Then spellbound stood the lad and gazed around,
Amazed at all the glory of the hall,
And all the solemn splendor of the scene,
Till Gurnemanz stooped down and whispered low: 
“Now give good heed, and if thy heart be pure,
And thou art called, then surely thou shalt know.”

Then sang the knights this chorus soft and slow;
 “O holy feast of blessing,
  Our portion day by day;
  In thee God’s grace possessing,
  That passeth not away. 
  Who doth the right and true,
  Here findeth strength anew;
  This cup his hand may lift,
  And claim God’s holiest gift.”

And from the mid-height of the lofty dome
The voices of the younger knights replied: 
   “As anguished and holy
    The dear Saviour lowly,
  For us sinners His own life did offer;
    So with hearts pure and free,
    Forever do we
  Our lives unto Him gladly proffer. 
    He died—­our sins atoned for thus,—­
    He died—–­yet liveth still in us!”

And from the topmost of the glorious dome
A chorus of fresh boyish voices came: 
     “The faith doth live! 
      The Lord doth give
    The Dove, His sacred token! 
      Drink at this board
      The wine outpoured,
    And eat the bread here broken!”

[Illustration]

And as they sang their sweet antiphonies,
A long procession through the splendid hall
Wended slow way, and bearing in the King,
The suffering Amfortas in his pain,
Still lying listless on his royal couch. 
Before him walked a company of boys
Clothed in pale blue, and bearing high aloft
A mystic shrine in cloth of deepest crimson,
To signify the royal blood beneath. 
And others followed bearing silver flagons
With wine, and baskets of the finest bread. 
Slowly the King was carried to a couch
Within the midst, high-raised and canopied,
And just before him, of a pure white stone,
Traced with faint figures of the passion-flower,
Stood the communion table where was placed
The sacred shrine, still covered, of the Grail.

And when the hymns were ended, and the knights
Had taken their set places at the board,
Then there was silence.  And from far away,
As if from some deep cavern of a tomb,
Behind the couch where King Amfortas lay
The muffled voice of aged Titurel
Spake with long silences between the words: 
“My son Amfortas, art thou at thy post?... 
Wilt thou unveil the Grail and bid me live?... 
Or must I die, denied the saving vision?”

And King Amfortas cried in desperate pain: 
“O woe is me to bear the burning wound
That shames me in the office of the Grail! 
O father, do thou take the sacred trust
And let thy holy hands reveal the Grail
Once more, and live!  And let me quickly die!”

But answered him the aged Titurel: 
“Nay, nay, too feeble I to serve again. 
I live entombed with but a breath of life,
Saved by the remnant of the grace of God. 
My strength all gone, but my poor yearning heart
Still eager for the vision of the Grail;
For this alone can bring me comfort now. 
Thine is the office.  O unveil the Grail! 
For serving faithfully thou mayst atone
For all the grievous sin of thy sad life.”