He would not harp, he would not sing, That broke his heart with love-longing. He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh, But like a true knight he could die,— The banner which that brave knight bore, Heigho! the wind and rain; Had scrolled on it, "Faith Evermore." Ah, well-a-day! again. That banner led the Christian van, Heigho! the wind and rain; Against Seljuck and Turcoman. Ah, well-a-day! bright train. The fight was o'er, the day was done, They found him on the battle-field, With broken sword and cloven shield, Ah, well-a-day! in twain. They found him pillowed on the dead, The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed, And his pale brow and paler cheek, The white moonshine did fall so meek, They lifted up the True and Brave, And bore him to his lone cold grave, They buried him on that far strand, Heigho! the wind and rain; His face turned towards his love's own land, The wearied heart was laid at rest, Heigho! the wind and rain; To dream of her he liked best, Ah, well-a-day! again. They nothing said, but many a tear, Heigho! the wind and rain; Rained down on that knight's lowly bier, Ah, well-a-day! amain. They nothing said, but many a sigh, Heigho! the wind and rain; Told how they wished like him to die, With solemn mass and orison, They reared to him a cross of stone, Ah, well-a-day! in pain. And on it graved with daggers bright, "Here lies a true and gentle knight," Ah, well-a-day! Amen! William Motherwell [1797-1835] SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend For them I battle till the end, But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, When down the stormy crescent goes, Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; 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, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board; no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the Holy Grail: My spirit beats her mortal bars, When on my goodly charger borne The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; A maiden knight—to me is given I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; This weight and size, this heart and eyes, The clouds are broken in the sky, A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Until I find the Holy Grail. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] LADY CLARE It was the time when lilies blow, I trow they did not part in scorn: "He does not love me for my birth, In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me." "O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse," |