As at Christmas games to catch men in quibbles?”66
Many were the warm tears that wellèd from eyes
When that seemly sire sought from those wones
that day.
He made there no abode
But swiftly went his way:
A wildsome track he rode,
The book as I heard say.
XXX
Now rides he and roams through the realm of Logrès,67
Sir Gawain, at God’s best, no game though he thought it.
Oft friendless, alone, he had lodging by nights
Where he found not before him the fare that he liked.
He had no fellow but his foal by frith and forest,
And no gossip but God to talk with by gate,
Till he drew full nigh into the North Wales.
All the isles of Anglesey held he to left-ward
And fared o’er the fords by the jutting forelands,
Over at the Holy Head,68 till eft he made shore
In the wilderness of Wirral; won’d there but few
That either God or man with a good heart lovèd.
And ever as he fared, of folks that befell
He ask’d if they had heard of any Green Knight,
In any ground thereabout, at the Green Chapel;
And all nick’d69 him with nay, said that never in their life
Had they seen any soul that such a hue had
as green.
He wander’d ways full strange
By dreary hill and dene,
His cheer full oft might change
Or e’er that chapel was seen.
XXXI
Many a cliff he o’erclomb in countries unknown—
Far stray’d from his friends, a stranger he rode;
At each water or warth70 where the wight ever pass’d,
Ay found he before him a foe uncanny,
And that so foul and so fell, that to fight behoved him.
And marvels so many by mountains he found,
It were tedious to tell the tenth-deal thereof.
Now with worms71 did he war, and with wolves also,
Now with the satyrs that sought from the screes,
With wild bulls and bears and with boars otherwhiles,
And with ogres that snorted from the hígh fèlls.
Had he not doughtily dree’d, and dearly God loved,
Doubtless full often to death he had been done.
For if the warfare griev’d him, worse was the winter
When the clouds shed adown the clear cold water,
That froze ere it fall might, to the fallow earth;
Near slain by the sleet, he slept in his irons
More nights than enow in naked rocks,
Where clattering fro’ the crest the cold burn ran,
Or hung high o’er his head in icicles sharp.
Thus in peril and pain and plights very hard
Cross country he clomb till Christmas-even,
alone.
The knight full sore that tide
To Mary made his moan,
That she should well him guide
And win him to some wone.
XXXII
By a mount that morning merrily rode he
Into a forest full deep that was fearful wild,
High hills on each hand and holtwoods thereunder
Of hoar oaks full huge, a hundred together;
The hazel and the hawthorn were all in a tangle
With rough moss and rank beraggèd all over,
And mány a bírd unblíthe on the bare twigs sitting
Piteously piped for pain of the cold.
This gallant on Gringolet glides them beneath,
Through mizzy72 and mire, a man full lonesome,
For ’twas much on his mind lest his mass he should miss
Nor see the service of that Sire, who that self-same night
Of a burd was born to abye73 our trouble;
And so sighing he said “I beseech thee, Lord,
And Mary, that art mildest mother so dear—
Some harbour where humbly the mass I may hearken
And thy matins tomorrow meekly I ask you,
And I presently pray my pater and avè
and creed.”
He pray’d and still rode on,
He cried for his misdeed,
Then sain’d74 himself anon
And said “Christ’s cross me speed.”
XXXIII
He had not sain’d himself, good soul, but thrice,
When he was ware in that wood of a wone in a moat,
Above a laund,7576 on a low, that leam’d under branches
Of mány a búrly bóle at the brink of the ditches;
A castle the comeliest that knight ever own’d,
Built on a bentfield, and about it a park
Fencèd compactly with paling of pikes,
That, for more than two miles, trees many encompass’d.
Sir Gawain a while regarded that keep
As it shimmer’d and shone through the sheen branches,
Then he has off his helmet and thanks from his heart
Jesus and Saint Julian, those gentle watchers,
Who courtesy had shown him and his cry hearken’d.
“Good lodging,” cried Gawain, “grant, I beseech you!”
And with gilded heels he goads on Gringolet,
And by right good chance the road he has chosen
That brings him anon to the brídge-ènd
in haste.
The bridge was up, on height,
The gates were lockèd fast,
The walls were stoutly pight;
It might fear no wind’s blast.
XXXIV
Then the athel hoves77 and halts on the bank
Of the double ditch that engirdled that dwelling;
Wonderly deep stood the wall in water,
And a huge height also it heav’d up aloft
Of hard hewn stone úp to the cornice,
Emban’d78 under battlement in the bést wìse;
Garrets79 full gay were gear’d thereover.
With many a lovely casement that closèd full clean;
A better barbican that bearn80 never saw.
Further in, full high the hall he beheld,
With turrets atop all cuspèd and tined,
Crown’d with capitals craftily taper’d,
And carven finials curiously chisel’d.
There were chalk-white chimneys, the choicest of art,
That blink’d all bright on the bastel roof;
And painted pinnacles upon it were sprinkled,
Amid the crenellations cluster’d so thick,
They seem’d pared out of paper, a palace of fäerie.
To that free on the foal ’twas a fáir sìght;
Coúld he but compass, that cloister within,
In hostel to harbour, while holiday lasted
in hall!
He call’d, and soon appear’d
A porter at his call,
Kindly his errand heard
And hail’d him, from the wall.
XXXV
“Good sir,” quoth Gawain, “would’st go mine errand
To the lord of this land, and a lodging crave me?”
“Aye! by Peter!” said the porter. “And I promise you sure,
Ye’ll be welcome, good wight, to wone while ye like!”
He hied on his errand
