Волшебница Шалотт и другие стихотворения - Альфред Теннисон

Г. Кружков

MORTE D’ARTHUR

So all day long the noise of battle roll’dAmong the mountains by the winter sea;Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,A broken chancel with a broken cross,That stood on a dark strait of barren land.On one side lay the Ocean, and on oneLay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:‘The sequel of to-day unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep — the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made, —Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come againTo rule once more - but let what will be, be,

I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword — and how I row’d acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king:And, wheresoever I am sung or toldIn aftertime, this also shall be known:But now delay not: take Excalibur,And fling him far into the middle mere:Watch what thou seёst, and lightly bring me word.’

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:‘It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.A little thing may harm a wounded man.Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he steptAnd in the moon athwart the place of tombs,Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sangShrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping downBy zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forthAnd sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-workOf subtlest jewellery. He gazed so longThat both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,This way and that dividing the swift mind,In act to throw: but at the last it seem’dBetter to leave Excalibur conceal’dThere in the many-knotted waterflags,That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:‘Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,And the wild water lapping on the crag.’

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:‘Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,Not rendering true answer, as beseem’dThy fealty, nor like a noble knight:For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.This is a shameful thing for men to lie.Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go againAs thou art life and dear, and do the thingI bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’

Then went Sir Bedivere the second timeAcross the ridge, and paced beside the mere,Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,How curiously and strangely chased, he smoteHis palms together, and he cried aloud,

‘And if indeed I cast the brand away,Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.What good should follow this, if this were done?What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.Were it well to obey then, if a king demandAn act unprofitable, against himself?The King is sick, and knows not what he does.What record, or what relic of my lordShould be to aftertime, but empty breathAnd rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,Some one might show it at a joust of arms,Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deepsUpon the hidden bases of the hills.’So might some old man speak in the aftertimeTo all the people, winning reverence.But now much honour and much fame were lost.’

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,And hid Excalibur the second time,And so strode back slow to the wounded King.Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:‘What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:‘I heard the water lapping on the crag,And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!Authority forgets a dying king,Laid widow’d of the power in his eyeThat bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,In whom should meet the offices of all,Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;Either from lust of gold, or like a girlValuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plungedAmong the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendour of the moon,And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,Seen where the moving isles of winter shockBy night, with noises of the northern sea.So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:‘Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gemsShould blind my purpose, for I never saw,Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,So great a miracle as yonder hilt.Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;But when I look’d again, behold an arm,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.’

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:‘My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone.Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,And bear me to the margin; yet I fearMy wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’

So saying, from the pavement he half rose,Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,And looking wistfully with wide blue eyesAs in a picture. Him Sir BedivereRemorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,And would have spoken, but he found not words,Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,Like one that feels a nightmare on his bedWhen all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick!I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d,Larger than human on the frozen hills.He heard the deep behind him, and a cryBefore. His own thought drove him, like a goad.Dry clash’d his harness in the icy cavesAnd barren chasms, and all to left and rightThe bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he basedHis feet on juts of slippery crag that rangSharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels —And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,And the long glories of the winter moon.

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem,Beneath them; and descending they were wareThat all the decks were dense with stately formsBlack-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold — and from them roseA cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, and agonyOf lamentation, like a wind, that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge,’And to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.But she, that rose the tallest of them allAnd fairest, laid his head upon her lap,And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,And dropping bitter tears against his browStriped with dark blood: for all his face was whiteAnd colourless, and like the wither’d moonSmote by the fresh beam of the springing east;And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with dropsOf onset; and the light and lustrous curls —That made his forehead like a rising sunHigh from the dais-throne — were parch’d with dust;Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.So like a shatter’d column lay the King;Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,From spur to plume a star of tournament,Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and chargedBefore the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?For now I see the true old times are dead,When every morning brought a noble chance,And every chance brought out a noble knight.Such times have been not since the light that ledThe holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.But now the whole Round Table is dissolvedWhich was an image of the mighty world;And I, the last, go forth companionless,And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils Himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within Himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seёst — if indeed I go —(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)To the island-valley of Avilion;Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawnsAnd bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’

So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLook’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,And on the mere the wailing died away.

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