Anonymous - Arthur's Knights - Part Third lyrics

How Sir Galahad, Sir Percevale, and Sir Bors achieved the quest, and Sir Lancelot returned to Camelot. The summer glided by, and autumn came; Then it befell, one bright October day, When sea and sky in sunset seemed to flame, The vessel came into a rocky bay; Upon the shore there stood a cross of stone, Behind, a forest rustled, hoar and lone. A knight in silver mail was standing by; He held a white horse on the sun-bright shore; "Come forth, Sir Galahad," he said on high, "For thou shalt see thy father hence no more, Until is come the dreadful day of doom;" And then he sought the wood and vanished in the gloom. "Farewell, my noble Lord Sir Lancelot," Sir Galahad said, "Well wot I, I must go I pray you, sir, henceforth forget me not, Nor how unstable is this world of woe; Sir Percevale farewell -- we meet again:" He pa**ed the shallow sea -- the shore he did regain, Waved them a greeting, where the golden weed By tidal waves upon the shore lay piled, Then mounted on the pawing snowy steed, And rode away into the forest wild; The last red rays upon his armour darted, And twilight fell around as he departed. For days and days, and many a weary mile, Alone he rode, until one starry night He gained a river, where a little isle Rose dark amid the current's dancing light He spurred his steed into the eddying flood And soon upon the island rock he stood. Beneath, the brown and shrivelled leaves were lying, All stiff and silvery in the keen hoar frost, While from the trees above, the rest hung dying, Like shattered pennons in some battle lost, Waving o'er warriors fallen in the fray, And there in truth a tomb beneath the branches lay. Up-crashing from beside the marble fair, A man in armour started into light, You would have thought the warrior slumbering there, Had come with spectral war to haunt the night, For the long sword is quivering in his hand, Though clear his full voice rings, "Thou unknown warrior stand." "Art thou not Bors de Ganis, Claudus' son?" Sir Galahad said, "thrice welcome then to me, Knowest thou the victory is all but won, And that we soon the Holy Grale shall see? This island rock, this tomb I see again, Tell that the end is near; and victory we shall gain." "My gentle cousin Galahad is it thou? And thinkest thou that we shall win at last, For two long years I've sought and wandered now, Through deserts lone and forests wild and vast; Nor know I in what country now we roam;" "King Pelles land," said Galahad, "and my home. "But a day's journey hence my grandsire old, The maimed king Pelles called, is wont to dwell, Not far from thence within a castle hold, The Holy Grale is kept and guarded well; None can find entrance to that solemn place, Save they who long have toiled to win that grace." "Then knowest thou Galahad who lies here alone? No trace of him I ween doth now remain, Forgotten even his name, for on the stone Is written, 'To the memory of the Slain.' How slain, and when; can this alone be told? Perchance of some great hero of the days of old." GALAHAD. "To the memory of the slain! Idle words how oft and strange, E'er their broken swords are rusted, Or the leaves above them change. "Here and there their names may linger, Treasured by the faithful-hearted, Here and there some gentle mourner, Lives in soul with the departed. "But in the tide of surging life, Their comrades sweep away, And who remembers, 'mid the din, The slain of yesterday. "Think not the world will miss her sons, Laid in the cold grave's keeping, The wars, the loves, the toils go on, The sowing and the reaping; The morning will as sweetly wake, When thou art ever sleeping. "Here and there, amid the ages, Is the light of history thrown On some form sublime heroic, Every heart has made its own. "What to him is fame or glory, In his rest beyond the skies, Whether mortals, poor and erring, Still his name and memory prize? "What to him, if even they honour, Not the man that was in truth, But the fiction of the poet, Or the bright ideal of youth? "While I live, in deeds heroic I would ever toil and shine; When I die, my part is over, And the future I resign. "It is nothing to me further, Whether then for evermore, My name should sound and echo, Until time itself be o'er. "Chosen, lighted as a beacon, To illumine lands unknown, Decked by loving art with beauty, And with splendour not my own. "Or whether from the morrow Of my entrance to the tomb, I should sleep by all forgotten, Till the dreadful day of doom. "I know that He who guided me, Guides not the world in vain, Enough of light, from heroes gone, Shall in the earth remain, To fire the living present With the memory of the slain. "Sir Amys and Sir Amyot died, some score of years ago, The two brave brothers in this tomb repose forgotten now. There lived a wizard champion then, and Garlion he hight, Sir Amyot long had sworn the d**h, of that most evil knight; But spells of magic guarded him, no steel could work him harm, Till Amyot won in Noraway, a sword of mystic charm. There, in the olden mountains still, the grey dwarfs toiling pour In burning streams, for weapons strange, the fiery hissing ore; And in their glowing caverns, they had forged the wizard steel, Until the lightest wound it gave, could never never heal. King Pelles held high festival, on St. Sylvester's night, And by his side sat Garlion, the evil wizard knight; When sudden Amyot enters, and strides to Garlion's place, The harpers all are silent, when they have seen his face. Then blood and red wine mingle, and swords and axes jar, And all the din of carousal, is changed to the clash of war. Sir Amyot slew Sir Garlion, fled to the altar stair, But foremost of his warriors, King Pelles met him there, Where the figure of Sebastian, with calmly folded hands, Beside our ladye's altar, arrow-pierced and bleeding stands. The king has drawn in anger, the king's good sword is sure, But Amyot's weapon strikes him, and the wound can never cure; And as the maimed king ever since, that wound he must endure. Sir Amyot in the tumult fled, he rode for many a mile, Disguised and weary, reached this stream, and thought to win the isle; But there an armed man kept the ford, and bade him fight or stay, And maddened by the hot pursuit, he brooked of no delay. He drew the sword of vengeance, smote the warrior to the ground, But the hardy knight in falling, gave to him a deadly wound; They raised the blood-stained visors -- and then they knew each other, As Amys and Sir Amyot -- as brother slain by brother. The ladye of the castle near, came down with all her train, She washed their wounds, and tended them, but all was done in vain; They prayed her of her gentleness, that she would lay them there Together in the island, in a tomb of marble fair; Nor write their names so glorious, nor their end of grief and pain, But trace above them only, 'To the memory of the Slain.' Then Merlin set, in jasper red, the sword that did the harm, And told how he that drew it thence, had power above its charm. I am the son of Elene, king Pelles' daughter fair, And the evil sword of vengeance, is the falchion that I wear." "At Camelot I saw thee win that sword," Sir Bors replied, "when first thou camest thither; All the gay knights rode dashing through the ford To see the marvel floating down the river -- The sword in jasper set, that thou alone, Sir Galahad, could'st draw from out the stone." "Yes, thus was broke for aye the vengeful spell, Forgiven in the grave the two knights rest. The end is coming -- all is ending well; The maimed king waits for me, his dearest guest; My whole heart thrills with dawning happiness; The day is breaking now -- so forward let us press." They rode until October's sun was low, Through red and golden woods the rays were slanting, When hark! they hear the cheery bugle blow, And forward sweep the deer -- the stag-hounds panting; The green-clad hunters dashing on apace, And all the sylvan frolic of the chase. But as before the errant-knights they pa**, A gay acclaim bursts forth from all the band; High bound the curbed-in chargers on the gra**, The ladies rein their steeds with gentler hand, And all the woodland echoes ring back glad: "High welcome to the Haute Prince Galahad." Some galloped on across the meadow land To the fair palace of the maimèd king; The rest all gaily rode on either hand, Their prince and lord in triumph home to bring. The peasants from the harvest, homeward wending, Join the gay throng, the choral voices blending. "Let the royal trumpets loudly Far and wide their music fling; For our happy warriors proudly Ride to meet our future king. Minstrels glad thy triumph grace, Mighty lords and ladies bright; Worthy son of Pelles' race, Art thou, Galahad, glorious knight. "And the church-bells clearly ringing, O'er the fields of ripened wheat, Shepherd youths and maidens singing, Princess Elene's true son greet. For beneath this gentle lord, Peace and joy shall ever reign; Guarded by his powerful sword, The golden age shall come again. "Lutes and harpstrings sweetly thrilling, As the loud notes die away, All the heart with longing filling, Sigh the thought we fain would say. Where is she, the maiden peerless, Who shall reign the happy queen Of a heart so pure and fearless -- Shines afar her beauty's sheen? Or blooms she here, the fairest flower, Beneath his native skies? And rides she now, in forest bower, With violet drooping eyes?" "Fair may the sun shine on this pleasant land," Sir Galahad said, "but here we dare not stay; Earth and her fleeting joys behind us stand, And on through toils and danger leads our way; In sun-lit fields the fragile flowerets shine, Who seeks th' enduring gems, must tread the darksome mine. "High visions of the glory yet to be, The chosen champions of the Sangrale bless, Call us across the deep and silent sea, Call us beyond the barren wilderness; O'er this world's night a radiant halo shed, That cheers our toilsome way -- but rest is for the dead." Hushed was the song -- but still the music rolled, Mixed with the trampling of a thousand steeds; With glittering lights and colours manifold, The gorgeous train sweeps o'er the gleaming meads. They reach a stately palace on the lea, Beneath its towers moans the restless twilight sea. And all the palace windows glowed with light; Without, a hundred torches cast their glare Far o'er the meadows through the frosty night; A hundred warriors thronged the castle stair, And when the errant-knights dismounted had, Loud, and yet louder pealed, "Welcome, Sir Galahad!" The silver trumpets sound a shivering blast, As the two champions pace the marble floor, Down the long lighted hall, until at last A couch of cloth of gold they stand before; Above, the figure of Sebastian stands, All arrow-pierced, with calmly folded hands. And there the maimed King Pelles was reclining In scarlet vesture -- on his silver hair A j**el-flashing coronet was shining: Long for this hour the king had waited there; Mild and majestic was the old man's look, As Galahad, kneeling down, his wan hand took. "Thou hast returned, my son, and all is well -- I knew that thou could'st die, but could'st not fail; And thou hast broke the sword of vengeance spell, And thou shalt lead me to the Holy Grale; 'Tis over -- the long penance I have done, For shielding from high justice evil Garlion." All in the palace held high festival, In joyous pleasaunce sped the night away; More bright than daylight shone the crowded hall, Far o'er the cold sea beamed the torches' ray; It glimmered faintly, where the magic bark Dashed from her gliding prow the waters dark. There two knights gazed upon the ruddy light, And listened for the fitful music strain That stole into the silence of the night, Amid the pauses of the wind and rain; And darker seemed the tossing sea before, And sadder moaned the wind, where music breathed no more. Long at the dark coast gazes Lancelot: "Listen, Sir Percevale, my dearest friend, Old thoughts and old adventures, half forgot, Are thronging o'er me, and together blend; This is the country of the Fair Elene, The land that, since my youth, I long have sought in vain. "For that palace in the meadow Brings my first youth back to me, And a radiant spirit-shadow Flits across my memory; Full a score of years are past, Since I saw that palace last. "Down the river, silver-flowing, Sounds of laugh and song were borne; In the wide fields, sunset glowing, Were the reapers gathering corn. 'Mid the waving corn, the maiden Dealt out shares to poor and old, Who were pa**ing, homeward laden With the sheaves of drooping gold. Like some saint, in pictured story, Gleaming from a golden ground, Stood she, in the sunset glory, With the yellow corn around. Young she was, and fair and gay, Smilingly she saw me come, And pointed to an old man grey, Who scarce might bear his load away: 'Thou, Sir Knight, shall take it home, Penance meet, for wandering near Our harvest home with sword and spear.' "I alighted down, and tied The wheat upon my charger's back; She walked onward by my side. As the prancing steed I tried Gently down the path to guide, Still the sheaves fell on our track; Then the damoiselle and I, Laughing, piled them up again; Till the old man's hut is nigh, And the palace court we gain; (For she was a princess high, And she hight the Fair Elene.) "There, upon a couch of gold, Costly silks by gems festooned, Princess Elene's father old, Maimed King Pelles I behold, Lying with a ghastly wound; Nought can cure him, Merlin told, Till the Holy Grale is found. "Christmas tide had come that year, I again was wandering near; Deep in snow my war-horse trode, Leafless branches o'er my road Wove across the darkening sky A frosty silver tracery. Then an abbey dim I past, Chapel windows all a-glow, Oriels fair, and trefoils cast, Traced in light upon the snow." "The bells were ringing sweetly, and they drew me ever nigher; The monks were singing compline, as I stepped within the quire, Amid them Elene's brother stood, a knight in armour clear, And when the chaunt was hushed, the prior bade him and me draw near." THE PRIOR. "A high adventure to achieve, Sir Lancelot, thou art sent, For if a champion came ere morn, I promised my consent; Two good knights must the emprise take, the first to d**h is fated: All day the prince, Sir Meliot, the second has awaited. For Morgue, the dark enchantress, beheld with jealous pain, How lovelier bloomed and lovelier, our princess Fair Elene; In fierce despite she seized her, and now the captive dwells In the ruined manor guarded by weird and deadly spells; Who enters first, to rescue her must through their might be slain, And a hardy knight must go with him, or all is done in vain: Sir Meliot gives his life away, with free and open hand, And thou shalt bring her back to us -- the princess of the land. He only prays, if thou shouldst come victorious from the quest, Upon thy sword to swear to him, to grant his last request." "Next day Sir Meliot went, and on the morrow, Athwart the forest, many a mile I rode; At eve I came into a tangled hollow, Rank thickets hoar, where man had never trode; Through the dead leaves the snakes went rustling by, And strange birds flapping, rose with long and mournful cry. "I left my horse, and forced a pa**age through, And sudden stood beneath an iron gate; The ruined manor rose before my view, 'Twas silent, lichen-hoar, and desolate: Wide open stood the rusty hingèd door, I entered in, the darkness to explore. "The sky through many a broken lattice gleamed, Through many a gaping cleft the light did glare; All silence, dust, and emptiness it seemed. As I went up the dim and mouldering stair, Nought heard I save my footstep on the floor, And then the sudden clang of closing iron door. "The echoes pealed in long reverberation: I listened, breathless, till they all had died Amid the silence and the desolation, And then the fastened door in vain I tried; I was a prisoner in a tower high, The dead Sir Meliot on the blood-stained floor lay nigh. "The night and morning pa**ed, and came again, Fasting, I watched, with straining eye and ear; Then round the tower swept a lovely strain Of harps and viols, and voices singing near, Upon that drear abode, as if to tell Of happy worlds without, the music fell. "They chaunted of the hero days of old, And heathen names, harmonious and strange, In stately rising music they extolled; Still rang the burden, after every change, 'The beautiful we follow, and we praise, To beauty manifold our songs we raise. "'And thou, thou wandering knight, amid the gloom, Come forth with us into the sunny glory: Come to the lands where fairer flowers bloom, Dear southern lands of wondrous Grecian story; Where islands, purple-cliffed and sea-embraced, In lonely beauty shine, like j**els silver chased. "'Come to the forests where the Dryads shy, In deepest shadow glance along the fern, Where Neriads with calm and beauteous eye Droop pensive o'er the murmuring river urn; Come to the seas where Triton horns are blowing, And chariots dolphin-drawn are o'er the blue waves going. "'Here, after dreary years of toil and pain, Old age you find, and d**h, that hideous thing; There, in the Isle of Avalon, there reign Perpetual youth, perpetual love and spring; Come then where all is beauty, joy, and rest, Come to the glorious Islands of the Blest.' "Now the door opens, singing maidens press, A lustrous band, within the prison room, Amid them Morgue, the great enchantress, Majestic stands in all her magic bloom. 'What cravest thou, Sir Knight, in my domain?' -- I said, 'Deliverance for the fair Elene.' "'It shall be so; yet grant me one request, If not, she dies, and thou shalt ne'er be free; Come then with me, and be for ever blest, In those far happy isles beyond the sea.' And as I answered, 'Never, lady, never!' -- 'Then shalt thou be my prisoner for ever.' "'Then sing no more,' I said, 'those idle songs Of dreamy southern beauty and delight; Winning high worship and redressing wrongs, I love to roam the world, an errant knight; There is a nobler, a more glorious beauty, It shines for me in honour, faith, and duty. "'Life is no pastime saddening into age, Nor d**h the hideous monster they have feigned; Life is the battle and the pilgrimage, And d**h the victory, the shrine attained; And now, Morgane, I warn thee, keep thee well, For I defy thee and thy mightiest spell.' "Again she spoke: 'Though most unworthy, thou Art knight of Great King Arthur's Table Round; Go with this squire then, fetch the maiden, -- now Depart, nor ever more near me be found. Beneath the Grecian tomb the prison lies; Thou mayst repent thee of thy dainty prize.' "Through vaulted pa**ages, down winding stair, My silent guide I followed, till we gained A ruined temple open to the air; With fading frescoes still the walls were stained; Still columns rose of southern Grecian form, While through the temple swept the northern winter storm. "Full in the midst a marble tomb I found; As if in frolic triumph over d**h, Above, below, carved nymphs a wild dance wound, With hands enlaced, and floating flower-wreath; The snow-flakes, coldly drifting on the tomb, Mocked the still dancers and the flowers' stony bloom. "The place had such a weird unhallowed look, I crossed myself, and strove to raise the stone; Nor was it hard to move -- the fastening shook, -- I turned for aid, the gloomy squire was gone; What matter, soon the princess, fair Elene, Clung smiling to my side, and saw the light again. "Out through the blinding snow we hurried fast, White as the whirling snowdrift was her hue; But ere the tangled thicket we had pa**ed, An armèd rabble brust upon our view; I strove the maiden by my side to shield, And backed against a tree, for I would never yield. "Anon when I was breathless, spent, and bleeding, Fair Elene called me, and I turned me round, And she my own good warrior-steed was leading, Lured from afar by well-known battle sound; Lightly I mounted with the slender maiden, And the swift steed dashed onward, double laden. "Far from the ghastly place we rode for hours, The night had fallen, the howling storm was laid; Gently we paced beneath a castle's towers, For, hurt and bleeding, there I hoped for aid; But ere it came, I sank upon the heath, Half fainting, from my horse, as wounded to the d**h. "Then sudden, on my darkening eyes, a glow Dawned where the castle rose upon the height; The long rays brightened o'er the glittering snow, Till all around was bathed in mystic light; Then came a lovely child, a censer swinging, And then three virgins white, a golden chalice bringing. "Entranced I gazed upon the vision blest, Even as I gazed methought my life returned; New strength and vigour glowed within my breast, With rapt and happy thankfulness I burned; Sir Percevale, it was the Holy Grale, Ah, to my purer youth, it shone without a veil. "The holy vision past, I know not how, I felt that I could mount my steed again, And with the damoiselle I pacèd slow, Until the abbey cloisters we regain; The lighted chapel was for Christmas drest And all the brotherhood to meet us prest. "The good monks tended me with skilful care, Ere many days my wounds were healed again; They read Sir Meliot's will -- 't was written there That I should wed his sister, faire Elene. So she became my bride, that gentle May, Alas, my heart was ever far away. "But in that palace till the summer tide We dwelt -- and then I wandered forth again, Seeking adventurous chances did I ride, Nor ever more beheld the faire Elene; When winter came, they told me she was dead; She was the mother of Sir Galahad. "I never found again that palace bright, And Galahad lived and grew; I knew him not Until the noble youth I made a knight, In the old abbey down by Camelot." "Alas," said Percevale, "that this should be, O would faire Elene reigned, thy wife in Britany. "Yon brazier, in the fitful night breeze flaring, Obscures the lustre of a thousand stars, And so round thee a dazzling spell is glaring, That blinds thine eyes, and all thy future mars. Oh cast it from thee, what though darkness come, The pure far lights of heaven are brightest in the gloom." Beneath the high dark rocks the vessel glides, The waves leap up into the moonlight clear, And break in silvery sparkles on their sides; Then suddenly the two companions hear, All solemnly across the water swell, A deep melodious toll, as of a minster bell. And then they were aware how, on the height, A stately wide-spread castle towered high, In darkness all, no window gleamed with light, In silence all, beneath a silent sky; And Lancelot whispered to Sir Percevale, "Beneath these towers it was I saw the Holy Grale!" The vessel stopped beneath a rocky stair, Lashed by the waves, and wreathed with dripping weed, With glowing hopes the knights have landed there, And up the narrow rough-hewn steps they speed, Till they arrive where two dread lions keep For ever watch beside the pathway steep. The Welch knight signed the cross, and forward strode, The lions couched against Sir Lancelot, He drew his sword, and thought to clear the road; Then said a clear voice by him, "Trust thou not In earthly strength, thy carnal weapons leave, Oh thou of evil faith and poor belief." He crossed himself, and back the lions went, And then he was aware, how close above A little child stood, white and innocent, And beckoned him to come with looks of love; But mouldered, ruined, seemed the dizzy stair, Though Percevale sped on as if he trod on air. "Child, the smooth rocks are hanging o'er the waves, Nor steps nor pathway can I farther see;" -- "Knight, many down below have found their graves, But take my hand, and ever follow me." And so with toil and care they upwards go, The greedy leaping waves toss their white crests below. Now through a narrow postern leads the way, The knights within pace down a lofty hall, The fretted moonbeams, with a silver ray, Through dark fantastic window traceries fall; Then the deep bell tolled forth the hour of lauds, And on the silence stole faint music chords. And still the fair child glided on before, Until they reached an ante-chapel dark; He paused beside a low arched closèd door, And Percevale said, low and solemn, "Hark! Angelic songs are ringing from the light, The hour is come, the Sangrale is in sight. "Hear'st thou how sweetly peals that holy hymn, A thousand voices chaunting in the skies." -- "Ah, Percevale, the light is far and dim, I only hear the moaning storm-wind rise." -- "Farewell, Sir Lancelot, for now I go, Farewell, mine own true friend, we meet no more below." There is a burst of music and of light, Wide open flies the ma**ive chapel door, Far rolls the chaunt triumphant through the night; And when the gloom and silence fall once more, Sir Percevale is gone, and Lancelot tries In vain to enter, and in anguish cries, -- "Without, without; ah, leave me not without, Leave me not here beneath this awful ban, Here in this night of dark remorse and doubt, A sad, a lonely, a world-weary man! Oh let me yet within the chapel press, Or die before the door of mine unworthiness!" Even as he knelt beside the threshold stone, They slowly dawned on him, those glorious rays; Again a wondrous clearness round him shone, And angel faces glimmered through the haze; But all the vision bright he never told That, round the Sangrale shrine, that moment did unfold. The raving storm around the tower seemed dying, As though a sacred hush was on the blast: Far, far below the darksome world was lying, Like some vain evil dream, when night is past; A moment paused he, then a burning breath Pa**ed o'er him, and he fell, all powerless as in d**h. He fell in the lighted chapel, And woke on the rocks below; He saw the dark waves leaping round, All ridged with foamy snow. He could not move, he could not speak -- His heart was dull as lead; Some terror brooded over him, Some presence chill and dread. Scared by the howling breezes, Skimmed the milk-white clouds, Like a procession of phantoms Swathed in glimmering shrouds; And fitful gleamed the moonlight, Or, in the darker sky, The stars shone out, and vanished, As they went hurrying by. There was no hush of slumber In all the restless night, No calm repose of darkness, 'T was cold, and wild, and bright; The tempest hovered and gathered, The rush of his pinions was heard, And the moan of the restless ocean, Whose weltering depths were stirred. Voices sang in the wavelets, Wailed in the whirling breeze, Boomed from the rocky caverns, Whispered from rustling trees; Clear the words were sounding, Yet, when he listened for more, They melted into the surges, They died in the tempest's roar; Then swept again from the distance, "The Quest of the Sangrale is o'er." Then sounded a hollow whisper, "Where do they linger, the rest? -- A hundred and fifty chosen men Rode out on the Sangrale Quest; Had they been true and loyal, They saved this falling land, No horde of ravening foemen Had wrenched it from their hand; Pure hearts, and true, and valiant, In the darkest hour can save; The Sangrale Quest is over, Where are the champions brave? -- 'Tis over -- the sun of Britain Sets in a sea of blood" -- "Over," in solemn chorus, Breathes from the hoary wood. There were screams of terrible laughter, And clapping of viewless wings; "Hurra! for the seething ocean The heathen and pagan brings. Again on the ancient altars Gleams the sacrifice fire, The smoke of the victim rises, An offering to Thor and Freya. The cross has faithless champions, The Quest of the Sangrale is o'er" -- "Over" -- in mighty chorus, Answered the billows' roar. Hushed for awhile is the tempest Over the moonlit plain, And mortal voices are singing A sweet monotonous strain; Their sounds a chaunt Gregorian, Louder and louder still, And a procession of pilgrims Winds up the castle hill. Their moonlit weapons glitter And gentle palfreys bring Full in the midst a litter Where rests an aged king. They reach the strong-barred portal, Wide flies the iron gate; They enter, and the night without Is doubly desolate. The tempest's fury is loosened, It rouses the ocean's roar; They come, the unhallowed voices, On every side once more. "To-night we win another, Beneath the castle towers; He never, never shall enter, For he is ours -- is ours." Then amid the hideous clamour, As from very far away, Sweeter voices chaunted gently, Of a dawning brighter day; How, after nights of tempest, Fairer smile the morning skies; And from war and desolation Purer, happier times shall rise. Nearer the carol swept in might -- "No thrall of yours, this gentle knight, Not yours, although his youth has fled, Its glory tarnished by one darker spell; Not yours, although his manhood prime has sped, Dimmed by a flattering world he loved too well; Though a sad evening o'er the bright life lowers, A mournful end; it is not yours, dark powers -- Not yours, but ours." Then fell the swoon and darkness on his eyes; And all is changed again when he awakes, Within a bower of tapestry he lies, The sunshine through the rich-hued window breaks; A silver-haired old man he sees again, And dim remembers him, the father of Elene. For all was rich and royal round him there -- The crimson arras, bright with j**els wrought, Swept from the vaulted roof of carving fair, And kneeling pages wine and spices brought; He shakes the dark locks from his dazzled eyes, And greets that aged king, who straight replies, -- "I am King Pelles, Lancelot, my son, Whilom by all men styled the maimed king, But the good knight Sir Galahad has won At last relief for my long suffering; A wondrous ointment near the Sangrale found, And with his healing hand he cured my grievous wound. "We left the Sangrale shrine four days ago, And the three chosen champions there alone; We found thee, Lancelot, on the rocks below, And bore thee home henceforth to be our own; For all my power I to thee award; Look on the lovely realm that longs to own thee lord." He threw the painted lattice open wide, And shewed the champlain brightening in the dawn, Where hamlets, towers, and woods, on every side, Peer'd through the misty veil of autumn's morn; "Listen, Sir Lancelot, the gifted say, For Britain soon shall dawn an evil day. "Thou canst not rescue, thou canst only fall Amid the crashing ruins of the state; Here, in our happy land, remote from all, We live regardless of the storms of fate; In loveliest valleys still our shepherds stray, O'er glorious mountains roam our hunters gay. "Stay; should the weary storm-tost marinere Leave a fair island for a sinking wreck? Stay then, Sir Lancelot, my hope, mine heir!" -- "Thou canst not me with such forebodings check," Said Lancelot, "The evil day may come, And ruin overwhelm hearth and home -- "The swifter shall I haste to Arthur's side, The firmer o'er him shall my shield be thrown; If worst disaster to the land betide, I have a life and glory of my own; And come what may of all the ills beneath, The latest cures the rest, and that is -- d**h." "Alas! Sir Lancelot, and wilt thou go; To-morrow thou shalt choose my fairest steed, To-day the banquet waits, the wine shall flow; And then farewell, and heaven be thy speed." "Fair thanks, King Pelles, but I must not stay, A loiterer upon my pilgrim way. "Bring me no scarlet robe, nor bounding steed, No banquet spread, nor frothing wine-gold pour, Forth let me wander in my warrior weed, Back to the castle on the hill once more; All other thoughts to me are lost and vain, Ere night I may see Galahad and Percevale again." Forth wandered he, and when the evening came, He saw these towers in sunset glory bright; The dancing waves, beneath the radiant flame, Shone glistening in a path of golden light: The glorious day more glorious seemed to die, As if the stealthy twilight, creeping westward, to defy. But all was still and lone; no stir nor motion, Save long-winged sea-birds circling homeward wending, And one white sail afar upon the ocean, And then a holy man the hill descending; Fair greeted he Sir Lancelot as he pa**ed, Then paused, gazed after him, and spoke at last: "My son, if, as I deem, thou seekest still The Holy Grale -- know it is gone for aye; Three chosen knights a high command fulfil, And bear it from this sinful land away: 'Tis but an hour since their ship I blest, And you may see her still, far in the sunny west." Now downward on the winding castle road There paced Sir Galahad's charger riderless; With measured trampling, slow and proud he trode, And stood by Lancelot with fond caress. "Alas!" he said, and gathered up the rein, "Is this the end -- the weary world again? "On I must wander on my darksome way, While they amid the light of peace can rest; I am but a beginner in the fray, Where they are conquerors, serene and blest. I hear the trumpets call me from afar, The conflict waits me in the world of men, And strife and battle come, and blasting war, And d**h itself, before we meet again." He turned away, as early darkness fell, And far at sea the storm-wind moaned a knell. And as the sunbeams leave the darkening shore So desolate, beneath the gathering night, So the bright day of Britain's power is o'er, The light of true religion shines no more, But idol altar-fires gleam ruddy from the height; And as that white-sailed bark Lessens and lessens 'neath the evening star, So in the gathering dark, Honour and Chivalry have fled afar, And all that could ennoble grim and ghastly war. Turn thee again, nor look in hopeless sorrow; For in the eastern skies That sinking sun shall rise again to morrow, And in the east a brighter dawn shall rise; And even as the champion's bark you see Sail down beyond the rim of glancing foam, As she departed -- o'er the silver sea, More strong and glorious, Chivalry shall come; -- Come with the freemen bold, Her own true sons, from Norway's mountain-hold -- Come from the Eastern sands of gold, With bronzed Crusaders home. Thou they are gone -- the three -- Gone from a bloodstained and forsaken land, Still shall in after times the country see The spirit of that little warrior band, Honour, self-sacrifice, and purity, Breathe into the rudest strife the soul of Chivalry.