The Earthly Paradise Part 12

THE WATCHING OF THE FALCON.

ARGUMENT.

The case of this falcon was such, that whoso watched it without sleeping for seven days and seven nights, had his first wish granted him by a fay lady, that appeared to him thereon; and some wished one thing, and some another. But a certain king, who watched the falcon daily, would wish for nought but the love of that fay; which wish being accomplished, was afterwards his ruin.

Across the sea a land there is, Where, if fate will, may men have bliss, For it is fair as any land: There hath the reaper a full hand, While in the orchard hangs aloft The purple fig, a-growing soft; And fair the trellised vine-bunches Are swung across the high elm-trees; And in the rivers great fish play, While over them pa.s.s day by day The laden barges to their place.

There maids are straight, and fair of face, And men are stout for husbandry, And all is well as it can be Upon this earth where all has end.

For on them G.o.d is pleased to send The gift of Death down from above.

That envy, hatred, and hot love, Knowledge with hunger by his side, And avarice and deadly pride, There may have end like everything Both to the shepherd and the king: Lest this green earth become but h.e.l.l If folk for ever there should dwell.

Full little most men think of this, But half in woe and half in bliss They pa.s.s their lives, and die at last Unwilling, though their lot be cast In wretched places of the earth, Where men have little joy from birth Until they die; in no such case Were those who tilled this pleasant place.

There soothly men were loth to die, Though sometimes in his misery A man would say "Would I were dead!"

Alas! full little likelihead That he should live for ever there.

So folk within that country fair Lived on, nor from their memories drave The thought of what they could not have.

And without need tormented still Each other with some bitter ill; Yea, and themselves too, growing grey With dread of some long-lingering day, That never came ere they were dead With green sods growing on the head; Nowise content with what they had, But falling still from good to bad While hard they sought the hopeless best And seldom happy or at rest Until at last with lessening blood One foot within the grave they stood.

Now so it chanced that in this land There did a certain castle stand, Set all alone deep in the hills, Amid the sound of falling rills Within a valley of sweet gra.s.s, To which there went one narrow pa.s.s Through the dark hills, but seldom trod.

Rarely did horse-hoof press the sod About the quiet weedy moat, Where unscared did the great fish float; Because men dreaded there to see The uncouth things of faerie; Nathless by some few fathers old These tales about the place were told That neither squire nor seneschal Or varlet came in bower or hall, Yet all things were in order due, Hangings of gold and red and blue, And tables with fair service set; Cups that had paid the Caesar's debt Could he have laid his hands on them; Dorsars, with pearls in every hem, And fair embroidered gold-wrought things, Fit for a company of kings; And in the chambers dainty beds, With pillows dight for fair young heads; And horses in the stables were, And in the cellars wine full clear And strong, and casks of ale and mead; Yea, all things a great lord could need.

For whom these things were ready there None knew; but if one chanced to fare Into that place at Easter-tide, There would he find a falcon tied Unto a pillar of the Hall; And such a fate to him would fall, That if unto the seventh night, He watched the bird from dark to light, And light to dark unceasingly, On the last evening he should see A lady beautiful past words; Then, were he come of clowns or lords, Son of a swineherd or a king, There must she grant him anything Perforce, that he might dare to ask, And do his very hardest task But if he slumbered, ne'er again The wretch would wake for he was slain Helpless, by hands he could not see, And torn and mangled wretchedly.

Now said these elders--Ere this tide Full many folk this thing have tried, But few have got much good thereby; For first, a many came to die By slumbering ere their watch was done; Or else they saw that lovely one, And mazed, they knew not what to say; Or asked some toy for all their pay, That easily they might have won, Nor staked their lives and souls thereon; Or asking, asked for some great thing That was their bane; as to be king One asked, and died the morrow morn That he was crowned, of all forlorn.

Yet thither came a certain man, Who from being poor great riches wan Past telling, whose grandsons now are Great lords thereby in peace and war.

And in their coat-of-arms they bear, Upon a field of azure fair, A castle and a falcon, set Below a chief of golden fret.

And in our day a certain knight Prayed to be worsted in no fight, And so it happed to him: yet he Died none the less most wretchedly.

And all his prowess was in vain, For by a losel was he slain, As on the highway side he slept One summer night, of no man kept.

Such tales as these the fathers old About that lonely castle told; And in their day the King must try Himself to prove that mystery, Although, unless the fay could give For ever on the earth to live, Nought could he ask that he had not: For boundless riches had he got, Fair children, and a faithful wife; And happily had pa.s.sed his life, And all fulfilled of victory, Yet was he fain this thing to see.

So towards the mountains he set out One noontide, with a gallant rout Of knights and lords, and as the day Began to fail came to the way Where he must enter all alone, Between the dreary walls of stone.

Thereon to that fair company He bade farewell, who wistfully Looked backward oft as home they rode, But in the entry he abode Of that rough unknown narrowing pa.s.s, Where twilight at the high noon was.

Then onward he began to ride: Smooth rose the rocks on every side, And seemed as they were cut by man; Adown them ever water ran, But they of living things were bare, Yea, not a blade of gra.s.s grew there; And underfoot rough was the way, For scattered all about there lay Great jagged pieces of black stone.

Throughout the pa.s.s the wind did moan, With such wild noises, that the King Could almost think he heard something Spoken of men; as one might hear The voices of folk standing near One's chamber wall: yet saw he nought Except those high walls strangely wrought, And overhead the strip of sky.

So, going onward painfully, He met therein no evil thing, But came about the sun-setting Unto the opening of the pa.s.s, And thence beheld a vale of gra.s.s Bright with the yellow daffodil; And all the vale the sun did fill With his last glory. Midmost there Rose up a stronghold, built four-square, Upon a flowery gra.s.sy mound, That moat and high wall ran around.

Thereby he saw a walled pleasance, With walks and sward fit for the dance Of Arthur's court in its best time, That seemed to feel some magic clime; For though through all the vale outside Things were as in the April-tide, And daffodils and cowslips grew And hidden the March violets blew, Within the bounds of that sweet close Was trellised the bewildering rose; There was the lily over-sweet, And starry pinks for garlands meet; And apricots hung on the wall And midst the flowers did peaches fall, And nought had blemish there or spot.

For in that place decay was not.

Silent awhile the King abode Beholding all, then on he rode And to the castle-gate drew nigh, Till fell the drawbridge silently, And when across it he did ride He found the great gates open wide, And entered there, but as he pa.s.sed The gates were shut behind him fast, But not before that he could see The drawbridge rise up silently.

Then round he gazed oppressed with awe, And there no living thing he saw Except the sparrows in the eaves, As restless as light autumn leaves Blown by the fitful rainy wind.

Thereon his final goal to find, He lighted off his war-horse good And let him wander as he would, When he had eased him of his gear; Then gathering heart against his fear.

Just at the silent end of day Through the fair porch he took his way And found at last a goodly hall With glorious hangings on the wall, Inwrought with trees of every clime, And stories of the ancient time, But all of sorcery they were.

For o'er the das Venus fair, Fluttered about by many a dove, Made hopeless men for hopeless love, Both sick and sorry; there they stood Wrought wonderfully in various mood, But wasted all by that hid fire Of measureless o'er-sweet desire, And let the hurrying world go by Forgetting all felicity.

But down the hall the tale was wrought How Argo in old time was brought To Colchis for the fleece of gold.

And on the other side was told How mariners for long years came To Circe, winning grief and shame.

Until at last by hardihead And craft, Ulysses won her bed.

Long upon these the King did look And of them all good heed he took; To see if they would tell him aught About the matter that he sought, But all were of the times long past; So going all about, at last When grown nigh weary of his search A falcon on a silver perch, Anigh the das did he see, And wondered, because certainly At his first coming 'twas not there; But 'neath the bird a scroll most fair, With golden letters on the white He saw, and in the dim twilight By diligence could he read this:--

_"Ye who have not enow of bliss,_ _And in this hard world labour sore,_ _By manhood here may get you more,_ _And be fulfilled of everything,_ _Till ye be masters of the King._ _And yet, since I who promise this_ _Am nowise G.o.d to give man bliss_ _Past ending, now in time beware,_ _And if you live in little care_ _Then turn aback and home again,_ _Lest unknown woe ye chance to gain_ _In wis.h.i.+ng for a thing untried."_

A little while did he abide, When he had read this, deep in thought, Wondering indeed if there were aught He had not got, that a wise man Would wish; yet in his mind it ran That he might win a boundless realm, Yea, come to wear upon his helm The crown of the whole conquered earth; That all who lived thereon, from birth To death should call him King and Lord, And great kings tremble at his word, Until in turn he came to die.

Therewith a little did he sigh, But thought, "Of Alexander yet Men talk, nor would they e'er forget My name, if this should come to be, Whoever should come after me: But while I lay wrapped round with gold Should tales and histories manifold Be written of me, false and true; And as the time still onward drew Almost a G.o.d would folk count me, Saying, 'In our time none such be.'"

But therewith did he sigh again, And said, "Ah, vain, and worse than vain!

For though the world forget me nought, Yet by that time should I be brought Where all the world I should forget, And bitterly should I regret That I, from G.o.dlike great renown, To helpless death must fall adown: How could I bear to leave it all?"

Then straight upon his mind did fall Thoughts of old longings half forgot, Matters for which his heart was hot A while ago: whereof no more He cared for some, and some right sore Had vexed him, being fulfilled at last.

And when the thought of these had pa.s.sed Still something was there left behind, That by no torturing of his mind Could he in any language name, Or into form of wis.h.i.+ng frame.

At last he thought, "What matters it, Before these seven days shall flit Some great thing surely shall I find, That gained will not leave grief behind, Nor turn to deadly injury.

So now will I let these things be And think of some unknown delight."

Now, therewithal, was come the night And thus his watch was well begun; And till the rising of the sun, Waking, he paced about the hall, And saw the hangings on the wall Fade into nought, and then grow white In patches by the pale moonlight, And then again fade utterly As still the moonbeams pa.s.sed them by; Then in a while, with hope of day, Begin a little to grow grey, Until familiar things they grew, As up at last the great sun drew, And lit them with his yellow light At ending of another night Then right glad was he of the day, That pa.s.sed with him in such-like way; For neither man nor beast came near, Nor any voices did he hear.

And when again it drew to night Silent it pa.s.sed, till first twilight Of morning came, and then he heard The feeble twittering of some bird, That, in that utter silence drear, Smote harsh and startling on his ear.

Therewith came on that lonely day That pa.s.sed him in no other way; And thus six days and nights went by And nothing strange had come anigh.

And on that day he well-nigh deemed That all that story had been dreamed.

Daylight and dark, and night and day, Pa.s.sed ever in their wonted way; The wind played in the trees outside, The rooks from out the high trees cried; And all seemed natural, frank, and fair, With little signs of magic there.

Yet neither could he quite forget That close with summer blossoms set, And fruit hung on trees blossoming, When all about was early spring.

Yea, if all this by man were made, Strange was it that yet undecayed The food lay on the tables still Unchanged by man, that wine did fill The golden cups, yet bright and red.

And all was so apparelled For guests that came not, yet was all As though that servants filled the hall.

So waxed and waned his hopes, and still He formed no wish for good or ill.

And while he thought of this and that Upon his perch the falcon sat Unfed, unhooded, his bright eyes Beholders of the hard-earned prize, Glancing around him restlessly, As though he knew the time drew nigh When this long watching should be done.

So little by little fell the sun, From high noon unto sun-setting; And in that lapse of time the King, Though still he woke, yet none the less Was dreaming in his sleeplessness Of this and that which he had done Before this watch he had begun; Till, with a start, he looked at last About him, and all dreams were past; For now, though it was past twilight Without, within all grew as bright As when the noon-sun smote the wall, Though no lamp shone within the hall.

Then rose the King upon his feet, And well-nigh heard his own heart beat, And grew all pale for hope and fear, As sound of footsteps caught his ear But soft, and as some fair lady, Going as gently as might be, Stopped now and then awhile, distraught By pleasant wanderings of sweet thought.

Nigher the sound came, and more nigh, Until the King unwittingly Trembled, and felt his hair arise, But on the door still kept his eyes.

That opened soon, and in the light There stepped alone a lady bright, And made straight toward him up the hall.

In golden garments was she clad And round her waist a belt she had Of emeralds fair, and from her feet, That shod with gold the floor did meet, She held the raiment daintily, And on her golden head had she A rose-wreath round a pearl-wrought crown, Softly she walked with eyes cast down, Nor looked she any other than An earthly lady, though no man Has seen so fair a thing as she.

So when her face the King could see Still more he trembled, and he thought, "Surely my wish is. .h.i.ther brought, And this will be a goodly day If for mine own I win this may."

And therewithal she drew anear Until the trembling King could hear Her very breathing, and she raised Her head and on the King's face gazed With serious eyes, and stopping there, Swept from her shoulders her long hair, And let her gown fall on her feet, Then spoke in a clear voice and sweet: "Well hast thou watched, so now, O King, Be bold, and wish for some good thing; And yet, I counsel thee, be wise.

Behold, spite of these lips and eyes, Hundreds of years old now am I And have seen joy and misery.

And thou, who yet hast lived in bliss.

I bid thee well consider this; Better it were that men should live As beasts, and take what earth can give, The air, the warm sun and the gra.s.s Until unto the earth they pa.s.s, And gain perchance nought worse than rest Than that not knowing what is best For sons of men, they needs must thirst For what shall make their lives accurst.

"Therefore I bid thee now beware, Lest getting something seeming fair, Thou com'st in vain to long for more Or lest the thing thou wishest for Make thee unhappy till thou diest, Or lest with speedy death thou buyest A little hour of happiness Or lazy joy with sharp distress.

"Alas, why say I this to thee, For now I see full certainly, That thou wilt ask for such a thing, It had been best for thee to fling Thy body from a mountain-top, Or in a white hot fire to drop, Or ever thou hadst seen me here, Nay then be speedy and speak clear."

Then the King cried out eagerly, Grown fearless, "Ah, be kind to me!

Thou knowest what I long for then!

Thou know'st that I, a king of men, Will ask for nothing else than thee!

Thou didst not say this could not be, And I have had enough of bliss, If I may end my life with this."

"Hearken," she said, "what men will say When they are mad; before to-day I knew that words such things could mean, And wondered that it could have been.

"Think well, because this wished-for joy, That surely will thy bliss destroy, Will let thee live, until thy life Is wrapped in such bewildering strife That all thy days will seem but ill-- Now wilt thou wish for this thing still?"

"Wilt thou then grant it?" cried the King; "Surely thou art an earthly thing, And all this is but mockery, And thou canst tell no more than I What ending to my life shall be."

"Nay, then," she said, "I grant it thee Perforce; come nigh, for I am thine Until the morning sun doth s.h.i.+ne, And only coming time can prove What thing I am."

Dizzy with love, And with surprise struck motionless That this divine thing, with far less Of striving than a village maid, Had yielded, there he stood afraid, Spite of hot words and pa.s.sionate, And strove to think upon his fate.

But as he stood there, presently With smiling face she drew anigh, And on his face he felt her breath.

"O love," she said, "dost thou fear death?

Not till next morning shalt thou die, Or fall into thy misery."

Then on his hand her hand did fall, And forth she led him down the hall, Going full softly by his side.

"O love," she said, "now well betide The day whereon thou cam'st to me.

I would this night a year might be, Yea, life-long; such life as we have, A thousand years from womb to grave."

And then that clinging hand seemed worth Whatever joy was left on earth, And every trouble he forgot, And time and death remembered not: Kinder she grew, she clung to him With loving arms, her eyes did swim With love and pity, as he strove To show the wisdom of his love; With trembling lips she praised his choice, And said, "Ah, well may'st thou rejoice, Well may'st thou think this one short night Worth years of other men's delight.

If thy heart as mine own heart is, Sunk in a boundless sea of bliss; O love, rejoice with me! rejoice!"