LAUNCELOT AND THE FOUR QUEENS

PART I

In whose blossoms drowsily
           The bees are droning ever.

Back along the river’s edge
Twists a tangled hawthorn hedge,
           In whose thickets lurks the thrush;  

Broods the skylark in the meads,
Floats the teal among the reeds,
           The warm wild-roses flush;

The sundews clasp their glistening beads,
The sun in mid-sky reins his steeds,  

           Weaving his careful net.

The sleeper’s hair falls curling fair
From off his forehead broad and bare,
           Entangling violets faint and pale;
Beside his cheek a primrose gleams,

And breathes her sweetness through his dreams,
           Till grown too sweet they fail.

PART II.

          And as he sleeps four queens come by
             And spy him ’neath the apple-tree.
          Of his fair show enamored sore

On four white horses do they ride,
And four fair knights do ride beside,
           As is their custom ever.

On upright spear each knight doth bear
One corner of an awning rare

And apples crowned the stooping bough,
           I’d deem it fairer far:

"Drooping so ripe and melting mellow,
Rind-streaked red and flecked with yellow,
Each one fairer than its fellow,

           Oh, methinks I see them now!"
Thus quoth she; but Morgane le Fay
Hath cast her eyne another way,
           And peereth ’neath the bough.

"Now swear I on my life," quoth she,

           Than Launcelot du Lac?

"Faith! we the fairest knight have found
That ever lady’s arms enwound,
Or ever lady’s kisses crowned;
           Myself can wish no royaller lover."…

" Nay! Think you then to choose for him,"
Quoth Eastland’s queen, " while shadows dim
           His sheeny eyelids cover?

"Certes, ’twere discourtesie!
But put a spell of secrecy

The duck drops back into the sedge,
           The lark into the field.

PART III

          He waketh in a chamber high,
             With tapestries adornéd fair;
          Unto a window climbeth up,

           And dismal claws outspread.

He gives the ring a prayerful turn,
           Which aye was wont to put to flight
All lying visions; but the stern,
Black dragon’s eyeballs seem to burn 

           With smouldering, inward light.

Now doth he slowly come aware
           No glamour ’tis, nor painted dream,
But oak, all carved with cunning care,

And for its eyes a sullen pair 

           Of mighty jewels gleam.

From samite soft he lifts his head,
           Instead of earthly-scented moss;
Four walls he sees all fair bespread
With yellow satins, garnishéd   

           With legends wrought across.

Half-hidden by a storied fold
           An archéd door he sees, shut close;
The sun, far-sunken o’er the wold,
Through archéd windows sluicing gold 

           In sloping, moted rows,

Gleameth upon the topmost tier
           Of armor on the farther walls;
Shimmers in gules and argent clear;
Bathes the carven rafters bare; 

Then seeks adown the ocean sheer
           His sleepless azure halls.

Now paleth silver on the floor
           In place of gold upon the roof;
From a young moon the still gleams pour, 

That from the sun, her paramour,
           Yet walketh not aloof.

Where bars the window-niche emboss,
           Launcelot, climbing, chanteth clear;
His song it floateth soft across  

                                                Guinevere.

               "Hearken, Guinevere!
                   Warm about my neck
               Might I feel thy claspéd arms,
                   Little would I reck  

               "Hearken, Guinevere!
                   Spake thine eyes in silence,
               As a stream that fareth softly
                   Thorough summer islands;
               Uttered suddenly   

                   What I never guess’d,—
               How I could betray my king
                   At his queen’s behest,
                                                Guinevere.

               "Hearken, Guinevere!

               To make me foul before my God
                   And false unto my king,
                                                Guinevere."

PART IV

          The queens essay to have his love ;
             Denies he them disdainfully.

          A damsel comes and pledges her
               For service due to set him free.

A dewy breeze laughs through the bars,
    With meadow scents and early light;
And soon appear the ladies fair

    So choose: I am Morgane le Fay,
Here Eastland’s queen, there she of the isles,
    North Wales accepts her sway."

Saith he: " This is a grievous case,
    That either I must quit sweet life

    An’ his dear honor die!"

"Is this your answer?" question they.
    "Yea, is it," laughs he carelessly.
Then go they sorely sorrowing,
    Leaving his spirit only free.

And training that to lonely flight,
    He seats him on his couch’s side,
Till scent and song are heavy-winged
    About the hot noontide.

A breeze slips in refreshingly,

Collops of meat that taste of the woods,
    And mead that smells of June.

"Ill fareth it with thee, Sir Knight!"
    "Ne’er spakest thou a truer word,
Fair damsel," saith he, heavily,

    "Fair maid, who may thy father be?
Needs is it that thou tell me this,
    Then will I answer thee."

"King Bagdemagus is his name."
    Saith he: "A knightly knight, and true,  

    Be ready."

PART V

          When western folds are flocked with stars,
             And larks are quivering up the blue,
          Four clampéd doors, eleven locks,
               And seven gates, she leads him through.

The gusts with wrinkling zest
Over the river’s breast
           Are following fast and faster.

The door swings open wide,
And quickly side by side

           Open before her straightway.

She brings him to his steed,
Hidden with mindful heed
Where mossy foot-paths lead
           From a broken pier on the river;

He draws his saddle-girth,
And tries his lance’s worth,
Then canters with lightsome mirth
           Out from the thickets that quiver.

•      •      •

In primal sympathy     

Nothing the morning meant
           In its myriad speeches missed him.

Over a knoll or two,
Grassy, and drenched with dew,
His blossomed pathway drew