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    The Last Tournament
    The Last Tournament
    The Last Tournament
    Ebook46 pages33 minutes

    The Last Tournament

    By Alfred Tennyson

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    The Last Tournament

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      Book preview

      The Last Tournament - Alfred Tennyson

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Last Tournament, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: The Last Tournament

      Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson

      Posting Date: October 24, 2012 [EBook #7782] Release Date: March, 2005 First Posted: May 16, 2003

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST TOURNAMENT ***

      Produced by Ted Garvin and the Distributed Proofreading Team

      THE LAST TOURNAMENT

      BY

      ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L.,

      POET-LAUREATE

      AUTHOR'S EDITION

      FROM ADVANCE SHEETS

      This poem forms one of the Idyls of the King. Its place is between Pelleas and Guinevere.

      BY ALFRED TENNYSON,

      POET LAUREATE

         Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods

       Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,

       At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,

       Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall.

       And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand,

       And from the crown thereof a carcanet

       Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize

       Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,

       Came Tristram, saying, Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?

         For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once

       Far down beneath a winding wall of rock

       Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead,

       From roots like some black coil of carven snakes

       Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air

       Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree

       Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind

       Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree

       Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,

       This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,

       And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought

       A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,

       Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen

       But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms

       Received, and after loved it tenderly,

       And named it Nestling; so forgot herself

       A moment, and her cares; till that young life

       Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold

       Past from her; and in time the carcanet

       Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:

       So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,

       "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,

       And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize."

         To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne

       Dead nestling, and this honor after death,

       Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse

       Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone,

       Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,

       And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear."

         Would rather ye had let them fall, she cried,

       "Plunge and be lost—ill-fated as they were,

       A bitterness to me!—ye

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