Oscar Fay Adams - The Water Carriers lyrics

ARGUMENT. Jack and Gill went up the hill To draw a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown And Gill came tumbling after. "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea," But young Lavaine, the knight of Astolat, And brother to the lily maid who died For Lancelot's love, was reckon'd not of those Who "fell in Lyonnesse about their Lord," King Arthur, whom the three Queens bore away. For he, Lavaine, who lov'd Sir Lancelot But reverenced his King and conscience more, Had hasten'd to the standard of his King When evil-hearted Modred rais'd revolt, And Lancelot, the faithless, stain'd, alas! His manhood, warring 'gainst his friend and King. And so, because the lad was true and brave, And modest seeming, nor was rash of speech, Had Arthur made him of the Table Round And lov'd to have him near. Whereat Lavaine Greatly rejoic'd and gladly would have died To serve in any wise the blameless King. But when the sun came from the under world And shone upon that field of battle near The winter sea, Lavaine by Arthur's side Receiv'd a vengeful thrust aim'd at the King, And from his horse, slow reeling, fell, and o'er Him swept the host; but bluff Sir Torre, who saw His brother fall, came spurring hence and dragg'd Him to one side, and there, in knightly wise, Gave him such tendance as his wit devis'd, And left him, guarded by a humble squire, But thinking, "If I live, I will return;" And scarce an hour was gone before a stroke From one of Modred's men had cleft Sir Torre From brain to nape. So died he for his Lord. But of his tendance or his d**h Lavaine Knew naught, but lay in stupor deep as d**h, And to the eye that watch'd he seem'd as dead. Whereat the humble squire mus'd to himself: "If he be dead, he needs not me to guard; And if he be alive his foes will think Him dead, and truly I do deem him dead, Yet be he dead or living I must see The issue of the fight," and saying went And saw, and, seeing, met the d**h which might Have spar'd him by the side of Sir Lavaine. "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd," Yet Sir Lavaine in stupor lay upon The field until the sun went down, and shone The moon at full upon his armor clasps And glinted on the chasing of his sword. As one who journeying in lands remote Returning takes by slow degrees the old Life up, so Sir Lavaine return'd from d**h Or what had seem'd like d**h, not all at once But dimly had a knowledge of his state And what had past, and then, because too weak To think, he fell in sleep again and wak'd Not till the sun brake from the underworld, And near him, having watch'd the barge that bore King Arthur out of sight, there slowly drew The bold Sir Bedivere. These two last left Alive upon the field. The mournful twain At length slow moving from the field, because Lavaine was weak from hunger and the wound, Past on to where within a little wood A simple hermit liv'd a blameless life. With him the pair abode until Lavaine Was heal'd and then the bold Sir Bedivere Past to his own land, distant Cameliard, And then, a little later, past Lavaine To his. Small joy was now at Astolat For him, the last of all his race, and night And day he seem'd to hear the lily maid Singing her swan song from the eastern tow'r, Or bluff Sir Torre stride thro' the broken halls, Or else his father, dead a year agone, Calling him tenderly as was his wont, And so by always listening to the dead He ceased to hearken to the living voice, And more and more withdrew into himself. But when the next approaching spring had fail'd To stir the languid blood within his veins, The dumb old servitor before him stood One April morning in the castle yard And pointed to the south, and then by signs Essay'd to free his mind, and Sir Lavaine, Half comprehending, asked him, "Shall I go Thither?" Thereat the dumb old man nodded, His finger once more pointing to the south. So, deeming that his humble servitor Had deeper knowledge of the best, Lavaine, A little later gathering the few Who serv'd for love, not hire, within the halls Of Astolat, past with them into lands Of Cornish name, and made a home for them And for himself; and, marrying a maid Of Cornish race, saw children of his own And all the past became a memory. Before his home in Cornwall lay the sea, And a thick wood behind it northward stretch'd But to the left a dusty white road climb'd A hill on which there frown'd a single tow'r, And on the farther side a hamlet slept In peace and plenty, owning him for lord. There o'er his Cornish castle past the years From churlish winter into spring until Ten times the ash buds blackened with the winds Of March since blameless Arthur past beyond The mournful gaze of bold Sir Bedivere. A younger copy of himself, or like Himself when but eight tender seasons old, Now listen'd, wonder-ey'd, to Sir Lavaine When he would talk of arms and of the last Great day in Lyonnesse. Jack had the lad Been call'd for some past claimant for the hand Of her Lavaine call'd wife, yet this Lavaine Knew not, but deem'd the unfamiliar name A careless fancy of his Cornish wife's, Whose lightest fancy 'twas his care to please. Slender the lad, as once his father was, But all the blood of lusty Astolat Made summer in his veins. Seldom apart From him his sister Gillian was, and each Without the other droopt and pin'd. Most like Her aunt, the dead Elaine, young Gillian seem'd, And oft the father, looking at her, felt Remembrance of the distant past confuse The present, till if he were boy or man And this his child or playmate sister seem'd Sometimes a thing of doubt. The two, the maid And Jack, lov'd better than all else to climb The long white road, that steep and stony, led Up to the single, broken, frowning tow'r. Four trees beside the tow'r bent o'er a spring That broke from out a sombre, rocky cleft. Here Tristram once had drunk with fair Iseult, Mark's wife, and laught to see the shining drops Slip thro' her fingers, when she held her hand Cupwise, that he might drink therefrom. And here Had sweet Sir Percivale once stopt to drink, Returning from the Quest of Holy Grail; Here, too, had Pelleas, the bright boy knight, A brief hour linger'd, flying from the court In that dark time when all his early faith In woman's virtue died, and good Sir Bors, The false Gawain, the pure Sir Galahad, And many more of that great Table Round Had drunk from these sweet waters to their gain. Full oft had Gillian and the stripling Jack Bent o'er the spring as bent the trees above, And laught to see two faces gazing up, One fair and pale, the other fair and red. Maid Gillian's was the one, the other his. Now as it hapt, Lavaine in that tenth year Fell ill of some dull fever in the blood, And twenty mornings past and still the knight Felt the slow poison creeping thro' his veins And grew at last indifferent to the end. To him maid Gillian pityingly came And said with tears: "Sure am I that one thing Would cure this deadly fever." Then Lavaine: "Yea, dost thou think it, little maid? then let Me hear." Then she: "A draught of water brought From spring beside the tow'r would cure, so pure It is and sweet, and Jack and I would bring It gladly an' 'twould please you drink, my lord." To whom the sick man answer'd wearily, Yet thinking she by chance had spoken truth As he bethought him of the water's fame: "Child, since you wish it, bring, and I will drink." Thereat and lightly sprang the maiden down The steps that led to outer air, and close Beside came Jack, a silver vessel swung From one small hand, and so the childish twain Went up the hill and quickly reach'd its top. Then Jack, with Gill beside, stoopt low and fill'd The vessel till the drops did chase themselves All down its burnisht sides. This done, they left The spring, and holding each the vessel's rim, Return'd as they had come, but slower, lest By haste the precious draught were spilt and lost. Then as in distance smaller grew the tow'r Behind, the maid broke out in tender song: "Sweet is the sunshine coming after rain; And sweet this water unto lips in pain: Which is the sweeter? that in truth know I. "Light, art thou sweet? then sweeter waters be: Light, thou art grateful; sweet this draught to me. O light, if d**h be near him, let me die. "Sweet light that fades at eve too soon away, Sweet waters springing from the dark to day, Which is the sweeter? that in truth know I. "Pain, follow night, and henceforth from him flee; Thou needs must follow night that waits for thee; But, if thou wilt not, then O let me die." Clear with the last line rang her voice, and Jack, Who heeded not his ways when Gillian sang, Slipt, as the last note ceas'd, upon a piece Of sliding stone, and slipping, fell, dragging The singer down, and both together roll'd, All in a horror of loose stones and dust And flying limbs and broken bones and crowns, Far down the steep side of that rocky hill. So perish'd these two of the fated house Of Astolat; and in the night that follow'd, And near a dawning fierce with wind and rain, Wherein the sea wag'd battle with the sky And both with earth, to final judgment past Lavaine.