Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes
    And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he
  Remembered in what a haughtier guise
    He had flung an alms to leprosie,
  When he girt his young life up in gilded mail
  And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
  The heart within him was ashes and dust: 
  He parted in twain his single crust,
  He broke the ice on the streamlet’s brink,
  And gave the leper to eat and drink;
  ’T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread
    ’T was water out of a wooden bowl,—­
  Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,
    And ’t was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul

  As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,
  A light shone round about the place;
  The leper no longer crouched at his side,
  But stood before him glorified,
  Shining and tall and fair and straight
    As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,—­
    Himself the Gate whereby men can
    Enter the temple of God in Man.

  His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,
  And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,
  That mingle their softness and quiet in one
  With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;
  And the voice that was softer than silence said:—­
  Lo, it is I, be not afraid! 
  In many climes, without avail,
  Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail: 
  Behold, it is here,—­this cup which thou
  Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now;
  This crust is my body broken for thee,
  This water His blood that died on the tree;
  The Holy Supper is kept indeed
  In whatso we share with another’s need. 
  Not, what we give, but what we share,—­
  For the gift without the giver is bare: 
  Who gives himself with his alms feeds three.—­
  Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.”

  Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:—­
  “The Grail in my castle here is found! 
  Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
  Let it be the spider’s banquet-hall;
  He must be fenced with stronger mail
  Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.”

  The castle gate stands open now,
    And the wanderer is welcome to the hall
  As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough;
    No longer scowl the turrets tall. 
  The summer’s long siege at last is o’er: 
  When the first poor outcast went in at the door,
  She entered with him in disguise,
  And mastered the fortress by surprise;
  There is no spot she loves so well on ground;
  She lingers and smiles there the whole year round;
  The meanest serf on Sir Launfal’s land
  Has hall and bower at his command;
  And there’s no poor man in the North Countree
  But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

* * * * *

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.