PERCIVAL & THECLA

LADY so lovely     a flower of May,

A blessed beauty.     Yet she burned not

With fire or frost     but fair sunshine

Of soft meadow     and the silvan wood.

 

Yet what cruelty     cutting deep

This given grace     of Guinevere’s,

What tears would waste     wept in folly

Embraced in arms     by man and king.

T IS SAID no saint     draws sword for combat,

None but this blameless knight     of bold prophecy.

Yet bold and blameless     was boasted aloud

The deeds of the daring     and delightful

Sir Felix Felicitas,     fairest in name.

Why, to keep his company,     courteous and free,

Swift with smiles     and somberless;

To enjoy his jokes,     aye, to joust with him

In truest tournament—     no trifler was he—

Why, in wit was said,     “the warrior is he,

“And, in perfect paradox,     a perilous man

If seeming and substance     are synonymous,

For in kind he contains     the countenance of a holy saint;

but the strike of his stroke     is strong and fast

And meets its mark.     Merrily he laughs,

Forsakes not his fellows     at feasting time—

Conversing coolly     with a keen temper.”

 

Aged twelve he appeared     this son of Arthur,

A festive flicker     reflected in his eyes;

His mother, Morgana,     named him well,

Mordred— for moderate,     made with cool temper,

He was reared and rose     under the rule of Arthur,

But learned ex libris     from the lady his mother,

In the deep abode     below Camelot’s walls—

On witchcraft she weaned him     the ways of the dark,

Till emerging from  

And when the watchful years     had worn out youth,

Merlin amid them     magic in his voice

Appeared and prophesied     in [ p ] tongue.

ERLIN burst among them     in maelstrom of robes,

A madness remarked they     in manner of speech.

“Arthur! attend my words!”     His air was mighty,

Bespeaking his king     no kindness in tone.

“The sword from its stone     is unstaked at last—”

 

ROM Palma to Palestine     Percival sailed,

On Roman roads     restless he traveled;

Pathward compelled     to the place of the Grail.

 

He thought then     to thank Heaven

With prayer and praise,     plaudits singing,

Te Deum laudamus     te Dominum confitemur.

 

Then without warning     the way was shut

His travels turning     to a trackless waste,

His refrains ran dry     and rolled to an end.

From palfrey he fell     face to his hands,

And let out laments,     lost all to tears.

 

[ Hadn’t that hermit     holding oak staff

Reckoned a-right     the road to Sarras? ]

 

The forest he found     was fearful and dark,

Webbed and wild,     a waste of foul smell.

He slept not nor sat     for seven days

In that hollow house,     a heaven-less place

Where animals mated not    nor made a sound;

A boneyard bubbling     with black odour

Of corpses and carcasses.     A cry he heard then,

The first, and fairest,     from a distance singing, 

Among oak and elm,     a redoubtable voice,

And Percival compelled,     by its power turned,

Saw this spectre     of silver-clad mail.

 

Now there was a knight     known in those parts;

Hawkcrest they call him     for the clad of his helm.

Lord-less he was,     in leisure ruling,

King of his own keep.     From Kentish wilds

He’d hailed for awhile,     a haughty man,

A thankless thane     overthrown to pride,

From his master’s mark,    his merit taken,

And faithless he fell,     to disfavor and scorn.

Neither from negligence     nor weakness

Did he fall—he was fearless,     and fierce enough!

It’s true in tournament     he trampled his foe,

A princely opponent,     prevailed him by fiat,

Judged the joust-winner.     The judges wit well,

For they feared him,     forced to agree,

And give him those gifts     which granted his fame.

 

Ah! then envy came,     dark angel of old,

Spun spacious castles     soft in the air,

Brought him bright dreams     of beddings of gold,

Shimmering sheets     that showered with light.

Alas, overthrown,     to his wealth doomed,

He ruled beyond realm     this warren of death.

 

He it was who sang     and Percival approached,

On a mare mounted,     but made no gesture,

Without a word     awaited Arthur’s knight

To utter a remark     and return his answer.

 

“Sir,” said Percival     sighing gratitude,

“My eyes have yearned     for your arrival,

Too little of life     lingers in this wood;

Where flint sparks flame     the fumes are poison;

My nostrils burn     so noxious is this place

Where I am not wanted,     nor want to be.

To Sarras I am certain     my soul is bound,

But its location is lost.     My Lord King Arthur

This quest bequeathed me,     to quit it so soon

Would be dishonor to myself

 

IS opponent paused     for praise he loved

To hear of himself,     however little,

From unwashed wastrel     and wealthy alike,

So to flash his fame,     and fan it too.

 

Percival perceived this     plotting next

New numbers     to enumerate

His foe’s triumphs,     his flagrant gagnons.

 

“If modesty permit me     a monk’s song

Have I heard lately     a humble chanson;

Sung ‘tis true     solo sine choro,

By a bald monk     beaten down

By a knavish knight     who knocked him flat

(He was merry with mud,     hardly embarrassed by it!)

Restoring thereby     his repentant heart.

For among monks—     so his melody tells—

Why, a sinner he was—     a serpent ‘mong fowls—

A robber, a wretch,     an unrighteous clerk—

Seducing servant girls,     a sacrist unholy—

Why, sir knight, this monk     to sulfrous flames

Was nearing nigh     till you nudged him!

Let it not be said     ‘a knave steals worth

Only from the oppressed’,     for in that instance

You gave back to God     the gift of a soul.

Or am I mistaken?     Mercy and pardon

Through and through!     For truth I see

Now not that knight—     No, you are another.”

 

Here Hawkcrest canted     with cruel howling,

Silver visage shaking     an endless void his eyes.

“Among all the world     does Arthur command

A thane so thoroughly good?     So thoughtful

Of religion and righteousness,     reward an afterthought?”

 

His laughter rang false     an offense to truth,

And Percival answered:     “My lord Arthur

Would not wish his name     awash in your spittle,

Yet your ears may melt     to uselessness at his name—

Galahad the Great—     his given title,

So we hail him     and he never blushes,

Or chides us as children,     nor eschews

This high heavenly title,     for humility

Is wise in allowance     which washes out pride.”

 

Hawkcrest called again     his callous mirth

For all the forest to hear,     and fitfully replied:

“Your games are girlish,     by God, I cry for you,

Seeking man for savior,     who can only sinful be.”

 

“Sinless, no, neither sinful,     and God will save him,

As a man among men—    but his might is divine,

That is to say,     sent from Heaven,

But innocence impedes sin—     he is impervious,

Why, he is the prince of purity,”     said Percival gladly.

 

“‘Prince of purity’,     ‘impervious to sin’,

‘Galahad the Great’?     Why girls he had

About him all over     this past afternoon!

To Turlock I took him     as a  true friend,

Shared my caches     my shipments of wine,

My women and wenches —     and how low they were!

Why, Galahad gave no mind     gladly partaking.

Even lusty Lancelot     would look askance

On such bold behaviour.     A bastard, alas!

He killed one of my kin—     kissed my stepsister

Then murdered her     and mocked her corpse.

Even now in dungeon     alone to reflect

In solitary cell     he spits venomous words,

Cares not for the Quest     considers it lowly—

A ‘nifty thing for knights’—     he named you thus.

He curses the Christian faith     as cause of his woes—

Renounces righteousness.     These ravings, understand,

Pass me by impervious,     for perfection to me

I find in fine things.     My own fate I own

As safely as my castle.     Alas, once my friend,

Galahad the Great     now given over to sin,

Is now my perfect prisoner     to dispose of at dawn.”

T is said no saint     draws sword for combat,

None but the blameless knight     of bold prophecy.