts as high
       As men's that search the sea.

    And as by noon's large light the twain
    Before the tented hall drew rein,
    Suddenly fell the strange knight, slain
    By one that came and went again
       And none might see him; but his spear
    Clove through the body, swift as fire,
    The man whose doom, forefelt as dire,
    Had darkened all his life's desire,
       As one that death held dear.

    And dying he turned his face and said,
    "Lo now thy warrant that my head
    Should fall not, following forth where led
    A knight whose pledge hath left me dead.
       This darkling manslayer hath to name
    Garlon: take thou my goodlier steed,
    Seeing thine is less of strength and speed,
    And ride, if thou be knight indeed,
       Even thither whence we came.

    "And as the maiden's fair behest
    Shall bid you follow on my quest,
    Follow: and when God's will sees best,
    Revenge my death, and let me rest
       As one that lived and died a knight,
    Unstained of shame alive or dead."
    And Balen, wrung with sorrow, said,
    "That shall I do: my hand and head
       I pledge to do you right."

    And thence with sorrowing heart and cheer
    He rode, in grief that cast out fear
    Lest death in darkness yet were near,
    And bore the truncheon of the spear
       Wherewith the woful knight lay slain
    To her with whom he rode, and she
    Still bare it with her, fain to see
    What righteous doom of God's might be
       The darkling manslayer's bane.

    And down a dim deep woodland way
    They rode between the boughs asway
    With flickering winds whose flash and play
    Made sunlight sunnier where the day
       Laughed, leapt, and fluttered like a bird
    Caught in a light loose leafy net
    That earth for amorous heaven had set
    To hold and see the sundawn yet
       And hear what morning heard.

    There in the sweet soft shifting light
    Across their passage rode a knight
    Flushed hot from hunting as from fight,
    And seeing the sorrow-stricken sight
       Made question of them why they rode
    As mourners sick at heart and sad,
    When all alive about them bade
    Sweet earth for heaven's sweet sake be glad
       As heaven for earth's love glowed.

    "Me lists not tell you," Balen said.
    The strange knight's face grew keen and red;
    "Now, might my hand but keep my head,
    Even here should one of twain lie dead
       Were he no better armed than I."
    And Balen spake with smiling speed,
    Where scorn and courtesy kept heed
    Of either: "That should little need:
       Not here shall either die."

    And all the cause he told him through
    As one that feared not though he knew
    All: and the strange knight spake anew,
    Saying: "I will part no more from you
       While life shall last me." So they went
    Where he might arm himself to ride,
    And rode across wild ways and wide
    To where against a churchyard side
       A hermit's harbour leant.

    And there against them riding came
    Fleet as the lightning's laugh and flame
    The invisible evil, even the same
    They sought and might not curse by name
       As hell's foul child on earth set free,
    And smote the strange knight through, and fled,
    And left the mourners by the dead.
    "Alas, again," Sir Balen said,
       "This wrong he hath done to me."

    And there they laid their dead to sleep
    Royally, lying where wild winds keep
    Keen watch and wail more soft and deep
    Than where men's choirs bid music weep
       And song like incense heave and swell.
    And forth again they rode, and found
    Before them, dire in sight and sound,
    A castle girt about and bound
       With sorrow like a spell.

    Above it seemed the sun at noon
    Sad as a wintry withering moon
    That shudders while the waste wind's tune
    Craves ever none may guess what boon,
       But all may know the boon for dire.
    And evening on its darkness fell
    More dark than very death's farewell,
    And night about it hung like hell,
       Whose fume the dawn made fire.

    And Balen lighted down and passed
    Within the gateway, whence no blast
    Rang as the sheer portcullis, cast
    Suddenly down, fell, and made fast
       The gate behind him, whence he spied
    A sudden rage of men without
    And ravin of a murderous rout
    That girt the maiden hard about
       With death on either side.

    And seeing that shame and peril, fear
    Bade wrath and grief awake and hear
    What shame should say in fame's wide ear
    If she, by sorrow sealed more dear
       Than joy might make her, so should die:
    And up the tower's curled stair he sprang
    As one that flies death's deadliest fang,
    And leapt right out amid their gang
       As fire from heaven on high.

    And they thereunder seeing the knight
    Unhurt among their press alight
    And bare his sword for chance of fight
    Stood from him, loth to strive or smite,
       And bade him hear their woful word,
    That not the maiden's death they sought;
    But there through years too dire for thought
    Had lain their lady stricken, and nought
       Might heal her: and he heard.

    For there a maiden clean and whole
    In virgin body and virgin soul,
    Whose name was writ on royal roll,
    That would but stain a silver bowl
       With offering of her stainless blood,
    Therewith might heal her: so they stayed
    For hope's sad sake each blameless maid
    There journeying in that dolorous shade
       Whose bloom was bright in bud.

    No hurt nor harm to her it were
    If she should yield a sister there
    Some tribute of her blood, and fare
    Forth with this joy at heart to bear,
       That all unhurt and unafraid
    This grace she had here by God's grace wrought.
    And kindling all with kindly thought
    And love that saw save love's self nought,
       Shone, smiled, and spake the maid.

    "Good knight of mine, good will have I
    To help this healing though I die."
    "Nay," Balen said, "but love may try
    What help in living love may lie.
       —I will not lose the life of her
    While my life lasteth." So she gave
    The tribute love was fain to crave,
    But might not heal though fain to save,
       Were God's grace helpfuller.

    Another maid in later Mays
    Won with her life that woful praise,
    And died. But they, when surging day's
    Deep tide fulfilled the dawn's wide ways,
       Rode forth, and found by day or night
    No chance to cross their wayfaring
    Till when they saw the fourth day spring
    A knight's hall gave them harbouring
       Rich as a king's house might.

    And while they sat at meat and spake
    Words bright and kind as grace might make
    Sweet for true knighthood's kindly sake,
    They heard a cry beside them break
       The still-souled joy of blameless rest.
    "What noise is this?" quoth Balen. "Nay,"
    His knightly host made answer, "may
    Our grief not grieve you though I say
       How here I dwell unblest.

    "Not many a day has lived and died
    Since at a tournay late I tried
    My strength to smite and turn and ride
    Against a knight of kinglike pride,
       King Pellam's brother: twice I smote
    The splendour of his strength to dust:
    And he, fulfilled of hate's fierce lust,
    Swore vengeance, pledged for hell to trust,
       And keen as hell's wide throat.

    "Invisible as the spirit of night
    That heaven and earth in depth and height
    May see not by the mild moon's light
    Nor even when stars would grant them sight,
       He walks and slays as plague's blind breath
    Slays: and my son, whose anguish here
    Makes moan perforce that mars our cheer,
    He wounded, even ere love might fear
       That hate were strong as death.

    "Nor may my son be whole till he
    Whose stroke through him hath stricken me
    Shall give again his blood to be
    Our healing: yet may no man see
       This felon, clothed with darkness round
    And keen as lightning's life." Thereon
    Spake Balen, and his presence shone
    Even as the sun's when stars are gone
       That hear dawn's trumpet sound.

    "That knight I know: two knights of mine,
    Two comrades, sealed by faith's bright sign,
    Whose eyes as ours that live should shine,
    And drink the golden sunlight's wine
       With joy's thanksgiving that they live,
    He hath slain in even the same blind wise:
    Were all wide wealth beneath the skies
    Mine, might I meet him, eyes on eyes,
       All would I laugh to give."

    His host made answer, and his gaze
    Grew bright with trust as dawn's moist maze
    With fire: "Within these twenty days,
    King Pellam, lord of Lystenayse,
       Holds feast through all this country cried,
    And there before the knightly king
    May no knight come except he bring
    For witness of his wayfaring
       His paramour or bride.

    "And there that day, so soon to shine,
    This knight, your felon foe and mine,
    Shall show, full-flushed with bloodred wine,
    The fierce false face whereon we pine
       To wreak the wrong he hath wrought us, bare
    As shame should see and brand it." "Then,"
    Said Balen, "shall he give again
    His blood to heal your son, and men
       Shall see death blind him there."

    "Forth will we fare to-morrow," said
    His host: and forth, as sunrise led,
    They rode; and fifteen days were fled
    Ere toward their goal their steeds had sped.
       And there alighting might they find
    For Balen's host no place to rest,
    Who came without a gentler guest
    Beside him: and that household's hest
       Bade leave his sword behind.

    "Nay," Balen said, "that do I not:
    My country's custom stands, God wot,
    That none whose lot is knighthood's lot,
    To ride where chance as fire is hot
       With hope or promise given of fight,
    Shall fail to keep, for knighthood's part,
    His weapon with him as his heart;
    And as I came will I depart,
       Or hold herein my right."

    Then gat he leave to wear his sword
    Beside the strange king's festal board
    Where feasted many a knight and lord
    In seemliness of fair accord:
       And Balen asked of one beside,
    "Is there not in this court, if fame
    Keep faith, a knight that hath to name
    Garlon?" and saying that word of shame,
       He scanned that place of pride.

    "Yonder he goeth against the light,
    He with the face as swart as night,"
    Quoth the other: "but he rides to fight
    Hid round by charms from all men's sight,
       And many a noble knight he hath slain,
    Being wrapt in darkness deep as hell
    And silence dark as shame." "Ah, well,"
    Said Balen, "is that he? the spell
       May be the sorcerer's bane."

    Then Balen gazed upon him long,
    And thought, "If here I wreak my wrong,
    Alive I may not scape, so strong
    The felon's friends about him throng;
       And if I leave him here alive,
    This chance perchance may life not give
    Again: much evil, if he live,
    He needs must do, should fear forgive
       When wrongs bid strike and strive."

    And Garlon, seeing how Balen's eye
    Dwelt on him as his heart waxed high
    With joy in wrath to see him nigh,
    Rose wolf-like with a wolfish cry
       And crossed and smote him on the face,
    Saying, "Knight, what wouldst thou with me? Eat,
    For shame, and gaze not: eat thy meat:
    Do that thou art come for: stands thy seat
       Next ours of royal race?"

    "Well hast thou said: thy rede rings true;
    That which I came for will I do,"
    Quoth Balen: forth his fleet sword flew,
    And clove the head of Garlon through
       Clean to the shoulders. Then he cried
    Loud to his lady, "Give me here
    The truncheon of the shameful spear
    Wherewith he slew your knight, when fear
       Bade hate in darkness ride."

    And gladly, bright with grief made glad,
    She gave the truncheon as he bade,
    For still she bare it with her, sad
    And strong in hopeless hope she had,
       Through all dark days of thwarting fear,
    To see if doom should fall aright
    And as God's fire-fraught thunder smite
    That head, clothed round with hell-faced night,
       Bare now before her here.

    And Balen smote therewith the dead
    Dark felon's body through, and said
    Aloud, "With even this truncheon, red
    With baser blood than brave men bled
       Whom in thy shameful hand it slew,
    Thou hast slain a nobler knight, and now
    It clings and cleaves thy body: thou
    Shalt cleave again no brave man's brow,
       Though hell would aid anew."

    And toward his host he turned and spake;
    "Now for your son's long-suffering sake
    Blood ye may fetch enough, and take
    Wherewith to heal his hurt, and make
       Death warm as life." Then rose a cry
    Loud as the wind's when stormy spring
    Makes all the woodland rage and ring:
    "Thou hast slain my brother," said the king,
       "And here with him shalt die."

    "Ay?" Balen laughed him answer. "Well,
    Do it then thyself." And the answer fell
    Fierce as a blast of hate from hell,
    "No man of mine that with me dwell
       Shall strike at thee but I their lord
    For love of this my brother slain."
    And Pellam caught and grasped amain
    A grim great weapon, fierce and fain
       To feed his hungering sword.

    And eagerly he smote, and sped
    Not well: for Balen's blade, yet red
    With lifeblood of the murderous dead,
    Between the swordstroke and his head
       Shone, and the strength of the eager stroke
    Shore it in sunder: then the knight,
    Naked and weaponless for fight,
    Ran seeking him a sword to smite
       As hope within him woke.

    And so their flight for deathward fast
    From chamber forth to chamber passed
    Where lay no weapon, till the last
    Whose doors made way for Balen cast
       Upon him as a sudden spell
    Wonder that even as lightning leapt
    Across his heart and eyes, and swept
    As storm across his soul that kept
       Wild watch, and watched not well.

    For there the deed he did, being near
    Death's danger, breathless as the deer
    Driven hard to bay, but void of fear,
    Brought sorrow down for many a year
       On many a man in many a land.
    All glorious shone that chamber, bright
    As burns at sunrise heaven's own height:
    With cloth of gold the bed was dight,
       That flamed on either hand.

    And one he saw within it lie:
    A table of all clear gold thereby
    Stood stately, fair as morning's eye,
    With four strong silver pillars, high
       And firm as faith and hope may be:
    And on it shone the gift he sought,
    A spear most marvellously wrought,
    That when his eye and handgrip caught
       Small fear at heart had he.

    Right on King Pellam then, as fire
    Turns when the thwarting winds wax higher,
    He turned, and smote him down. So dire
    The stroke was, when his heart's desire
       Struck, and had all its fill of hate,
    That as the king fell swooning down
    Fell the walls, rent from base to crown,
    Prone as prone seas that break and drown
       Ships fraught with doom for freight.

    And there for three days' silent space
    Balen and Pellam face to face
    Lay dead or deathlike, and the place
    Was death's blind kingdom, till the grace
       That God had given the sacred seer
    For counsel or for comfort led
    His Merlin thither, and he said,
    Standing between the quick and dead,
       "Rise up, and rest not here."

    And Balen rose and set his eyes
    Against the seer's as one that tries
    His heart against the sea's and sky's
    And fears not if he lives or dies,
       Saying, "I would have my damosel,
    Ere I fare forth, to fare with me."
    And sadly Merlin answered, "See
    Where now she lies; death knows if she
       Shall now fare ill or well.

    "And in this world we meet no more,
    Balen." And Balen, sorrowing sore,
    Though fearless yet the heart he bore
    Beat toward the life that lay before,
       Rode forth through many a wild waste land
    Where men cried out against him, mad
    With grievous faith in fear that bade
    Their wrath make moan for doubt they had
       Lest hell had armed his hand.

    For in that chamber's wondrous shrine
    Was part of Christ's own blood, the wine
    Shed of the true triumphal vine
    Whose growth bids earth's deep darkness shine
       As heaven's deep light through the air and sea;
    That mystery toward our northern shore
    Arimathean Joseph bore
    For healing of our sins of yore,
       That grace even there might be.

    And with that spear there shrined apart
    Was Christ's side smitten to the heart.
    And fiercer than the lightning's dart
    The stroke was, and the deathlike smart
       Wherewith, nigh drained of blood and breath,
    The king lay stricken as one long dead:
    And Joseph's was the blood there shed,
    For near akin was he that bled,
       Near even as life to death.

    And therefore fell on all that land
    Sorrow: for still on either hand,
    As Balen rode alone and scanned
    Bright fields and cities built to stand
       Till time should break them, dead men lay;
    And loud and long from all their folk
    Living, one cry that cursed him broke;
    Three countries had his dolorous stroke
       Slain, or should surely slay.

    VII


    In winter, when the year burns low
    As fire wherein no firebrands glow,
    And winds dishevel as they blow
    The lovely stormy wings of snow,
       The hearts of northern men burn bright
    With joy that mocks the joy of spring
    To hear all heaven's keen clarions ring
    Music that bids the spirit sing
       And day give thanks for night.

    Aloud and dark as hell or hate
    Round Balen's head the wind of fate
    Blew storm and cloud from death's wide gate:
    But joy as grief in him was great
       To face God's doom and live or die,
    Sorrowing for ill wrought unaware,
    Rejoicing in desire to dare
    All ill that innocence might bear
       With changeless heart and eye.

    Yet passing fain he was when past
    Those lands and woes at length and last.
    Eight times, as thence he fared forth fast,
    Dawn rose and even was overcast
       With starry darkness dear as day,
    Before his venturous quest might meet
    Adventure, seeing within a sweet
    Green low-lying forest, hushed in heat,
       A tower that barred his way.

    Strong summer, dumb with rapture, bound
    With golden calm the woodlands round
    Wherethrough the knight forth faring found
    A knight that on the greenwood ground
       Sat mourning: fair he was to see,
    And moulded as for love or fight
    A maiden's dreams might frame her knight;
    But sad in joy's far-flowering sight
       As grief's blind thrall might be.

    "God save you," Balen softly said,
    "What grief bows down your heart and head
    Thus, as one sorrowing for his dead?
    Tell me, if haply I may stead
       In aught your sorrow, that I may."
    "Sir knight," that other said, "thy word
    Makes my grief heavier that I heard."
    And pity and wonder inly stirred
       Drew Balen thence away.

    And so withdrawn with silent speed
    He saw the sad knight's stately steed,
    A war-horse meet for warrior's need,
    That none who passed might choose but heed,
       So strong he stood, so great, so fair,
    With eyes afire for flight or fight,
    A joy to look on, mild in might,
    And swift and keen and kind as light,
       And all as clear of care.

    And Balen, gazing on him, heard
    Again his master's woful word
    Sound sorrow through the calm unstirred
    By fluttering wind or flickering bird,
       Thus: "Ah, fair lady and faithless, why
    Break thy pledged faith to meet me? soon
    An hour beyond thy trothplight noon
    Shall strike my death-bell, and thy boon
       Is this, that here I die.

    "My curse for all thy gifts may be
    Heavier than death or night on thee;
    For now this sword thou gavest me
    Shall set me from thy bondage free."
       And there the man had died self-slain,
    But Balen leapt on him and caught
    The blind fierce hand that fain had wrought
    Self-murder, stung with fire of thought,
       As rage makes anguish fain.

    Then, mad for thwarted grief, "Let go
    My hand," the fool of wrath and woe
    Cried, "or I slay thee." Scarce the glow
    In Balen's cheek and eye might show,
       As dawn shows day while seas lie chill,
    He heard, though pity took not heed,
    But smiled and spake, "That shall not need:
    What man may do to bid you speed
       I, so God speed me, will."

    And the other craved his name, beguiled
    By hope that made his madness mild.
    Again Sir Balen spake and smiled:
    "My name is Balen, called the Wild
       By knights whom kings and courts make tame,
    Because I ride alone afar
    And follow but my soul for star."
    "Ah, sir, I know the knight you are
       And all your fiery fame.

    "The knight that bears two swords I know,
    Most praised of all men, friend and foe,
    For prowess of your hands, that show
    Dark war the way where balefires glow
       And kindle glory like the dawn's."
    So spake the sorrowing knight, and stood
    As one whose heart fresh hope made good:
    And forth they rode by wold and wood
       And down the glimmering lawns.

    And Balen craved his name who rode
    Beside him, where the wild wood glowed
    With joy to feel how noontide flowed
    Through glade and glen and rough green road
       Till earth grew joyful as the sea.
    "My name is Garnysshe of the Mount,
    A poor man's son of none account,"
    He said, "where springs of loftier fount
       Laugh loud with pride to be.

    "But strength in weakness lives and stands
    As rocks that rise through shifting sands;
    And for the prowess of my hands
    One made me knight and gave me lands,   
       Duke Hermel, lord from far to near,
    Our prince; and she that loved me—she
    I love, and deemed she loved but me,
    His daughter, pledged her faith to be
       Ere now beside me here."

    And Balen, brief of speech as light
    Whose word, beheld of depth and height,
    Strikes silence through the stars of night,
    Spake, and his face as dawn's grew bright,
       For hope to help a happier man,
    "How far then lies she hence?" "By this,"
    Her lover sighed and said, "I wis,
    Not six fleet miles the passage is,
       And straight as thought could span."

    So rode they swift and sure, and found
    A castle walled and dyked around:
    And Balen, as a warrior bound
    On search where hope might fear to sound
       The darkness of the deeps of doubt,
    Made entrance through the guardless gate
    As life, while hope in life grows great,
    Makes way between the doors of fate
       That death may pass thereout.

    Through many a glorious chamber, wrought
    For all delight that love's own thought
    Might dream or dwell in, Balen sought
    And found of all he looked for nought,
       For like a shining shell her bed
    Shone void and vacant of her: thence
    Through devious wonders bright and dense
    He passed and saw with shame-struck sense
       Where shame and faith lay dead.

    Down in a sweet small garden, fair
    With flowerful joy in the ardent air,
    He saw, and raged with loathing, where
    She lay with love-dishevelled hair
       Beneath a broad bright laurel tree
    And clasped in amorous arms a knight,
    The unloveliest that his scornful sight
    Had dwelt on yet; a shame the bright
       Broad noon might shrink to see.

    And thence in wrathful hope he turned,
    Hot as the heart within him burned,
    To meet the knight whose love, so spurned
    And spat on and made nought of, yearned
       And dreamed and hoped and lived in vain,
    And said, "I have found her sleeping fast,"
    And led him where the shadows cast
    From leaves wherethrough light winds ran past
       Screened her from sun and rain.

    But Garnysshe, seeing, reeled as he stood
    Like a tree, kingliest of the wood,
    Half hewn through: and the burning blood
    Through lips and nostrils burst aflood:
       And gathering back his rage and might
    As broken breakers rally and roar
    The loud wind down that drives off shore,
    He smote their heads off: there no more
       Their life might shame the light.

    Then turned he back toward Balen, mad
    With grief, and said, "The grief I had
    Was nought: ere this my life was glad:
    Thou hast done this deed: I was but sad
       And fearful how my hope might fare:
    I had lived my sorrow down, hadst thou
    Not shown me what I saw but now."
    The sorrow and scorn on Balen's brow
       Bade silence curb him there.

    And Balen answered: "What I did
    I did to hearten thee and bid
    Thy courage know that shame should rid
    A man's high heart of love that hid
       Blind shame within its core: God knows,
    I did, to set a bondman free,
    But as I would thou hadst done by me,
    That seeing what love must die to see
       Love's end might well be woe's."

    "Alas," the woful weakling said,
    "I have slain what most I loved: I have shed
    The blood most near my heart: the head
    Lies cold as earth, defiled and dead,
       That all my life was lighted by,
    That all my soul bowed down before,
    And now may bear with life no more:
    For now my sorrow that I bore
       Is twofold, and I die."

    Then with his red wet sword he rove
    His breast in sunder, where it clove
    Life, and no pulse against it strove,
    So sure and strong the deep stroke drove
       Deathward: and Balen, seeing him dead,
    Rode thence, lest folk would say he had slain
    Those three: and ere three days again
    Had seen the sun's might wax and wane,
       Far forth he had spurred and sped.

    And riding past a cross whereon
    Broad golden letters written shone,
    Saying, "No knight born may ride alone
    Forth toward this castle," and all the stone
       Glowed in the sun's glare even as though
    Blood stained it from the crucified
    Dead burden of one that there had died,
    An old hoar man he saw beside
       Whose face was wan as woe.

    "Balen the Wild," he said, "this way
    Thy way lies not: thou hast passed to-day
    Thy bands: but turn again, and stay
    Thy passage, while thy soul hath sway
       Within thee, and through God's good power
    It will avail thee:" and anon
    His likeness as a cloud was gone,
    And Balen's heart within him shone
       Clear as the cloudless hour.

    Nor fate nor fear might overcast
    The soul now near its peace at last.
    Suddenly, thence as forth he past,
    A mighty and a deadly blast
       Blown of a hunting-horn he heard,
    As when the chase hath nobly sped.
    "That blast is blown for me," he said,
    "The prize am I who am yet not dead,"
       And smiled upon the word.

    As toward a royal hart's death rang
    That note, whence all the loud wood sang
    With winged and living sound that sprang
    Like fire, and keen as fire's own fang
       Pierced the sweet silence that it slew.
    But nought like death or strife was here:
    Fair semblance and most goodly cheer
    They made him, they whose troop drew near
       As death among them drew.

    A hundred ladies well arrayed
    And many a knight well weaponed made
    That kindly show of cheer: the glade
    Shone round them till its very shade
       Lightened and laughed from grove to lawn
    To hear and see them: so they brought
    Within a castle fair as thought
    Could dream that wizard hands had wrought
       The guest among them drawn.

    All manner of glorious joy was there:
    Harping and dancing, loud and fair,
    And minstrelsy that made of air
    Fire, so like fire its raptures were.
       Then the chief lady spake on high:
    "Knight with the two swords, one of two
    Must help you here or fall from you:
    For needs you now must have ado
       And joust with one hereby.

    "A good knight guards an island here
    Against all swords that chance brings near,
    And there with stroke of sword and spear
    Must all for whom these halls make cheer
       Fight, and redeem or yield up life."
    "An evil custom," Balen said,
    "Is this, that none whom chance hath led
    Hither, if knighthood crown his head,
       May pass unstirred to strife."

    "You shall not have ado to fight
    Here save against one only knight,"
    She said, and all her face grew bright
    As hell-fire, lit with hungry light
       That wicked laughter touched with flame.
    "Well, since I shall thereto," said he,
    "I am ready at heart as death for me:
    Fain would I be where death should be
       And life should lose its name.

    "But travelling men whose goal afar
    Shines as a cloud-constraining star
    Are often weary, and wearier are
    Their steeds that feel each fret and jar
       Wherewith the wild ways wound them: yet,
    Albeit my horse be weary, still
    My heart is nowise weary; will
    Sustains it even till death fulfil
       My trust upon him set."

    "Sir," said a knight thereby that stood,
    "Meseems your shield is now not good
    But worn with warrior work, nor could
    Sustain in strife the strokes it would:
       A larger will I lend you." "Ay,
    Thereof I thank you," Balen said,
    Being single of heart as one that read
    No face aright whence faith had fled,
       Nor dreamed that faith could fly.

    And so he took that shield unknown
    And left for treason's touch his own,
    And toward that island rode alone,
    Nor heard the blast against him blown
       Sound in the wind's and water's sound,
    But hearkening toward the stream's edge heard
    Nought save the soft stream's rippling word,
    Glad with the gladness of a bird,
       That sang to the air around.

    And there against the water-side
    He saw, fast moored to rock and ride,
    A fair great boat anear abide
    Like one that waits the turning tide,
       Wherein embarked his horse and he
    Passed over toward no kindly strand:
    And where they stood again on land
    There stood a maiden hard at hand
       Who seeing them wept to see.

    And "O knight Balen," was her cry,
    "Why have ye left your own shield? why
    Come hither out of time to die?
    For had ye kept your shield, thereby
       Ye had yet been known, and died not here.
    Great pity it is of you this day
    As ever was of knight, or may
    Be ever, seeing in war's bright way
       Praise knows not Balen's peer."

    And Balen said, "Thou hast heard my name
    Right: it repenteth me, though shame
    May tax me not with base men's blame,
    That ever, hap what will, I came
       Within this country; yet, being come,
    For shame I may not turn again
    Now, that myself and nobler men
    May scorn me: now is more than then,
       And faith bids fear be dumb.

    "Be it life or death, my chance I take,
    Be it life's to build or death's to break:
    And fall what may, me lists not make
    Moan for sad life's or death's sad sake."
       Then looked he on his armour, glad
    And high of heart, and found it strong:
    And all his soul became a song
    And soared in prayer that soared not long,
       For all the hope it had.

    Then saw he whence against him came
    A steed whose trappings shone like flame,
    And he that rode him showed the same
    Fierce colour, bright as fire or fame,
       But dark the visors were as night
    That hid from Balen Balan's face,
    And his from Balan: God's own grace
    Forsook them for a shadowy space
       Where darkness cast out light.

    The two swords girt that Balen bare
    Gave Balan for a breath's while there
    Pause, wondering if indeed it were
    Balen his brother, bound to dare
       The chance of that unhappy quest:
    But seeing not as he thought to see
    His shield, he deemed it was not he,
    And so, as fate bade sorrow be,
       They laid their spears in rest.

    So mighty was the course they ran
    With spear to spear so great of span,
    Each fell back stricken, man by man,
    Horse by horse, borne down: so the ban
       That wrought by doom against them wrought:
    But Balen by his falling steed
    Was bruised the sorer, being indeed
    Way-weary, like a rain-bruised reed,
       With travel ere he fought.

    And Balen rose again from swoon
    First, and went toward him: all too soon
    He too then rose, and the evil boon
    Of strength came back, and the evil tune
       Of battle unnatural made again
    Mad music as for death's wide ear
    Listening and hungering toward the near
    Last sigh that life or death might hear
       At last from dying men.

    Balan smote Balen first, and clove
    His lifted shield that rose and strove
    In vain against the stroke that drove
    Down: as the web that morning wove
       Of glimmering pearl from spray to spray
    Dies when the strong sun strikes it, so
    Shrank the steel, tempered thrice to show
    Strength, as the mad might of the blow
       Shore Balen's helm away.

    Then turning as a turning wave
    Against the land-wind, blind and brave
    In hope that dreams despair may save,
    With even the unhappy sword that gave
       The gifts of fame and fate in one
    He smote his brother, and there had nigh
    Felled him: and while they breathed, his eye
    Glanced up, and saw beneath the sky
       Sights fairer than the sun.

    The towers of all the castle there
    Stood full of ladies, blithe and fair
    As the earth beneath and the amorous air
    About them and above them were:
       So toward the blind and fateful fight
    Again those brethren went, and sore
    Were all the strokes they smote and bore,
    And breathed again, and fell once more
       To battle in their sight.

    With blood that either spilt and bled
    Was all the ground they fought on red,
    And each knight's hauberk hewn and shred
    Left each unmailed and naked, shed
       From off them even as mantles cast:
    And oft they breathed, and drew but breath
    Brief as the word strong sorrow saith,
    And poured and drank the draught of death,
       Till fate was full at last.

    And Balan, younger born than he
    Whom darkness bade him slay, and be
    Slain, as in mist where none may see
    If aught abide or fall or flee,
       Drew back a little and laid him down,
    Dying: but Balen stood, and said,
    As one between the quick and dead
    Might stand and speak, "What good knight's head
       Hath won this mortal crown?

    "What knight art thou? for never I
    Who now beside thee dead shall die
    Found yet the knight afar or nigh
    That matched me." Then his brother's eye
       Flashed pride and love; he spake and smiled
    And felt in death life's quickening flame,
    And answered: "Balan is my name,
    The good knight Balen's brother; fame
       Calls and miscalls him wild."

    The cry from Balen's lips that sprang
    Sprang sharper than his sword's stroke rang.
    More keen than death's or memory's fang,
    Through sense and soul the shuddering pang
       Shivered: and scarce he had cried, "Alas
    That ever I should see this day,"
    When sorrow swooned from him away
    As blindly back he fell, and lay
       Where sleep lets anguish pass.

    But Balan rose on hands and knees
    And crawled by childlike dim degrees
    Up toward his brother, as a breeze
    Creeps wingless over sluggard seas
       When all the wind's heart fails it: so
    Beneath their mother's eyes had he,
    A babe that laughed with joy to be,
    Made toward him standing by her knee
       For love's sake long ago.

    Then, gathering strength up for a space,
    From off his brother's dying face
    With dying hands that wrought apace
    While death and life would grant them grace
       He loosed his helm and knew not him,
    So scored with blood it was, and hewn
    Athwart with darkening wounds: but soon
    Life strove and shuddered through the swoon
       Wherein its light lay dim.

    And sorrow set these chained words free:
    "O Balan, O my brother! me
    Thou hast slain, and I, my brother, thee:
    And now far hence, on shore and sea,
       Shall all the wide world speak of us."
    "Alas," said Balan, "that I might
    Not know you, seeing two swords were dight
    About you; now the unanswering sight
       Hath here found answer thus.

    "Because you bore another shield
    Than yours, that even ere youth could wield
    Like arms with manhood's tried and steeled
    Shone as my star of battle-field,
       I deemed it surely might not be
    My brother." Then his brother spake
    Fiercely: "Would God, for thy sole sake,
    I had my life again, to take
       Revenge for only thee!

    "For all this deadly work was wrought
    Of one false knight's false word and thought,
    Whose mortal craft and counsel caught
    And snared my faith who doubted nought,
       And made me put my shield away.
    Ah, might I live, I would destroy
    That castle for its customs: joy
    There makes of grief a deadly toy,
       And death makes night of day."

    "Well done were that, if aught were done
    Well ever here beneath the sun,"
    Said Balan: "better work were none:
    For hither since I came and won
       A woful honour born of death,
    When here my hap it was to slay
    A knight who kept this island way,
    I might not pass by night or day
       Hence, as this token saith.

    "No more shouldst thou, for all the might
    Of heart and hand that seals thee knight
    Most noble of all that see the light,
    Brother, hadst thou but slain in fight
       Me, and arisen unscathed and whole,
    As would to God thou hadst risen! though here
    Light is as darkness, hope as fear,
    And love as hate: and none draws near
       Save toward a mortal goal."

    Then, fair as any poison-flower
    Whose blossom blights the withering bower
    Whereon its blasting breath has power,
    Forth fared the lady of the tower
       With many a lady and many a knight,
    And came across the water-way
    Even where on death's dim border lay
    Those brethren sent of her to slay
       And die in kindless fight.

    And all those hard light hearts were swayed
    With pity passing like a shade
    That stays not, and may be not stayed,
    To hear the mutual moan they made,
       Each to behold his brother die,
    Saying , "Both we came out of one tomb,
    One star-crossed mother's woful womb,
    And so within one grave-pit's gloom
       Untimely shall we lie."

    And Balan prayed, as God should bless
    That lady for her gentleness,
    That where the battle's mortal stress
    Had made for them perforce to press
       The bed whence never man may rise
    They twain, free now from hopes and fears,
    Might sleep; and she, as one that hears,
    Bowed her bright head: and very tears
       Fell from her cold fierce eyes.

    Then Balen prayed her send a priest
    To housel them, that ere they ceased
    The hansel of the heavenly feast
    That fills with light from the answering east
       The sunset of the life of man
    Might bless them, and their lips be kissed
    With death's requickening eucharist,
    And death's and life's dim sunlit mist
       Pass as a stream that ran.

    And so their dying rites were done:
    And Balen, seeing the death-struck sun
    Sink, spake as he whose goal is won:
    "Now, when our trophied tomb is one,
       And over us our tale is writ,
    How two that loved each other, two
    Born and begotten brethren, slew
    Each other, none that reads anew
       Shall choose but weep for it.

    "And no good knight and no good man
    Whose eye shall ever come to scan
    The record of the imperious ban
    That made our life so sad a span
       Shall read or hear, who shall not pray
    For us for ever." Then anon
    Died Balan; but the sun was gone,
    And deep the stars of midnight shone,
       Ere Balen passed away.

    And there low lying, as hour on hour
    Fled, all his life in all its flower
    Came back as in a sunlit shower
    Of dreams, when sweet-souled sleep has power
       On life less sweet and glad to be.
    He drank the draught of life's first wine
    Again: he saw the moorland shine,
    The rioting rapids of the Tyne,
       The woods, the cliffs, the sea.

    The joy that lives at heart and home,
    The joy to rest, the joy to roam,
    The joy of crags and scaurs he clomb,
    The rapture of the encountering foam
       Embraced and breasted of the boy,
    The first good steed his knees bestrode,
    The first wild sound of songs that flowed
    Through ears that thrilled and heart that glowed,
       Fulfilled his death with joy.

    So, dying not as a coward that dies
    And dares not look in death's dim eyes
    Straight as the stars on seas and skies
    Whence moon and sun recoil and rise,
       He looked on life and death, and slept.
    And there with morning Merlin came,
    And on the tomb that told their fame
    He wrote by Balan's Balen's name,
       And gazed thereon, and wept.

    For all his heart within him yearned
    With pity like as fire that burned.
    The fate his fateful eye discerned
    Far off now dimmed it, ere he turned
       His face toward Camelot, to tell
    Arthur of all the storms that woke
    Round Balen, and the dolorous stroke,
    And how that last blind battle broke
       The consummated spell.

    "Alas," King Arthur said, "this day
    I have heard the worst that woe might say:
    For in this world that wanes away
    I know not two such knight as they."
       This is the tale that memory writes
    Of men whose names like stars shall stand,
    Balen and Balan, sure of hand
    Two brethren of Northumberland,
       In life and death good knights.