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In der Literaturgeschichte wird er als Vollender der auf das Mittelalter gerichteten englischen Romantik stets eine markante Stelle einnehmen, und seine historische Bedeutung wird ihm immer wieder auch Leser zuführen, denen das literarische Interesse den Weg zum ästhetischen Genusse des Großen und Unvergänglichen an seiner Kunst bahnt.

SIR GALAHAD, A CHRISTMAS MYSTERY.
[The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]

IT is the longest night in all the year,

Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; Six hours ago I came and sat down here, And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn.

The winter wind that pass'd the chapel-door,
Sang out a moody tune, that went right well
With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor,
Between my feet, until I heard a bell

Sound a long way off through the forest deep,
And toll on steadily; a drowsiness

Came on me, so that I fell half asleep,

As I sat there not moving: less and less

I saw the melted snow that hung in beads
Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw
Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds:
Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe

Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground,
I thought: O Galahad! the days go by,
Stop and cast up now that which you have found,
So sorely you have wrought and painfully.

Night after night your horse treads down alone

The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone,

Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it?

And what if Palomydes also ride,

And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath

With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale
With weary striving, to seem best of all
To her, "as she is best," he saith? to fail
Is nothing to him, he can never fall.

For unto such a man love-sorrow is

So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss,

Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.

And he will never know her to be worse

Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.

Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out,

Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round, Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout

Till all the place grows joyful with the sound?

And when he lists can often see her face,

And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week, And still you think of me:" therefore the place Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.

But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find
Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow,
When all unkindly with the shifting wind,

The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know

Indeed that they will say: "This Galahad

If he had lived had been a right good knight; Ah! poor chaste body!" but they will be glad, Not most alone, but all, when in their sight

That very evening in their scarlet sleeves
The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk.
Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,
Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,

East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard
To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!
Before the trees by autumn were well bared,
I saw a damozel with gentle play,

Within that very walk say last farewell

To her dear knight, just riding out to find (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, And their last kisses sunk into my mind,

Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast,

Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd

By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind,
Till Mador de la porte a-going by,

And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined,
And parted like a dream. In this way I,

With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor,
Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly
A sharp bell rang from close beside the door,
And I leapt up when something pass'd me by,

Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind
I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe
At every step kept gathering on my mind,
Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw

One sitting on the altar as a throne,

Whose face no man could say he did not know,
And though the bell still rang, He sat alone,
With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.

Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,

Not as one kneels in church when mass is said, But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt

The first time what a thing was perfect dread.

But mightily the gentle voice came down:
"Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,
Good knight of God, for you will see no frown
Upon My face; I come to make you glad.

"For that you say that you are all alone,

I will be with you always, and fear not You are uncared for, though no maiden moan Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot,

"He in good time shall be My servant too,

Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, And who has loved him alway, yea, and who

Still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight,

"He is just what you know, O Galahad, This love is happy even as you say, But would you for a little time be glad,

To make ME sorry long, day after day?

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