The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 3

Had settled on her, all her robes were black, With a long white veil only; she went slow, As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow

Had left her face and hands; this was because As she lay last night on her purple bed, Wishing for morning, grudging every pause Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head

Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.

At first she said no word, but lay quite still, Only her mouth was open, and her eyes Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; As though she asked, not with so much surprise

As tired disgust, what made them stand up there So cold and grey. After, a spasm took Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,

And rose till she was sitting in the bed, Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd As though she would have torn it from her head, Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd

It matter'd not whatever she might do: O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face!

Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;

Because at last she rose up from her bed, And put her raiment on, and knelt before The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said, Muttering the words against the marble floor:

'Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord, But go to h.e.l.l? and there see day by day Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word, For ever and ever, such as on the way

To Camelot I heard once from a churl, That curled me up upon my jennet's neck With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl For ages and for ages? dost thou reck

That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you And your dear mother? why did I forget You were so beautiful, and good, and true, That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet

If even I go to h.e.l.l, I cannot choose But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep,

Yet am I very sorry for my sin; Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that h.e.l.l, I am most fain to love you, and to win A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:

Speak to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet; Ah! now I weep!' The maid said, 'By the tomb He waiteth for you, lady,' coming fleet, Not knowing what woe filled up all the room.

So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there, He did not hear her coming, as he lay On Arthur's head, till some of her long hair Brush'd on the new-cut stone: 'Well done! to pray

For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king That ever lived.' 'Guenevere! Guenevere!

Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear

You are not Guenevere, but some other thing.'

'Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot!

I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling, G.o.d's curses, unto such as I am; not

Ever again shall we twine arms and lips.'

'Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord, Is very tight about her now, and grips Her poor heart, so that no right word

Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now, That she not knowing what she does, being mad, Kills me in this way; Guenevere, bend low And kiss me once! for G.o.d's love kiss me! sad

Though your face is, you look much kinder now; Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die.'

'Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow, Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily,

Across my husband's head, fair Launcelot!

Fair serpent mark'd with V upon the head!

This thing we did while yet he was alive, Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead?

Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can Remember anything for agony, Pray you remember how when the wind ran One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree,

And elm and oak about the palace there, The king came back from battle, and I stood To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair, My face made beautiful with my young blood.'

'Will she lie now, Lord G.o.d?' 'Remember too, Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came A royal bier, hung round with green and blue, About it shone great tapers with sick flame.

And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor, Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead, Not able to hold sword or sceptre more, But not quite grim; because his cloven head

Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword, Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up; So still it seem'd the face of a great lord, Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.

Also the heralds sung rejoicingly To their long trumpets; Fallen under shield, Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy, Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.

Thereat the people shouted: Launcelot!

And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh, You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not, But rather Arthur, G.o.d would not let die,

I hoped, these many years; he should grow great, And in his great arms still encircle me, Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat Of king's love for the queen I used to be.

Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand, When he had kissed me in his kingly way?

Saying: This is the knight whom all the land Calls Arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day;

Cherish him, love. Why did your long lips cleave In such strange way unto my fingers then?

So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave When you rose up? Why among helmed men

Could I always tell you by your long strong arms, And sway like an angel's in your saddle there?

Why sicken'd I so often with alarms Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair

Than aspens in the autumn at their best?

Why did you fill all lands with your great fame, So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest At turning of the way your shield should flame?

Was it nought then, my agony and strife?

When as day pa.s.sed by day, year after year, I found I could not live a righteous life!

Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear?

O, but your lips say: Yea, but she was cold Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring; When I was sad she would be overbold, Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring,

The back-toll'd bells of noisy Camelot.

'Now, Lord G.o.d, listen! listen, Guenevere, Though I am weak just now, I think there's not A man who dares to say: You hated her,

And left her moaning while you fought your fill In the daisied meadows! lo you her thin hand, That on the carven stone can not keep still, Because she loves me against G.o.d's command,

Has often been quite wet with tear on tear, Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where He will not be these ages.' 'Launcelot!

Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang, The noisy back-toll'd bells of Camelot, There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang In the lonely gardens where my love was not,

Where I was almost weeping; I dared not Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say, In t.i.ttering whispers: Where is Launcelot To wipe with some kerchief those tears away?

Another answer sharply with brows knit, And warning hand up, scarcely lower though: You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it, This tigress fair has claws, as I well know,

As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day!