And so their flight for deathward fast From chamber forth to chamber passed Where lay no weapon, till the last Whose doors made way for Balen cast Upon him as a sudden spell Wonder that even as lightning leapt Across his heart and eyes, and swept As storm across his soul that kept Wild watch, and watched not well. For there the deed he did, being near Death’s danger, breathless as the deer Driven hard to bay, but void of fear, Brought sorrow down for many a year On many a man in many a land. All glorious shone that chamber, bright As burns at sunrise heaven’s own height: With cloth of gold the bed was dight, That flamed on either hand. And one he saw within it lie: A table of all clear gold thereby Stood stately, fair as morning’s eye, With four strong silver pillars, high And firm as faith and hope may be: And on it shone the gift he sought, A spear most marvellously wrought, That when his eye and handgrip caught Small fear at heart had he. Right on King Pellam then, as fire Turns when the thwarting winds wax higher, He turned, and smote him down. So dire The stroke was, when his heart’s desire Struck, and had all its fill of hate, That as the king fell swooning down Fell the walls, rent from base to crown, Prone as prone seas that break and drown Ships fraught with doom for freight. And there for three days’ silent space Balen and Pellam face to face Lay dead or deathlike, and the place Was death’s blind kingdom, till the grace That God had given the sacred seer For counsel or for comfort led His Merlin thither, and he said, Standing between the quick and dead, “Rise up, and rest not here.” And Balen rose and set his eyes Against the seer’s as one that tries His heart against the sea’s and sky’s And fears not if he lives or dies, Saying, “I would have my damosel, Ere I fare forth, to fare with me.” And sadly Merlin answered, “See Where now she lies; death knows if she Shall now fare ill or well. “And in this world we meet no more, Balen.” And Balen, sorrowing sore, Though fearless yet the heart he bore Beat toward the life that lay before, Rode forth through many a wild waste land Where men cried out against him, mad With grievous faith in fear that bade Their wrath make moan for doubt they had Lest hell had armed his hand. For in that chamber’s wondrous shrine Was part of Christ’s own blood, the wine Shed of the true triumphal vine Whose growth bids earth’s deep darkness shine As heaven’s deep light through the air and sea; That mystery toward our northern shore Arimathean Joseph bore For healing of our sins of yore, That grace even there might be.