A Song for the Beginning

Now filled was all the sumOf serving years, and past, forever past,All duties, all delights, of young esquires:And to the altar and the hour at last,--The hour, the altar, of his dear desires,--Clear-shriven and whitely clad the youth was come.

Full many a squire was in that household bredTo arms and honour and sweet courtesy,Who wore that sojourn’s fragrant memoryAs amulet in after-battles dread;And meeting in kings’ houses joyously,Or, wounded, in the sedge beside a lake,Such men were bounden brothers, for the sakeOf the blade that knighted and the board that fed.

To eastward builded was the oratory:There all the warm spring night,--while in the woodThe buds were swelling in the brooding dark,And dreaming of a lordlier dawn the lark,--Paced to and fro the youth, and dreamed on glory,And watched his arms. Great knights in mailéd hoodOn steeds of stone sat ranged along the aisle,And frowned upon the aspirant: “Who is heWould claim the name and join the companyOf slayers of Soldans swart and Dragons grim,Not ignorant of wanded wizards’ guile,And deserts parched, and waters wide to swim?”He halted at the challenge of the dead.Anon, in twilight, fancy feigned a smileTo curve the carven lips, as though they said,“Oh, welcome, brother, of whom the world hath need!Ere the recorded deedWe trembled, hoped, and doubted, even as thou.”

And therewithal he lifted up his brow,Uplift from hesitance and humble fear,And saw how with the splendour of the sunThe glimmering oriel blossomed rosy-clear;And lo, the Vigil of the Arms was done!

Now, mass being said, before the priest he broughtThat glittering prophecy, his untried sword.In some mysterious forge the blade was wrought,By shadowy arms of force that baffle thoughtWrought curiously in the dim under-world;And all along the sheath processions poured,Thronged shapes of earth’s weird mornEre yet the hammer of Thor was downward hurled:Not less it had for hilt the Cross of Christ the Lord,And must thereby in battle aye be borne.

Cool-sprinkled with the consecrated wave,That blade was blessed, that it should strike to save;And next, pure hands of youth in hands of ageWere held upon the pageOf the illuminate missal, full of prayers,--Rich fields, wherethrough the river of souls has rushedLong, long, to have its passion held and hushedIn the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares:And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plightTo bear the sword, or break it, for the Right;And living well his life, yet hold it light,--Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing.

Thereon a troop of maids began to bring,With flutter as of many-coloured doves,The hauberk that right martially did ring,And weight of linkéd gloves,And helmet plumed, and spurs ablaze with gold.Each gave in gracious wise her guiding word,As bade or fresh caprice, or usance old:As, Ride thou swift by golden Honour spurred,Or, Be thou faithful, fortunate, and bold.But scarce for his own heart the aspirant heard.

And armed, all save the head,He kneeled before his master gray and good.Like some tall, noble, ancient ship he stood,That once swept o’er the tideWith banners, and freight of heroes helmetedFor worthy war, and music breathing pride.Now, the walled cities won,And storms withstood, and all her story spun,She towers in sand beside some sunny bay,Whence in the silvery morn new barks go sailing gay.So stately stood the Knight:And with a mighty arm, and with a bladeReconsecrate at fiery fonts of fight,He on the bowed neck gave the accolade.

Yet kneeled the youth bewildered, for the strokeSeemed severance sharp of kind companionships;And the strange pain of parting in him woke;And as at midnight when a branch down dipsBy sudden-swaying tempest roughly stirred,Some full-fledged nested bird,Being shaken forth, though fain of late to fly,Now flickers with weak wing and wistful cry,--So flickered his desires’Twixt knighthood, and delights and duties of esquires.But even as with the morrow will uprise,Assured by azure skies,The bird, and dart, and swim in buoyant air,--Uprose his soul, and found the future free and fair!

And girded with Farewell and with GodspeedHe sprang upon his steed.And forth he fared along the broad bright way;And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze,That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen;And Pentecost had kindled all the treesTo tremulous thin whispering flames of green,And given to each a sacred word to say;And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birdsWere ever woven in among their words.Soft-brooding o’er the hamlet where it lay,The circling hills stood stoled with holy white,For orchards brake to blossom in the night;And all the morning was one blown blue flower,And all the world was at its perfect hour.So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearnedTo do some deed fit for the deep new day.And on the broad bright way his armour burned,And showed him still, a shifting, waning star,To sight that followed far.Till, last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm,That flood-like rolled in light and shadow o’er his helm.

I know not more: nor if that helm did rustIn weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust,Where in the watches loneHeaven’s host beheld him lying overthrown,While God yet judged him victor, God whose lawsNote not the event of battle, but the cause.I know not more: nor if the nodding prizeOf lustrous laurels ere that helm did crown,While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyesSaw how his Demon smote his Angel downIn some forgotten field and left him low.Only the perfect hour is mine to know.

O you who forth along the highway ride,Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around,Be all adventure high that may betide,And gentle all enchantments therein found!I would my song were as a trumpet-soundTo nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with powerTo the remembrance of your perfect hour;To ring again and again, and to recallWith the might of music, all:The prescience proud, the morning aspiration,But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration!