ALFRED TENNYSON.

SIR GALAHAD.

Sir Galahad is the most moral and upright of all the Knights of the
Round Table.  The strong lines of the poem (Tennyson, 1809-92) are the
strong lines of human destiny—­

“My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure.”

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

    How sweet are looks that ladies bend
      On whom their favours fall! 
    For them I battle till the end,
      To save from shame and thrall: 
    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;
    So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer
      A virgin heart in work and will.

    When down the stormy crescent goes,
      A light before me swims,
    Between dark stems the forest glows,
      I hear a noise of hymns: 
    Then by some secret shrine I ride;
      I hear a voice, but none are there;
    The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
      The tapers burning fair. 
    Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
      The silver vessels sparkle clean,
    The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
      And solemn chaunts resound between.

    Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
      I find a magic bark;
    I leap on board:  no helmsman steers,
      I float till all is dark. 
    A gentle sound, an awful light! 
      Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
    With folded feet, in stoles of white,
      On sleeping wings they sail. 
    Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 
      My spirit beats her mortal bars,
    As down dark tides the glory slides,
      And star-like mingles with the stars.

    When on my goodly charger borne
      Thro’ dreaming towns I go,
    The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
      The streets are dumb with snow. 
    The tempest crackles on the leads,
      And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
    But o’er the dark a glory spreads,
      And gilds the driving hail. 
    I leave the plain, I climb the height;
      No branchy thicket shelter yields;
    But blessed forms in whistling storms
      Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.