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PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON

THE TALE OF BALEN

BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1896

Copyright in the United States, 1896, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

DEDICATION

TO MY MOTHER

Love that holds life and death in fee, Deep as the clear unsounded sea And sweet as life or death can be, Lays here my hope, my heart, and me Before you, silent, in a song. Since the old wild tale, made new, found grace, When half sung through, before your face, It needs must live a springtide space, While April suns grow strong.

THE TALE OF BALEN

In hawthorn-time the heart grows light, The world is sweet in sound and sight, Glad thoughts and birds take flower and flight, The heather kindles toward the light, The whin is frankincense and flame. And be it for strife or be it for love The falcon quickens as the dove When earth is touched from heaven above With joy that knows no name.

And glad in spirit and sad in soul With dream and doubt of days that roll As waves that race and find no goal Rode on by bush and brake and bole A northern child of earth and sea. The pride of life before him lay Radiant: the heavens of night and day Shone less than shone before his way His ways and days to be.

And all his life of blood and breath Sang out within him: time and death Were even as words a dreamer saith When sleep within him slackeneth, And light and life and spring were one. The steed between his knees that sprang, The moors and woods that shone and sang, The hours where through the spring's breath rang, Seemed ageless as the sun.

But alway through the bounteous bloom That earth gives thanks if heaven illume His soul forefelt a shadow of doom, His heart foreknew a gloomier gloom Than closes all men's equal ways, Albeit the spirit of life's light spring With pride of heart upheld him, king And lord of hours like snakes that sting And nights that darken days.

And as the strong spring round him grew Stronger, and all blithe winds that blew Blither, and flowers that flowered anew More glad of sun and air and dew, The shadow lightened on his soul And brightened into death and died Like winter, as the bloom waxed wide From woodside on to riverside And southward goal to goal.

And down the softening south that knows No more how glad the heather glows, Nor how, when winter's clarion blows Across the bright Northumbrian snows, Sea-mists from east and westward meet, Past Avon senseless yet of song And Thames that bore but swans in throng He rode elate in heart and strong In trust of days as sweet.

So came he through to Camelot, Glad, though for shame his heart waxed hot, For hope within it withered not To see the shaft it dreamed of shot Fair toward the glimmering goal of fame, And all King Arthur's knightliest there Approved him knightly, swift to dare And keen to bid their records bear Sir Balen's northern name.

Sir Balen of Northumberland Gat grace before the king to stand High as his heart was, and his hand Wrought honour toward the strange north strand That sent him south so goodly a knight. And envy, sick with sense of sin, Began as poisonous herbs begin To work in base men's blood, akin To men's of nobler might.

And even so fell it that his doom, For all his bright life's kindling bloom And light that took no thought for gloom, Fell as a breath from the opening tomb Full on him ere he wist or thought. For once a churl of royal seed, King Arthur's kinsman, faint in deed And loud in word that knew not heed, Spake shame where shame was nought.

"What doth one here in Camelot Whose birth was northward? Wot we not As all his brethren borderers wot How blind of heart, how keen and hot, The wild north lives and hates the south? Men of the narrowing march that knows Nought save the strength of storms and snows, What would these carles where knighthood blows A trump of kinglike mouth?"

Swift from his place leapt Balen, smote The liar across his face, and wrote His wrath in blood upon the bloat Brute cheek that challenged shame for note How vile a king-born knave might be. Forth sprang their swords, and Balen slew The knave ere well one witness knew Of all that round them stood or drew What sight was there to see.

Then spake the great king's wrathful will A doom for six dark months to fill Wherein close prison held him, still And steadfast-souled for good or ill. But when those weary days lay dead His lordliest knights and barons spake Before the king for Balen's sake Good speech and wise, of force to break The bonds that bowed his head.

In linden-time the heart is high For pride of summer passing by With lordly laughter in her eye; A heavy splendour in the sky Uplifts and bows it down again. The spring had waned from wood and wold Since Balen left his prison hold And lowlier-hearted than of old Beheld it wax and wane.

Though humble heart and poor array Kept not from spirit and sense away Their noble nature, nor could slay The pride they bade but pause and stay Till time should bring its trust to flower, Yet even for noble shame's sake, born Of hope that smiled on hate and scorn, He held him still as earth ere morn Ring forth her rapturous hour.

But even as earth when dawn takes flight And beats her wings of dewy light Full in the faltering face of night, His soul awoke to claim by right The life and death of deed and doom, When once before the king there came A maiden clad with grief and shame And anguish burning her like flame That feeds on flowers in bloom.

Beneath a royal mantle, fair With goodly work of lustrous vair, Girt fast against her side she bare A sword whose weight bade all men there Quail to behold her face again. Save of a passing perfect knight Not great alone in force and fight It might not be for any might Drawn forth, and end her pain.

Again she spake: "No need to set The might that man has matched not yet Against it: he whose hand shall get Grace to release the bonds that fret My bosom and my girdlestead With little strain of strength or strife Shall bring me as from death to life And win to sister or to wife Fame that outlives men dead."

Then Lamoracke, with hardier cheer, As one that held all hope and fear Wherethrough the spirit of man may steer In life and death less dark or dear, Laid hand thereon, and fared as they. With half a smile his hand he drew Back from the spell-bound thing, and threw With half a glance his heart anew Toward no such blameless may.

Between Iseult and Guenevere Sat one of name as high to hear, But darklier doomed than they whose cheer Foreshowed not yet the deadlier year That bids the queenliest head bow down, The queen Morgause of Orkney: they With scarce a flash of the eye could say The very word of dawn, when day Gives earth and heaven their crown.

But bright and dark as night or noon And lowering as a storm-flushed moon When clouds and thwarting winds distune The music of the midnight, soon To die from darkening star to star And leave a silence in the skies That yearns till dawn find voice and rise, Shone strange as fate Morgause, with eyes That dwelt on days afar.

A glance that shot on Lamoracke As from a storm-cloud bright and black. Fire swift and blind as death's own track Turned fleet as flame on Arthur back From him whose hand forsook the hilt: And one in blood and one in sin Their hearts caught fire of pain within And knew no goal for them to win But death that guerdons guilt.

Then Gawain, sweet of soul and gay As April ere he dreams of May, Strove, and prevailed not: then Sir Kay, The snake-souled envier, vile as they That fawn and foam and lurk and lie, Sire of the bastard band whose brood Was alway found at servile feud With honour, faint and false and lewd, Scarce grasped and put it by.

Then wept for woe the damsel bound With iron and with anguish round, That none to help her grief was found Or loose the inextricably inwound Grim curse that girt her life with grief And made a burden of her breath, Harsh as the bitterness of death. Then spake the king as one that saith Words bitterer even than brief.

"Methought the wide round world could bring Before the face of queen or king No knights more fit for fame to sing Than fill this full Round Table's ring With honour higher than pride of place: But now my heart is wrung to know, Damsel, that none whom fame can show Finds grace to heal or help thy woe: God gives them not the grace."

Then from the lowliest place thereby, With heart-enkindled cheek and eye Most like the star and kindling sky That say the sundawn's hour is high When rapture trembles through the sea, Strode Balen in his poor array Forth, and took heart of grace to pray The damsel suffer even him to assay His power to set her free.

Nay, how should he avail, she said, Averse with scorn-averted head, Where these availed not? none had sped Of all these mightier men that led The lists wherein he might not ride, And how should less men speed? But he, With lordlier pride of courtesy, Put forth his hand and set her free From pain and humbled pride.

But on the sword he gazed elate With hope set higher than fear or fate, Or doubt of darkling days in wait; And when her thankful praise waxed great And craved of him the sword again, He would not give it. "Nay, for mine It is till force may make it thine." A smile that shone as death may shine Spake toward him bale and bane.

Strange lightning flickered from her eyes. "Gentle and good in knightliest guise And meet for quest of strange emprise Thou hast here approved thee: yet not wise To keep the sword from me, I wis. For with it thou shalt surely slay Of all that look upon the day The man best loved of thee, and lay Thine own life down for his."

"What chance God sends, that chance I take," He said. Then soft and still she spake; "I would but for thine only sake Have back the sword of thee, and break The links of doom that bind thee round. But seeing thou wilt not have it so, My heart for thine is wrung with woe." "God's will," quoth he, "it is, we know, Wherewith our lives are bound."

"Repent it must thou soon," she said, "Who wouldst not hear the rede I read For thine and not for my sake, sped In vain as waters heavenward shed From springs that falter and depart Earthward. God bids not thee believe Truth, and the web thy life must weave For even this sword to close and cleave Hangs heavy round my heart."

So passed she mourning forth. But he, With heart of springing hope set free As birds that breast and brave the sea, Bade horse and arms and armour be Made straightway ready toward the fray. Nor even might Arthur's royal prayer Withhold him, but with frank and fair Thanksgiving and leave-taking there He turned him thence away.

As the east wind, when the morning's breast Gleams like a bird's that leaves the nest, A fledgeling halcyon's bound on quest, Drives wave on wave on wave to west Till all the sea be life and light, So time's mute breath, that brings to bloom All flowers that strew the dead spring's tomb, Drives day on day on day to doom Till all man's day be night.

Brief as the breaking of a wave That hurls on man his thunderous grave Ere fear find breath to cry or crave Life that no chance may spare or save, The light of joy and glory shone Even as in dreams where death seems dead Round Balen's hope-exalted head, Shone, passed, and lightened as it fled The shadow of doom thereon.

For as he bound him thence to fare, Before the stately presence there A lady like a windflower fair, Girt on with raiment strange and rare That rippled whispering round her, came. Her clear cold eyes, all glassy grey, Seemed lit not with the light of day But touched with gleams that waned away Of quelled and fading flame.

Before the king she bowed and spake: "King, for thine old faith's plighted sake To me the lady of the lake, I come in trust of thee to take The guerdon of the gift I gave, Thy sword Excalibur." And he Made answer: "Be it whate'er it be, If mine to give, I give it thee, Nor need is thine to crave."

As when a gleam of wicked light Turns half a low-lying water bright That moans beneath the shivering night With sense of evil sound and sight And whispering witchcraft's bated breath, Her wan face quickened as she said: "This knight that won the sword--his head I crave or hers that brought it. Dead, Let these be one in death."

"Thou shouldst have here forborne her; yea, Were all the wrongs that bid men slay Thine, heaped too high for wrath to weigh, Not here before my face today Was thine the right to wreak thy wrong." Still stood he then as one that found His rose of hope by storm discrowned, And all the joy that girt him round Brief as a broken song.

Yet ere he passed he turned and spake: "King, only for thy nobler sake Than aught of power man's power may take Or pride of place that pride may break I bid the lordlier man in thee, That lives within the king, give ear. This justice done before thee here On one that hell's own heart holds dear, Needs might not this but be.

"Albeit, for all that pride would prove, My heart be wrung to lose thy love, It yet repents me not hereof: So many an eagle and many a dove, So many a knight, so many a may, This water-snake of poisonous tongue To death by words and wiles hath stung, That her their slayer, from hell's lake sprung, I did not ill to slay."

"Yea," said the king, "too high of heart To stand before a king thou art; Yet irks it me to bid thee part And take thy penance for thy part, That God may put upon thy pride." Then Balen took the severed head And toward his hostry turned and sped As one that knew not quick from dead Nor good from evil tide.

He bade his squire before him stand And take that sanguine spoil in hand And bear it far by shore and strand Till all in glad Northumberland That loved him, seeing it, all might know His deadliest foe was dead, and hear How free from prison as from fear He dwelt in trust of the answering year To bring him weal for woe.

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