He would not harp, he would not sing,
Heigho! the wind and rain;

That broke his heart with love-longing.
Ah, well-a-day! poor brain.

He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh,
Heigho! the wind and rain;

But like a true knight he could die,—
Ah, well-a-day! life's vain.

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,
Heigho! the wind and rain;
But lacking was that loyal one,—
Ah, well-a-day! sad pain.

They found him on the battle-field,
Heigho! the wind and rain;

With broken sword and cloven shield,

Ah, well-a-day! in twain.

They found him pillowed on the dead,
Heigho! the wind and rain;

The blood-soaked scd his bridal bed,
Ah, well-a-day! the Slain.

And his pale brow and paler cheek,
Heigho! the wind and rain;

The white moonshine did fall so meek,
Ah, well-a-day! sad strain.

They lifted up the True and Brave,
Heigho! the wind and rain;
And bore him to his lone cold grave,
Ah, well-a-day! in pain.

They buried him on that far strand,

Heigho! the wind and rain;

His face turned towards his love's own land,
Ah, well-a-day! how vain!

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,
Ah, well-a-day! sans stain.

With solemn mass and orison,

Heigho! the wind and rain;

They reared to him a cross of stone,

Ah, well-a-day! in pain.

And on it graved with daggers bright,
Heigho! the wind and rain:

"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,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel:

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
On whom their favors fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall:

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,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair through faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
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;
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 find a magic bark;

I leap on board; no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.

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!

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
Through dreaming towns I go,

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,

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.

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,
Pure spaces clothed 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,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And through the mountain-walls

A rolling organ-harmony

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."
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-armed I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

LADY CLARE

It was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long-betrothed were they:
They two will wed the morrow morn,—
God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well," said Lady Clare.

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,
"That all comes round so just and fair:

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare."

ye

Are out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,' Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse,

"I speak the truth: you are my child.