Oscar Fay Adams - Sir Evergreen lyrics

ARGUMENT. The man in the wilderness asked me How many strawberries grow in the sea; And I answered him as I thought good, As many as red herrings grow in the wood. Sir Bevis, faithful knight of Arthur's court, Returning from some mission of his lord, Who held him dear, and oft would send by him Such secret message as none else might bear, And who was known to all as form'd of truth And loving service well compact, had found, So late the hour, the gates of Camelot Fast clos'd, and he without was fain to wait Till morning 'neath the roof of one who dwelt Beside the walls by mighty Merlin made; A kinsman whom Sir Bevis dearly lov'd. Glad was the man when he Sir Bevis saw, And heard the knight in courtly accents crave A shelter till the morn, and gladly made His kinsman of the famous Table Round Right welcome to such cheer as he possest. On oaken board he threw the damask cloth, And on it laid the snowy manchet bread, The pasty rich, the lordly round of beef, And from a silver flagon poured the wine. Naught said the knight till, meat and drink consum'd, And hunger past, his tongue was therewith loos'd And with a voice like to the mellow roll Of music deep and full, far heard yet close In seeming to the eager listener's ear, He spoke: "Kinsman, thou shouldst have been with me These five days past, which I, at Arthur's hest, Have spent at court of Mark, the Cornish king Who wedded fair Iseult of Ireland. On him all courtesy is lost, but she Is fairer than Queen Guinevere, and false, Alas! as fair, if there be any truth In tales of her and Tristram buzz'd about In Cornish court below us by the sea. Thou shouldst have seen the feastings and the jousts That graced my stay, for greatly Mark desires With Arthur peace and therefore honor'd me On emba**age from blameless Arthur sent. For me, I care not greatly for such sports, But thou wast always of another mind And therefore shouldst have gone along with me." He ceas'd, and resting idly, chin in hand, And elbow propt upon the board, he bent A keenly mirthful gaze upon his host. Then he: "Good Bevis, tell me not of Mark, Of Cornish court, of feasts or lordly jousts, For here, scarce three leagues off from Camelot, Have I adventure had to last my life, Yea, such, I thought, were like to end my life, What time that thou wert feasting with King Mark." To whom the knight: "Thou seemst in goodly trim For one so late in peril of his life; But let me hear." Thereat while evening wan'd The kinsman of Sir Bevis told his tale. "But two days since upon a listless morn On which the sun shone fiercely from a sky Of bra**, and all the winds were still and husht The murmuring streets of busy Camelot I sought yon forest that, dim miles away, O'erspreads the plain that sloping gently bounds The west. Therein mov'd I as one who needs No friend to 'company his steps, and there, Outworn by distance and by summer's heat, Sank into sleep beside a hollow oak And woke not till what time the evening fell Across the land and feebly strove the pale New moon to wrestle with the dark. Then while I rose bewilder'd, scarce as yet possest Of full remembrance of my journey thence, So dull'd my senses with yet lingering sleep, There sudden brake from covert thick of bush And brier that barr'd the way with thorny front, One mightier than any knight who sits At meat with Arthur at the Table Round. Yea, to my fears he seem'd as huge as ten Though they were each as stout as Lancelot, And fast he gript me by the hair and arm. The field mouse is not in the cat's grim clutch More helpless than was I, thy kinsman, then, And tremblingly I found my voice and spoke: 'Oh, who art thou who here at close of day Dost hold me fast in peril of my life?' At these my words he loudly laught in scorn And slowly rolling both his gleaming eyes Upon me, gript the closer till I roar'd For pain. Then made he answer rough and harsh As watchdog's howling when the thief is nigh: 'The lord of this great forest, lo, am I! And mighty through its fruits and roots am I. Sir Evergreen am hight, and I can keep Thee here till doomsday, an it pleaseth thee.' To whom then I: 'Such fate would little please; 'Twould please me much the best to be let go.' Amaz'd, he of the wood upon me glar'd The space of one long minute, and the woods Were still. Then broke he into loud-voiced song: 'Fate! fate! 'tis fate that holds thee pris'ner here; Fate! fate! sharp fate, so think not to get clear. No fate, no fate so terrible as I!' Have you not heard my strength no one can beat? Oh, fling yourself in terror at my feet. No fate, no fate so terrible as I!' Full loud he sang the while I quak'd for fear, And thro' the forest loud the grewsome stave Resounded and the forest echoed 'I.' Then as I wonder'd what should me befall, Once more he spoke, and, full of dread, I heard. 'Poor craven denizen of Camelot, 'Twas not to slay and eat thee that I sought Thee here. Not meet were it for me to eat Thy flesh, seeing I eat not meat, but still On fruits and roots have waxen strong, if wax Be strong and strong be wax.' Then I: Beeswax They name it in the streets of Camelot.' 'Peace, kitchen knave!' loud roar'd Sir Evergreen, 'Thy prate is like the buzzing of some fly That comes and goes and comes again, and yet For nothing; such thy foolish speech. And now Hear me.' 'I cannot choose but hear, good sir; To me thy voice sounds louder than the blast That down great chimneys roars at dead of night.' At this, well-pleas'd, he of the wood relaxt Somewhat his grasp and show'd his teeth in smile; A fierce array, tho' broken here and there. 'Know then, O kitchen knave,' his words to me, 'Within the dusky shadows of this wood Have I these forty summers dwelt.' Then I: 'And winters too, Sir Evergreen?' To which He answer made: 'Not winters two, dull knave, But winters forty as the summers are, Nor have I cold nor rheumatism felt; Yet dwelling thus it well may chance I know But little of the outer world, and thou, Belike, canst tell me what I fain would hear.' He paus'd, as one who, at a loss for words, Doth grope about the chamber of his brain, And from the quest at last returns with those He had not chosen were there room for choice; So far'd it with Sir Evergreen, who roar'd Impatiently his eager question forth: 'O kitchen knave, or whatso'er thou art, Make answer truly, hast thou seen the sea?' He ceas'd, and in the gloomy wood no sound Was there save faintest stir above our heads Of half-awakened nestlings in the nest. Then meekly question'd I: 'The A, B, C?' 'Not so, O knave, the sea I mean doth wind About the world, as once in youth I heard Sage Merlin speak, like snake about its prey. Once more I ask it, hast thou seen the sea?' 'Full oft, in winter storm and summer calm, Sir Evergreen,' I answered, chill with fear. 'Tis well,' he roar'd, and more beside had said But that I spoke again and all in wrath He heard. 'Strong sir, it is not well if thou Dost speak thus of the sea, for well and sea Are vastly different things, tho' water lies In both.' I ended; scarce my words were done When all the temper of the man broke forth; Mighty his wrath and gustily he spoke: 'Well me no wells or 'twill be ill with thee; Sea me no seas, for I will seize on thee; Lie me no lies or soon wilt thou lie there.' Thereat he dragg'd me past the hollow oak And fiercely pointed to a torrent deep That many feet below us leapt and ran 'Mong sharp and ragged rocks that vext its course, And made as he would hurl me thitherward. More had he said, and op'd his mouth to speak And op'ning, chok'd, (a frog, it may be, fill'd His angry throat,) but later spoke more calm: 'O knave, provoke me not, lest ill befall, And now once more attend. There grow within This wood, beneath the leaves and creeping near The ground, red berries which the seeming wise Call straw. Full sweet and toothsome to the taste Are they, and on them have I often din'd Nigh to that hour in which the golden sun In high mid-heaven stands, and all about The leaves hang quiet in the summer's heat,-- My one regret that there were all too few To satisfy the hunger in my breast. Now, kitchen knave, if haply thou canst tell How many of these berries rare within The sea do grow, it may be I can feed Thereon when these within the woods are gone.' He ended here, and on me bent his gaze With all expectancy, as one who sits Within a dry and thirsty land, and sees The storm-clouds gather in the far southwest. He pausing, I kept silence for a space; Then, as the shadows darken'd in the wood, And owls from out the hollow oak flew forth With baleful shriek to meet the coming night, Made answer to the question as I deem'd It best. 'The sea is wide, Sir Evergreen, And hard were it for any man to count And number rightly all that is therein, Yet near enow for purpose practical It chanceth I may answer to thy quest. Of berries thoothsome, which the wise call straw, (Though not a straw care I for what they say, Not ev'n the straw which breaks the camel's back, Nor that which shows the changeful current's course,) There grow within the angry-bosom'd sea As many as of herrings red are found In green and dusky confines of the wood.' Thus I, and he before me listen'd all Attent as child who, by some fireside warm, On winter evenings ere the hour for bed Heark'neth, delighted, to some fairy tale, But keepeth silent lest a word be lost; So all in hope heard he, but at the last Grew sad and loos'd his grasp, yet gaz'd Upon me sternly that I dar'd not stir For fear. Then, while I wonder'd at him, gave A cry whose tingling echoes reach'd the stars: 'O knave! I know not what red herrings be!' Full bitterly he cried, and, turning, past Adown the forest, and the forest clos'd Upon him, and uncheck'd I went my way." "A grewsome tale," the bold Sir Bevis said When all was ended and the story told, And then the twain to slumber past, and dreams.