“Do no outrage nor murder nor any cruel or wicked thing; fly from treason and all untruthfulness and dishonest dealing…” – King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table By Roger Lancelyn Green

***

I am no politician, sir,

But a soldier, 

Hard-fought and blood-stained,

Descended of knights

Now encased in stone,

Awaiting Christ’s coming

Like the morning star.

As a boy, with innocent eyes,

I fancied they watched me;

As a man, with lurid dreams,

I know they do.

Yes, what I know I have lived

On this cruel campaign,

Or learned in my father’s house,

Amidst his treasured scrolls.

I am simple, mayhaps, sir,

And that may be my salvation

Though my sins weigh me down,

As surely yours will do.

You use words,

Many and pretty,

To make treason seem sweet.

But, by Heaven, it is not.

Its foulness fills Hades

With its stench.

You say, foreswear your oath

To the King with his orb,

Cry, ‘I shall not serve!’

And here are reasons, manifold,

Each one contradicting the next,

Until every virtue is undone

And the Earth ruptures.

You say, ‘there is corruption,’

Yet are you not the most corrupted,

Least manly if your word is mud?

You argue not for God’s honor

Or a claimant’s right,

But out of willfulness

For your own ascension.

You are not fit to be called dogs,

For they are faithful to their master, 

And if he is slain in battle,

They guard him from the crows.

You are the vultures,

And I the hound.

You say all is lost for me and mine,

That the King lies broken

And the mob dances in the streets,

A Ring-Around-the-Rosy till they fall,

With ashes in their mouths.

Still, I would guard him,

True knight that I would be,

True dog that I am,

And be loathe to leave him

Till my soul leaves me.

I would put dirt in my mouth,

And repent unto my Lord,

Rescued from my divisions.

Your sentences sentence you,

Filled with falsehoods

That writhe like worms.

You slander your lawful prince,

Whose graciousness I have witnessed,

And whose piety puts you to shame.

They say, sir,

You came from a town of heroes,

Where mighty warriors refused to yield,

Falling at the feet of their slaughtered liege.

Happy their fate, but woe be yours!

You think yourself free, 

Casting off the knightly chain?

No, you are your own prisoner.

Wicked deceivers, 

I would not touch your presents,

For the sovereign gave me himself,

And I gave myself to him,

In the bond of fealty.

As far as God’s law allows,

He is yet my king,

And I am yet his man.

Whatever wounds are in my soul,

May my fidelity bind them!