To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, 295 of stateliest port; and all the people cried, Then those that stood upon the hills behind That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed morn. SIR GALAHAD (From the same) My good blade carves the casques of men, 5 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 10 They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend 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; 25 When down the stormy crescent goes, 30 Then by some secret shrine I ride; 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 leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: 50 My spirit beats her mortal bars, When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 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; A maiden knight-to me is given 65 I muse on joy that will not cease, 70 Whose odours haunt my dreams; This mortal armour that I wear, The clouds are broken in the sky, 75 A rolling organ-harmony 80 Swells up, and shakes and falls. So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; BREAK, BREAK, BREAK (From the same) Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 5 O well for the fisherman's boy, 10 That he shouts with his sister at play! 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 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, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: |