The Vision of Sir Launfal | Page 8

are clear and grass is growing;?The breeze comes whispering in our ear,?That dandelions are blossoming near, 70 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,?That the river is bluer than the sky,?That the robin is plastering his house hard by;?And if the breeze kept the good news back,?For other couriers we should not lack; 75 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--?And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,?Warmed with the new wine of the year,?Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 80 Everything is happy now,?Everything is upward striving;?'T is as easy now for the heart to be true?As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--?'T is the natural way of living: 85 Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,?And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,?The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;?The soul partakes of the season's youth, 90 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe?Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,?Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.?What wonder if Sir Launfal now?Remembered the keeping of his vow? 95
PART FIRST.
I.
"My golden spurs now bring to me,?And bring to me my richest mail,?For to-morrow I go over land and sea,?In search of the Holy Grail;?Shall never a bed for me be spread, 100 Nor shall a pillow be under my head,?Till I begin my vow to keep;?Here on the rushes will I sleep,?And perchance there may come a vision true?Ere day create the world anew." 105 Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,?Slumber fell like a cloud on him,?And into his soul the vision flew.
II.
The crows flapped over by twos and threes,?In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 110 The little birds sang as if it were?The one day of summer in all the year,?And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees:?The castle alone in the landscape lay?Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray: 115 'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,?And never its gates might opened be,?Save to lord or lady of high degree;?Summer besieged it on every side,?But the churlish stone her assaults defied; 120 She could not scale the chilly wall,?Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall?Stretched left and right,?Over the hills and out of sight;?Green and broad was every tent, 125 And out of each a murmur went?Till the breeze fell off at night.
III.
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,?And through the dark arch a charger sprang,?Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 130 In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright?It seemed the dark castle had gathered all?Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall?In his siege of three hundred summers long,?And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 135 Had cast them forth: so, young and strong,?And lightsome as a locust-leaf,?Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail,?To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.
IV.
It was morning on hill and stream and tree, 140 And morning in the young knight's heart;?Only the castle moodily?Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,?And gloomed by itself apart;?The season brimmed all other things up 145 Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup.
V.
As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,?He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,?Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;?And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 150 The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,?The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl,?And midway its leap his heart stood still?Like a frozen waterfall;?For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 155 Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,?And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,--?So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.
VI.
The leper raised not the gold from the dust:?"Better to me the poor man's crust, 160 Better the blessing of the poor,?Though I turn me empty from his door;?That is no true alms which the hand can hold;?He gives nothing but worthless gold?Who gives from a sense of duty; 165 But he who gives but a slender mite,?And gives to that which is out of sight,?That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty?Which runs through all and doth all unite,--?The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 170 The heart outstretches its eager palms,?For a god goes with it and makes it store?To the soul that was starving in darkness before."
PRELUDE TO PART SECOND.
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,[3]?From the snow five thousand summers old; 175 On open wold and hill-top bleak?It had gathered all the cold,?And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;?It carried a shiver everywhere?From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; 180 The little brook heard it and built a roof?'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;?All night by