A Legend of Camelot, Pictures and Poems, etc/A Legend of Camelot
A Legend of Camelot.
Part 1.
TALL Braunighrindas left her bed
At cock-crow with an aching head.
O miserie!
"I yearn to suffer and to do,"
She cried, "ere sunset, something new!
O miserie!
To do and suffer, ere I die,
I care not what. I know not why.
O miserie!
Some quest I crave to undertake,
Or burden bear, or trouble make."
O miserie!
She shook her hair about her form
In waves of colour bright and warm.
O miserie!
It rolled and writhed, and reached the floor:
A silver wedding-ring she wore.
O miserie!
She left her tower, and wandered down
Into the High Street of the town.
O miserie!
Her pale feet glimmered, in and out,
Like tombstones as she went about.
O miserie!
From right to left, and left to right;
And blue veins streakt her insteps white;
O miserie!
And folks did ask her in the street
"How fared it with her long pale feet?"
O miserie!
And blinkt, as though 'twere hard to bear
The red-heat of her blazing hair!
O miserie!
Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot
Came hand-in-hand down Camelot;
O miserie!
Sir Gauwaine followed close behind;
A weight hung heavy on his mind.
O miserie!
"Who knows this damsel, burning bright,"
Quoth Launcelot, "like a northern light"?
O miserie!
Quoth Sir Gauwaine: "I know her not!"
"Who quoth you did?" quoth Launcelot.
O miserie!
"'Tis Braunighrindas!" quoth Sir Bors.
(Just then returning from the wars.)
O miserie!
Then quoth the pure Sir Galahad:
"She seems, methinks, but lightly clad!
O miserie!
The winds blow somewhat chill to-day.
Moreover, what would Arthur say!"
O miserie!
She thrust her chin towards Galahad
Full many an inch beyond her head. . . .
O miserie!
But when she noted Sir Gauwaine
She wept, and drew it in again!
O miserie!
She wept: "How beautiful am I!"
He shook the poplars with a sigh.
O miserie!
Sir Launcelot was standing near;
Him kist he thrice behind the ear.
O miserie!
"Ah me!" sighed Launcelot where he stood,
"I cannot fathom it!" . . . (who could?)
O miserie!
Hard by his wares a weaver wove,
And weaving with a will, he throve;
O miserie!
Him beckoned Galahad, and said,—
"Gaunt Braunighrindas wants your aid . . .
O miserie!
Behold the wild growth from her nape!
Good weaver, weave it into shape!"
O miserie!
The weaver straightway to his loom
Did lead her, whilst the knights made room;
O miserie!
And wove her locks, both web and woof,
And made them wind and waterproof;
O miserie!
Then with his shears he opened wide
An arm-hole neat on either side,
O miserie!
And bound her with his handkerchief
Right round the middle like a sheaf.
O miserie!
"Are you content, knight?" quoth Sir Bors
To Galahad; quoth he, "Of course!"
O miserie!
"Ah, me! those locks," quoth Sir Gauwaine,
"Will never know the comb again!"
O miserie!
The bold Sir Launcelot quoth he nought;
So (haply) all the more he thought.
O miserie!
Part 2.
AN one-eyed Eastern past, who sold,
And bought, and bartered garments old;
O miserie!
His yellow garb did show the thread,
A triple head-dress crowned his head;
O miserie!
And, ever and anon, his throat,
Thick-bearded, gave a solemn note;
O miserie!
The knights were gathered in a knot;
Rapt in a trance, they heard him not;
O miserie!
Before them Braunighrindas stood
In native growth of gown and hood;
O miserie!
Fresh from a cunning weaver's hand,
She lookt, not gaudy, but so grand!
O miserie!
Not gaudy, gentles, but so neat!
For chaste and knightly eyes a treat!
O miserie!
The Pilgrim eyed her shapely dress
With curious eye to business:
O miserie!
Then whispered he to Launcelot,
"I'll give five shekels for the lot!"
O miserie!
Gauwaine his battle-axe he drew . . .
Once and again he clove him through!
O miserie!
"No man of many words am I!"
Quoth he, and wope his weapon dry.
O miserie!
A butcher caught the sounds and said,
"There go two cracks upon one head!"
O miserie!
A baker whispered in his fun:
"Butcher, more heads are crackt than one!"
O miserie!
"The moon is up to many tricks!"
Quoth he who made the candlesticks! . . .
O miserie!
Dead-limp, the unbeliever lay
Athwart the flags and stopt the way. . . .
O miserie!
The bold Sir Launcelot mused a bit,
And smole a bitter smile at it.
O miserie!
Gauwaine, he gave his orders brief:—
"Manants: emportez-moi ce Juif!"
O miserie!
Some heard the knight not: they that heard
Made answer to him none, nor stirred.
O miserie!
But Braunighrindas was not dumb;
Her opportunity had come.
O miserie!
Her accents tinkled ivory-sweet—
"Je vays l'emporter tout de suite!" . . .
O miserie!
She bowed her body, slenderly,
And lifted him full tenderly:
O miserie!
Full silverly her stretchèd throat
Intoned the wonted Hebrew note:
O miserie!
Right broke-in-halfenly she bent;
Jew-laden on her way she went!
O miserie!
The knights all left her one by one,
And, leaving, cried in unison—
O miserie!
"Voyez ce vilain Juif qui pend
Par derrière et par devant!" . . .
O miserie!
Yet bearing it she journeyed forth,
Selecting north-north-east by north.
O miserie!
The knights (most wisely) with one mouth,
Selected south-south-west by south.
O miserie!
The butcher, baker, and the rest,
Said, "Let them go where they like best!"
O miserie!
And many a wink they wunk, and shook
Their heads; but furthermore they took
O miserie!
No note: it was a way they had,
In Camelot, when folks went mad. . . .
O miserie!
Part 3.
SHE bore her burden all that day
Half-faint; the unconverted clay
O miserie!
A burden grew, beneath the sun,
In many a manner more than one.
O miserie!
Half-faint the whitening road along
She bore it, singing (in her song)—
O miserie!
"The locks you loved, Gauwaine, Gauwaine,
Will never know the comb again! . . .
The man you slew, Gauwaine, Gauwaine,
Will never come to life again!
So when they do, Gauwaine, Gauwaine,
Then take me back to town again!" . . .
The shepherds gazed, but marvelled not;
They knew the ways of Camelot!
O miserie!
She heeded neither man nor beast:
Her shadow lengthened toward the east.
O miserie!
A little castle she drew nigh,
With seven towers twelve inches high. . . .
O miserie!
A baby castle, all a-flame
With many a flower that hath no name.
O miserie!
It had a little moat all round:
A little drawbridge too she found,
O miserie!
On which there stood a stately maid,
Like her in radiant locks arrayed . . .
O miserie!
Save that her locks grew rank and wild,
By weaver's shuttle undefiled! . . .
O miserie!
Who held her brush and comb, as if
Her faltering hands had waxèd stiff
O miserie!
With baulkt endeavour! whence she sung
A chant, the burden whereof rung:
O miserie!
"These hands have striven in vain
To part
These locks that won Gauwaine
His heart!"
All breathless, Braunighrindas stopt
To listen, and her load she dropt,
O miserie!
And rolled in wonder wild and blear
The whites of her eyes grown green with fear:
O miserie!
—"What is your name, young person, pray?"
—"Knights call me Fidele-strynges-le-Fay."
O miserie!
—"You wear a wedding-ring, I see!"
—"I do . . . Gauwaine he gave it me" . . .
O miserie!
—"Are you Gauwaine his wedded spouse?
Is this Gauwaine his . . . country-house?"
O miserie!
—"I am . . . it is . . . we are . . . oh who,
That you should greet me thus, are you?"
O miserie!
—"I am ANOTHER! . . . since the morn
The fourth month of the year was born!" . . .
O miserie!
—"What! that which followed when the last
Bleak night of bitter March had past?" . . .
O miserie!
—"The same."—"That day for both hath done!
And you, and he, and I, are ONE!" . . .
O miserie!
Then hand in hand, most woefully,
They went, the willows weeping nigh;
O miserie!
Left hand in left was left to cling!
On each a silver wedding-ring.
O miserie!
And having walkt a little space,
They halted, each one in her place:
O miserie!
And chanted loud a wondrous plaint
Well chosen: wild, one-noted, quaint:
O miserie!
"Heigho! the Wind and the Rain!
The Moon's at the Full, Gauwaine, Gauwaine
Heigho! the Wind and the Rain
On gold-hair woven, and gold-hair plain!
Heigho! the Wind and the Rain!
Oh when shall we Three meet again!"
Atween the river and the wood,
Knee-deep 'mid whispering reeds they stood:
O miserie!
The green earth oozing soft and dank
Beneath them, soakt and suckt and sank! . . .
O miserie!
Yet soak-and-suck-and-sink or not,
They, chanting, craned towards Camelot. . . .
O miserie!
Part 4.
THE pale wet moon did rise and ride,
O'er misty wolds and marshes wide.
O miserie!
Sad earth slept underneath the yew,
Lapt in the death-sweat men call dew.
O miserie!
O raven ringlets, ringing wet!
O bright eye rolling black as jet!
O miserie!
O matted locks about the chin!
O towering head-piece, battered in!
O miserie!
Three hats that fit each other tight,
Are worth the helmet of a knight!
O miserie!
He rose all shapeless from the mud,
His yellow garb was stained with blood;
O miserie!
"Vat ish thish schwimming in mine head?
Thish turning round and round?" he said.
O miserie!
He took three paces through the night,
He saw red gold that glittered bright!
O miserie!
Two Royal Heads of Hair he saw!
And One was Woven, and One was Raw!
O miserie!
"O Sholomon! if there ain't a pair
Of dead young damshels shinking there!
O Moshesh! vat a precioush lot
Of beautiful red hair they've got!
The prishe of it would compenshate
Most handshome for my broken pate!
How much their upper lipsh do pout!
How very much their chins shtick out!
How dreadful shtrange they shtare! they sheem
Half to be dead, and half to dream!
The Camelot peoplesh alvaysh try
To look like that! I vonder vy?
Yet each hath got a lovely fashe!
Good Father Jacob shend them grashe!
O Jacob! blesh the lovely light,
That lit the moon that shtruck the knight,
That married the maid that carried the Jew,
That shold (as he intensh to do)
The golden locks and shilver rings
Of Braunighrinde and Fiddleshtrings!"
O miserie!
Thus having given thanks, he drew
His two-fold weapon cutting true;
O miserie!
And close he dipt, and clean and clear,
From crown and temple, nape and ear.
O miserie!
The wind in pity soughed and sighed!
The river beat the river side!
O miserie!
The willows wept to stand and see
The sweetest, softest heads that be,
O miserie!
In ghastliest baldness gleam dead-white,
And sink unhallowed out of sight!
O miserie!
But, lo, you! Ere kind earth could fold
Their shame within its bosom cold,
O miserie!
The moon had laught in mockery down,
And stampt a high-light on each crown!! . . .
O miserie!
Thrice muttering deep his mystic note,
The stillness of the night he smote:
O miserie!
Then, with a treasure dangling slack
From either shoulder adown his back,
O miserie!
He, whistling in his whistle, strode,
Nor felt he faint upon the road!
O miserie!
You may be sure that it was not
The road that leads to Camelot!
O miserie!
Part 5.
THE castle weeds have grown so tall
Knights cannot see the red brick wall.
O miserie!
The little drawbridge hangs awry,
The little flowery moat is dry!
O miserie!
And the wind, it soughs and sighs alway
Through the grey willows, night and day!
O miserie!
And evermore two willows there
Do weep, whose boughs are always bare:
O miserie!
At all times weep they, in and out
Of season, turn and turn about!
O miserie!
But later, when the year doth fall,
And other willows, one and all,
O miserie!
In yellowing and dishevelled leaf
Sway haggard with their autumn grief,
O miserie!
Then do these leafless willows now
Put forth a rosebud from each bough!
O miserie!
What time Gauwaine, with spurless heels,
Barefoot (but not bare-headed) kneels
O miserie!
Between! . . . as fits a bigamous knight
Twice widowed in a single night:
O miserie!
And then, for that promiscuous way
Of axing Hebrews in broad day,
O miserie!
He ever uttereth a note
Of Eastern origin remote. . . .
O miserie!
A well-known monochord, that tells
Of one who, wandering, buys and sells!
O miserie!
What time the knights and damsels fair
Of Arthur's court come trooping there,
O miserie!
They come in dresses of dark green,
Two damsels take a knight between:
O miserie!
One sad and sallow knight is fixt
Dyspeptic damsels twain betwixt!
O miserie!
They speak not, but their weary eyes
And wan white eyelids droop and rise
O miserie!
With dim dead gaze of mystic woe!
They always take their pleasure so
O miserie!
In Camelot. . . . It doth not lie
With us to ask, or answer, why!
O miserie!
Yet, seeing them so fair and good,
Fain would we cheer them, if we could!
O miserie!
And every time they find a bud,
They pluck it, and it bleeds red blood.
O miserie!
And when they pluck a full-blown rose,
And breathe the same, its colour goes!
O miserie!
But with Gauwaine alone at night,
The willows dance in their delight!
O miserie!
The rosebuds wriggle in their bliss,
And lift them for his lips to kiss!
O miserie!
And if he kiss a rose instead,
It blushes of a deeper red!
O miserie!
And if he like it, let him be!
It makes no odds to you or me!
O miserie!
O many-headed multitude,
Who read these rhymes that run so rude,
O miserie!
Strive not to fathom their intent!
But say your prayers, and rest content
O miserie!
That, notwithstanding those two cracks
He got from Gauwaine's battle-axe,
O miserie!
The Hebrew had the best of it!
So, Gentles, let us rest a bit.
O miserie!
