| |
| MY good blade carves the casques of men, | |
| My tough lance thrusteth sure, | |
| My strength is as the strength of ten, | |
| Because my heart is pure. | |
| The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, | 5 |
| The hard brands shiver on the steel, | |
| The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, | |
| The horse and rider reel: | |
| They reel, they roll in clanging lists, | |
| And when the tide of combat stands, | 10 |
| Perfume and flowers fall in showers, | |
| That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. | |
| |
| How sweet are looks that ladies bend | |
| On whom their favors fall! | |
| For them I battle till the end, | 15 |
| To save from shame and thrall: | |
| But all my heart is drawn above, | |
| My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: | |
| I never felt the kiss of love, | |
| Nor maiden’s hand in mine. | 20 |
| More bounteous aspects on me beam, | |
| Me mightier transports move and thrill; | |
| So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer | |
| A virgin heart in work and will. | |
| |
| When down the stormy crescent goes, | 25 |
| A light before me swims, | |
| Between dark stems the forest glows, | |
| I hear a noise of hymns: | |
| Then by some secret shrine I ride; | |
| I hear a voice, but none are there; | 30 |
| The stalls are void, the doors are wide, | |
| The tapers burning fair. | |
| Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, | |
| The silver vessels sparkle clean, | |
| The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, | 35 |
| And solemn chaunts resound between. | |
| |
| Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres | |
| I find a magic bark; | |
| I leap on board: no helmsman steers: | |
| I float till all is dark. | 40 |
| A gentle sound, an awful light! | |
| Three angels bear the holy Grail: | |
| With folded feet, in stoles of white, | |
| On sleeping wings they sail. | |
| Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! | 45 |
| My spirit beats her mortal bars, | |
| As down dark tides the glory slides, | |
| And star-like mingles with the stars. | |
| |
| When on my goodly charger borne | |
| Thro’ dreaming towns I go, | 50 |
| The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, | |
| The streets are dumb with snow. | |
| The tempest crackles on the leads, | |
| And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; | |
| But o’er the dark a glory spreads, | 55 |
| And gilds the driving hail. | |
| I leave the plain, I climb the height; | |
| No branchy thicket shelter yields; | |
| But blessed forms in whistling storms | |
| Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. | 60 |
| |
| A maiden knight—to me is given | |
| Such hope, I know not fear; | |
| I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven | |
| That often meet me here. | |
| I muse on joy that will not cease, | 65 |
| Pure spaces cloth’d in living beams, | |
| Pure lilies of eternal peace, | |
| Whose odors haunt my dreams; | |
| And, stricken by an angel’s hand, | |
| This mortal armor that I wear, | 70 |
| This weight and size, this heart and eyes, | |
| Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air. | |
| |
| The clouds are broken in the sky, | |
| And thro’ the mountain-walls | |
| A rolling organ-harmony | 75 |
| Swells up, and shakes and falls. | |
| Then move the trees, the copses nod, | |
| Wings flutter, voices hover clear: | |
| “O just and faithful knight of God! | |
| Ride on! the prize is near.” | 80 |
| So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; | |
| By bridge and ford, by park and pale, | |
| All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, | |
| Until I find the holy Grail. | |
| |
