"'For no man cares now to know why I sigh; And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie

"'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot; that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs

"'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me?

What thing could keep true Launcelot away If I said 'Come?' there was one less than three

"In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea

"I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless too, for a little while; Then I remember how I tried to shriek,

"And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head And made me dizzier; till within a while

"My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said--

"By G.o.d! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will--what matters it?

You know quite well the story of that fray,

"How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit That caught up Gauwaine--all, all, verily, But just that which would save me; these things flit.

"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happen'd these long years, G.o.d knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!

"All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears."

She would not speak another word, but stood Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears

His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foe's lances. She lean'd eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could

At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON.

SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_.

This castle where I dwell, it stands A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees.

But down the Valley of the Rose My lady often hawking goes, Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, Leaning towards the western wind, Because it bringeth to her mind Sad whisperings of happy times, The face of him who sings these rhymes.

King Guilbert rides beside her there, Bends low and calls her very fair, And strives, by pulling down his hair, To hide from my dear lady's ken The grisly gash I gave him, when I cut him down at Camelot; However he strives, he hides it not, That tourney will not be forgot, Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, Whatever he says she answers not.

Now tell me, you that are in love, From the king's son to the wood-dove, Which is the better, he or I?

For this king means that I should die In this lone Pagan castle, where The flowers droop in the bad air On the September evening.

Look, now I take mine ease and sing, Counting as but a little thing The foolish spite of a bad king.

For these vile things that hem me in, These Pagan beasts who live in sin, The sickly flowers pale and wan, The grim blue-bearded castellan, The stanchions half worn-out with rust, Whereto their banner vile they trust-- Why, all these things I hold them just Like dragons in a missal book, Wherein, whenever we may look, We see no horror, yea, delight We have, the colours are so bright; Likewise we note the specks of white, And the great plates of burnish'd gold.

Just so this Pagan castle old, And everything I can see there, Sick-pining in the marshland air, I note; I will go over now, Like one who paints with knitted brow, The flowers and all things one by one, From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.

Four great walls, and a little one That leads down to the barbican, Which walls with many spears they man, When news comes to the castellan Of Launcelot being in the land.

And as I sit here, close at hand Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand, The castellan with a long wand Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye, And fingers twisted in his beard-- Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?

I have a hope makes me afeard: It cannot be, but if some dream Just for a minute made me deem I saw among the flowers there My lady's face with long red hair, Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come, As I was wont to see her some Fading September afternoon, And kiss me, saying nothing, soon To leave me by myself again; Could I get this by longing: vain!

The castellan is gone: I see On one broad yellow flower a bee Drunk with much honey-- Christ! again, Some distant knight's voice brings me pain, I thought I had forgot to feel, I never heard the blissful steel These ten years past; year after year, Through all my hopeless sojourn here, No Christian pennon has been near; Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws on Over the marches, battle won, Knights' shouts, and axes hammering, Yea, quicker now the dint and ring Of flying hoofs; ah, castellan, When they come back count man for man, Say whom you miss.

The PAGANS, _from the battlements_.

Mahmoud to aid!

Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?

The PAGANS, _from without_.

Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot, Who follows quick upon us, hot And shouting with his men-at-arms.

SIR GUY.

Also the Pagans raise alarms, And ring the bells for fear; at last My prison walls will be well past.

SIR LAUNCELOT, _from outside_.

Ho! in the name of the Trinity, Let down the drawbridge quick to me, And open doors, that I may see Guy the good knight.

The PAGANS, _from the battlements_.

Nay, Launcelot, With mere big words ye win us not.

SIR LAUNCELOT.

Bid Miles bring up la perriere, And archers clear the vile walls there, Bring back the notches to the ear, Shoot well together! G.o.d to aid!

These miscreants shall be well paid.

Hurrah! all goes together; Miles Is good to win my lady's smiles For his good shooting--Launcelot!

On knights a-pace! this game is hot!

SIR GUY _sayeth afterwards_.

I said, I go to meet her now, And saying so, I felt a blow From some clench'd hand across my brow, And fell down on the sunflowers Just as a hammering smote my ears, After which this I felt in sooth; My bare hands throttling without ruth The hairy-throated castellan; Then a grim fight with those that ran To slay me, while I shouted, "G.o.d For the Lady Mary!" deep I trod That evening in my own red blood; Nevertheless so stiff I stood, That when the knights burst the old wood Of the castle-doors, I was not dead.

I kiss the Lady Mary's head, Her lips, and her hair golden red, Because to-day we have been wed.

SHAMEFUL DEATH.