Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SIR LANCELOT: THE DEATH OF ARTHUR, by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SIR LANCELOT: THE DEATH OF ARTHUR, by                    
First Line: Since brutus out of troy was brought
Last Line: "the twain, they dwelt in peace, I ween"
Subject(s): Arthurian Legend; "arthur, King;


SINCE Brutus out of Troy was brought,
And Britain for his kingdom won,
Such wonders ne'er before were wrought
Of mortal man beneath the sun.
By eventide there lived there naught,
Who erst was clad in flesh and bone,
Than Arthur, and two knights he brought
Thither, and Mordred, they alone.

Lucain the butler was one knight,
I trow his wounds were sore to see,
His brother, in the self-same plight,
Sir Bedivere, right sick was he.
Arthur, he spake these words forthright:
"That traitor slain by us shall be!"
With fell intent, their spears gripped tight,
They ran together manfully.

Smitten is Mordred thro' the breast,
The spear e'en thro' the back-bone shore,
Needs must he yield to death's behest,
Word hath he spoken never more.
Yet, dying, on his foe he prest,
And dealt the king a wound full sore,
Right to the head, thro' helm and crest,
Thrice hath he swooned, that blow before.

Sir Lucain and Sir Bedivere
Upheld the king betwixt them twain,
They get them forth with sorry cheer,
Their comrades on the field lie slain.
That doughty king, their lord so dear,
His strength for wounds it ebbed amain,
A chapel to that place was near,
No better shelter might they gain.

All night they in the chapel lay
Beside the sea, so did I hear,
To Mary Mother crying aye
With woeful voice, and many a tear.
To Jesu Christ they piteous pray,
Beseech Him for His Name so dear
To lead his soul in the right way
That Heaven's Bliss he lose not here.

Then from the mount, Sir Lucain good
Saw folk, who to the field drew nigh,
Bold barons they, of bone and blood,
Their thoughts were bent on robbery.
Of besant, brooch, and baldric good
They took all that they might espy --
Back to the king again he would,
Thinking to warn him hastily.

He spake to Arthur soft and still,
With rueful cheer, in voice full low:
"Sire, I have been on yonder hill
There many folk, they come and go,
Whether they will us good or ill
I know not, be they friend or foe
I rede, an so it be your will,
We busk us, to some town to go."

"Sir Lucain, good thy rede I hold,
Now lift me up, while life doth last --"
The knight he in his arms did fold,
With all his strength he held him fast.
Wounded to death, that monarch bold
Swooning, his weight on him hath cast, --
Sir Lucain did the king uphold,
His heart within him brake at last.

Half-swooning, as I tell ye here,
The king beside an altar stood,
Sir Lucain, whom he held full dear,
Lay dead, and weltering in his blood.
His brother, bold Sir Bedivere,
I trow he was of mournful mood,
For grief the corpse he might not near,
But ever wept, as he were wood.

The king, he turned him as he stood,
And spake to him, in words so keen:
"Excalibur, my sword so good,
(A better brand was never seen,)
Go, cast it in the salt sea flood,
Then shalt thou marvels see, I ween.
Now hie thee swift, by Holy Rood,
And tell me all that thou hast seen."

The knight, he was both fair and free,
To save that sword had he been fain,
He thought, "Who shall the better be
If none this weapon see again?
Were I to cast it in the sea,
Then were I mad, that seemeth plain --"
He hid the blade beneath a tree
And gat him to his lord again.

"What saw'st thou there?" then said the king,
"Now tell me if thou canst, anon."
"Certes," he quoth: "never a thing
Save waters deep, and wild waves wan."
"Ah! thou hast failed me!" cried the king;
"Why didst thou so, thou faithless man?
Far other tidings must thou bring!"
Straightway Sir Bedivere he ran --

He thought the sword he still might hide
And cast the scabbard in the flood, --
"If any venture then betide
Thereby shall I see tokens good."
From hand he let the scabbard glide,
And there awhile on land he stood,
Back to the king he went that tide,
Said, "Sire, 't is done, by Holy Rood."

"And saw'st thou any marvel fair?"
"Nay, certes, Sire, there saw I naught."
"Ah! traitor false," cried Arthur there,
"Now twice on me hast treason wrought.
The punishment shalt surely bear,
Bold tho' thou art, 't were dearly bought!"
The knight cried: "Lord, thy wrath now spare," --
And swift the sword again he sought.

Needs must the knight obey at last,
To the good sword he went his way,
Into the sea the blade he cast,
A marvel great he saw that day.
A hand from out the water, fast
Hath caught the blade, with deftest play
Brandished it high, then swift it passed
E'en as the lightning's gleam, away.

Swift to the king he hastened there,
And quoth: "Liege Lord, I saw a hand,
Forth from the waves it came all bare,
And brandished thrice that goodly brand."
"Now help me, that I thither fare --"
He led his lord down to the strand,
A goodly ship, with ladies fair,
And richly found, had put to land.

The ladies, who were frank and free,
Welcomed the king with courteous tongue,
And one, who fairest was to see,
Wept sore the while her hands she wrung;
"Brother," she said; "Ah! woe is me,
Thy wounds lack leechcraft over-long;
I wot that sorely grieveth me,
Methinks thy pains be all too strong!"

The knight, he raised a bitter moan,
As sick and sore, on land he stood:
"Ah! why dost leave me thus alone?
Whither dost go, my lord so good?"
The king, he spake in mournful tone,
"I will a little o'er this flood,
Unto the Vale of Avalone,
There shall my wounds find healing good."

Whenas the ship from land was brought,
The knight, he saw that barque no more --
Throughout the forest land he sought,
The hills so high, he passed them o'er,
For this, his life, he careth naugth,
Faring all night in sorrow sore,
At daybreak he hath found, fair wrought,
A chapel 'twixt two holts so hoar.

Thither he straight hath ta'en his way --
There doth he see a wondrous sight,
Upon the ground a hermit lay
Before a tomb, all newly dight.
Covered it was with marble gray,
And with rich letters graven aright,
And on a hearse in fair array
Full hundred tapers, all alight.

Then of the hermit was he fain
To ask who might be buried there?
The hermit answered him again,
He wist not rightly who it were; --
"At midnight came a goodly train
Of ladies, but I knew them ne'er,
Bearing on bier a body slain,
Full piteous were the wounds it bare.

"They proffered me of Besants bright,
Methinks, more than a hundred pound,
And bade me pray, both day and night,
For him, whose tomb thou here hast found,
That Christ's dear Mother, of her might,
Should help his soul, as at this stound," --
The knight the letters read aright,
For sorrow fell he to the ground.

"Hermit, in sooth," so did he cry,
"Now of my lord am I forlorn,
Arthur, my king, he here doth lie,
The best prince e'er in Britain born.
Give me thy habit presently,
For Him Who ware the Crown of Thorn,
That I within these walls may lie
And pray for him both night and morn."

That holy hermit said not Nay --
(Sometime Archbishop had he been,
By Mordred was he driven away
And found a home in forest green.)
Christ Jesu did he thank that day
That he Sir Bedivere had seen,
Right welcome was he there to stay --
The twain, they dwelt in peace, I ween.





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