"Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;" and Bors,
"Ask me not, for I may not speak of it:
I saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes.
'Then there remained but Lancelot, for the rest
Spake but of
sundry perils in the storm;
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ,
Our Arthur kept his best until the last;
"Thou, too, my Lancelot," asked the king, "my friend,
Our mightiest, hath this Quest availed for thee?"
'"Our mightiest!" answered Lancelot, with a groan;
"O King!"--and when he paused,
methought I spied
A dying fire of
madness in his eyes--
"O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be,
Happier are those that welter in their sin,
Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime,
Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure,
Noble, and
knightly" target="_blank" title="a.&ad.骑士般的(地)">
knightly in me twined and clung
Round that one sin, until the
wholesome flower
And
poisonous grew together, each as each,
Not to be plucked
asunder; and when thy
knights
Sware, I sware with them only in the hope
That could I touch or see the Holy Grail
They might be plucked
asunder. Then I spake
To one most holy saint, who wept and said,
That save they could be plucked
asunder, all
My quest were but in vain; to whom I vowed
That I would work according as he willed.
And forth I went, and while I yearned and strove
To tear the twain
asunder in my heart,
My
madness came upon me as of old,
And whipt me into waste fields far away;
There was I
beaten down by little men,
Mean
knights, to whom the moving of my sword
And shadow of my spear had been enow
To scare them from me once; and then I came
All in my folly to the naked shore,
Wide flats, where nothing but
coarse grasses grew;
But such a blast, my King, began to blow,
So loud a blast along the shore and sea,
Ye could not hear the waters for the blast,
Though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea
Drove like a
cataract, and all the sand
Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens
Were
shaken with the
motion and the sound.
And blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat,
Half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain;
And in my
madness to myself I said,
'I will
embark and I will lose myself,
And in the great sea wash away my sin.'
I burst the chain, I
sprang into the boat.
Seven days I drove along the
dreary deep,
And with me drove the moon and all the stars;
And the wind fell, and on the seventh night
I heard the
shingle grinding in the surge,
And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up,
Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek,
A castle like a rock upon a rock,
With chasm-like portals open to the sea,
And steps that met the breaker! there was none
Stood near it but a lion on each side
That kept the entry, and the moon was full.
Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs.
There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes
Those two great beasts rose
upright like a man,
Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between;
And, when I would have
smitten them, heard a voice,
'Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts
Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with violence
The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell.
And up into the sounding hall I past;
But nothing in the sounding hall I saw,
No bench nor table,
painting on the wall
Or
shield of
knight; only the rounded moon
Through the tall oriel on the rolling sea.
But always in the quiet house I heard,
Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark,
A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower
To the
eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps
With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb
For ever: at the last I reached a door,
A light was in the crannies, and I heard,
'Glory and joy and honour to our Lord
And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.'
Then in my
madness I essayed the door;
It gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat
As from a seventimes-heated
furnace, I,
Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was,
With such a
fierceness that I swooned away--
O, yet
methought I saw the Holy Grail,
All palled in
crimson samite, and around
Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.
And but for all my
madness and my sin,
And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw
That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled
And covered; and this Quest was not for me."
'So
speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain--nay,
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,--
A
reckless and irreverent
knight was he,
Now boldened by the silence of his King,--
Well, I will tell thee: "O King, my liege," he said,
"Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine?
When have I stinted stroke in foughten field?
But as for thine, my good friend Percivale,
Thy holy nun and thou have
driven men mad,
Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least.
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear,
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat,
And
thrice as blind as any
noonday owl,
To holy virgins in their ecstasies,
Henceforward."
'"Deafer," said the
blameless King,
"Gawain, and blinder unto holy things
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows,
Being too blind to have desire to see.
But if indeed there came a sign from heaven,
Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale,
For these have seen according to their sight.
For every fiery
prophet in old times,
And all the
sacredmadness of the bard,
When God made music through them, could but speak
His music by the
framework and the chord;
And as ye saw it ye have
spoken truth.
'"Nay--but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet
Could all of true and noble in
knight and man
Twine round one sin,
whatever it might be,
With such a closeness, but apart there grew,
Save that he were the swine thou spakest of,
Some root of
knighthood and pure nobleness;
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower.
'"And spake I not too truly, O my
knights?
Was I too dark a
prophet when I said
To those who went upon the Holy Quest,
That most of them would follow
wandering fires,
Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone,
And left me gazing at a
barren board,
And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe--
And out of those to whom the
vision came
My greatest hardly will believe he saw;
Another hath
beheld it afar off,
And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,
Cares but to pass into the silent life.
And one hath had the
vision face to face,
And now his chair desires him here in vain,
However they may crown him otherwhere.
'"And some among you held, that if the King
Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow:
Not easily,
seeing that the King must guard
That which he rules, and is but as the hind
To whom a space of land is given to plow.
Who may not
wander from the allotted field
Before his work be done; but, being done,
Let
visions of the night or of the day
Come, as they will; and many a time they come,
Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,
This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,
This air that smites his
forehead is not air
But
vision--yea, his very hand and foot--
In moments when he feels he cannot die,
And knows himself no
vision to himself,
Nor the high God a
vision, nor that One
Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen."
'So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.'
Pelleas and Ettarre
King Arthur made new
knights to fill the gap
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors
Were
softly sundered, and through these a youth,
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
Past, and the
sunshine came along with him.
'Make me thy
knight, because I know, Sir King,
All that belongs to
knighthood, and I love.'
Such was his cry: for having heard the King
Had let
proclaim a tournament--the prize
A golden circlet and a
knightly" target="_blank" title="a.&ad.骑士般的(地)">
knightly sword,
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won
The golden circlet, for himself the sword:
And there were those who knew him near the King,
And promised for him: and Arthur made him
knight.
And this new
knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles--
But
lately come to his inheritance,
And lord of many a
barren isle was he--
Riding at noon, a day or twain before,
Across the forest called of Dean, to find
Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun
Beat like a strong
knight on his helm, and reeled
Almost to falling from his horse; but saw
Near him a mound of even-sloping side,
Whereon a hundred
stately beeches grew,
And here and there great hollies under them;
But for a mile all round was open space,
And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew
To that dim day, then
binding his good horse
To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay
At
random looking over the brown earth
Through that green-glooming
twilight of the grove,
It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.