Accolon of Gaul, with Other Poems. Cawein Madison Julius

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      NOON; and the wistful Autumn sat among

      The lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrung

      By crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,

      To don imperial pomp at any cost.

      On each wild hill they stood as if for war

      Flaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;

      And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;

      Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,

      Who in a little fretful while, how soon!

      Would work rebellion under some wan moon;

      Pluck their old beards deriding; shriek and tear

      Rich royalty; sow tattered through the air

      Their purple majesty; and from each head

      Dash down its golden crown, and in its stead

      Set there a pale-death mockery of snow,

      Leave them bemoaning beggars bowed with woe.

      Blow, wood-wind, blow! now that all's fresh and fine

      As earth and wood can make it; fresh as brine

      And rare with sodden scents of underbrush.

      Ring, and one hears a cavalcade a-rush;

      Bold blare of horns; shrill music of steel bows; —

      A horn! a horn! the hunt is up and goes

      Beneath the acorn-dropping oaks in green, —

      Dark woodland green, a boar-spear held between

      His selle and hunter's head, and at his thigh

      A good, broad hanger, and one fist on high

      To wind the rapid echoes from his horn,

      That start the field birds from the sheavéd corn,

      Uphurled in vollies of audacious wings,

      That cease again when it no longer sings.

      Away, away, they flash a belted band

      From Camelot thro' that haze-ghostly land;

      Hounds leashed and leamers and a flash of steel,

      A tramp of horse and the long-baying peal

      Of stag hounds whimp'ring and – behold! the hart,

      A lordly height, doth from the covert dart;

      And the big blood-hounds strain unto the chase.

      A-hunt! a-hunt! the pryce seems but a pace

      On ere 'tis wound; but now, where interlace

      The dense-briered underwoods, the hounds have lost

      The slot, there where a forest brook hath crossed

      With intercepting waters full of leaves.

      Beyond, the hart a tangled labyrinth weaves

      Thro' dimmer boscage, and the wizard sun

      Shapes many shadowy stags that seem to run

      Wild herds before the baffled foresters.

      And treed aloft a reckless laugh one hears,

      As if some helping goblin from the trees

      Mocked them the unbayed hart and made a breeze

      His pursuivant of mocking. Hastening thence

      Pursued King Arthur and King Urience

      With one small brachet, till scarce hear could they

      Their fellowship far-furthered course away

      On fresher trace of hind or rugged boar

      With haggard, hairy flanks, curled tusks and hoar

      With fierce foam-fury; and of these bereft

      The kings continued in the slot they'd left.

      And there the hart plunged gallant thro' the brake

      Leaving a torn path shaking in his wake,

      Down which they followed on thro' many a copse

      Above whose brush, close on before, the tops

      Of the large antlers swelled anon, and so

      Were gone where beat the brambles to and fro.

      And still they drave him hard; and ever near

      Seemed that great hart unwearied; and such cheer

      Still stung them to the chase. When Arthur's horse

      Gasped mightily and lunging in his course

      Lay dead, a lordly bay; and Urience

      Left his gray hunter dying near; and thence

      They held the hunt afoot; when suddenly

      Were they aware of a wide, roughened sea,

      And near the wood the hart upon the sward

      Bayed, panting unto death and winded hard.

      Right so the king dispatched him and the pryce

      Wound on his hunting bugle clearly thrice.

      As if each echo, which that wild horn's blast

      Waked from its sleep, – the quietude had cast

      Tender as mercy on it, – in a band

      Rose moving sounds of gladness hand in hand,

      Came twelve fair damsels, sunny in sovereign white,

      From that red woodland gliding. These each knight

      Graced with obeisance and "Our lord," said one,

      "Tenders ye courtesy until the dawn;

      The Earl Sir Damas; well in his wide keep,

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