Lines 1–406

I was at Ercildoune,
With Thomas spake I there,
In mystic rede and rune
He told who Tristrem bare —
(He ware a royal crown —
And who gave fostering fair,
A baron of renown
E'en as their elders were.
Thus, year by year,
Thomas, he told in town
What ventures were their share.

Of this sweet summer's day
In winter naught is seen,
The groves be waxen gray
That in their hour were green;
So doth this world alway
(So do I wot and ween),
Our sires be passed away
Who right good men had been
And so abide —
Of one I make my theme
Whose fame has waxen wide.

Roland would thole no wrong
Though Morgan ruled o'er all;
He brake his castles strong,
And levelled many a hall.
He smote his hosts among —
Loss did his foes befall,
And strife that dured long. —
For peace did Morgan call,
Full sore his need,
Of fear was he the thrall
Lest death should be his meed.

For thus the strife began,
(I rede ye well 't was so)
Betwixt the Duke Morgan
And Roland, fiercest foe.
The land they overran,
And wrought the poor much woe,
They slew full many a man,
In strife they were not slow
But men of price;
The one was Duke Morgan,
The other Roland Riis.

Those knights, I ween, were wise,
A cov'nant made they there
To rest in peaceful guise
For seven years full fair.
The duke and Roland Riis
Thereto they steadfast sware.
Forthwith, as knights of prize
To England would they fare
And see with sight
Mark, who the royal crown ware,
And many a gallant knight.

To Mark the king they wend
With followers, famed in fight,
The venture to the end
They told him, fair and right.
He prayed them, as their friend,
Abide, both day and night,
In peace; thereto they lend
Their will, each gallant knight,
For act and deed.
To Tourney they invite
Full many, stout on steed.

A joyful man is he
Who will the Tourney cry;
Maidens his deeds shall see
As o'er the wall they lie.
They question fair and free:
"Who hath the mastery?"
Men say: "The best is he
The knight from Ermonie!"
Henceforth, in bower,
The chosen love is he
Of maiden Blancheflower.

That maiden, fair and bright,
She called her masters three,
And quoth: "That stranger knight
Full sore hath wronged me,
Methinks, by Magic's might —
A wondrous man is he
Thus through my heart to smite
Wounded to death I be,
And that so soon
Save he the wrong make right
My night is come ere noon!"

'T were hard his praise to mend,
That wise and stalwart wight,
Unto the wide world's end
Was never better knight,
Nor truer to his friend,
And Roland Riis he hight.
To battle did he wend,
And wounds he won in fight.
Full sore and fell;
Blancheflower, the maiden bright,
The tale she heard them tell.

And cried, "Ah, wellaway!"
When men sware it was so;
Her mistress did she pray
That she might straightway go
There, where the good knight lay,
She swooned for very woe;
He comforted the may,
And in that hour the two
Begat a son —
Whom men as Tristrem know
Where'er the tale doth run.

That oath the foeman sware
And to maintain had thought,
Duke Morgan brake his share,
Of truce would he have naught.
Rohant, of fealty fair,
A writing swift he wrought,
And bade to Roland bear;
His lord he there besought,
In this his need,
To help him as he ought,
Or all were lost indeed.

Then Roland Riis in woe
Prayed leave of Mark the king:
"Hence must I swiftly go
For men ill tidings bring;
A false and faithless foe
Seeketh my undoing — "
Blancheflower full soon must know,
Her hands the maid must wring
For sorrow sore:
"Myself to ruin I bring
For love I to thee bore!

"In shame I bide here still,
Thou sailest over sea —
Quoth Roland: "Here I dwell
Save that thou wend with me!"
"To bide for me were ill,
Behold, and thou mayest see!
Steadfast my wish and will
From hence to fare with thee,
That I may find
Thy fair folk, frank and free,
Thy goodly land, and kind!"

They make them ready there,
No longer will they bide,
With banners floating fair
From haven forth they ride.
To Roland's castle fair
The winds their vessel guide.
Her sails adown they tear,
Forth from the ship they stride;
The knights, steel-clad,
In Roland's service tried,
To do his will were glad.

Swift Rohant's rede was sped
"This maiden shall be our's,
With Roland Riis to wed,
And rule within these towers.
Fittest to share his bed,
Brightest in lady's bower,
None fairer e'er was bred
Than maiden Blancheflower,
That lady sweet!"
After love's richest dower
The parting followed fleet.

The folk, right well they know
How Morgan subtly wrought,
With wisdom, to and fro,
Among his men he sought.
His true knights, high and low,
Were to his summons brought;
With banners all a-row,
In weapons lacking naught;
That knight so bold,
As crowned king he thought
To win him fame untold.

With folk on field arrayed,
Morgan his foe would bide,
Naught Roland's onslaught stayed,
Against him would he ride.
Sooth, 't was a mighty raid!
Sorrow befell each side,
With prowess proud displayed
Roland, he felled their pride.
'T was but with pain
Morgan escaped that tide,
Well nigh had he been slain!

The foemen came anew
Where Roland valiant stood,
The helms they hack and hew,
Thro' burnies wells the blood.
Then nigh to death there drew
Full many a hero good,
Of Roland men may rue
The death, by Holy Rood!
A hero bold,
His son, of valiant mood,
Payment full dearly told.

A rueful rede now hear
Of Roland Riis the knight,
Three hundred slew he there
With sword so keen and bright.
Of all who foemen were
None might him fell in fight.
In traitorous wise they fare,
And thus the death-blow smite,
With cruel guile
To death the hero dight —
Alas! Woe worth the while!

The steed his master bore
Dead, on his homeward way;
The folk marvelled the more
Who saw his knightly play.
They came with rueful lore
To Blancheflower straightway,
For her I sorrow sore —
On childbed, where she lay
In woe, was born
Sir Tristrem that same day —
She died ere morrow's morn.

A ring of richest hue
She ware, that lady free,
She gave it Rohant true
Her son's henceforth to be.
"Then grimy brother knew,
My father gave it me;
King Mark methinks shall rue
When he that same shall see,
And sorely weep!
As Roland loved thee
The ring for his son keep!"

The folk around her bed
Sadly their lady see, —
'Roland my lord is dead,
He speaks no more with me:" —
'Our lady too, is sped,
She dieth verily:
What do we in this stead?"
'As God wills, let it be
For good or ill." —
Right sad it was to see
Her lying cold and still.

Begotten thus, and born,
Was he, the child of woe;
Rohant was all forlorn
Nor wist what he might do.
His own true wife that morn
To childbed needs must go:
He sware that twins were born,
To joy was turned his woe —
Now shall ye list,
The child at court they know
As Tram before the Trist.

The duke was well content, —
His foe was slain alway;
His messengers he sent,
The folk he straight did pray,
To yield to his intent,
And to his word obey,
Yield town, and tower, and tent —
None might his word gainsay,
But all right soon
Unto his will had bent,
No king had better done.

Who gave rich jewels of gold?
Duke Morgan, he alone;
Ruthless of heart and cold,
To face him was there none.
Unto his counsel told
Was Rohant, true as stone,
In wisdom versed of old
By craft he held his own
His heart to hide,
Perished were blood and bone
If hope were laid aside!

Now Rohant, evermore,
Hides Tristrem, blithe is he,
The child of scholar's lore
Learneth full speedily;
By books he setteth store,
And studieth readily;
Glad hearts, in sooth, they bore
Who owed him fealty.
The lad, so bright,
His skill shewed readily
Against them when he might.

Now years full fifteen long
He hid, Rohant the true,
Tristrem, and every song
He taught him, old and new;
And laws of right and wrong,
And wise saws not a few;
The chase he followed long,
And to such skill he drew
I ween, that thus
Of venerie he knew
More than Manerius.

A ship of Norroway
Came to Sir Rohant's hold,
With hawks both white and gray,
And cloths full fair in fold;
So Tristrem heard men say —
For sport the lad so bold
Would twenty shillings pay
E'en as Sir Rohant told,
And ever taught;
The seamen to him sold
The fairest hawk they brought.

A chessboard by a chair
He saw, and fain would play;
The captain, debonair,
Quoth: "Child, what wilt thou lay?"
"Against this hawk so fair
Shillings two score, I say,
He who calls 'Mate' shall bear
The twain with him away." —
The captain bold,
With good will spake straightway:
"That cov'nant will I hold."

Their pledge in order lies,
To play they now begin;
They set the board in guise
A right long match to win.
The stakes they 'gan to rise —
Tristrem shewed guile therein,
He dealt as one full wise,
And gave as he might win,
The lad so brave;
The game's short space within
Six hawks he won, and gave.

Rohant would go on shore,
His sons he called away,
The fairest hawk he bore
Tristrem had won that day.
And with him he left more
Money, wherewith to play;
The captain roundly swore
Silver and gold to lay
In stake that stound —
Tristrem, he won alway
Of him a hundred pound.

Tristrem won all they laid;
A treason there they planned;
E'en as his master said
That even was at hand,
The while they sat and played
They gat them from the land.
Their sails the breezes fanned;
O'er waves they leap —
Blithely they leave the strand;
But Tristrem sore did weep.

They set his master free,
Gave boat, and eke an oar,
Crying: "Here is the sea,
And yonder be the shore,
Choose what thy lot shall be,
The which were wiser lore,
To sink, or sail; with me
The child, for evermore
Shall sail the flood."
Tristrem, he wept full sore;
The captain deemed it good.

Nine weeks, I ween, and more,
Those seamen sailed the flood,
Till anchor failed, and oar,
And storms their course withstood.
Tristrem, the blame he bore
For this, their mournful mood;
Small use the steersman's lore,
The waves they were so wood
With storm and wind —
To land their will was good
Might they a haven find.

To land they drew anigh,
A forest as it were,
The hills, they were full high,
The holts, they were full fair.
To shore right speedily
Tristrem the seamen bare,
His gains, his jewellery,
And bread, they gave him there,
The lad so mild —
In calm they thence did fare,
On shore they left the child.

The wind full fair did hold;
Alone on land was he,
His heart for fear grew cold
When he no ship might see.
His grief to Christ he told —
The Lord Who died on Tree —
"My plight, Dear Lord behold,
And guidance send to me
After Thy Will;
And of Thy Mercy free
Let me not come to ill!"

Thomas, he asks alway,
Who would of Tristrem hear
The tale aright must say,
And make each step full clear.
"Of a prince proud in play
Now hearken, lordings dear,
Who knoweth more alway
Let him shew counsel here
As courteous friend;
The tale to all men dear
Let each man praise at end."