Welcome, O honest friend! 
    And bide on my roof content;
  For my heart would sing of the grace of spring,
    When the winter of woe is spent.

THE VISION OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth,
To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
This holy Christmasse time;
But give us of thy heavenly cheere
That we may hold thy love most deere
And know thy peace sublime.

* * * * *

Full merry waxed King Pelles court
With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport,
And, when the board was spread,
Now wit ye well ’twas good to see
So fair and brave a companie
With Pelles at the head.

“Come hence, Elaine,” King Pelles cried,
“Come hence and sit ye by my side,
For never yet, I trow,
Have gentle virtues like to thine
Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,
Nor shall be nevermo!”

  “Sweete sir, my father,” quoth Elaine,
  “Me it repents to give thee pain—­
    Yet, tarry I may not;
  For I shall soond and I shall die
  If I behold this companie
    And see not Launcelot!

  “My heart shall have no love but this—­
  My lips shall know no other kiss,
    Save only, father, thine;
  So graunt me leave to seek my bower,
  The lonely chamber in the toure,
    Where sleeps his child and mine.”

  Then frowned the King in sore despite;
  “A murrain seize that traitrous knight,
    For that he lies!” he cried—­
  “A base, unchristian paynim he,
  Else, by my beard, he would not be
    A recreant to his bride!

  “Oh, I had liefer yield my life
  Than see thee the deserted wife
    Of dastard Launcelot! 
  Yet, an’ thou hast no mind to stay,
  Go with thy damosels away—­
    Lo, I’ll detain ye not.”

  Her damosels in goodly train
  Back to her chamber led Elaine,
    And when her eyes were cast
  Upon her babe, her tears did flow
  And she did wail and weep as though
    Her heart had like to brast.

  The while she grieved the Yuletide sport
  Waxed lustier in King Pelles’ court,
    And louder, houre by houre,
  The echoes of the rout were borne
  To where the lady, all forlorn,
    Made moning in the toure,

  “Swete Chryste,” she cried, “ne let me hear
  Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere
    That mock at mine and me;
  Graunt that my sore affliction cease
  And give me of the heavenly peace
    That comes with thoughts of thee!”

  Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light
  Made all that lonely chamber bright,
    And o’er the infant’s bed
  A spirit hand, as samite pail,
  Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail
    Above the infant’s head.

  And from the sacred golden cup
  A subtle incense floated up
    And filled the conscious air,
  Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine
  Forgot her grief, forgot her pain. 
    Forgot her sore despair.