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"Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME,
The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,
Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally
Will Launcelot at one time hang his head;

"Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win My love.
Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!
Not always is he able, son, to move

His love, and do it honour: needs must roll

"The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside Seem better than he is, so that his trust

Is always on what chances may betide;

"And so he wears away, My servant, too,
When all these things are gone, and wretchedly
He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who
Is no care now to Palomydes: see,

"O good son Galahad, upon this day,

Now even, all these things are on your side, But these you fight not for; look up, I say, And see how I can love you, for no pride.

"Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. See now you have ME always; following That holy vision, Galahad, go on,

Until at last you come to ME to sing

"In Heaven always, and to walk around

The garden where I am." He ceased, my face And wretched body fell upon the ground;

And when I look'd again, the holy place

Was empty; but right so the bell again
Came to the chapel-door, there entered
Two angels first, in white, without a stain,
And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed

Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath
The very altar-step, and while for fear
I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath,
Those holy ladies gently came a-near,

And quite unarm'd me saying: "Galahad,

Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought Of any other thing than being glad;

Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,

"Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here."
Right so they went away, and I, being weary,
Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near,
I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!

Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also,
Four Ladies in gowns of red and green; also an
Angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white,
with a red cross.

AN ANGEL.

O servant of the high God, Galahad!

Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forth Through the great forest, and you must be had Unto the sea that lieth on the north:

There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein
The spindles of King Solomon are laid,
And the sword that no man draweth without sin,
But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd,

Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet
In some short space upon that ship: first, though,
Will come here presently that lady sweet,
Sister of Percival, whom you well know,

And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,
These ladies will to arm you.

FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberk.
Galahad,
That I may stand so close beneath your brow,
I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad.

SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword. That I may stand and touch you with my hand, O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.

THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs. That I may kneel while up above you stand, And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,

I, Lucy, am most glad.

FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet. O gentle knight, That you bow down to us in reverence, We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight Must needs fall trembling.

ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat.
Galahad, we go hence,

For here, amid the straying of the snow,
Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival.

[The Four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad.

GALAHAD.

How still and quiet everything seems now:
They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.

Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his Sister. Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!

A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has God's body ever been in sight?

SIR BORS.

Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,

As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,

With many-colour'd raiment, but far off;

And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood

Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel

And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest

Went out to seek him, but was almost slain,
Perhaps is dead now; everywhere

The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain;
In vain they struggle for the vision fair.

THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS.

SIR OZANA LE CURE HARDY. SIR GALAHAD.
SIR BORS DE GANYS.

[The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine 1856; darauf im GuenevereBande 1858.]

SIR OZANA.

ALL day long and every day,
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,

And no man came a-near.

Naked to the waist was I,
And deep within my breast did lie,
Though no man any blood could spy,
The truncheon of a spear.

No meat did ever pass my lips
Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips
From off the gilded parclose, dips,

And night comes on apace.

My arms lay back behind my head;
Over my raised-up knees was spread
A samite cloth of white and red;
A rose lay on my face.

Many a time I tried to shout;
But as in dream of battle-rout,
My frozen speech would not well out;
I could not even weep.

With inward sigh I see the sun
Fade off the pillars one by one,
My heart faints when the day is done,
Because I cannot sleep.

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