Oscar Fay Adams - The Pa**ing of the Sages lyrics

ARGUMENT. Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger My story had been longer. Sir Valence, son of Eglamour, and last Of ten tall sons who made their father's name A name of all men honor'd ere he past From out the kindly winter of his age To judgment and the unseen life beyond, Mus'd on a mournful midnight o'er the fate That left him, almost ere his beard was grown, Alone, the last of all his race. For these, His stalwart brothers, fell on that great day In Lyonnesse, and he, returning home From emba**age to Breton court, had miss'd By pa**age of a few days the chance of d**h In battle for his lord. So, coming late To that lone field of combat by the sea, He found nor living friend nor foe, but thick As wave-wash'd pebbles on a wintry shore Forsaken by a faithless ebbing tide, Lay dead his foes and friends. Then past in grief Sir Valence to the chapel nigh the field Where Bedivere the wounded Arthur bore, And all the man within was broken up, And like a sudden fountain flow'd his tears, And like a bitter wailing were his words. "O nevermore," moaned Valence, "on this earth Shall I the Table Round or Arthur see, For Modred's host have slain the men I lov'd, Not sparing one; and tho' they say our lord, King Arthur, cannot die, and tho' he lies Not dead upon the field, yet he is gone, Yea, he is gone, and all my house are dead. And what henceforth is left to me?" Thus he In loneliness of spirit moan'd aloud, And after past without the chapel down The splinter'd crags to that great water's marge Beneath, thinking the while, "Here will I die." But while he stood on a wave-eaten rock That thrust itself from shore so far beyond Its fellows that its base was sunk from sight Nine fathoms, and there pois'd himself in act To leap into the surge, an arm arose From out the flashing surface of the lake, "Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful," And pointed northward, while a great cry shrill'd Thro' all the winter silence, warning him Therefrom. And when the echoes of that cry Had lost themselves among the barren crags, A voice that seem'd to come from east and west And north and south at once, with murm'ring fill'd His ears, but clearer grown, resolv'd itself To this: "Thy lord, King Arthur, is not dead, But past into Avilion valleys where There falleth neither rain nor snow, nor blows The gale; but know, Sir Valence, that the way To his blest presence is not by this gate That thou wouldst open." After this the voice Became a murmur once again and sank To silence, and the mystic arm slipt down Into the bosom of the lake, and night Came striding o'er the hills, and all was dark. Thus warn'd, yet little comforted, the knight, His pathway later lit by waning moon, Past upward from the lake, and thence by slow Removes to lands of his near Cameliard. There he, sole heir to all his father's house Possesst in these its latest, saddest days, A batter'd castle and a ruined tow'r, And scanty leagues of marsh thro' which there wound A sullen river, slipping toward the sea, Past languid days of listless idleness Among the few retainers of his house, And gladly would have died if that might be, But fear'd to end his life, remembering The voice. So joyless past the time until A mournful midnight came, sobbing with wind And rain, and while Sir Valence sadly mus'd Beside a fitful, slowly sinking fire, There stood before him Ban, his seneschal, An aged man with a thousand-wrinkl'd face, Saying a traveller at the castle gate Craved food and shelter for the night. "Yea, let Him in," Sir Valence said, "and bring him here, And set before us bread and meat and wine." Thereat old Ban departed, but return'd A moment after with a stranger knight, Upon whose bearded face Sir Valence gaz'd An instant doubtfully before he spoke In way of courtesy, because half deem'd He that he knew the man. Then said the knight: "Thou know'st me not, Sir Valence, but thy sire Was known to me, and likewise all thy house But thee. Sir Sagramour am I, now bent On errand northward to the court of Lot, But brought by old-time yearning to thy halls To welcome seek from son of Eglamour." "Thou hast it, sweet Sir Sagramour," then spoke Sir Valence courteously, "albeit I Have little left to entertain a knight Of such fair presence as he may deserve, Yet what I have is freely thine; I pray You use it willingly as such." Meantime The thousand-wrinkl'd man had laid the board, And placed thereon a pasty, manchet bread, And gleaming flagons of red wine. Thereto Sir Valence pointed, and the twain sat down, And warm'd their hearts with wine, and nurs'd the while A growing friendship each for other till The fire by Ban re-kindl'd wan'd again. Then Valence, pushing back his chair, began: "I have not seen so glad a time as this Since I return'd from Breton court, and I Bessech you, sweet Sir Sagramour, to bide With me such time as thy affairs allow." Then made the other answer, graciously, "I find no other pleasure but my host's Within my heart, and therefore will I bide And gladly, here a little space." So he, Sir Sagramour, abode, and brighter seem'd The castle for his presence, and the heart Of Valence lighter grew: and Sagramour Perceiving this told merry tales, and oft Provok'd his host to mirth: and once the tale Was in this fashion told. "Ere Arthur came," So ran the words of sweet Sir Sagramour, "A petty princedom lying east from here, Held on its seaward border one small town Call'd Gotham, full of strange mad folk, and three There were esteem'd as wise as Merlin was At court of Camelot: and yet the three Were madder than the rest. Now as it chanced These Gotham sages all at once were fill'd With wild desire to travel on the sea Before their doors, and many plans they laid To bring to pa** fulfilment of desire; But all were fruitless, till one happy day The maddest of the three within his brain Conceiv'd the fancy of a giant bowl Of wood which might be sent upon the sea, Whilst they within, all jubilant, might ride. So half the men in Gotham set at work To make the bowl; and when 'twas done and launch'd, The sages, sitting on the bowl's sharp edge, Their voices lifted high in gleeful song. "'O sun, that shinest sweetest on the wise, O moon, that flingst a veil across our eyes, Shine softly: now our bowl hath toucht the sea. "'O poppies red that lull us quick to sleep, O poppies red that drowsy secrets keep, Blow softly; twice our bowl hath dipt the sea. "'O owls, that carol in the fearsome dark, O owls, that carol sweeter then the lark, Sing softly: twice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' "So sang the Gotham wise men, while the bowl Upon an ebbing tide mov'd from the shore, And as their figures blurr'd with distance, sang Again, and fainter both the tune and words. "'O sea-bowl, tossing on the watery crest, O sea-bowl, with three sages in thy breast, Toss gently, thrice our bowl hath dipt the sea.' "Thereafter," said Sir Sagramour, "there came A fierce, wild gale from out the north,"--then paus'd As one whose tale is done. "What then?" here spoke The host, impatient of the pause. Whereat The other: "Longer far had been my tale If Gotham's giant bowl had stronger been. But come, we waste the hours; I pray you go With me to Orkney. In a month we will Return."