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Walter Scott - The Bridal Of Triermain
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XVIII.
`The champions, arm`d in martial sort,
        Have throng`d into the list,
And but three knights of Arthur`s court
        Are from the tourney miss`d.
And still these lovers` fame survives
        For faith so constant shown, —
There were two who loved their neighbors` wives,
        And one who loved his own.
The first was Lancelot de Lac,
        The second Tristrem bold,
The third was valiant Carodac,
        Who won the cup of gold,
What time, of all King Arthur`s crew
        (Thereof came jeer and laugh)
He, as the mate of lady true,
        Alone the cup could quaff.
Though envy`s tongue would fain surmise
        That, but for very shame,
Sir Carodac, to fight that prize,
        Had given both cup and dame;
Yet, since but one of that fair court
        Was true to wedlock`s shrine,
Brand him who will with base report,
        He shall be free from mine.

XIX.
`Now caracoled the steeds in air,
Now plumes and pennons wanton`d fair,
As all around the lists so wide
In panoply the champions ride.
King Arthur saw, with startled eye,
The flower of chivalry march by,
The bulwark of the Christian creed,
The kingdom`s shield in hour of need.
Too late he thought him of the woe
Might from their civil conflict flow;
For well he knew they would not part
Till cold was many a gallant heart.
His hasty vow he `gan to rue,
And Gyneth then apart he drew;
To her his leading-staff resign`d,
But added caution grave and kind.

XX.
`"Thou see`st, my child, as promise-bound,
I bid the trump for tourney sound.
Take thou my warder, as the queen
And umpire of the martial scene;
But mark thou this: as Beauty bright
Is polar star to valiant knight,
As at her word his sword he draws,
His fairest guerdon her applause,
So gentle maid should never ask
Of knighthood vain and dangerous task;
And Beauty`s eyes should ever be
Like the twin stars that soothe the sea,
And Beauty`s breath shall whisper peace,
And bid the storm of battle cease.
I tell thee this, lest all too far
These knights urge tourney into war.
Blithe at the trumpet let them go,
And fairly counter blow for blow;
No striplings these, who succour need
For a razed helm or a falling steed.
But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm,
And threatens death or deadly harm,
Thy sire entreats, thy king commands,
Thou drop the warder from thy hands.
Trust thou thy father with thy fate,
Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate;
Nor be it said, through Gyneth`s pride
A rose of Arthur`s chaplet died."
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