As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground, As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin.

The sabbaths of eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ELAINE.]

ELAINE.

But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died.

So that day there was dole in Astolat.

But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone Full summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.

There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.

So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her "Sister, farewell for ever," and again "Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears.

Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

_From "Launcelot and Elaine," The Idyls of the King._

SIR GALAHAD.

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.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; 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 favors fall!

For them I battle to the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed 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.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: 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, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between.

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.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of G.o.d!

My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The c.o.c.k crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail.

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.

I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure s.p.a.ces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain walls A rolling organ harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful Knight of G.o.d!

Ride on! the prize is near."

So pa.s.s I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

TRUE KNIGHTHOOD.

But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as models for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To lead sweet lives in purest chast.i.ty, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of n.o.ble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden pa.s.sion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thoughts, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

_From "Guinevere," The Idylls of the King._

GROWING OLD.

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust G.o.d: see all, nor be afraid!"

ROBERT BROWNING.

_From "Rabbi Ben Ezra."_

APPARITIONS.

Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!

Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star!

World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till G.o.d's own smile came out: That was thy face!

ROBERT BROWNING.