Classic Poem

At signal of a bugle blast,
Sharp and of sudden sound,
The knights set forward, fiery fast,
And met in middle ground.
Lord Arundel struck Gawen's shield,
And broke his spear in three —
Struck with such force that Gawen reeled
Wild in his saddle-tree.
But Gawen smote Lord Arundel
Full on his helmet's front,
And bowed him to his horse's tail,
So mighty was the brunt.
And when the lord firm posture won,
And from the shock upreared
His comely brow — his helm was gone,
And bloody was his beard.
" Small thanks, Sir Gawen, for thy stroke " —
Right merrily said the Lord —
" And, ere a second I provoke,
I crave one gentle word
Of the fair Lady Jocelind,
For whose white hand we ride.
I care not with a doubting mind
This battle to abide. "

Then passing, frank of courtesy,
He came before the maid,
And, gallantly, from bended knee,
In pleasant accents said,
" Sweet majesty! an humble knight,
Led on by brave report
Of splendours of thy beauty bright,
I sought this Frankish court.
The real beauty, whereof fame
So spake, outshines as far
Her best report, as Dian's flame
Outshines a twinkling star.
Now speak a frank fair truth, and say,
If playing well my part,
I win success, wilt thou repay
My toil with willing heart? "

" Sir knight, " said Jocelind, " thy words
Are gently toned, but ill.
The prouder strength of man accords
Naught to a maiden's will.
But, for frank answer, elsewhere seek;
Thy skill of lance and lute
May surely win a brighter cheek,
To redden to thy suit. "
Uprose the lord: " Then will I ride
No more to-day, " quoth he,
" Lord Saimpi's fate — unwilling bride,
Neither seems good to me. "
And so the gentleman passed forth,
And put his helm away,
And better pastime found in mirth,
And converse light and gay.
Meantime, this controversy done,
Sir Gawen, nothing loth,
Passed to a fair pavilion
Of silk and samite cloth;
And doffed his casque, and rested there,
Whereof was earnest need,
Whilst his swift grooms, with willing care,
Recruited well his steed.

Now who is he, so haught of head,
Who enters on the field —
Curbs his white steed to stately tread,
And smites Sir Gawen's shield?
All marked the giant, as he passed
At slow and stern advance,
All marked his charger strong and vast —
All knew the knight Herchaunce.
The growing hope of Jocelind
Before his coming bends,
And, like a taper in the wind,
For feeble life contends.
How may her chosen knight endure
The more than human force
Of such a foe — how hold before
Such giant man and horse?
With beating heart, fixed eye, and cheek
As very marble pale —
She sits, too wild of thought to seek
Concealment of her veil.
But from his tent, Sir Gawen steps
With gallant countenance,
And cheerfully to saddle leaps,
And grasps his trusty lance.
At signal of a bugle blast,
Sharp and of sudden sound,
The knights set forward, fiery fast,
And met in middle ground.
Herchaunce, who ran the course as he
His foe would overwhelm,
At meeting did unskilfully,
And missed Sir Gawen's helm.
Sir Gawen struck the Rhenish knight,
A stroke of truest force,
And bore him from his seat, outright,
And hurled him from his horse.
Sir Gawen sprang from saddle-tree,
And drew his dagger bright;
" Now yield, Sir Knight, or die, " quoth he.
" I yield me, " said the knight.

What time this goodly end befell,
A wondrous scene and rare —
So read we in the chronicle —
Was clearly witnessed there.
From mastery of his rider freed,
Inguerrant onset made
Against Herchaunce's Rhenish steed,
Who met him naught afraid.
With clamping teeth, and nostrils wide,
And crests right proud to see,
Rearing, and striking, in their pride,
The steeds fought wrathfully.
Their yellow mail — their glossy skins
Sable and snowy white,
Gleamed grandly, as the Paladins
So waged their wondrous fight.
Before the crowding grooms might staunch
The fury of their feud,
Both steeds, from quivering crest to haunch,
I ween, were crimson-hued.
The Black, sore wounded, may not bear
His master more to-day;
And Gawen bids his grooms prepare,
And bard, his English gray.

The long day wanes — short time remains
Ere falling of the night —
Sir Gawen bold, if fortune hold,
Will win his lady bright.
One champion more — Sir John Cathore —
The combat will assay:
If evil chance weigh on his lance,
Sir Gawen wins the day.
Of gentle birth, this John Cathore
Was but a chevalier
Who sought his wage on every shore,
And won gold with his spear.
The knight had lost his dexter eye,
By flight of shaft, or dart,
In the King's train of Hungary,
At hunting of the hart.
Past middle life — gray-haired — of face
Swart from an orient sun —
Was never wight so lacked of grace
As this stout champion.
Now — signal of accepted gage —
He strikes with ready lance
Sir Gawen's shield, intent to wage
Combat at utterance.

At signal of a bugle blast,
Sharp and of sudden sound,
The knights set forward, fiery fast,
And met in middle ground.
Sir Gawen struck Sir John Cathore
And bore his helm away —
But stout Sir John so rudely bore,
That down went Gawen's gray:
Down went he wildly overthrown
Before the stroke of force —
Down went he with a horrent groan,
That grim and ancient horse.
His lady's cry reached Gawen's ear,
Above the sounding strife:
That piercing cry, so wild to hear,
Has nerved him into life.
From saddle-tree leapt John Cathore,
But ere he touched the sand,
Sir Gawen stood the knight before,
His good sword in his hand.
Now foot to foot, and hand to hand,
The champions will contend:
By dint of honest blow of brand,
The best will win his end.

But first Sir Gawen doffed, and threw
His knightly helm away —
Still to his fame, and honour, true,
However fare the day.
At vantage it were base to fight,
And helmless is Sir John;
But now the knights in equal plight
To battle dire press on.

Sir John smote first, but with a bound
Sir Gawen shunned the blow,
And giving ground, and taking ground,
About the lists they go.
On young Sir Gawen's flowing hair,
And bright and manly brow —
On John Cathore's gray pow, half bare,
The level sun shines now.
Sir Gawen saw the flight so fast
All of the golden sun,
And lowly said, " This trial past,
And more than life is won. "
His heart of valour seized the thought,
Enflamed anew thereby,
And the bold youth his battle fought,
Intent to win or die.

With blows, and thrusts, that seek a door
At every rivet fine,
They fight until Sir John Cathore
Bleeds like a cask of Rhine.
Griesly and grim have waxed his looks,
Right hotly mounts his ire,
Rebuke of steel he badly brooks —
His one eye glows like fire.

Be wary, Gawen — mind thy life!
Sir John comes stormily.
" Close stroke of sword shall end this strife " —
In stormy tone quoth he.
Down fell his blows like iron hail,
With clangour loud and dread;
They struck the fire from Gawen's mail,
They gleamed about his head.
With bound, and ward, and ready guard,
Sir Gawen held his own,
While to and fro all saw them go —
Sir Gawen and Sir John.
But now, forsooth, the sturdy youth,
Sir Gawen, onset makes;
With brand or spear, the truth is clear,
He gives as well as takes.
From first sweep of Sir Gawen's blade
Sir John his safety found —
The next blow that Sir Gawen made,
Down went he to the ground:
Down went Sir John with cloven brow,
And nevermore to rise.
And Gawen Bolton, victor now,
Is winner of the prize!
Peace to the soul of John Cathore:
A bolder cavalier,
Or better captain, never bore
His fortune on his spear.

With John Cathore cast down, and slain,
Ended the jousts of Bar-by-Seine.
And Charles, the regent, now will say
Who bears the lovely prize away.
Fronting the sunset's purple pride,
And hill tops with the glory dyed,
Charles watches, from his steed, to see
The burning disk sink utterly.
With the last flicker of its beams,
Dying amongst surrounding gleams,
He dropped his baton from his hand,
And forth bade good Sir Gawen stand.
" Brave knight, " he said, " we do decree
All honours of this day to thee —
A chaplet for thy gallant head,
A countess for thy marriage bed.
This say we now — hereafter more.
Thy brows — and manlier never wore
Love's garland, won in front of death —
Will now receive the victor's wreath.
Haply — and, by our faith, we guess
So much — the lady's great distress,
Whereof the recent show made all
Condemn the good Lord Reyneval,
Will yield, in somewhat, when she finds
How frank and bold a brow she binds.
We know not of that shrewd surmise
Which speaks thy favour in her eyes;
But sure the countess, soon or late,
Will find contentment in her fate,
Nor rue this wooing of the sword
If gallant heart makes loving lord. "

Sir Gawen, at his lady's feet,
Bends, harking to her words so sweet —
Some words of course, and which alone
Take meaning from their trembling tone.
But now her little hand, so fair,
Touches his brow, and lingers there.
Place, and that presence, speak him nay,
But Gawen wins the hand away,
And seals it to his lips, the while
The countess chides him with a smile.

The formal truth is clearly told
In the good chronicle of old,
How nuptial rites, and feasts, attended
By pomp and ceremony splendid,
Followed the jousts; how by decree
Watchful in points of fealty,
Sir Gawen, with his lady's hand,
Gained stately castles, gold and land;
And, with the rest, in fair requital
Of worthy deeds, a lordly title.
Such was his meed; and never one
Of the great counts of Rousillon
Such honour to his honours gave
As Gawen — gentle, truthful, brave,
Since the proud founder of their line,
With bands Franconian, crossed the Rhine.