The Tale of Balen(巴伦的故事)

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THE TALE OF BALEN

Algernon Charles Swinburne

THE TALE OF BALEN

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.

March 24, 1896.

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.

Along the wandering ways of Tyne, By beech and birch and thorn that

shine And laugh when life's requickening wine Makes night and noon and

dawn divine And stirs in all the veins of spring, And past the brightening

banks of Tees, He rode as one that breathes and sees A sun more blithe, a

merrier breeze, A life that hails him king.

And down the softening south that knows No more how glad the

THE TALE OF BALEN

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.

THE TALE OF BALEN

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.

So said she: then King Arthur spake: "Albeit indeed I dare not take

Such praise on me, for knighthood's sake And love of ladies will I make

Assay if better none may be." By girdle and by sheath he caught The

sheathed and girded sword, and wrought With strength whose force

availed him nought To save and set her free.

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 bade the king his knights assay This mystery that before him lay

THE TALE OF BALEN

And mocked his might of manhood. "Nay," Quoth she, "the man that

takes away This burden laid on me must be A knight of record clean and

fair As sunlight and the flowerful air, By sire and mother born to bear A

name to shame not me."

Then forth strode Launcelot, and laid The mighty-moulded hand that

made Strong knights reel back like birds affrayed By storm that smote

them as they strayed Against the hilt that yielded not. Then Tristram,

bright and sad and kind As one that bore in noble mind Love that made

light as darkness blind, Fared even as Launcelot.

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.

THE TALE OF BALEN

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,"

THE TALE OF BALEN

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.

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