Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss
And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd
His master's armor; and of such a one
He ask'd, "What means the tumult in the

town?"

Who told him, scouring still, "The sparrowhawk!"

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here?

Who answer'd gruffly, "Ugh! the sparrowhawk."

Then, riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work,

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee,

He put the selfsame query, but the man
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said:
"Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk
Has little time for idle questioners."
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen :
"A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk!
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck
him dead!

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg
The murmur of the world! What is it to me?
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks!
Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-
mad,

Where can I get me harborage for the night?
And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy?
Speak!"

At this the armorer turning all amazed
And seeing one so gay in purple silks,
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand
And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stranger
knight;

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn,
And there is scantly time for half the work.
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted
here,

Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not,

save,

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: "Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint replied,

To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrowhawk:

But in, go in; for, save yourself desire it,
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest.'

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern;

And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound

Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems And suck'd the joining of the stones, and Claspt the walls with hairy-fibred arms, gray

look'd

A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove,

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, Singing: and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red,

And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, "" there is the nightingale So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said,

"Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for

me."

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;

Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud;

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile

With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." Ther sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl,

And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours is mine

or frown;

With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

"Smile and we smile, the lords of many

lands:

Frown and we smile, the lords of our own

hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.

Entering

Said Yniol; "Enter quickly."
then,
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones,
The dusty-rafter'd many-cobweb'd Hall,
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade;
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white,
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath,
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk,

Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, "Here by God's rood is the one maid for

me.

But none spake word except the hoary Earl: "Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court;

Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then

Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine :
And we will make us merry as we may.
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great."

He spake the Prince, as Enid past him fain

To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught His purple scarf, and held, and said "Forbear!

Rest! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my

Son,

Yet spoke together, came again with one,
A youth, that following with a costrel bore
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and
wine.

And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,

And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread.
And then, because their hall must also serve
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the
board,

And stood behind, and waited on the three.
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
Geraint had longing in him evermore
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb,
That crost the trencher as she laid it down:
But after all had eaten, then Geraint,
For now the wine made summer in his veins,
Let his eye rove in following, or rest
On Enid at her lowly hand maid-work,
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall:
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl.

him.

His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it :

For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I

sworn

From his own lips to have it - I am Geraint Of Devon - for this morning when the Queen

Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him.

And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad;

They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world;

They would not hear me speak: but if you know

Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have

And presence might have guess'd you one of those

That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot.
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery;
For this dear child hath often heard me praise
Your feats of arms, and often when I paused
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear;
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong:
O never yet had woman such a pair
Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours,
A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,
Drunk even when he woo'd; and be he

served

Because my means were somewhat broken into

Thro' open doors and hospitality;
Raised my own town against me in the night
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house;
From mine own earldom foully ousted me;
Built that new fort to overawe my friends,
For truly there are those who love me yet;
And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,
Where doubtless he would put me soon to
death,

But that his pride too much despises me:
And I myself sometimes despise myself:
For I have let men be, and have their way;
And much too gentle, have not used my power:
Nor know I whether I be very base
Or very manful, whether very wise
Or very foolish; only this I know,
That whatsoever evil happen to me,
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,
But can endure it all most patiently.'

"Well said, true heart," replied Geraint,

"but arms:

That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights
In next day's tourney I may break his pride."
And Yniol answer'd: "Arms, indeed, but old
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint,
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours,
But in this tournament can no man tilt,
Except the lady he loves best be there.
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground,
And over these is laid a silver wand,
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk,
The prize of beauty for the fairest there.
And this, what knight soever be in field
Lays claim to for the lady at his side,
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon,
Who being apt at arms and big of bone
Has ever won it for the lady with him,
And toppling over all antagonism

Has earn'd himself the name of sparrowhawk.

But

you, that have no lady, cannot fight." To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied,

Leaning a little toward him, "Your leave!
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host,

For this dear child, because I never saw,
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time,
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair.
And if I fall her name will yet remain
Untarnish'd as before; but if I live,
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost,
As I will make her truly my true wife."

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days,
And looking round he saw not Enid there,
(Who hearing her own name had slipt away)
But that old dame, to whom fuil tenderly
And fondling all her hand in his he said,
"Mother, a maiden is a tender thing,
And best by her that bore her understood.
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the
Prince. ""

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found,

Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then

On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
And kept her off and gazed upon her face,
And told her all their converse in the hall,
Proving her heart; but never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and
pale

Across the face of Enid hearing her;
Whilst slowly falling as a scale that falls,
When weight is added only grain by grain,
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast.
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word,
Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it;
So moving without answer to her rest
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw
The quiet night into her blood, but lay
Contemplating her own unworthiness;
And when the pale and bloodless east began
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised
Her mother too, and hand in hand they
moved

Down to the meadow where the jousts were held,

And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

And thither came the twain, and when
Geraint

Beheld her first in field, awaiting him,
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force,
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms
Were on his princely person, but thro' these
Princelike his bearing shone; and errant
knights

And ladies came, and by and by the town
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists.
And there they fixt the forks into the ground,
And over these they placed a silver wand,
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk.
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown,
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd,
"Advance and take as fairest of the fair,
For I these two years past have won it for
thee,

The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the
Prince,

"Forbear there is a worthier," and the knight

With some surprise and thrice as much disdain

Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule,
So burnt he was with passion, crying out,
"Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake

their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each

So often, and with such blows, that all the crowd

Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls