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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.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel :
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 favours fall! For them I battle till the end,
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,
Vor maiden's hand in mine.
Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.
When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' 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
And gilds the driving hail.
No branchy thicket shelter yields ;
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
I hear a noise of hymns :
I hear a voice, but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
And solemn chaunts resound between.
A maiden knight-to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
That often meet me here.
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I float till all is dark,
Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' 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 :
Ride on ! the prize is near.'
By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm’d I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.
WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL
MADE AT THE COCK.
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way, ‘And have you lost your heart?' she said ; “And are you married yet, Edward
Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me :
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
*Ellen Adair she loved me well,
Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept,
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. “Shy she was, and I thought her cold;
Thought her proud, and Aed over the sea; Filld I was with folly and spite,
When Ellen Adair was dying for me. “Cruel, cruel the words I said !
Cruelly came they back to-day : "You're too slight and fickle," I said,
“To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.” “There I put my face in the grass
Whisper'd, “Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did :
Speak a little, Ellen Adair !” *Then I took a pencil, and wrote
On the mossy stone, as I lay, “ Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ;
And here the heart of Edward Gray !”
O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort, How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that
You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.
But may she still be kind,
Her influence on the mind,
Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times,
Till all be ripe and rotten.
Her laurel in the wine,
These favour'd lips of mine ;
New lifeblood warm the bosom,
In full and kindly blossom.
Her gradual fingers steal
Of all I felt and feel.
And phantom hopes assemble;
Begins to move and tremble.
By many pleasant ways,
The current of my days :
'Love may come, and love may go,
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : But I will love no more, no more,
Till Ellen Ad air come back to me. * Bitterly wept I over the stone :
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair !
And there the heart of Edward Gray!'
For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
As who shall say me nay:
We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one,
And then we drank it double ;
Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake,
Tho' fortune clip my wings,
Half-views of men and things.
There must be stormy weather ;
All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes ;
If old things, there are new;
Yet glimpses of the true.
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
We circle with the seasons.
Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Had relish fiery-new,
As old as Waterloo;
In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side
The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is !
She answer'd to my call,
Is all-in-all to all :
To make my blood run quicker,
Her life into the liquor.
This earth is rich in man and maid ;
With fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar,
And set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.
Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest
Half-mused, or reeling ripe, The pint, you brought me, was the best
That ever came from pipe.
And hence this halo lives about
The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each.