Part 1 (1/2)

Accolon of Gaul.

by Madison J. Cawein.

PRELUDE.

Why, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naught Save this, alas! that once it seemed I thought I wandered dim with someone, but I knew Not who; most beautiful and good and true, Yet sad through suffering; with curl-crowned brow, Soft eyes and voice; so white she haunts me now:-- And when, and where?--At night in dreamland.

She Led me athwart a flower-showered lea Where trammeled puckered pansy and the pea; Spread stains of pale-rod poppies rinced of rain, So gorged with sun their hurt hearts ached with pain; Heaped honeysuckles; roses lavis.h.i.+ng beams, Wherein I knew were huddled little dreams Which laughed coy, hidden merriment and there Blew quick gay kisses fragrancing the air.

And where a river bubbled through the sward A mist lay sleepily; and it was hard To see whence sprung it, to what seas it led, How broadly spread and what it was it fled So ceasless in its sighs, and bickering on Into romance or some bewildering dawn Of wisest legend from the storied wells Of lost Baranton, where old Merlin dwells, Nodding a white poll and a grand, gray beard As if some Lake Ladye he, listening, heard, Who spake like water, danced like careful showers With blown gold curls thro' drifts of wild-thorn flowers; Loose, lazy arms in graceful movement tossed, Float flower-like down a woodland vista, lost In some peculiar note that wrings a tear Slow down his withered cheek. And then steals near Her sweet, lascivious brow's white wonderment, And gray rude eyes, and hair which hath the scent Of the wildwood Breceliand's perfumes In Brittany; and in it one red bloom's Blood-drop thrust deep, and so ”Sweet Viviane!”

All the glad leaves lisp like a young, soft rain From top to top, until a running surge The dark, witch-haunted solitude will urge, That shakes and sounds and stammers as from sleep Some giant were aroused; and with a leap A samite-gauzy creature, glossy white, Showers mocking kisses fast and, like a light Beat by a gust to flutter and then done, From Breceliande and Merlin she is gone.

But still he sits there drowsing with his dreams; A wondrous cohort hath he; many as gleams That stab the moted mazes of a beech; And each grave dream hath its own magic speech To sting to tears his old eyes heavy--two Hang, tangled brilliants, in his beard like dew: And still faint murmurs of courts brave and fair, And forms of Arthur and proud Guenevere, Grave Tristram and rare Isoud and stout Mark, Bold Launcelot, chaste Galahad the dark Of his weak mind, once strong, glares up with, then, --The instant's fostered blossoms--die again.

A roar of tournament, a rippling stir Of silken lists that ramble into her, That white witch-mothered beauty, Viviane, The vast Breceliande and dreams again.

Then Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, trips there, A waggish cunning; glittering on his hair A tinsel crown; and then will slightly sway Thick leaves and part, and there Morgane the Fay With haughty wicked eyes and lovely face Studies him steady for a little s.p.a.ce.

I.

”Thou askest with thy studious eyes again, Here where the restless forest hears the main Toss in a troubled sleep and moan. Ah, sweet, With joy and pa.s.sion the kind hour's replete; And what wild beauty here! where roughly run Huge forest shadows from the westering sun, The wood's a subdued power gentle as Yon tame wild-things, that in the moss and gra.s.s Gaze with their human eyes. Here grow the lines Of pale-starred green; and where yon fountain s.h.i.+nes Urned in its tremulous ferns, rest we upon This oak-trunk of G.o.d's thunder overthrown Years, years agone; not where 'tis rotted brown But where the thick bark's firm and overgrown Of clambering ivy blackly berried; where Wild musk of wood decay just tincts the air, As if some strange shrub on some whispering way, In some dewed dell, while dreaming of one May, In longing languor weakly tried to wake One sometime blossom and could only make Ghosts of such dead aromas as it knew, And shape a specter, budding thin as dew, To haunt these sounding miles of solitude.

Troubled thou askest, Morgane, and the mood, Unfathomed in thine eyes, glows rash and deep As that in some wild-woman's found on sleep By some lost knight upon a precipice, Whom he hath wakened with a laughing kiss.

As that of some frail, elfin lady white As if of watery moonbeams, filmy dight, Who waves diaphanous beauty on some cliff That drowsing purrs with moon-drenched pines; but if The lone knight follow, foul fiends rise and drag Him cras.h.i.+ng down, while she, tall on the crag, Triumphant mocks him with glad sorcery Till all the wildwood echoes shout with glee.

As that bewildering mystery of a tarn, Some mountain water, which the mornings scorn To anadem with fire and leave gray; To which some champion cometh when the Day Hath tired of breding on his proud, young head Flame-furry blooms and, golden chapleted, Sits rosy, trembling with full love for Night, Who cometh sandaled; dark in c.r.a.pe; the light Of her good eyes a marvel; her vast hair Tortuous with stars,--as in some shadowy lair The eyes of hunted wild things burn with rage,-- And on large bosoms doth his love a.s.suage.

”He, coming thither in that haunted place, Stoops low to quaff cool waters, when his face Meets gurgling fairy faces in a ring That jostle upward babbling; beckoning Him deep to wonders secret built of old By some dim witch: 'A city walled with gold, With beryl battlements and paved with pearls, Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls Of alabaster, and that witch to love, More beautiful to love than queens above.'-- He pauses troubled, but a wizard power, In all his bronzen harness that mad hour Plunges him--whither? what if he should miss Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?

Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon Saw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawn Him deep to plunge--and to what breathless fate?-- Bliss?--which, too true, he hath well quaffed of late!

But, there!--may come what stealthy-footed Death With bony claws to clutch away his breath!

And make him loveless to those eyes, alas!-- Fain must I speak that vision; thus it was:

”In sleep one plucked me some warm fleurs-de-lis, Larger than those of earth; and I might see Their woolly gold, loose, webby woven thro',-- Like fluffy flames spun,--gauzy with fine dew.

And 'asphodels!' I murmured; then, 'these sure The Eden amaranths, so angel pure That these alone may pluck them; aye and aye!

But with that giving, lo, she pa.s.sed away Beyond me on some misty, yearning brook With some sweet song, which all the wild air took With torn farewells and pensive melody Touching to tears, strange, hopeless utterly.

So merciless sweet that I yearned high to tear Those ingot-cored and gold-crowned lilies fair; Yet over me a horror which restrained With melancholy presence of two pained And awful, mighty eyes that cowed and held Me weeping while that sad dirge died or swelled Far, far on endless waters borne away: A wild bird's musick smitten when the ray Of dawn it burned for graced its drooping head, And the pale glory strengthened round it dead; Daggered of thorns it plunged on, blind in night, The slow blood ruby on its plumage white.

”Then, then I knew these blooms which she had given Were strays of parting grief and waifs of Heaven For tears and memories; too delicate For eyes of earth such souls immaculate!

But then--my G.o.d! my G.o.d! thus these were left!

I knew then still! but of that song bereft-- That rapturous wonder grasping after grief-- Beyond all thought--weak thought that would be thief.”

And bowed and wept into his hands and she Sorrowful beheld; and resting at her knee Raised slow her oblong lute and smote its chords; But ere the impulse saddened into words Said: ”And didst love me as thy lips have spake No visions wrought of sleep might such love shake.

Fast is all Love in fastness of his power, With flame reverberant moated stands his tower; Not so built as to c.h.i.n.k from fact a beam Of doubt and much less of a doubt from dream; _Such_, the alchemic fires of Love's desires, Which hug this like a snake, melt to gold wires To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres.”

So ceased and then, sad softness in her eye Sang to his dream a questioning reply:

”Will love grow less when dead the roguish Spring, Who from gay eyes sowed violets whispering; Peach petals in wild cheeks, wan-wasted thro'

Of withering grief, laid lovely 'neath the dew, Will love grow less?

”Will love grow less when comes queen Summer tall, Her throat a lily long and spiritual; Rich as the poppied swaths--droned haunts of bees-- Her cheeks, a brown maid's gleaning on the leas, Will love grow less?

”Will love grow less when Autumn sighing there Broods with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair; Tears in grave eyes as in grave heavens above, Deep lost in memories' melancholy, love, Will love grow less?

”Will love grow less when Winter at the door Begs on her scant locks icicles as h.o.a.r; While Death's eyes hollow o'er her shoulder dart A look to wring to tears then freeze the heart, Will love grow less?”

And in her hair wept softly and her breast Rose and was wet with tears; like as, distressed, Night steals on Day rain sobbing thro' her curls.

”Tho' tears become thee even as priceless pearls, Weep not for love's sake! mine no gloom of doubt, But woe for sweet love's death such dreams brought out.

Nay, nay; crowned, throned and flame-anointed he Kings our twin-kingdomed hearts eternally.

Love, high in Heaven beginning and to cease No majesty when hearts are laid at peace; But reign supreme, if souls have wrought as well, A G.o.d in Heaven or a G.o.d in h.e.l.l.

Yea, Morgane, for the favor of his face All our rich world of love I will retrace:

”Hurt in that battle where thy brother strove With those five kings thou wot'st of, dearest love, Wherein the five were worsted, I was brought To some king's castle on my s.h.i.+eld, methought,-- Out of the grind of spears and roar of swords, From the loud s.h.i.+elds of battle-b.l.o.o.d.y lords, Culled from the mountained slain where Havoc sprawled Gorged to her eyes with carnage, growling crawled;-- By some tall damsels tiremaids of some queen Stately and dark, who moved as if a sheen Of starlight spread her presence; and she came With healing herbs and searched my wounds. A dame So marvelous in raiment silvery I feared lest some attendant chaste were she To that high Holy Grael, which Arthur hath Sought ever widely by h.o.a.r wood and path;-- Thus not for me, a worldly one, to love, Who loved her even to wonder; skied above His wors.h.i.+p as our moon above the Main, That pa.s.sions upward yearning in great pain, And suffers wearily from year to year, She peaceful pitiless with virgin cheer.-- Ah, ideal love, as merciless as fate!