King Arthur!

[Spedius]

Ave!

This is another of my discoveries, found whilst seeking out more examples for "Roman Poems"

I've deliberately named the topic so as to allow as much scope as you wish. You can discuss the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table utilising poems, books, films, pictures, articles and anything that you like which is on-topic.

To kick this topic off, I have this for you.

"[i]637. Morte d’Arthur

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

SO all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fall’n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more—but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.â€

[Spedius]

Ave!

Here is another Arthurian poem, continuing the theme began in the opening post.

"[i]641. Sir Galahad

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

MY good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel;
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall!
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine;
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden’s hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.
Then by some secret shrine I ride;
I hear a voice, but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark.
I leap on board; no helmsman steers;
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the Holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Thro’ dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads.
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o’er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight—to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odors haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel’s hand,
This mortal armor that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro’ the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
“O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on! the prize is near.â€

[Jeroen Pelgrom]

what did you think about the movie king Arthur, Jim?

[Ramesses II]

Quite a long poem there :?

And the movie ... personally I think it s*cked.

[Arthes]

The film? - personally I loved it....(ok... :x roll: ). If you happen to agree with the Lucius Artorius Castus theory and the Sarmatians being the originators of the later Arthur's cavalry (yes, I believe there was more than one giving rise to the later legends) this film, although it had some obivous faults, put a very plausible idea forward.
The first of six ballards:-

1. THE BIRTH OF KING ARTHUR.

'To horse! to horse! my noble lord,'
Thus spake the fair Igraine,
'Ride hard -- ride fast all through the night,
Nor stay, nor slack the rein.'

'Now why such haste to leave the Court?'
The Duke of Cornwall cried.
'Ah me,' she said, 'King Uther wills
Thy wife should be his bride.'

Fast, fast they rode all through the night,
Nor stayed, nor slacked the rein,
Until the towers of Tintagel
Rose shining o'er the plain.

But on the morrow, messengers
Came riding from the King:
'Uther Pendragon bids the Duke
Himself and wife to bring

Back to fair London town.' -- 'Unto
The King this answer give:
Nor self nor wife shall tread his halls
So long as either live.'

Then sware the King a dreadful oath,
Or ere the fortieth day
He would unearth him from his lair,
And waste, and burn, and slay.

Alack for right 'gainst regal might!
It boots but ill to tell
How in a sally 'gainst the King
The brave Duke Cornwall fell.

The towers he manned, the wife he loved,
Became King Uther's prey,
And from her home at Tintagel
Igraine was borne away.

And when her baby boy was born,
In cloth of gold with state
'Twas given to a beggar-man,
Who waited at the gate.

But this was Merlin, in disguise
Of beggar old and grey,
The great enchanter, Merlin hight,
Who bore the babe away

Unto a holy, saintly man,
Who christened him by name
Of Arthur -- prince of chivalry,
First on the scroll of fame.

And good Sir Ector's noble wife
Nurtured the baby fair,
And brought him up in gentle ways,
Befitting England's heir.

Eftsoons King Uther sickenèd
And fell in woful plight;
He spake to non or great or small,
By day nor eke by night.

Then Merlin rose in council full,
And spake both loud and high:
'God's will be done, but I will make
Him speak or ere he die!'

So in hot haste, without delay,
Unto the King he hied,
Knelt down beside the royal couch:
'Wilt thou, O Sire,' he cried

'That Arthur, thy own son, shall rule
O'er England in thy stead?'
The noble vassals gathered round,
Listening astonishèd.

For naught knew they of infant son,
But every Baron there
Mighty of men, and strong of arm,
Wended to be the heir.

King Uther Pendragon turned round
Upon his dying bed,
And to the knights assembled there
And to great Merlin said:

'May God Almighty bless my son!
I, too, my blessing give;
Bid him use fitting holy prayers
That my poor soul may live:

'And claim the crown right worshipful
On pain of blessing lost.'
With that he turned him o'er again,
And yielded up the ghost.

They buried him with regal pomp,
While all his Barons wept,
As did Igraine, his beauteous queen --
But Uther calmly slept.

(Anonymous)

[andym]

Have you read the Pendragon Series by Steven Lawhead?A nice new view on the Arthurian story.

[Arthes]

Greetings Andy,
yes I have read a couple of Steven Lawhead's books... 'Arthur' started a conversation about history, with another lady sitting next to me on a train journey, when she noticed the title :wink:

2. ARTHUR MADE KING.

When Uther passed away, the realm
Fell in great jeopardy,
For many wended to be king
Through might and bravery.

Then Merlin to the Archbishop
Of Canterbury went,
And they together council took
This evil to prevent.

Thus they agreed -- that every lord,
On pain of curses deep,
And every gentleman-at-arms
A solemn tryst should keep,

On Christmas day, at London town,
Since Christ, as all do know,
Was then created Lord of all
The kingdoms here below;
So who should reign o'er England fair
By miracle might show.

Some nobles made them passing clean
From vice or crime, for fear
Their prayers might enter gracelessly,
Within Christ Jesus' ear.

Inside the church on Christmas day
(It was St. Paul's, I ween),
A mightly host of knights and lords
And commoners is seen.

But ere they read the early mass,
Or early matins sing,
Unto the Lord Archbishop there
This startling news they bring:

'Outside, within the churchyard gate,
Near to the altar stone,
There stands a large square marble slab
With anvil perched thereon;

'And in the anvil, of pure steel
A naked sword doth sit,
Of finest point, and all around
Are golden letters writ:

'"Whoso from out this marble stone
With his own powerful hand
Shall pluck this sword, he shall be Lord
And King of all England."'

The Lord Archbishop ordered then
That none should touch the stone,
But all within the church should pray
Until High Mass was done,

And when all prayers were finishèd
(This was his Grace's will),
Ten knights of stainless troth and fame
Should guard the sword from ill;

That jousts and tournaments be held
Upon the New Year's day;
That all who willed their prowess try
To pluck the sword away.

Thereto there flocked a gallant host
Of knights and ladies gay;
Sir Ector brought young Arthur there,
And his own son, Sir Kay.

But then befel a woful chance --
Sir Kay had lost his sword,
In sooth, had left it at his home.
Then uttered he this word:

'O foster brother! backward speed,
Ride fast for love of me,
And when thou reachest Ector's house,
My sword bring back to me.'

'That will I,' said the gallant youth,
Riding away alone;
But when he reached the castle gate
He found the wardour gone,

And all the inmates, great and small,
Off to the tournament;
Baffled and wroth he turned his horse
And to the churchyard went.

'Ten thousand pities 'twere,' he said,
'My dearest brother Kay
Should at the joust withouten sword
Appear in disarray.

Whereat he lighted from his horse,
And tied it to the stile,
While to the tent he bent his steps
And loitered there awhile,

To see if the ten guards were there --
He recked not that they went
With all the world, both rich and poor,
To the great tournament.

So when he found no knights were there
But to the jousting gone,
Lightly yet fierce the sword he seized,
And pulled it from the stone,

And to Sir Kay delivered it,
Who wist, as soon as seen,
That 'twas the sword from out the stone;
Then said, 'Full well I ween

I have the sword, and I must be
The King of all Englànd.
But when he showed it to his sire
Sir Ector gave command

That to the church he should repair
And swear upon the book
How gat he then the sword; but he,
Fearing his sire's rebuke,

Told how his foster brother came
When all the knights were gone,
And light and fiercely plucked the sword
From out the magic stone.

'Now try again,' Sir Ector said;
Whereat they all assayed,
But none save Arthur there availed
To sunder out the blade.

And thrice again he made assay,
And thrice the sword came free;
Sir Ector and Sir Kay fell down
Upon their bended knee.
'O father! why,' young Arthur said,
'Your homage pay to me?'

'Because that God has willed it so.
Thou art no son of mine:
'Twas Merlin brought thee to my arms
From some far nobler line.

'But, O my liege! for King thou art,
Wilt thou to mine and me,
Who nurtured thee and brought thee up,
A gracious sovereign be?

But Arthur wept and made great dole
At what Sir Ector said,
That he no sire or mother had,
Then sweetly answerèd:

'Else were I much to blame! I am
Beholden so to you,
Command me, and may God me help
I will your bidding do.'

'Sir,' said Sir Ector, 'I will ask
No more than that of all
The lands you govern, my son Kay
Be made the Seneschal.'

Replied young Arthur, 'That shall be;
I here my promise give,
That none but he that office fill
While he or I shall live.'

Then happèd it that on Twelfth day
The Barons all assay
To pluck the sword, but none prevail
Save Arthur on that day.

Then waxed they wroth, and Candlemas
Was fixed for the assay,
Yet still no knight but Arthur
Could pluck the sword away.

Then at high feast of Eastertide,
Also at Pentecost,
None but young Arthur loosed the sword --
The knights their temper lost.

But when the Lord Archbishop came,
All cried with one accord,
'We will have Arthur for our King,
God wills him for our lord.'

And down on bended knee they fell
To pay him homage due;
And thus he won Excalibur
And all fair England too.

Soon Scotland, and the North, and Wales,
To him obeisance made,
Won by prowess of his knights
And of his trusty blade.

Anomynous

[Robert Vermaat]

HIC JACET ARTHURUS REX QUONDAM REXQUE FUTURUS
Francis Brett Young (1884 - 1954)


Arthur is gone ... Tristram in Careol
Sleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleeps
Beside him, where the Westering waters roll
Over drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps.

Lancelot is fallen ... The ardent helms that shone
So knightly and the splintered lances rust
In the anonymous mould of Avalon:
Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust.

Where do the vanes and towers of Camelot
And tall Tintagel crumble? Where do those tragic
Lovers and their bright eyed ladies rot?
We cannot tell, for lost is Merlin's magic.

And Guinevere - Call her not back again
Lest she betray the loveliness time lent
A name that blends the rapture and the pain
Linked in the lonely nightingale's lament.

Nor pry too deeply, lest you should discover
The bower of Astolat a smokey hut
Of mud and wattle - find the knightliest lover
A braggart, and his lilymaid a slut.

And all that coloured tale a tapestry
Woven by poets. As the spider's skeins
Are spun of its own substance, so have they
Embroidered empty legend - What remains?

This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oak
That age had sapped and cankered at the root,
Resistant, from her topmost bough there broke
The miracle of one unwithering shoot.

Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain men
Uncouth, untutored, of our island brood
Loved freedom better than their lives; and when
The tempest crashed around them, rose and stood

And charged into the storm's black heart, with sword
Lifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmed
With a strange majesty that the heathen horde
Remembered when all were overwhelmed;

And made of them a legend, to their chief,
Arthur, Ambrosius - no man knows his name -
Granting a gallantry beyond belief,
And to his knights imperishable fame.

They were so few ... We know not in what manner
Or where they fell - whether they went
Riding into the dark under Christ's banner
Or died beneath the blood-red dragon of Gwent.

But this we know; that when the Saxon rout
Swept over them, the sun no longer shone
On Britain, and the last lights flickered out;
And men in darkness muttered: Arthur is gone…

[Arthes]

(I rather like this...)

THE MARCH OF ARTHUR
(BALE ARZUR)
translated by
Tom Taylor
[M. de la Villemarqué, to whom we owe the Breton original of The March of Arthur, which he obtained from the recitation of an old mountaineer of Leuhan, called Mikel Floc'h, informs us that these triplets were sung in chorus, as late as the Chouan war, by the Breton peasants, as they marched to battle against the Republican soldiers. The belief in the appearance of Arthur's host on the mountains, headed by their mystic chief, who awakens from his charmed sleep in the Valley of Avalon whenever war impends over his beloved Cymry, is common to all the Celtic races, and may be compared with a similar faith as to Holger among the Danes, Barbarossa among the Germans, and Marco among the Servians. Sir Walter Scott has recorded the belief entertained in the Highlands of the apparition of mounted warriors riding along the precipitous flanks of the mountains, where no living horse could keep his footing. The apparition of this ghostly troop is always held to portend war; and it is no doubt the same which the Celtic bard has here described as arrayed under Arthur. The ancient air to which the triplets are sung (which will be found among the musical accompaniments in the Appendix - http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/taylormu.gif ) is a wild and warlike march; and the peasant who chanted it to De la Villermarqué told him it was always sung three times over. The composition is an ancient one, and contains many words now obsolete in Brittany, though still found in the Cymric of Wales. The last triplet is a late addition.]

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp to battle din!
Tramp son, tramp sire, tramp kith and kin!
Tramp one, tramp all, have hearts within.

The chieftain's son his sire addrest,
As morn awoke the world from rest:
"Lo! warriors on yon mountain crest--

"Lo! warriors armed, their course that hold
On grey war-horses riding bold,
With nostrils snorting wide for cold!

"Rank closing up on rank I see,
Six by six, and three by three,
Spear-points by thousands glinting free.

"Now rank on rank, twos front they go
Behind a flag which to and fro
Sways, as the winds of death do blow!

"Nine sling-casts' length from wan to rear--
I know 'tis Arthur's hosts appear;
There Arthur strides--the foremost peer!"

"If it be Arthur--Ho! what, ho!
Up spear! out arrow! Bend the bow!
Forth, after Arthur, on the foe!"

The chieftain's words were hardly spoke,
When forth the cry of battle broke--
From end to end the hills it woke:

"Be 't head for hand, and heart for eye,
Death-wound for scratch--a-low, on high--
Matron for maid, and man for boy!

"Stone-horse for mare, for heifers steers.
War-chief for warrior, youth for years,
And fire for sweat, and blood for tears.

"And three for one--by strath and scaur,
By day, by night, till near and far
The streams run red with waves of war!

"If in the fight we fall, so best!
Bathed in our blood--a baptism blest--
With joyous hearts we'll take our rest.

"If we but fall where we have fought,
As Christian men and Bretons ought,
Such death is ne'er too early sought."

(copied from The Camelot Project at the University of Rochester site...)

[Salvianus]

HIC JACET ARTHURUS REX QUONDAM REXQUE FUTURUS
Francis Brett Young (1884 - 1954)

What remains?

This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oak
That age had sapped and cankered at the root,
Resistant, from her topmost bough there broke
The miracle of one unwithering shoot.

Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain men
Uncouth, untutored, of our island brood
Loved freedom better than their lives; and when
The tempest crashed around them, rose and stood

And charged into the storm's black heart, with sword
Lifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmed
With a strange majesty that the heathen horde
Remembered when all were overwhelmed;

And made of them a legend

This poem is one of the main sparks that lit my interest in the Brittonic Period: the desire to know the truths beneath the layers of myth, balanced by the almost comforting certainty that these truths will always remain obscure

[Robert Vermaat]

Mine too, Ste.