To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman

295 of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
'Arthur is come again; he cannot die.'

Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated- Come again, and thrice as fair;'
And, further inland, voices echoed-' Come
300 With all good things, and war shall be no more.'
At this a hundred bells began to peal,

That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas-

morn.

SIR GALAHAD

(From the same)

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.

5 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 :

10

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 favours fall!

15 For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall:

20

But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd 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 thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

25 When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:

30

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,

35 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

40

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.
45 Oh, blessed vision! blood of God!

50

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
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 mail; 55 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail.

60

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.

65 I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,

70

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.

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

75 A rolling organ-harmony

80

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-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide
Until I find the holy Grail.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

(From the same)

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

5 O well for the fisherman's boy,

10

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 15 But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS

(Song from The Princess, edition 1850)

'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 5 And thinking of the days that are no more.

'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge; 10 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 15 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

'Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 20 O Death in Life, the days that are no more.'

BUGLE SONG

(From the same)

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 5 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

10

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river: