The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 57

With that he took and kiss'd the lady's hand, 70 The lady smiled, and Gawaine's heart grew bolder, When from the roof by some unseen command, Flash'd down a sword and smote him on the shoulder-- The knight leapt up, sore-bleeding from the stroke, While from the lattice caw'd the merriest croak!

Aghast he gazed--the sword within the roof 71 Again had vanish'd; nought was to be seen-- He felt his shoulder, and remain'd aloof.

"Fair dame," quoth he, "explain what this may mean."

The bride replied not, hid her face and wept; Slow to her side, with caution, Gawaine crept.

"Nay, weep not, sweetheart, but a scratch--no more," 72 He bent to kiss the dew-drops from his rose, When presto down the glaive enchanted sh.o.r.e-- Gawaine leapt back in time to save his nose.

"Ah, cruel father," groan'd the lady then, "I hoped, at least, thou wert content with ten!"

"Ten what?" said Gawaine.--"Gallant knights like thee, 73 Who fought and conquer'd my deceitful sire; Married, as thou, to miserable me, And doom'd, as thou, beneath the sword to expire-- By this device he gains their arms and steeds, So where force fails him, there the fraud succeeds."

"Foul felon host," the wrathful knight exclaims, 74 "Foul wizard bird, no doubt in league with him!

Have they no dread lest all good knights and dames Save fiends their task, and rend them limb from limb?

But thou for Gawaine ne'er shalt be a mourner, Thou keep the couch, and I--yon farthest corner!"

This said, the prudent knight on tiptoe stealing 75 Went from his bride as far as he could go, Then laid him down, intent upon the ceiling; Noses, once lost, no second crop will grow-- So watch'd Sir Gawaine, so the lady wept, Perch'd on the lattice-sill the raven slept.

Blithe rose the sun, and blither still Gawaine; 76 Steps climb the stair, a hand unbars the door-- "Saints," cries the host, and stares upon the twain, Amazed to see that living guest once more.-- "Did you sleep well?"--"Why, yes," replied the knight, "One gnat, indeed;--but gnats were made to bite.

"Man must leave insects to their insect law;-- 77 Now thanks, kind host, for board and bed and all-- Depart I must,"--the raven gave a caw.

"And I with thee," chimed in that damsel tall.

"Nay," said Gawaine, "I wend on ways of strife."

"Sir, hold your tongue--I choose it; I'm your wife."

With that the lady took him by the hand, 78 And led him, fall'n of crest, adown the stair; Buckled his mail, and girded on his brand, Brimm'd full the goblet, nor disdain'd to share-- The host saith nothing or to knight or bride; Forth comes the steed--a palfrey by its side.

Then Gawaine flung from the untasted board 79 His manchet to a hound with hungry face; Sprung to his selle, and wish'd, too late, that sword Had closed his miseries with a _coup de grace_.

They clear the walls, the open road they gain; The bride rode dauntless--daunted much Gawaine.

Gaily the fair discoursed on many things, 80 But most on those ten lords--his time before, Unhappy wights, who, as old Homer sings, Had gone, "Proiapsoi," to the Stygian sh.o.r.e; Then, each described and praised,--she smiled and said, "But one live dog is worth ten lions dead."

The knight prepared that proverb to refute. 81 When the bird beckon'd down a delving lane, And there the bride provoked a new dispute: That path was frightful--she preferr'd the plain.

"Dame," said the knight, "not I your steps compel-- Take thou the plain!--adieu! I take the dell."

"Ah, cruel lord," with gentle voice and mien 82 The lady murmur'd, and regain'd his side; "Little thou know'st of woman's faith, I ween, All paths alike save those that would divide; Ungrateful knight--too dearly loved!"--"But then,"

Falter'd Gawaine, "you said the same to _ten_!"

"Ah no; their deaths alone their lives endear'd 83 Slain for my sake, as I could die for thine;"

And while she spoke so lovely she appear'd The knight did, blissful, towards her cheek incline-- But, ere a tender kiss his thanks could say, A strong hand jerk'd the palfrey's neck away.

Unseen till then, from out the bosky dell 84 Had leapt a huge, black-brow'd, gigantic wight; Sudden he swung the lady from her selle, And seized that kiss defrauded from the knight, While, with loud voice and gest uncouth, he swore So fair a cheek he ne'er had kiss'd before!

With mickle wrath Sir Gawaine sprang from steed, 85 And, quite forgetful of his wonted parle, He did at once without a word proceed To make a ghost of that presuming carle.

The carle, nor ghost nor flesh inclined to yield, Took to his club, and made the bride his shield.

"Hold, stay thine hand!" the hapless lady cried, 86 As high in air the knight his falchion rears; The carle his laidly jaws distended wide, And--"Ho," he laugh'd, "for me the sweet one fears, Strike, if thou durst, and pierce two hearts in one, Or yield the prize--by love already won."

In high disdain, the knight of golden tongue 87 Look'd this way, that, revolving where to smite; Still as he look'd, and turn'd, the giant swung The unknightly buckler round from left to right.

Then said the carle--"What need of steel and strife?

A word in time may often save a life,

"This lady me prefers, or I mistake, 88 Most ladies like an honest hearty wooer; Abide the issue, she her choice shall make; Dare you, sir rival, leave the question to her?

If so, resheath your sword, remount your steed, I loose the lady, and retire."--"Agreed,"

Sir Gawaine answer'd--sure of the result, 89 And charm'd the fair so cheaply to deliver; But ladies' hearts are hidden and occult, Deep as the sea, and changeful as the river.

The carle released the fair, and left her free-- "Caw," said the raven, from the willow tree.

A winsome knight all know was fair Gawaine 90 (No knight more winsome shone in Arthur's court:) The carle's rough features were of homeliest grain, As shaped by Nature in burlesque and sport; The lady look'd and mused, and scann'd the two, Then made her choice--the carle had spoken true.

The knight forsaken, rubb'd astounded eyes, 91 Then touch'd his steed and slowly rode away-- "Bird," quoth Gawaine, as on the raven flies, "Be peace between us, from this blessed day; One single act has made me thine for life,-- Thou hast shown the path by which I lost a wife!"

While thus his grateful thought Sir Gawaine vents, 92 He hears, behind, the carle's Stentorian cries; He turns, he pales, he groans--"The carle repents!

No, by the saints, he keeps her or he dies!"

Here at his stirrups stands the panting wight-- "The lady's hound, restore the hound, sir knight."

"The hound," said Gawaine, much relieved, "what hound?" 93 And then perceived he that the dog he fed, With grateful steps the kindly guest had found, And there stood faithful.--"Friend," Sir Gawaine said, "What's just is just! the dog must have his due, The dame had hers, to choose between the two."

The carle demurr'd; but justice was so clear, 94 He'd nought to urge against the equal law; He calls the hound, the hound disdains to hear, He nears the hound, the hound expands his jaw; The fangs were strong and sharp, that jaw within, The carle drew back--"Sir knight, I fear you win."

"My friend," replies Gawaine, the ever bland, 95 "I took thy lesson, in return take mine; All human ties, alas, are ropes of sand, My lot to-day, to-morrow may be thine; But never yet the dog our bounty fed Betray'd the kindness, or forgot the bread."[5]

With that the courteous hand he gravely waved, 96 Nor deem'd it prudent longer to delay; Tempt not the reflow, from the ebb just saved!

He spurr'd his steed, and vanish'd from the way.

Sure of rebuke, and troubled in his mind, An alter'd man, the carle his fair rejoin'd,

That day the raven led the knight to dine 97 Where merry monks spread no abstemious board; Dainty the meat, and delicate the wine, Sir Gawaine felt his sprightlier self restored; When towards the eve the raven croak'd anew, And spread the wing for Gawaine to pursue.

With clouded brow the pliant knight obey'd, 98 And took his leave and quaff'd his stirrup cup; And briskly rode he through glen and glade, Till the fair moon, to speak in prose, was up; Then to the raven, now familiar grown, He said--"Friend bird, night's made for sleep, you'll own.

"This oak presents a choice of boughs for you, 99 For me a curtain and a gra.s.sy mound."

Straight to the oak the obedient raven flew, And croak'd with merry, yet malignant sound.

The luckless knight thought nothing of the croak, And laid him down beneath the Fairy's Oak.

Of evil fame was Nannau's antique tree, 100 Yet styled "the hollow oak of demon race;"[6]

But blithe Gwyn ab Nudd's elfin family Were the gay demons of the slander'd place; And ne'er in scene more elfin, near and far, On dancing fairies glanced the smiling star.

Whether thy chafing torrents, rock-born Caine, 101 Flash through the delicate birch and glossy elm, Or prison'd Mawddach[7] clangs his triple chain Of waters, fleeing to the happier realm, Where his course broad'ning smiles along the land;-- So souls grow tranquil as their thoughts expand.

High over subject vales the brow serene 102 Of the lone mountain look'd on moonlit skies; Wide glades far opening into swards of green, With shimmering foliage of a thousand dyes, And tedded tufts of heath, and ivyed boles Of trees, and wild flowers scenting bosky knolls.

And herds of deer as slight as Jura's roe,[8] 103 Or Iran's shy gazelle, on sheenest places, Group'd still, or flitted the far alleys through; The fairy quarry for the fairy chaces; Or wheel'd the bat, brushing o'er brake and scaur, Lured by the moth, as lures the moth the star.

Sir Gawaine slept--Sir Gawaine slept not long, 104 His ears were tickled, and his nose was tweak'd; Light feet ran quick his stalwart limbs along, Light fingers pinch'd him, and light voices squeak'd.

He oped his eyes, the left and then the right, Fair was the scene, and hideous was his fright!

The tiny people swarm around, and o'er him, 105 Here on his breast they lead the morris-dance, There, in each ray diagonal before him, They wheel, leap, pirouette, caper, shoot askance, Climb row on row each other's pea-green shoulder, And point and mow upon the shock'd beholder.

And some had faces lovelier than Cupido's, 106 With rose-bud lips, all dimpling o'er with glee; And some had brows as ominous as Dido's, When Ilion's pious traitor put to sea; Some had bull heads, some lions', but in small, And some (the finer drest) no heads at all.