| Bold Fortus takes his newfound friend With him to Mammon’s Camp, Where in the blood of Britomart Is made a flowering lamp. |
| 1. There was a carpenter from Galilee Who showed the world through powerful restraint A way of conquering brutality: When persecuted, he made no complaint; When scourged and mocked, beaten, bleeding and faint, Nothing but courage made up his reply, And hatred never touched him with its taint; He blessed the ones who put him down to die, Providing all the world a light to travel by. 2. In all his life, he never once begrudged His fellow humans their humanity; But said: Judge not or you, too, will be judged — Say, in your neighbor’s eye a speck you see, Before you point the fault out scornfully, Remove the great log that obstructs your view; Love one another, and love equally The poor, the sick, those locked in prison, too; And do for them as you would have them do for you. 3. So how might he, and how can we assess The actions of the weary sufferer Whom such sharp cruelties pelt and oppress That finally he can bear them no more? What would the gentle carpenter prefer? Exasperation flaring into violence, Or viciousness unchecked, superior, Exacting servitude from innocence That does not dare to raise its hands in self defense? 4. The Galilean whom I speak about Was not a character so soft and simple That he would never raise an angry shout; When faced with money-grubbers in the temple, Wielding a whip, he made their tables tumble, And drove the desecrators to the street With blows, reproaches, shouts, all in a jumble; We may surmise how he would likely greet The patient sufferer we are about to meet. 5. Our narrative’s attention we shall turn To one who labors on the northwest plain, Whose back too often feels the brutal burn Of careless whipping, and hard labor’s strain, Serving an engine whose destructive rain Pours stone and fire upon the capitol; Though long a slave whose heart hangs on a chain, Whose soul is shut behind the slaver’s wall — He has determined to escape this life in thrall. 6. The moment comes: The laying of the whip Is more severe than he has ever known; He clutches it and pulls it from the grip Of his tormentor, crunches bone to bone, Knocking the man to earth, both stunned and prone; He pummels him until his rage is gone, Then views his victim’s face, so like his own, Except that there both blood and breath are done; The killer runs before other whip men come on. 7. He claws his way across the swirling heath, Scurrying eastward, rapid as a gust, Noiseless, but for the spasms of his breath, On hands and knees he hurries, conscious That angry sergeants, cruel and numerous, Are snarling at his heels in full pursuit; Some vengeful whip man, wild and furious, Flicking his lash against his heavy boot, Will overtake him soon, and use him like a brute. 8. The flood of courage that had flushed his heart And buoyed his spirit, moving him to kill, Ebbs rapidly, leaving a parching smart; As his pursuer gains, he loses will; Soon he succumbs to his fatigue; The thrill Of certain doom coursing his thirsty soul, He curls into himself beside a hill And waits for vengeance to exact it toll: A beating terrible, of cold, savage control. 9. He bears the whipping, hoping but to die, But death is weaker than his flaring rage — A rage that his fatigue cannot deny, A rage like war itself that he must wage By rising through the blows to grip, engage His bigger, stronger foeman; But his strike Is turned aside as one might turn a page; And so the blows resume, and all alike, Until the intercession of an iron pike. 10. This pike the fugitive can never see Extend across the sky over his place As long as he curls in his misery With slender fingers covering his face; But now some miracle has changed his case, And he is free to turn and free to look, And with his trembling foeman he can trace Against the midday sky the man who shook The lance, who now wields it much like a shepherd’s crook. 11. The two soldiers square off over the wretch. What is your business beating on this man? (Demands the one.) This don’t concern you much, (The other growls.) I’ll judge that if I can — What is his crime? He killed my countryman, So he must die — but tell me, who are you? I am a liegeman of Queen Glorianne, Called Fortus — I’d put down a fellow, too, If he were just as cruel and cowardly as you! 12. The whip man pulls a blade out of his belt And leaps on Fortus, hoping he can take Advantage of the first blow to be dealt; But Fortus blocks him with an iron brake, Then parries, as the whip man feels the rake And cutting edge of Fortus’ pike; Though hurt, Coiling with pain, he summons strength to make Another strike, clutching his bloody shirt; One last pike thrust — and he lies still upon the dirt. 13. I thank you! (cries the happy fugitive To his deliverer;) My breath is gone, Or I’d have helped you fight, sure as I live! No time for chat — his friends will come anon, (Says Fortus to the man in anxious tone;) Come quickly with me down this grassy dell; Now is the time we must be pushing on; Down there we can rest briefly, but rest well; Come quickly if you please — I think I hear his comrades yell. 14. Are they invisible among the brush? The two listen stock still, holding their breath As angry sounds come closer, and then rush Beyond their hearing, far out on the heath; Fortus sets down his serpent pike beneath The overhanging shelter of the trees, And, near exhausted by this brush with death, The new friends can begin to feel at ease, Relieved at last to have escaped their enemies. 15. Before reposing on the valley floor, The small one sits upright, and then looks close In Fortus’ startled eyes, into his core, And says to his deliverer: I suppose That having won me from your city’s foes You think you own me now — let that thought end; I will live free! (Fortus’ words interpose,) To own you sir, I would not condescend, But you would do me honor if you’d be my friend. 16. While saying this, Fortus removes his glove, And then extends to him his brawny hand; The small one sits quite still, and cannot move Until his doubting heart can understand This is no joke, no cynicism planned To wound once more the remnant of his pride; Looking in Fortus’ eyes, and having scanned Therein his calm sincerity, a tide Of feeling moves him to the warrior’s side. 17. You might have claimed my freedom from the start, And then decided you would set me free; You might have judged you’d play the master’s part, But in the sense of kind paternity, Give every comfort, save my liberty; Instead you’ve given me your hand to shake, And in return I give my hand to thee, And with my hand, my life — make no mistake — I freely give what I would never let you take. 18. The instant Fortus takes the offered hand He is confronted with a strange surprise; The touch so light leads him to understand He must question assumptions of his eyes; The ragged clothes, exhausted of their dyes, Hanging so loosely on a slender frame, The dirty face, and close-cropped hair disguise That fact and semblance here are not the same — A woman! Yes! But how he knows he cannot name. 19. Perhaps sensing his insight, she withdraws Her hand from his and turns quickly away; A moment’s thought reveals to him the cause Of her charade — What woman would assay The chances of a bloody field of fray Where men conform around a savage mean, Choosing the small and weak as likely prey, Barbarity she might elude if seen As one of many dreary slaves, dirty and lean. 20. Now may I rest, she mutters, by your leave. Please do, says Fortus; I will keep the watch, We can stop safely here, I do believe. The small one pauses: Sir, I did not catch Your name. Fortus I am, he says; I’ll match Your question with my own, for I have missed Asking for yours. The woman smiles: To fetch Me from my sleep, (she says, rubbing a fist Into her sleepy eye,) please call me Poverist. 21. So, Poverist rest now before we go; When you awake, I’ll feed you from my store; The bank is dry here underneath this row Of lilac bushes — dry as any floor; Here we are safe from searchers, and once more I’ll stay awake, he says, as you take rest. Says Poverist, I must ask you before I sleep, which way your path is now addressed. I’m heading, answers Fortus, to the south and west. 22. That’s Mammon’s camp! cries Poverist in fear. Yes, so it is, but lie you down for now, Fortus insists; And yes, I must go there; What you said of yourself for me is so — My mission calls, I cannot choose but go. If you must go, then I must go along. But you cannot! Am I your friend, or no? Was all this friendship talk a silly song? Don’t fear to call on me! Once rested, I am strong! 23. Searching the earnest eyes of Poverist, Fortus realizes courtesy has failed; Before his friend can furthermore insist, He gives the sign she has indeed prevailed. Forgive me if my confidence has trailed My heart, he says; We’re new to one another. The thin one smiles: Forgive me if I railed; I’d not insist if I would be a bother, But you must now decide — are you my friend or father? 24. At this they both enjoy a sudden laugh, Then hush themselves with one same sudden thought: To make their place known to the hostile staff Would be hilarity too dearly bought; They settle to enjoy the rest they’ve sought, The one to watch, the other so to sleep; Fortus looks on his friend; The life he fought To save, now calm and safe in slumber deep — And now her secret is impossible to keep. 25. Disguise cannot maintain itself reposed; It needs the agitation and effects Of constant movement, or it is exposed; So Poverist, without a care to vex, Relaxes to a picture of her sex — Losing no strength, but gaining much in grace; Fortus draws near, and just as he expects, He cannot doubt it now, as every trace Of her confirms the female promise in her face. 26. He watches as she sleeps; His eyes are drawn To her; Her breathing whispers peacefully And works a subtle influence upon His spirit — quiet joy, surprisingly; He turns his mind to other things, but she Persists — the thought his thoughts revolve around. It dawns on him: She can rely on me, Or otherwise, she would not sleep so sound. This thought strikes him as something precious he has found. . . . 27. Enri’s attack upon the northern wall And whistling missiles in the midday air Have kept their riot up without a pall; Then suddenly all eyes are drawn to stare — A great explosion, light and thunder there, Where Artegall has led the viper van, Surprises everyone who hears the blare And fills with dread each woman and each man, For glowing smoke shoots up, of monstrous height and span. 28. At Mammon’s camp the tree of glowing smoke Is viewed with quaking terror and alarm; Their corps is marked to deal the follow stroke With BRITOMART to lead King Mammon’s arm; It seems to them a massive means of harm Has been employed by Glorianna’s men, And one thought strikes the jewel-crusted swarm Around Mammon — it will be used again Against their host. Says one: Oh, woe betide us then! 29. It is their fat King, whimpering aloud And cowering upon his golden throne, His ermine cloak swathed round him like a shroud, His skin (beneath the paint) pale as a bone; Now his smooth courtiers begin to moan, And in their sugared speeches to complain: No good! How dreadful! Clearly it is shown By that explosion and the spreading stain That blots the sky, that our attack would be in vain! 30. We’ll wait! says Mammon. (Oh, how sage! We’ll wait, The sycophants concur.) Then we will do What seems betimes the most appropriate Of actions that should properly ensue; I’m still your king, he says. (Tis so! How true!) And as tis so, my first concern is still Securing all our worthy retinue, And to that end I’ll bend all of my skill, And obligations to our lovely guest I must fulfill. 31. His guest is Britomart, the bold and chaste, Famed equally for beauty as for war; Her fairness now shows as a desert waste Shaped lovely by the wind; No passions soar Into her heart; She stares down at the floor Of the pavilion, leaning on her lance, Regarding squawking nobles as no more Important than a cloud of gnats; Her glance Is fixed, downcast, intently listening to her trance. 32. As Mammon struggles to attain his feet, Lifting the pounds and pounds of clanking jewels He wears as ornaments, like lambs that bleat As they are scattered, Mammon’s flock of fools Exclaims their willingness to serve as tools For anything their King might enterprise. My goods! the king then roars to sighs and drools; I must express to Britomart the size Of my regard; This should distract her staring eyes! 33. Ten workers bear the yoke of Mammon’s train, Ten forlorn wretches, weeping as they pull; With blinders like a horse might wear, they strain And twist to catch a glimpse of that jammed-full Conveyance they must drag; A starving bull Would pull a fresh cut hay mow with less lust Than these ten feel for what’s devoid of all True nourishment — the precious metals rust Alone will eat, the gems that time will blend with dust. 34. Fetch down a bracelet! Mammon murmurs low To one alert factotum at his side. A bracelet! barks the minion, don’t be slow Or you may feel a whip against your hide! A crowd of serfs to whom this threat applied All scramble to retrieve the royal gift; The heap of treasures soon begins to slide, And everywhere they step is sure to shift; The servants slow their efforts as their footings shift. 35. Now losing patience with his servant’s care, First Mammon frets, thens falls into a rage: What are you doing, lollygagging there? It is no trouble to replace a page; What is the problem? Will you take an age To do a moment’s work? And you, as well, Standing around — you’re not locked in a cage! Get up and help them — quick! quick! quick! — Oh, hell! The wagon teeters, tips and crashes down, pell-mell. 36. Ingots and bars, rich jewels and coins a-glimmer First slide then tumble in a great cascade, As over goes the wagon in a shimmer Of gold and silver, diamonds, jagged jade; Those falling from the pile are crushed and flayed Upon the razor edges of the treasure, And those who pulled the train are tossed and paid The same harsh wage of pain in the same measure, This, all in Mammon’s service, all for Mammon’s pleasure. 37. Oh, blood and gold! (the king croons,) blood and gold! I am embarrassed my sweet Britomart; But we shall fix all soon, for I am told It’s easy to find pullers for my cart; They’ll work for pittance! No persuasive art Is necessary; Why, replacing one Or all is all the same — My only part Is wishing it! Then quickly, on the run, Replacements are brought in just as his speech is done. 38. Among the ten replacements called to serve, Two persons are familiar to this tale: The soldier, Fortus, showing steady nerve, And his companion Poverist, whose frail And shaking countenance, and face so pale Betray her understandable despair; How can they hope their mission will prevail Once they are servants in King Mammon’s lair? Yet she won’t shirk the danger — she will take her share. 39. Fortus regards her with a worried heart Out of the corner of his worried eye; He cannot part with her — How could they part And leave her on her own? Too late to try To get her out of this place full of high And mortal danger now that they are thrust Into its heart; He wishes they could could fly Away from here; But she asked for his trust; Can he trust her? he asks himself; He knows he must. 40. Bring forth the Royal Hostler, cries the King, And let him bring his list of inquiries Along with his long pin whose busy sting Prepares the crew for its humilities; Now, Britomart, I know I’m sure to please You with a ludicrous, diverting sport, For you have never heard such fond absurdities As these low wretches are now to report; Good Hostler! Make them speak to entertain our court! 41. The Hostler comes dressed head to toe in gray, And strange to tell, gray also is his skin; His eyes are colorless except where they Are shot with blood, like lightning red and thin; He carries in his hand a long, steel pin; He pauses at the first man of the team, Locks eyes with him, and speaks a kind of din, A low and sizzling hiss, harsh as a scream: Speak truly when you answer this — What is your dream? 42. The first stands blinking, fretful and amazed At this most unexpected inquiry; Again the Hostler hisses to the dazed And quaking man and gestures threateningly: Speak up! Recall your dream! What do you see? He says: I see this dream — to live in peace With my loved ones, and love them faithfully, A roof over our heads, and fair increase To feed my kin, and do my work until I cease. 43. At this the court erupts with hoots and howls, Dropping their sense of noblemen’s décor; Their bellies shake, they flap their sagging jowls, And some let drop their purses to the floor; (Then snatch them up, clutched tighter than before.) Pin him! Pin him! they wildly make their cries. The Hostler understands his grisly chore — He drives his pin between his victim’s eyes Enchanting thus his brain with Mammon’s dancing lies. 44. Now shall you only dream of this I say, (The Hostler hisses,) listen now to me: Your silly dreams we hereby drain away; This is a favor that we do for thee; We substitute in generosity A powerful desire to pull the cart; So is it now, so shall it always be — Your only sole desire to pull the cart, To pull the cart ever and only pull the cart. 45. Just as the Hostler’s vicious pin withdraws, It draws with it this poor man’s martyred dreams; This wounding of the mind is further cause Of changes in his countenance, which seems To fade, to lose its ruddiness; The streams Within him slow, and starve him to his core; All color fades as joy fades from his schemes; His mind is changed, conditioned to adore His fate — to pull King Mammon’s cart forevermore. 46. This massacre of aspirations, brought By Mammon’s hissing minister in grey, Cannot be fended off, cannot be fought By other victims down the line; As they Are asked to tell their heart felt stories, say What dreams they hold, each one is jeered and mocked By Mammon’s court; Each dream is put away For all of time, each hopeful vision blocked — Entombed, and in effect, the mausoleum locked. 47. Both Fortus and his friend long to resist This Greyskin monster and his piercing pin, But they feel bound to answer and enlist — Their protests stop before they can begin, So strongly is Mammon’s pavilion Gripped by the Hostler’s enervating spell; So strongly, soon to her own sad chagrin, The thoughts of Poverist begin to dwell Upon the gleaming cart, and its material. 48. She frets over her recent misery And worries she might find herself again A coughing slave; If she cannot be free Why not be happy, near the treasure train? Though still a servant, treated with disdain, All lives are richer lived closer to riches; She would, as such, have no cause to complain; So to and fro her thinking turns and twitches; She yearns now to assume the halters and the hitches. 49. When finally the Hostler comes to her After the eight before her have been pinned, Each changed from freeman to a slavish cur, Each one his fondest hopes forced to rescind, Her thoughts continue tossing in the wind; For though the Hostler’s spell weighs heavily Upon her soul, her strength has not so thinned That her dream has yet died, for so says she When questioned of her dream: To live with dignity. 50. At once the pin is plunged into her brow; The uncouth laughter of the courtiers Rages to peak; Her friendship vow Dies with her dream; She can no longer care — Her very self has died; Left to her there One thing alive — her sole and only need To draw close to the wealth beyond compare; Having deposited its plague of greed, The pin withdraws, yet draws her to a traitorous deed. 51. This man is Glorianna’s champion! (She cries;) He comes here to profane this place! As soon as this betrayal is begun She reads reflection of its sad disgrace In her companion’s disbelieving face. She clutches at his arms: What have I done? His startled eyes reveal no single trace Of anger or reproach. Now you must run, He says, it’s my fault you are here; We’ll meet anon. 52. Upon the sound of Glorianna’s name The lady knight looks up and whirls about. Tilting her lance, she calls: What is your game? Are you queen Glorianna’s man? You are, no doubt; I recognize you, Fortus; Strong and stout As you may be, your strength cannot deny The reach and sharpness of my lance’s clout; The sight of you and what you signify Rebukes me to my soul, so Fortus, you must die. 53. Rebukes you — how? he asks, pushing away Sad Poverist, and indicating she Should flee. But she exclaims: No, I will stay With you right here so long as I can see You are in danger! Laughing hollowly, The lady Britomart retorts: You’d better go, You little ragamuffin, while you’re free; I am about to lay your hero low; It’s folly to defend — I’ll make it one quick blow. 54. All others in the tent, frozen in place, Stand watching with no thought to intervene. More sport! laughs Mammon, but pick up the pace — Less talk, more bloodshed will improve the scene. You hush, spits Britomart, for now I mean To kill him not to gratify your lust, Rather to kill remembrance of the queen I have betrayed — and so kill him I must — Add one more outrage to this world of broken trust. 55. Quickly she lunges with her killing lance; He awkwardly avoids its fatal hurt, Falling akimbo, so her second chance To strike at him is harder to avert; But Poverist moves pell-mell to insert Herself between them and accepts the blow Intended for her friend; Her threadbare shirt Is colored by a spreading crimson flow As Fortus catches her and gently lays her low. 56. Oh, Poverist, what have you done? he pleads. She does not speak, but only smiles at him, Pressing his hand with hers; Then what he reads In her fond eyes just as their light grows dim Affects and floods his consciousness with grim, Inverted happiness; To lose and find Her in a moment, at the tilting brim Of life and true connection twists his mind In tortured, trembling knots that violently unwind. 57. Rage blots all judgment, shakes him head to toe, And how he labors just to breathe and see; Time thickens, so his movements ache and slow, But move he must, involuntarily It seems to him, and yet deliberately To lift the weapon that shut down his heart One moment past; Then an eternity Goes flashing by as with a sudden start He drives the lance and takes the life of Britomart. 58. The moment that the heart of Chastity Is split upon the point of her own lance, A lance gored in the blood of Poverty, The weakened victim of thoughtless mischance, A vast explosion rocks the whole expanse All there about, and such a fiery ball Of smoke erupts upon this chance As ripped the sky where maddened Artegall Attacked the city at its broken northern wall. 59. Just at the place where Fortus kills the knight The earth is swept clean of all human traces, Nothing but smoke is left, and ghostly light And hard-baked earth that smoke and flame embraces; Fortus, alone, as if by unseen grace, is Left safe, untouched amid the blank perdition; Vainly he calls, vainly he looks for faces; He stands astounded at his safe condition, When through the boiling smoke appears an apparition. finis canto iii |
| Glorianna Table of Contents |
| The Cantos |
| Appendices |