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Tristram of Lyonesse - VI - Joyous Gard

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

A little time, O Love, a little light,

A little hour for ease before the night.

Sweet Love, that art so bitter; foolish Love,

Whom wise men know for wiser, and thy dove

More subtle than the serpent; for thy sake

These pray thee for a little beam to break,

A little grace to help them, lest men think

Thy servants have but hours like tears to drink.

O Love, a little comfort, lest they fear

To serve as these have served thee who stand here.

For these are thine, thy servants these, that stand

Here nigh the limit of the wild north land,

At margin of the grey great eastern sea,

Dense-islanded with peaks and reefs, that see

No life but of the fleet wings fair and free

Which cleave the mist and sunlight all day long

With sleepless flight and cries more glad than song.

Strange ways of life have led them hither, here

To win fleet respite from desire and fear

With armistice from sorrow; strange and sweet

Ways trodden by forlorn and casual feet

Till kindlier chance woke toward them kindly will

In happier hearts of lovers, and their ill

Found rest, as healing surely might it not,

By gift and kingly grace of Launcelot

At gracious bidding given of Guenevere.

For in the trembling twilight of this year

Ere April sprang from hope to certitude

Two hearts of friends fast linked had fallen at feud

As they rode forth on hawking, by the sign

Which gave his new bride's brother Ganhardine

To know the truth of Tristram's dealing, how

Faith kept of him against his marriage vow

Kept virginal his bride-bed night and morn;

Whereat, as wroth his blood should suffer scorn,

Came Ganhardine to Tristram, saying, 'Behold,

We have loved thee, and for love we have shown of old

Scorn hast thou shown us: wherefore is thy bride

Not thine indeed, a stranger at thy side,

Contemned? what evil hath she done, to be

Mocked with mouth-marriage and despised of thee,

Shamed, set at nought, rejected?' But there came

On Tristram's brow and eye the shadow and flame

Confused of wrath and wonder, ere he spake,

Saying, 'Hath she bid thee for thy sister's sake

Plead with me, who believed of her in heart

More nobly than to deem such piteous part

Should find so fair a player? or whence hast thou

Of us this knowledge?' 'Nay,' said he, 'but now,

Riding beneath these whitethorns overhead,

There fell a flower into her girdlestead

Which laughing she shook out, and smiling said,

'Lo, what large leave the wind hath given this stray,

To lie more near my heart than till this day

Aught ever since my mother lulled me lay

Or even my lord came ever;' whence I wot

We are all thy scorn, a race regarded not

Nor held as worth communion of thine own,

Except in her be found some fault alone

To blemish our alliance.' Then replied

Tristram, 'Nor blame nor scorn may touch my bride,

Albeit unknown of love she live, and be

Worth a man worthier than her love thought me.

Faith only, faith withheld me, faith forbade

The blameless grace wherewith love's grace makes glad

All lives linked else in wedlock; not that less

I loved the sweet light of her loveliness,

But that my love toward faith was more: and thou,

Albeit thine heart be keen against me now,

Couldst thou behold my very lady, then

No more of thee than of all other men

Should this my faith be held a faithless fault.'

And ere that day their hawking came to halt,

Being sore of him entreated for a sign,

He sware to bring his brother Ganhardine

To sight of that strange Iseult: and thereon

Forth soon for Cornwall are these brethren gone,

Even to that royal pleasance where the hunt

Rang ever of old with Tristram's horn in front

Blithe as the queen's horse bounded at his side:

And first of all her dames forth pranced in pride

That day before them, with a ringing rein

All golden-glad, the king's false bride Brangwain,

The queen's true handmaid ever: and on her

Glancing, 'Be called for all time truth-teller,

O Tristram, of all true men's tongues alive,'

Quoth Ganhardine; 'for may my soul so thrive

As yet mine eye drank never sight like this.'

'Ay?' Tristram said, 'and she thou look'st on is

So great in grace of goodliness, that thou

Hast less thought left of wrath against me now,

Seeing but my lady's handmaid? Nay, behold;

See'st thou no light more golden than of gold

Shine where she moves in midst of all, above

All, past all price or praise or prayer of love?

Lo, this is she.' But as one mazed with wine

Stood, stunned in spirit and stricken, Ganhardine,

And gazed out hard against them: and his heart

As with a sword was cloven, and rent apart

As with strong fangs of fire; and scarce he spake,

Saying how his life for even a handmaid's sake

Was made a flame within him. And the knight

Bade him, being known of none that stood in sight,

Bear to Brangwain his ring, that she unseen

Might give in token privily to the queen

And send swift word where under moon or sun

They twain might yet be no more twain but one.

And that same night, under the stars that rolled

Over their warm deep wildwood nights of old

Whose hours for grains of sand shed sparks of fire,

Such way was made anew for their desire

By secret wile of sickness feigned, to keep

The king far off her vigils or her sleep,

That in the queen's pavilion midway set

By glimmering moondawn were those lovers met,

And Ganhardine of Brangwain gat him grace.

And in some passionate soft interspace

Between two swells of passion, when their lips

Breathed, and made room for such brief speech as slips

From tongues athirst with draughts of amorous wine

That leaves them thirstier than the salt sea's brine,

Was counsel taken how to fly, and where

Find covert from the wild world's ravening air

That hunts with storm the feet of nights and days

Through strange thwart lines of life and flowerless ways.

Then said Iseult: 'Lo, now the chance is here

Foreshown me late by word of Guenevere,

To give me comfort of thy rumoured wrong,

My traitor Tristram, when report was strong

Of me forsaken and thine heart estranged:

Nor should her sweet soul toward me yet be changed

Nor all her love lie barren, if mine hand

Crave harvest of it from the flowering land.

See therefore if this counsel please thee not,

That we take horse in haste for Camelot

And seek that friendship of her plighted troth

Which love shall be full fain to lend, nor loth

Shall my love be to take it.' So next night

The multitudinous stars laughed round their flight,

Fulfilling far with laughter made of light

The encircling deeps of heaven: and in brief space

At Camelot their long love gat them grace

Of those fair twain whose heads men's praise impearled

As love's two lordliest lovers in the world:

And thence as guests for harbourage past they forth

To win this noblest hold of all the north.

Far by wild ways and many days they rode,

Till clear across June's kingliest sunset glowed

The great round girth of goodly wall that showed

Where for one clear sweet season's length should be

Their place of strength to rest in, fain and free,

By the utmost margin of the loud lone sea.

And now, O Love, what comfort? God most high,

Whose life is as a flower's to live and die,

Whose light is everlasting: Lord, whose breath

Speaks music through the deathless lips of death

Whereto time's heart rings answer: Bard, whom time

Hears, and is vanquished with a wandering rhyme

That once thy lips made fragrant: Seer, whose sooth

Joy knows not well, but sorrow knows for truth,

Being priestess of thy soothsayings: Love, what grace

Shall these twain find at last before thy face?

This many a year they have served thee, and deserved,

If ever man might yet of all that served,

Since the first heartbeat bade the first man's knee

Bend, and his mouth take music, praising thee,

Some comfort; and some honey indeed of thine

Thou hast mixed for these with life's most bitter wine,

Commending to their passionate lips a draught

No deadlier than thy chosen of old have quaffed

And blessed thine hand, their cupbearer's: for not

On all men comes the grace that seals their lot

As holier in thy sight, for all these feuds

That rend it, than the light-souled multitude's,

Nor thwarted of thine hand nor blessed; but these

Shall see no twilight, Love, nor fade at ease,

Grey-grown and careless of desired delight,

But lie down tired and sleep before the night.

These shall not live till time or change may chill

Or doubt divide or shame subdue their will,

Or fear or slow repentance work them wrong,

Or love die first: these shall not live so long.

Death shall not take them drained of dear true life

Already, sick or stagnant from the strife,

Quenched: not with dry-drawn veins and lingering breath

Shall these through crumbling hours crouch down to death.

Swift, with one strong clean leap, ere life's pulse tire,

Most like the leap of lions or of fire,

Sheer death shall bound upon them: one pang past,

The first keen sense of him shall be their last,

Their last shall be no sense of any fear,

More than their life had sense of anguish here.

Weeks and light months had fled at swallow's speed

Since here their first hour sowed for them the seed

Of many sweet as rest or hope could be;

Since on the blown beach of a glad new sea

Wherein strange rocks like fighting men stand scarred

They saw the strength and help of Joyous Gard.

Within the full deep glorious tower that stands

Between the wild sea and the broad wild lands

Love led and gave them quiet: and they drew

Life like a God's life in each wind that blew,

And took their rest, and triumphed. Day by day

The mighty moorlands and the sea-walls grey,

The brown bright waters of green fells that sing

One song to rocks and flowers and birds on wing,

Beheld the joy and glory that they had,

Passing, and how the whole world made them glad,

And their great love was mixed with all things great,

As life being lovely, and yet being strong like fate.

For when the sun sprang on the sudden sea

Their eyes sprang eastward, and the day to be

Was lit in them untimely: such delight

They took yet of the clear cold breath and light

That goes before the morning, and such grace

Was deathless in them through their whole life's space

As dies in many with their dawn that dies

And leaves in pulseless hearts and flameless eyes

No light to lighten and no tear to weep

For youth's high joy that time has cast on sleep.

Yea, this old grace and height of joy they had,

To lose no jot of all that made them glad

And filled their springs of spirit with such fire

That all delight fed in them all desire;

And no whit less than in their first keen prime

The spring's breath blew through all their summer time,

And in their skies would sunlike Love confuse

Clear April colours with hot August hues,

And in their hearts one light of sun and moon

Reigned, and the morning died not of the noon:

Such might of life was in them, and so high

Their heart of love rose higher than fate could fly.

And many a large delight of hawk and hound

The great glad land that knows no bourne or bound,

Save the wind's own and the outer sea-bank's, gave

Their days for comfort; many a long blithe wave

Buoyed their blithe bark between the bare bald rocks,

Deep, steep, and still, save for the swift free flocks

Unshepherded, uncompassed, unconfined,

That when blown foam keeps all the loud air blind

Mix with the wind's their triumph, and partake

The joy of blasts that ravin, waves that break,

All round and all below their mustering wings,

A clanging cloud that round the cliff's edge clings

On each bleak bluff breaking the strenuous tides

That rings reverberate mirth when storm bestrides

The subject night in thunder: many a noon

They took the moorland's or the bright sea's boon

With all their hearts into their spirit of sense,

Rejoicing, where the sudden dells grew dense

With sharp thick flight of hillside birds, or where

On some strait rock's ledge in the intense mute air

Erect against the cliff's sheer sunlit white

Blue as the clear north heaven, clothed warm with light,

Stood neck to bended neck and wing to wing

With heads fast hidden under, close as cling

Flowers on one flowering almond-branch in spring,

Three herons deep asleep against the sun,

Each with one bright foot downward poised, and one

Wing-hidden hard by the bright head, and all

Still as fair shapes fixed on some wondrous wall

Of minster-aisle or cloister-close or hall

To take even time's eye prisoner with delight.

Or, satisfied with joy of sound and sight,

They sat and communed of things past: what state

King Arthur, yet unwarred upon by fate,

Held high in hall at Camelot, like one

Whose lordly life was as the mounting sun

That climbs and pauses on the point of noon,

Sovereign: how royal rang the tourney's tune

Through Tristram's three days' triumph, spear to spear,

When Iseult shone enthroned by Guenevere,

Rose against rose, the highest adored on earth,

Imperial: yet with subtle notes of mirth

Would she bemock her praises, and bemoan

Her glory by that splendour overthrown

Which lightened from her sister's eyes elate;

Saying how by night a little light seems great,

But less than least of all things, very nought,

When dawn undoes the web that darkness wrought;

How like a tower of ivory well designed

By subtlest hand subserving subtlest mind,

Ivory with flower of rose incarnadined

And kindling with some God therein revealed,

A light for grief to look on and be healed,

Stood Guenevere: and all beholding her

Were heartstruck even as earth at midsummer

With burning wonder, hardly to be borne.

So was that amorous glorious lady born,

A fiery memory for all storied years:

Nor might men call her sisters crowned her peers,

Her sister queens, put all by her to scorn:

She had such eyes as are not made to mourn;

But in her own a gleaming ghost of tears

Shone, and their glance was slower than Guenevere's,

And fitfuller with fancies grown of grief;

Shamed as a Mayflower shames an autumn leaf

Full well she wist it could not choose but be

If in that other's eyeshot standing she

Should lift her looks up ever: wherewithal

Like fires whose light fills heaven with festival

Flamed her eyes full on Tristram's; and he laughed

Answering, 'What wile of sweet child-hearted craft

That children forge for children, to beguile

Eyes known of them not witless of the wile

But fain to seem for sport's sake self-deceived,

Wilt thou find out now not to be believed?

Or how shall I trust more than ouphe or elf

Thy truth to me-ward, who beliest thyself?'

'Nor elf nor ouphe or aught of airier kind,'

Quoth she, 'though made of moonbeams moist and blind,

Is light if weighed with man's winged weightless mind.

Though thou keep somewise troth with me, God wot,

When thou didst wed, I doubt, thou thoughtest not

So charily to keep it.' 'Nay,' said he,

'Yet am not I rebukable by thee

As Launcelot, erring, held me ere he wist

No mouth save thine of mine was ever kissed

Save as a sister's only, since we twain

Drank first the draught assigned our lips to drain

That Fate and Love with darkling hands commixt

Poured, and no power to part them came betwixt,

But either's will, howbeit they seem at strife,

Was toward us one, as death itself and life

Are one sole doom toward all men, nor may one

Behold not darkness, who beholds the sun.'

'Ah, then,' she said, 'what word is this men hear

Of Merlin, how some doom too strange to fear

Was cast but late about him oversea,

Sweet recreant, in thy bridal Brittany?

Is not his life sealed fast on him with sleep,

By witchcraft of his own and love's, to keep

Till earth be fire and ashes?'

'Surely,' said

Her lover, 'not as one alive or dead

The great good wizard, well beloved and well

Predestinate of heaven that casts out hell

For guerdon gentler far than all men's fate,

Exempt alone of all predestinate,

Takes his strange rest at heart of slumberland,

More deep asleep in green Broceliande

Than shipwrecked sleepers in the soft green sea

Beneath the weight of wandering waves: but he

Hath for those roofing waters overhead

Above him always all the summer spread

Or all the winter wailing: or the sweet

Late leaves marked red with autumn's burning feet,

Or withered with his weeping, round the seer

Rain, and he sees not, nor may heed or hear

The witness of the winter: but in spring

He hears above him all the winds on wing

Through the blue dawn between the brightening boughs,

And on shut eyes and slumber-smitten brows

Feels ambient change in the air and strengthening sun,

And knows the soul that was his soul at one

With the ardent world's, and in the spirit of earth

His spirit of life reborn to mightier birth

And mixed with things of elder life than ours;

With cries of birds, and kindling lamps of flowers,

And sweep and song of winds, and fruitful light

Of sunbeams, and the far faint breath of night,

And waves and woods at morning: and in all,

Soft as at noon the slow sea's rise and fall,

He hears in spirit a song that none but he

Hears from the mystic mouth of Nimue

Shed like a consecration; and his heart,

Hearing, is made for love's sake as a part

Of that far singing, and the life thereof

Part of that life that feeds the world with love:

Yea, heart in heart is molten, hers and his,

Into the world's heart and the soul that is

Beyond or sense or vision; and their breath

Stirs the soft springs of deathless life and death,

Death that bears life, and change that brings forth seed

Of life to death and death to life indeed,

As blood recircling through the unsounded veins

Of earth and heaven with all their joys and pains.

Ah, that when love shall laugh no more nor weep

We too, we too might hear that song and sleep!'

'Yea,' said Iseult, 'some joy it were to be

Lost in the sun's light and the all-girdling sea,

Mixed with the winds and woodlands, and to bear

Part in the large life of the quickening air,

And the sweet earth's, our mother: yet to pass

More fleet than mirrored faces from the glass

Out of all pain and all delight, so far

That love should seem but as the furthest star

Sunk deep in trembling heaven, scarce seen or known,

As a dead moon forgotten, once that shone

Where now the sun shines, nay, not all things yet,

Not all things always, dying, would I forget.'

And Tristram answered amorously, and said:

'O heart that here art mine, O heavenliest head

That ever took men's worship here, which art

Mine, how shall death put out the fire at heart,

Quench in men's eyes the head's remembered light,

That time shall set but higher in more men's sight?

Think thou not much to die one earthly day,

Being made not in their mould who pass away

Nor who shall pass for ever.'

'Ah,' she said,

'What shall it profit me, being praised and dead?

What profit have the flowers of all men's praise?

What pleasure of our pleasure have the days

That pour on us delight of life and mirth?

What fruit of all our joy on earth has earth?

Nor am I, nay, my lover, am I one

To take such part in heaven's enkindling sun

And in the inviolate air and sacred sea

As clothes with grace that wondrous Nimue?

For all her works are bounties, all her deeds

Blessings; her days are scrolls wherein love reads

The record of his mercies; heaven above

Hath not more heavenly holiness of love

Than earth beneath, wherever pass or pause

Her feet that move not save by love's own laws,

In gentleness of godlike wayfaring

To heal men's hearts as earth is healed by spring

Of all such woes as winter: what am I,

Love, that have strength but to desire and die,

That have but grace to love and do thee wrong,

What am I that my name should live so long,

Save as the star that crossed thy star-struck lot,

With hers whose light was life to Launcelot?

Life gave she him, and strength, and fame to be

For ever: I, what gift can I give thee?

Peril and sleepless watches, fearful breath

Of dread more bitter for my sake than death

When death came nigh to call me by my name,

Exile, rebuke, remorse, and, O, not shame.

Shame only, this I gave thee not, whom none

May give that worst thing ever, no, not one.

Of all that hate, all hateful hearts that see

Darkness for light and hate where love should be,

None for my shame's sake may speak shame of thee.'

And Tristram answering ere he kissed her smiled:

'O very woman, god at once and child,

What ails thee to desire of me once more

The assurance that thou hadst in heart before?

For all this wild sweet waste of sweet vain breath,

Thou knowest I know thou hast given me life, not death.

The shadow of death, informed with shows of strife,

Was ere I won thee all I had of life.

Light war, light love, light living, dreams in sleep,

Joy slight and light, not glad enough to weep,

Filled up my foolish days with sound and shine,

Vision and gleam from strange men's cast on mine,

Reverberate light from eyes presaging thine

That shed but shadowy moonlight where thy face

Now sheds forth sunshine in the deep same place,

The deep live heart half dead and shallower then

Than summer fords which thwart not wandering men.

For how should I, signed sorrow's from my birth,

Kiss dumb the loud red laughing lips of mirth?

Or how, sealed thine to be, love less than heaven on earth?

My heart in me was held at restless rest,

Presageful of some prize beyond its quest,

Prophetic still with promise, fain to find the best.

For one was fond and one was blithe and one

Fairer than all save twain whose peers are none;

For third on earth is none that heaven hath seen

To stand with Guenevere beside my queen.

Not Nimue, girt with blessing as a guard:

Not the soft lures and laughters of Ettarde:

Not she, that splendour girdled round with gloom,

Crowned as with iron darkness of the tomb,

And clothed with clouding conscience of a monstrous doom,

Whose blind incestuous love brought forth a fire

To burn her ere it burn its darkling sire,

Her mother's son, King Arthur: yet but late

We saw pass by that fair live shadow of fate,

The queen Morgause of Orkney, like a dream

That scares the night when moon and starry beam

Sicken and swoon before some sorcerer's eyes

Whose wordless charms defile the saintly skies,

Bright still with fire and pulse of blood and breath,

Whom her own sons have doomed for shame to death.'

'Death, yea,' quoth she, 'there is not said or heard

So oft aloud on earth so sure a word.

Death, and again death, and for each that saith

Ten tongues chime answer to the sound of death.

Good end God send us ever, so men pray.

But I, this end God send me, would I say,

To die not of division and a heart

Rent or with sword of severance cloven apart,

But only when thou diest and only where thou art,

O thou my soul and spirit and breath to me,

O light, life, love! yea, let this only be,

That dying I may praise God who gave me thee,

Let hap what will thereafter.'

So that day

They communed, even till even was worn away,

Nor aught they said seemed strange or sad to say,

But sweet as night's dim dawn to weariness.

Nor loved they life or love for death's sake less,

Nor feared they death for love's or life's sake more

And on the sounding soft funereal shore

They, watching till the day should wholly die,

Saw the far sea sweep to the far grey sky,

Saw the long sands sweep to the long grey sea.

And night made one sweet mist of moor and lea,

And only far off shore the foam gave light.

And life in them sank silent as the night.