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, He gives nothing but worthless gold 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 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 wide Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!" VI. Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, ar straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he girt his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink, 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. Which mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was calmer than silence said, "Lo it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Behold, it is here, this cup which thou Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; This crust is my body broken for thee, This water His blood that died on the tree; The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, Not what we give, but what we share, me.' IX. Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound: X. The castle gate stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall A he hangbird is to the elm-tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall, She entered with him in disguise, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command; And there's no poor man in the North Countree But is lord of the earldom as much as he. It NOTE. According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus partook of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Ariinathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign! READER! walk up at once (it will soon be too late) and buy at a perfectly ruinous rate A FABLE FOR CRITICS; OR, BETTER, (I like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, such as presents a tabular view of the volume's contents,) A GLANCE AT A FEW OF OUR LITERARY PROGENIES (Mrs. Malaprop's word) FROM THE TUB OF DIOGENES; A VOCAL AND MUSICAL MEDLEY, THAT IS, A SERIES OF JOKES By a Wonderful Quiz, who accompanies himself with a rub-a dub-dub, full of spirit and grace on the top of the tub. Set forth in October, the 31st day, In the year '48, G. P. Putnam, Broadway. |