The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 52

'Who has in prison three-score knights And four that he did wound; Knights of King Arthur's court they be, And of his table round.'

She brought him to a river side, And also to a tree, Whereon a copper basin hung, And many shields to see.

He struck so hard the basin broke; And Tarquin soon he spied: Who drove a horse before him fast, Whereon a knight lay tied.

'Sir knight,' then said Sir Lancelot, 'Bring me that horse-load hither, And lay him down and let him rest; We'll try our force together:

'For, as I understand, thou hast, So far as thou art able, Done great despite and shame unto The knights of the round table.'

'If thou be of the table round,'

Quoth Tarquin speedily, 'Both thee and all thy fellowship I utterly defy.'

'That's overmuch,' quoth Lancelot, 'tho, Defend thee bye and bye,'

They set their spears unto their steeds, And each at other fly.

They couch'd their spears, (their horses ran As though there had been thunder,) And struck them each immidst their shields, Wherewith they broke in sunder.

Their horses' backs brake under them, The knights were both astound: To avoid their horses they made haste To light upon the ground.

They took them to their shields full fast, Their swords they drew out then, With mighty strokes most eagerly, Each at the other ran.

They wounded were and bled full sore, They both for breath did stand, And leaning on their swords awhile, Quoth Tarquin, 'Hold thy hand,

'And tell to me what I shall ask.'

'Say on,' quoth Lancelot, 'tho.'

'Thou art,' quoth Tarquin, 'the best knight That ever I did know;

'And like a knight that I did hate: So that thou be not he, I will deliver all the rest, And eke accord with thee.

'That is well said,' quoth Lancelot; But sith it must be so, What knight is that thou hatest thus?

I pray thee to me show.'

'His name is Lancelot du Lake, He slew my brother dear; Him I suspect of all the rest: I would I had him here.'

'Thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown, I am Lancelot du Lake, Now knight of Arthur's table round; King Haud's son of Schuwake;

'And I desire thee do thy worst.'

'Ho, ho!' quoth Tarquin, 'tho: One of us two shall end our lives Before that we do go.

'If thou be Lancelot du Lake, Then welcome shalt thou be.

Wherefore see thou thyself defend, For now defy I thee.'

They buckled then together so Like unto wild boars rashing; And with their swords and shields they ran, At one another slashing:

The ground besprinkled was with blood: Tarquin began to yield; For he gave back for weariness, And low did bear his shield.

This soon Sir Lancelot espied, He leapt upon him then, He pull'd him down upon his knee, And, rushing off his helm,

Forthwith he struck his neck in two, And, when he had so done, From prison threescore knights and four Delivered every one.

_Old Ballad_

CLV

_THE THREE FISHERS_

Three fishers went sailing away to the west, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

_C. Kingsley_

CLVI

_ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY_

The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drown'd; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,--and more and more; It seem'd to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy call'd out; He stopp'd his horses at the word, But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast The horses scamper'd through the rain; But hearing soon upon the blast The cry, I made him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?'

And there a little girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise alone.

'My cloak!' no other word she spake, But loud and bitterly she wept, As if her innocent heart would break; And down from off her seat she leapt.

'What ails you, child?'--she sobb'd, 'Look here!'

I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke, It hung, nor could at once be freed; But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, A miserable rag indeed!

'And whither are you going, child, To-night, along these lonesome ways?'

'To Durham,' answer'd she, half wild-- 'Then come with me into the chaise.'

Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end.