And from the dead his sword she caught, And fell in trance that wist of nought, Swooning: but softly Balen sought To win from her the sword she thought To die on, dying by Launceor’s side. Again her wakening wail outbroke As wildly, sword in hand, she woke And struck one swift and bitter stroke That healed her, and she died. And sorrowing for their strange love’s sake Rode Balen forth by lawn and lake, By moor and moss and briar and brake, And in his heart their sorrow spake Whose lips were dumb as death, and said Mute words of presage blind and vain As rain-stars blurred and marred by rain To wanderers on a moonless main Where night and day seem dead. Then toward a sunbright wildwood side He looked and saw beneath it ride A knight whose arms afar espied By note of name and proof of pride Bare witness of his brother born, His brother Balan, hard at hand, Twin flower of bright Northumberland, Twin sea-bird of their loud sea-strand, Twin song-bird of their morn. Ah then from Balen passed away All dread of night, all doubt of day, All care what life or death might say, All thought of all worse months than May: Only the might of joy in love Brake forth within him as a fire, And deep delight in deep desire Of far-flown days whose full-souled quire Rang round from the air above. From choral earth and quiring air Rang memories winged like songs that bear Sweet gifts for spirit and sense to share: For no man’s life knows love more fair And fruitful of memorial things Than this the deep dear love that breaks With sense of life on life, and makes The sundawn sunnier as it wakes Where morning round it rings. “O brother, O my brother!” cried Each upon each, and cast aside Their helms unbraced that might not hide From sight of memory single-eyed The likeness graven of face and face, And kissed and wept upon each other For joy and pity of either brother, And love engrafted by sire and mother, God’s natural gift of grace. And each with each took counsel meet For comfort, making sorrow sweet, And grief a goodly thing to greet: And word from word leapt light and fleet Till all the venturous tale was told, And how in Balen’s hope it lay To meet the wild Welsh king and slay, And win from Arthur back for pay The grace he gave of old. “And thither will not thou with me And win as great a grace for thee?” “That will I well,” quoth Balan: “we Will cleave together, bound and free, As brethren should, being twain and one.” But ere they parted thence there came A creature withered as with flame, A dwarf mismade in nature’s shame, Between them and the sun. And riding fleet as fire may glide He found the dead lie side by side, And wailed and rent his hair and cried, “Who hath done this deed?” And Balen eyed The strange thing loathfully, and said, “The knight I slew, who found him fain And keen to slay me: seeing him slain, The maid I sought to save in vain, Self-stricken, here lies dead.