“From shore to mountain, dawn to night, The kinsfolk of this great dead knight Will chase thee to thy death.” A light Of swift blithe scorn flashed answer bright As fire from Balen’s eye. “For that, Small fear shall fret my heart,” quoth he: “But that my lord the king should be For this dead man’s sake wroth with me, Weep might it well thereat.”
Then murmuring passed the dwarf away, And toward the knights in fair array Came riding eastward up the way From where the flower-soft lowlands lay A king whose name the sweet south-west Held high in honour, and the land That bowed beneath his gentle hand Wore on its wild bright northern strand Tintagel for a crest.
And Balen hailed with homage due King Mark of Cornwall, when he knew The pennon that before him flew: And for those lovers dead and true The king made moan to hear their doom; And for their sorrow’s sake he sware To seek in all the marches there The church that man might find most fair And build therein their tomb.
As thought from thought takes wing and flies, As month on month with sunlit eyes Tramples and triumphs in its rise, As wave smites wave to death and dies, So chance on hurtling chance like steel Strikes, flashes, and is quenched, ere fear Can whisper hope, or hope can hear, If sorrow or joy be far or near For time to hurt or heal.
Swift as a shadow and strange as light That cleaves in twain the shadow of night Before the wide-winged word takes flight That thunder speaks to depth and height And quells the quiet hour with sound, There came before King Mark and stood Between the moorside and the wood The man whose word God’s will made good, Nor guile was in it found.
And Merlin said to Balen: “Lo, Thou hast wrought thyself a grievous woe To let this lady die, and know Thou mightst have stayed her deadly blow.” And Balen answered him and said, “Nay, by my truth to faith, not I, So fiercely fain she was to die; Ere well her sword had flashed on high, Self-slain she lay there dead.”
Again and sadly Merlin spake: “My heart is wrung for this deed’s sake, To know thee therefore doomed to take Upon thine hand a curse, and make Three kingdoms pine through twelve years’ change, In want and woe: for thou shalt smite The man most noble and truest knight That looks upon the live world’s light A dolorous stroke and strange.