No More Learning

They all know in their hearts that
you are king. Go and conquer them as of old. "

So the king took his army by night and pushed upon Modred league after
league, until they reached the Western part of Lyonesse where the long
mountains ended in the moaning sea. There Modred's men could flee no
farther, so on the waste lands by the barren sea they began that last
dim weird battle of the West.

A white chill mist slept over all the land and water so that even Arthur
became confused since he could not see which were his friends and which
were his foes. Friends killed friends, some saw the faces of old ghosts
looking in upon the battle. Spears were splintered, shields were broken,
swords clashed, helmets were shattered, men shrieked and looked up to
heaven for help but saw only the white, white mists. There were cries
for light and moans.

At last toward the close of the day a hush fell over the whole shore; a
bitter wind from the North blew the mist aside and the pale king looked
across the battlefield. But no one was there only the waves breaking in
among the dead faces.

But bold Bedivere said: "My King! the man who hates you stands there,
Modred, the traitor of your house! "

"Don't call this traitor a person of my house," the king replied. "The
men of my house are not those who have lived under one roof with me, but
those who always call me their king. "

With that, Arthur dashed after Modred. Modred struck at the king's
helmet, which had grown thin with all his heathen wars. Arthur with his
sword Excalibur struck Modred dead, then fell down himself almost killed
with the wound through his helmet.

Sir Bedivere lifted him up and carried him to a chapel near by.

"Take my sword, Excalibur," said the King, "and fling it out into the
middle of the sea, watch what happens to it and then come back at once
and tell me. "

"It doesn't seem right to leave you all alone here," said Sir Bedivere,
"when you are wounded and ill, but since you wish me to go, I will, and
will do all that you have told me. "

He slipped away by zigzag paths, points and jutting rock to the shining
level of the sea. There he drew out the sword Excalibur. The winter moon
sparkled against its hilt and made it twinkle with its diamond sparks,
with myriads of topaz lights and fine jewelry work. Bedivere gazed so
long at it that both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, and he wondered
whether he ought to throw away so beautiful a thing. At last he decided
to hide it away among the water-flags that grew along shore.

"Did you do as I said? " asked the king, when he saw him. "What did you
see? "

"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds," said Sir Bedivere, "and the
wild water lapping on the rock. "

"You are not giving me a true answer," said the king, faint and pale.
"It's shameful for men to lie. Quickly go again and as you are true and
dear, do just as I bade you. Watch and bring me word. "

Then Sir Bedivere went the second time and paced up and down beside the
pebbly water, counting the dewey pebbles, but when he saw the wonderful
sword he clapped his hands together and cried:

"If I threw that sword away, a precious thing will be lost forever. The
King is ill; he does not know what he is doing. His great sword ought to
be kept, then in long years hereafter people will look at it at the
tournament and they will say: 'This was the great Arthur's sword
Excalibur which was made by the lonely lady of the Lake, working in the
deep sea for nine years. '"

So the second time he hid Excalibur and strode very slowly back to the
king.

"What did you see or what did you hear? " asked Arthur breathing very
heavily.

"I heard the water lapping on the rock and the long ripples washing in
the reeds. "

"Unkind! miserable! untrue! unknightly! " cried Arthur, filled with
anger. "I see what you are, for you are the only one left me of all the
knights, yet you would betray me for my sword, either to sell it or like
a girl, because you love its beauty. Go out now the third time and if
you do not throw out my sword Excalibur I'll get up and kill you with my
hands. "

At this Sir Bedivere sprang up like a flash and ran down leaping lightly
over the ridges, plunged into the beds of bulrushes, clutched the sword,
wheeled it round strongly and threw it as far as he could.

Excalibur made lightning in the moonlight as it flashed round and round
and whirled in an arch, shooting far out to the water. But before it
quite dipped into the sea an arm robed in white samite, mystic and
wonderful, rose out of the waves, caught it by the hilt, brandished it
three times and drew it under.

"Now I can see by your eyes that you have done it! " cried the King.
"Speak out; what have you seen or heard? "

"Sir King," cried Sir Bedivere, "I closed my eyes when I picked it up so
that I would not be turned from my purpose of throwing it into the
water, for I could live three lives, Sir King, and I wouldn't again see
such a wonderful thing as your sword. Sir, I threw it out with both
hands, wheeling it round and when I looked an arm robed in white samite
reached up out of the water and caught it by the hilt, brandished it
three times and drew it under. "

"Carry me to the shore," said the king.

[Illustration: AN ARM ROBED IN WHITE SAMITE. ]

So Bedivere lifted him up and walked as swiftly as he could from the
ridge, heavily, heavily down to the beach. As they reached the shore
they saw a black barge beside the water filled with stately people all
dressed in black. Among the people were three queens wearing crowns of
gold.

"Put me into the barge," cried Arthur.

So they came to the barge and the three queens held out their hands and
took the king.

The tallest and fairest of them held his head upon her lap loosed his
shattered helmet and chafed his hands, and moaned tenderly over him.

"Ah, my lord Arthur," cried Sir Bedivere, "where shall I go now? For
the old times are past now and the whole Round Table is broken. "

"Go and pray," cried the king. "Farewell, for I am going a very long way
to the lovely Island-valley of Avilion where it will never hail nor rain
nor snow, and where the loud winds never blow. It lies in deep meadows,
beautiful with lawns and fruit trees and flowery glens. "

Then the barge set sail and oar, and moved away from the shore.

"The king is gone! " groaned Bedivere.

He walked away from the shore and climbed up to the highest peaks and
ridges about him and looked far, far away. And from far away out beyond
the world he thought he heard sounds from a beautiful city as if every
one in it all together were welcoming a great King who had just come
back from his wars.

END.




Transcriber's Note:

Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.
There are inconsistencies with italicising text that refers to
illustrations. I have left these as in the original text.

Corrections made include the following:
p34. ecstacy => ecstasy
p37. meaintime => meantime
p52. magnificientn => magnificent
p66. Springly => Springing
p75. Geriant => Geraint
p90. jealously => jealousy
p100. though => through
p101. passed => past
p101. musn't => mustn't
p106. heathern => heathen
p106. Gunievere => Guinevere
p117. to => that
p146. Mordred => Modred






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Title: The Last Tournament

Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson

Posting Date: October 24, 2012 [EBook #7782]
Release Date: March, 2005
First Posted: May 16, 2003

Language: English


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST TOURNAMENT ***




Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team










THE LAST TOURNAMENT

BY

ALFRED TENNYSON, D. C. L. ,

POET-LAUREATE

AUTHOR'S EDITION

FROM ADVANCE SHEETS

This poem forms one of the "Idyls of the King. " Its place
is between "Pelleas" and "Guinevere. "

BY ALFRED TENNYSON,

POET LAUREATE

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall.
And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand,
And from the crown thereof a carcanet
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,
Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool? "

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead,
From roots like some black coil of carven snakes
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air
Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind
Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought
A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,
Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms
Received, and after loved it tenderly,
And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
A moment, and her cares; till that young life
Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold
Past from her; and in time the carcanet
Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
"Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize. "

To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne
Dead nestling, and this honor after death,
Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone,
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear. "

"Would rather ye had let them fall," she cried,
"Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were,
A bitterness to me! --ye look amazed,
Not knowing they were lost as soon as given--
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
Above the river--that unhappy child
Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go
With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,
But the sweet body of a maiden babe.
Perchance--who knows? --the purest of thy knights
May win them for the purest of my maids. "

She ended, and the cry of a great jousts
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways
From Camelot in among the faded fields
To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights
Arm'd for a day of glory before the King.

But on the hither side of that loud morn
Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose
Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off,
And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame,
A churl, to whom indignantly the King,
"My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend?
Man was it who marr'd Heaven's image in thee thus? "

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth,
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump
Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl,
"He took them and he drave them to his tower--
Some hold he was a table-knight of thine--
A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he--

"Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight
Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower;
And when I call'd upon thy name as one
That doest right by gentle and by churl,
Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain,
Save that he sware me to a message, saying--
'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I
Have founded my Round Table in the North,
And whatsoever his own knights have sworn
My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say
My tower is full of harlots, like his court,
But mine are worthier, seeing they profess
To be none other than themselves--and say
My knights are all adulterers like his own,
But mine are truer, seeing they profess
To be none other; and say his hour is come,
The heathen are upon him, his long lance
Broken, and his Excalibur a straw. '"

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal,
"Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously
Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole.
The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave,
Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam,
Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades,
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom
The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,--
Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now
Make their last head like Satan in the North.
My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds,
Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved,
The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore.
But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field;
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it,
Only to yield my Queen her own again?
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well? "

* * * * *

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well:
Yet better if the King abide, and leave
The leading of his younger knights to me.
Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well. "

* * * * *

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him,
And while they stood without the doors, the King
Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well?
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he
Of whom was written, 'a sound is in his ears'--
The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance
That only seems half-loyal to command,--
A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence--
Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd,
By noble deeds at one with noble vows,
From flat confusion and brute violences,
Reel back into the beast, and be no more? "

* * * * *

He spoke, and taking all his younger knights,
Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd
North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen,
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd.
Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme
Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows?
From the great deep to the great deep he goes. "

* * * * *

But when the morning of a tournament,
By these in earnest those in mockery call'd
The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,
Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey,
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose,
And down a streetway hung with folds of pure
White samite, and by fountains running wine,
Where children sat in white with cups of gold,
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps
Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair.

* * * * *

He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen
White-robed in honor of the stainless child,
And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank
Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
He lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again.

* * * * *

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll
Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf
And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume
Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one
Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,
When all the goodlier guests are past away,
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists.
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament
Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down
Before his throne of arbitration cursed
The dead babe and the follies of the King;
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd,
And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole,
Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard
The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar
An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,
But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest,
And armor'd all in forest green, whereon
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield
A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late
From overseas in Brittany return'd,
And marriage with a princess of that realm,
Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods--
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain
His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake
The burthen off his heart in one full shock
With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,
Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those,
That ware their ladies' colors on the casque,
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,
And there with gibes and nickering mockeries
Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven chests! O shame!
What faith have these in whom they sware to love?
The glory of our Round Table is no more. "

* * * * *

So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems,
Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won?
Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand
Wherewith thou takest this is red! " to whom
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood,
Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound?
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart
And might of limb, but mainly use and skill,
Are winners in this pastime of our King.
My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it--
No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight,
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield,
Great brother, thou nor I have made the world;
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine. "
And Tristram round the gallery made his horse
Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying,
"Fair damsels, each to him who worships each
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here. "
Then most of these were mute, some anger'd, one
Murmuring "All courtesy is dead," and one,
"The glory of our Round Table is no more. "

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day
Went glooming down in wet and weariness:
But under her black brows a swarthy dame
Laught shrilly, crying "Praise the patient saints,
Our one white day of Innocence hath past,
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.
The snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year,
Would make the world as blank as wintertide.
Come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our Queen's
And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity
With all the kindlier colors of the field. "

* * * * *

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale
Liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows,
And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers
Pass under white, till the warm hour returns
With veer of wind, and all are flowers again;"
So dame and damsel cast the simple white,
And glowing in all colors, the live grass,
Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced
About the revels, and with mirth so loud
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen,
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts,
Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord.

* * * * *

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool? "
Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied,
"Belike for lack of wiser company;
Or being fool, and seeing too much wit
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip
To know myself the wisest knight of all. "
"Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry
To dance without a catch, a roundelay
To dance to. " Then he twangled on his harp,
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood,
Quiet as any water-sodden log
Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook;
But when the twangling ended, skipt again;
Then being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool? "
Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years
Skip to the broken music of my brains
Than any broken music ye can make. "
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,
"Good now, what music have I broken, fool? "
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the king's;
For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,
Thou makest broken music with thy bride,
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany--
And so thou breakest Arthur's music too. "
"Save for that broken music in thy brains,
Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head.
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er,
The life had flown, we sware but by the shell--
I am but a fool to reason with a fool
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down,
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears,
And hearken if my music be not true.

"'Free love--free field--we love but while we may:
The woods are hush'd, their music is no more:
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away:
New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er:
New life, new love to suit the newer day:
New loves are sweet as those that went before:
Free love,--free field--we love but while we may. '

"Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune,
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods,
And found it ring as true as tested gold. "

But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand,
"Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday
Made to run wine? --but this had run itself
All out like a long life to a sour end--
And them that round it sat with golden cups
To hand the wine to whomsoever came--
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence,

"In honor of poor Innocence the babe,
Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen
Lent to the King, and Innocence the King
Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one,
'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank,
Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud. "
And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes?
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee? --
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool--
'Fear God: honor the king--his one true knight--
Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they
Who knew thee swine enow before I came,
Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart;
Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine,
A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still,
For I have flung thee pearls, and find thee swine. "

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet,
"Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck
In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls.
Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world
Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind
Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd--
I have had my day and my philosophies--
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool.
Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd
On such a wire as musically as thou
Some such fine song--but never a king's fool. "

And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard
Had such a mastery of his mystery
That he could harp his wife up out of Hell. "

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot,
"And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself
Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou,
That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven? "

And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King
Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights,
Glorying in each new glory, set his name
High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.