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Shall the dull stone pay grateful ori

sons,

And we till noonday bar the splendor out,

Lest it reproach and chide our sluggard hearts,

Warm-nestled in the down of Prejudice,

And be content, though clad with angel-wings,

Close-clipped, to hop about from perch to perch,

In paltry cages of dead men's dead thoughts?

O, rather, like the skylark, soar and sing,

And let our gushing songs befit the dawu

And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew Brimming the chalice of each full-blown hope,

Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day!

Never had poets such high call before, Never can poets hope for higher one, And, if they be but faithful to their trust, Earth will remember them with love

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Coping with mad waves and more mu tinous spirits,

Battled he with the dreadful ache at heart

Which tempts, with devilish subtleties of doubt,

The hermit of that loneliest solitude, The silent desert of a great New Thought;

Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb,

Yet would this cataract of boiling life Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps,

And utter thunder till the world shall cease,

A thunder worthy of the poet's song, And which alone can fill it with true life.

The high evangel to our country granted Could make apostles, yea, with tongues of fire,

Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay !

'Tis the soul only that is national, And he who pays true loyalty to that Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism.

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THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.

OVER his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay:

Then, as the touch of his loved instru

ment

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,

First guessed by faint auroral flushes

sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.

Dver our manhood bend the skies;
Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives,

Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
Waits with its benedicite,
And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us;

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,

The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in: At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of

gold;

For a cap and Lelis our lives we pay,

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's

tasking:

'Tis heaven alone that is given away. 'Tis only God may be had for the asking,

No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and

towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to

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have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near,

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; We could guess it all by yon heifer's

lowing,

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Like burnt-out craters healed with

snow.

What wonder if Sir Launfal now Remembered the keeping of his vow?

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,
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."

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew.

II.

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'T was 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 de-
fied;

She could not scale the chilly wall,
Though around it for leagues her pa
vilions tall
Stretched left and right,
Over the hills and out of sight;

Green and broad was every tent,
And out of each a murmur went
Till the breeze fell off at night.

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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,
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;
But he who gives 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,

The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a god goes with it and makes it

store

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And made a star of every one:

No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice; 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay

In his depths serene through the sum. mer day,

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost, Had been mimicked in fairy masonry

By the elfin builders of the frost.

Within the hall are song and laughter, The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly,

And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly;

Through the deep gulf of the chimney

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The bare boughs rattled shudderingly The river was numb and could not speak,

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;

A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off

the cold sun

Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,

As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly

For a last dim look at earth and sea.

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