And as the Grail’s mysterious balm
  Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,
    Great mervail ’twas to see
  The sleeping child stretch one hand up
  As if in dreams he held the cup
    Which none mought win but he.

  Through all the night King Pelles’ court
  Made mighty cheer and goodly sport. 
    Nor never recked the joy
  That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide
  To Launcelot’s deserted bride
    And to her sleeping boy.

  Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth
  To fill our hearts with heedless mirth
    This present Christmasse night;
  But send among us to and fro
  Thy Holy Grail, that men may know
    The joy withe wisdom dight.

THE DIVINE LULLABY.

    I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
  I hear it by the stormy sea,
    When winter nights are black and wild,
  And when, affright, I call to Thee;
  It calms my fears and whispers me,
    “Sleep well, my child.”

    I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
  In singing winds and falling snow,
    The curfew chimes, the midnight bell,
  “Sleep well, my child,” it murmurs low;
  “The guardian angels come and go—­
    O child, sleep well!”

    I hear Thy voice, dear Lord,
  Aye, though the singing winds be stilled,
    Though hushed the tumult of the deep,
  My fainting heart with anguish chilled
  By Thy assuring tone is thrilled—­
    “Fear not, and sleep!”

    Speak on—­speak on, dear Lord! 
  And when the last dread night is near,
   With doubts and fears and terrors wild,
  Oh, let my soul expiring hear
  Only these words of heavenly cheer,
    “Sleep well, my child!”

MORTALITY.

  O Nicias, not for us alone
    Was laughing Eros born,
  Nor shines alone for us the moon,
    Nor burns the ruddy morn;
  Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken
  Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men!

A FICKLE WOMAN.

  Her nature is the sea’s, that smiles to-night
  A radiant maiden in the moon’s soft light;
  The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails,
  Forgetful of the fury of her gales;
  To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars,
  And o’er his hapless wreck the flood she pours!

EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG.

  Grim is the face that looks into the night
    Over the stretch of sands;
  A sullen rock in the sea of white—­
  A ghostly shadow in ghostly light,
    Peering and moaning it stands.
    “Oh, is it the king that rides this way—­
    Oh, is it the king that rides so free? 
  I have looked for the king this many a day,
  But the years that mock me will not say
    Why tarrieth he!”