SIR BORS.

Galahad sits dreamily;

What strange things may his eyes see,
Great blue eyes fix'd full on me?
On his soul, Lord, have mercy.

SIR GALAHAD.

Ozana, shall I pray for thee?
Her cheek is laid to thine;
No long time hence, also I see
Thy wasted fingers twine

Within the tresses of her hair
That shineth gloriously,
Thinly outspread in the clear air
Against the jasper sea.

SUMMER DAWN.

[The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine 1856; darauf im GuenevereBande 1858.]

PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips,
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
The summer night waneth, the morning light slips,
Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt
the cloud-bars,

That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold
Waits to float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;

They pray the long gloom through for daylight new born,
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.

Speak but one word to me over the corn,
Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.

IN PRISON.

[The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]

WEARILY, drearily

Half the day long,

Flap the great banners

High over the stone;
Strangely and eerily

Sounds the wind's song,

Bending the banner-poles.

While, all alone,

Watching the loophole's spark,
Lie I, with life all dark,
Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd
Fast to the stone,

The grim walls, square letter'd
With prison'd men's groan.

Still strain the banner-poles
Through the wind's song,
Westward the banner rolls
Over my wrong.

THE BLUE CLOSET.

[The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]
THE DAMOZELS.

LADY Alice, lady Louise,

Between the wash of the tumbling seas
We are ready to sing, if so ye please;
So lay your long hands on the keys;
Sing, "Laudate pueri."

And ever the great bell overhead

Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,
Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.

LADY LOUISE.

Sister, let the measure swell

Not too loud; for you sing not well
If you drown the faint boom of the bell;
He is weary, so am I.

And ever the chevron overhead
Flapped on the banner of the dead;
(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)

LADY ALICE.

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
Two damozels wearing purple and green,
Four lone ladies dwelling here

From day to day and year to year;
And there is none to let us go;

To break the locks of the doors below,
Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;
And when we die no man will know
That we are dead; but they give us leave,
Once every year on Christmas-eve,
To sing in the Closet Blue one song;
And we should be so long, so long,

If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,
They float on in a happy stream;

Float from the gold strings, float from the keys, Float from the open'd lips of Louise;

But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through

The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;

And ever the great bell overhead

Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,

The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.

They sing all together.

How long ago was it, how long ago,

He came to this tower with hands full of snow?

Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,
And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,
For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;

In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,
But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;

Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, I am so feeble now, would I might die.

And in truth the great bell overhead
Left off his pealing for the dead,
Perchance, because the wind was dead.

Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?

Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?

Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive
Either body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.

Through the floor shot up a lily red,

With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
For he was strong in the land of the dead.

Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.

24

What matter that his cheeks were pale,
His kind kiss'd lips all grey?

O, love Louise, have you waited long?
O, my lord Arthur, yea.

What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?

His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.

O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,

If ye take me by the hand?

And ever the great bell overhead,

And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the dead; For their song ceased, and they were dead.

THE TUNE OF SEVEN TOWERS.

[The Defence of Guenevere etc. 1858.]

No one goes there now;

For what is left to fetch

away

From the desolate battlements all arow,

And the lead roof heavy and grey? Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers, This is the tune of Seven Towers.

No one walks there now;

Except in the white moonlight