The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 6

Fair friends and gentle lady, G.o.d you save!

A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has G.o.d's body ever been in sight?

SIR BORS.

Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,

With many-colour'd raiment, but far off; And so pa.s.s'd quickly: from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with j.a.pe and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood

Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest

Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, Perhaps is dead now; everywhere The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; In vain they struggle for the vision fair.

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS

SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY. SIR GALAHAD. SIR BORS DE GANYS.

SIR OZANA.

All day long and every day, From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, Within that Chapel-aisle I lay, And no man came a-near.

Naked to the waist was I, And deep within my breast did lie, Though no man any blood could spy, The truncheon of a spear.

No meat did ever pa.s.s my lips Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips From off the gilded parclose, dips, And night comes on apace.

My arms lay back behind my head; Over my raised-up knees was spread A samite cloth of white and red; A rose lay on my face.

Many a time I tried to shout; But as in dream of battle-rout, My frozen speech would not well out; I could not even weep.

With inward sigh I see the sun Fade off the pillars one by one, My heart faints when the day is done, Because I cannot sleep.

Sometimes strange thoughts pa.s.s through my head; Not like a tomb is this my bed, Yet oft I think that I am dead; That round my tomb is writ,

'Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, of your part; A true knight he was found.'

Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. [_He sleeps._

SIR GALAHAD.

All day long and every day, Till his madness pa.s.s'd away, I watch'd Ozana as he lay Within the gilded screen.

All my singing moved him not; As I sung my heart grew hot, With the thought of Launcelot Far away, I ween.

So I went a little s.p.a.ce From out the chapel, bathed my face In the stream that runs apace By the churchyard wall.

There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, Hard by where the linden grows, Sighing over silver rows Of the lilies tall.

I laid the flower across his mouth; The sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth; He smiled, turn'd round towards the south.

Held up a golden tress.

The light smote on it from the west; He drew the covering from his breast, Against his heart that hair he prest; Death him soon will bless.

SIR BORS.

I enter'd by the western door; I saw a knight's helm lying there: I raised my eyes from off the floor, And caught the gleaming of his hair.

I stept full softly up to him; I laid my chin upon his head; I felt him smile; my eyes did swim, I was so glad he was not dead.

I heard Ozana murmur low, 'There comes no sleep nor any love.'

But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.

SIR OZANA.

There comes no sleep nor any love; Ah me! I shiver with delight.

I am so weak I cannot move; G.o.d move me to thee, dear, to-night!

Christ help! I have but little wit: My life went wrong; I see it writ,

'Ozana of the hardy heart, Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part; A good knight he was found.'

Now I begin to fathom it. [_He dies._

SIR BORS.

Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?

On his soul, Lord, have mercy.

SIR GALAHAD.

Ozana, shall I pray for thee?

Her cheek is laid to thine; No long time hence, also I see Thy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hair That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air Against the jasper sea.

SIR PETER HARPDON'S END

SIR PETER HARPDON'S END