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The Romaunt Of Sir Floris

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An Arthurian Miscellany

The Romaunt Of Sir Floris

In this sweet world and fair to see,

There is full many a mystery,

That toil and misery have wrought

To banish from the sight and thought

Of striving men in this our air

Of pain and doubt, and many a fair

Sweet wonder that doth live and move

Within the channel of Christ's love.

And of these, truly, aforetime

Was made full many a tender rhyme

And lay of wonder and delight;

And by full many a noble knight

And minstrel was the story told,

With the sweet simple faith of old,

Of how the questing was fulfill'd

Of that Sangreal that was will'd

By the dear God to Galahad,

And how by many a one was had

Rare venture in the holy Quest,

Albeit very few were blest

With comfort in the sight of it;

And by that menestrel, to wit,

(Oh sweetest of all bards to me

And worthiest to Master be

Of all that sing of Christ His knight

And Questing of the Grail!
) that hight

Of Eschenbach, that tale was writ

Of Percivale, that now doth sit

Within the bosom of the Lord,

And how he strove with spear and sword

Full many a year for Christ His grace.

And with delight of those old lays,

There long has murmur'd in my brain

A song that often and again

Has cried to me for utterance;

And now before the sad years chance

To bear all thought of holiness

From men with mirk of pain and stress

Of toil it wearies me to tell

Of all that unto Floris fell,

And all his toil and all his bliss

And grace in winning to Christ's kiss.

Wherefore, I pray you, hearkneth

The while with scant and feeble breath

I tell to you a quaint old tale,

Wherein is neither sin nor bale,

But some sweet peace and sanctity:

And there not only wonders be,

But therewithal a breath of love

Is woven round it and above,

That lovers in the Summer-prime

May clasp warm hands o'er this my rhyme,

As finding there some golden sense

Of Love's delicious recompense:

For what withouten love is life?

And if therein is any strife,

Or therewithal offences be,

I pray you pardon it to me:

Wherefore, Christ hearten you, I say,

Et Dieu vous doint felicit.

I. The First Coming Of The Dove.

Hard by the confluence of Rhone

A castle of old times alone

Upon a high grey hill did stand,

And look'd across the pleasant land:

And of the castle castellain

And lord of all the wide domain

Of golden field and purple wood

And vineyards where the vine-rows stood

In many a trellis, Floris was;

A good knight and a valorous,

And in all courtesies approved,

That unto valiantise behoved.

Full young he was and fair of face,

And among ladies had much grace,

And favour of all men likewise:

For in such stout and valiant guise

His years of manhood had he spent

In knightly quest and tournament,

There was no knight in all the land

Whose name in more renown did stand,

And the foe quaked to look upon

The white plume of his morion,

When through the grinding shock of spears

Sir Floris' war-cry pierced their ears

And over all the din was blown

The silver of his clarion.

So was much ease prepared for him,

And safety from the need and grim

Hard battle against gibe and sneer

That must full oft be foughten here--

For evil fortune and the lack

Of strength to thrust the envious back--

By many a noble soul and true;

And had he chosen to ensue

The well-worn path that many tread

For worship, all his life were spread

Before him, level with delight.

But if in shock of arms and fight

Of squadrons he disdaind not

To win renown, the silken lot

Of those that pass their days in ease

And dalliance on the flower'd leas

Of life was hateful to his soul;

And so--when once the battle's roll

And thunder was from off the lands

Turn'd back and from the war-worn hands

The weapons fell--he could not bring

His heart to brook the wearying

Of peace and indolent disport

Of ease. Wherefore he left the court--

So secretly that no one knew

Awhile his absence--and withdrew

A season to his own demesne,

And there in solitude was fain

To yearn for some fair chance to hap

And win his living from the lap

Of drowsy idlesse with some quest,

That should from that unlovely rest

Redeem him to the old delight

Of plucking--in the bold despite

Of danger--from the brows of Fate

Some laurel. Nor had he to wait

The cooling of his knightly fire;

There was vouchsafed to his desire,

Ere long, a very parlous quest,

That should unto the utterest

Assay his knightly worth and test

The temper of his soul full well

And sore. And in this wise it fell.

It chanced one night,--most nigh the time

When through the mist-wreaths and the rime

The hours begin to draw toward

The enchanted birthnight of the Lord,--

That in the midnight, on his bed,

He heard in dreams, a voice that said

"Arise, Sir Floris, get thee forth,

An thou wouldst prove thee knight of worth!"

Gross slumbers of the middle night

So held and clipp'd the valiant knight,

He might him not to speak address

For slumber and for heaviness.

Again it rang out loud and clear,

So that might not choose but hear,

And in his heart he quaked for fear;

But still he lay and answer'd not,

Such hold had sleep upon him got.

A third time through the chamber past

The voice, as 'twere a trumpet's blast:

"Arise, Sir Floris, harness thee,

For love of Christ that died on tree!"

He started up from sleep for fear

And groped to find a sword or spear,

Thinking some enemy was near;

But of no creature was he ware.

He saw the moon hang in the air--

As 'twere a cup of lucent pearl--

And in the distance heard the swirl

Of waters through the silence run;

But other sight or sound was none.

The moon's light lay across the night

In one great stream of silver-white,

And folded round the Christ that stood

At bedhead, carven in black wood;

And Floris, looking on the way

Of light that through the chamber lay,

Was ware of a strange blossoming--

As of some birth of holy thing--

That in the bar of silver stirr'd;

And as he gazed, a snow-white bird

Grew slowly into perfect shape,

As if some virtue did escape

From that strange silver prisonhouse

Into the city perilous

Of life, and for its safety's sake

The likeness of a fowl did take.

The light seem'd loth to let it go

Into this world of sin and woe

(So pure and holy) and put out

Long arms of white the dove about,

As if to net it safely in:

But, as the holy bird did win

It way and through the meshes rent,

The rays of light together blent

And fell into a cross of white,

Whereon the silver dove did light

Above the image benedight.

Sir Floris wonder'd at the sight,

And looking on the cross, he deem'd

That from the Christ a glory gleam'd

And lay in gold towards the door;

And something bade him go before.

He rose and girt himself upon

With helm and with habergeon,

And in his hand his sword full bright

He bore, that Fleurdeluceaunt hight.

The dove flew out into the air,

And Floris follow'd through the bare

Dumb ways and chambers to the gate,

Whose open leaves for them did wait,

And as into the night they past,

Together were behind them cast.

The night was dumb, the moon did glower

Upon them, like a pale sick flower

That in the early chill of spring

Mocks at the summer's blossoming,

And over every hill and stowe

The ways were white and sad with snow.

So pass'd he, with the silver dove

That went before him and above,

Within the sheeny moons light--

Wherewith her outspread plumes were dight

So that it seem'd each wing became

And grew into a silver flame--

Until the hollow'd snow was track'd

Into a woodway, where there lack'd

The moonlight, and the mountain-side

With drooping ash and linden vied

To keep the hollow place from ray

Or glimmer of the silver-play.

The dove flew in, and, following,

Sir Floris heard a muffled ring

Of silver in the mountain's womb,

As if dead music there had tomb.

Here the dove folded wings and smote

The part wherefrom the sound did float.

The mountain open'd, and they went,

By force of some strange wonderment,

Into a place of flowers, all sprent

With jewels of the blossom-time;

And all the air was sweet with rhyme:

There reign'd an endless summer-prime.

Tall green was there of leafd trees,

And in the blossom'd walks the breeze

Was music, such as winds and plays

About the May-sweet woodland ways,

When spring is fresh and hope is clear;

And in the place where leaves are sere

On earth, there lay great heaps of gold,

Yweft my wonderment untold

To semblance of the Autumn's waste,

Through which the sweet wind play'd and chased

Its frolic breaths with perfume laden.

In grass stood many a white maiden

That lily in the outworld hight;

And roses all the herbage dight.

Bright plaited beds of jewel-flowers

Were thick-set in the garden bowers,

And many a row of sunflowers stood

Along the marges of the wood,

And to the sapphire heaven turn'd,

As if towards the sun they burn'd.

About the blossoms, round and over,

Strange golden-crested birds did hover

That flash'd and sparkled like a flight

Of wingd starlets in the night;

And, as they went, their pinions beat

The air of that serene retreat

To rush and sweep of magic song,

And through the trees was sweet and strong

The trill of lark and nightingale.

There was not any note of wail

In song of birds or sweep of wind,

Such as in woodlands calls to mind

The last year's winter and the next,

Wherewith the listener's soul is vext

And thinks how short the spring will be,

And how the flower-times change and flee

Towards the dreary month of snows.

The full glad passion of the rose

Was joyous in the garden air,

And every sight and sound was fair

With unalloy'd contentedness.

There could not enter any stress

Of labour or of worldly woe;

But ever through the place did flow

A silver sound of singing winds,

A breath of jasmine and woodbinds,

As if all joy were gather'd there

And prison'd in the golden air.

And as Sir Floris wonderd

At those sweet flow'rets white and red,

And at the stream's sweet song that set

The garden-breezes all afret

With breaking waves of melody,

And at the bird's sweet minstrelsy,--

There came to him a damozel

(How fair she was no man can tell),

And said, "Fair knight, now wit thou well

That thou hast gather'd great renown

In that sad world where trees are brown

And ways are white in winter-time,

And hast in many a maker's rhyme

Been celebrate for gentilesse

And valiant doings in the press

Of armd knights and battle-play,

In tournament and in mellay;

And over all the land is known

How, many a time, thy horn has blown

To succour maidens in distress,

And oftentimes have had redress

The needy by thy stroke of sword.

So that to him, that is the lord

Of this fair place, the fame has won

Of all that thou hast dared and done

In perfectness of chivalry;

And he, who uses well to see

Great deeds of arms and shock of spears,

Has seen no one in all these years

That may be chosen for thy peer;

And therefore has he brought thee here,

To try thee if thou canst endure

Battle and venture, forte et dure

Beyond the wont of men on earth;

Wherein if thou canst prove thy worth,

He will advance thee to his grace

And set thee surely in high place

Among his knights."

"Fair damozel,"

Said Floris, "liketh me full well

The quest, by what you say of it:

But now, I pray you, let me wit

Who is this lord, whose hest you bear,

That is so high and debonair?

And what adventure must I prove

Before that I can win his love?"

And she, "His name I may not tell;

Hereafter shalt thou know it well;

But thou shalt see his presently."

Then did she join her bended palms,

And falling down upon her knee

Among the knitted herbs and haulms,

Did softly sing a full sweet rhyme;

And in a little space of time

Was visible among the treen--

Against a trellised work of green

That at the garden's farthest end

Among the leaves did twine and blend--

A man, that walk'd among the flowers

As softly as the evening hours

Walk in the summer-haunted treen.

Full tall and stately was his mien,

And down his back the long hair lay,

Red-gold as is the early day,

Whereon a crown of light was set.

Whoever saw might ne'er forget.

The sweetness of his majesty.

But in no wise could Floris see

Or win to look upon his face;

For, as he went, he turn'd aside

His visage, as it were to hide

The light of its unearthly grace

From mortal eyes.

Then Floris said,

"I pray thee of thy kindlihead,

Fair maid, that I may come to look

On this lord's visage.
" But she shook

Her head, and "Patience!" did she say.

"Thou must in fear and much affray

For this fair place, and for the fame

Of him that master of the same

And sovereign is, be purged and tried,

And through much venture must abide,

Ere thou mayst look upon his face

And win the guerdon of his grace,

And now the time is come to prove

Battle and hardship for his love.

Adieu, sir knight: be bold and true!"

Whereat she sped beyond his view,

And eke that figure vanishd;

But Floris, lifting up his head,

Was ware of a strange hand that bare

A cross and stood in middle air,

And on the white plume of his crest

Did for a moment lie and rest.

Therewith great ease was given him,

And healing freedom from all dim

Sad doubts of fortune and of fate

In that great strife, that did await

His proving; and the strength of men

In him was as the strength of ten

Redoubled. Then he saw, beside

His feet, a flower-bed fair and wide

Of roses mingled red and white,

Full sweet of smell and fair of sight,

That in a trellised red-gold grate

Did hold a sweet and lovely state

And spread around such wealth of balm,

Their scent seem'd one great golden psalm

Of perfume to the praise of God.

Then Floris knelt upon the sod

Of that fair place, and praying thrice

Most heartily, did take advice

That up the silver-spangled grail--

That through the green did twine and trail

Of that bright garden's goodliness--

Some gruesome thing towards him did press.

As 'twere the roses to despoil.

So sprang he lightly from the soil,

And from its scabbard iron-blue

His falchion Fleurdeluceaunt drew,

And kiss'd its fair hilt cruciform;

Wherewith his heart wax'd bold and warm

With courage past the use of men.

Now was a loathly thing, I ween,

Made visible to him--that might

Well strike the boldest with affright.

For up the sward to him did run

A beast yet never saw the sun;

As 'twere a dog with double head,

Whose hinder parts were fashiond

Into the likeness of a worm.

Full black and grisly was his form,

And blazing red his eyes and tongue

With raging choler, such as stung

His lusting heart to rob and tear

The flowers that in the garden were.

But as he came anigh the place

Wherein those roses all did grace

The greensward, to his troubled sight

Was visible that valiant knight,

That in whole armour of blue steel

Before the flowery shrine did kneel,

To save the emblems of Love's joy

From his most foul and rude annoy.

Wherefore at him with open mouth

The monster ran, as 'twere its drouth

And ravening lust to wreak and slake

Upon the knight. Then did he take

His sword, and with so stout a blow

Upon the beast's twin neck did throw

The edge, that with the dolorous stroke

The thread of its foul life he broke

In twain, and from the sunder'd veins

The black blood strew'd with loathly stains

The tender grass and herbs therein;

And as among the flower-stalks thin

The hideous purple gore was sprent,

From out the stain (O wonderment

And grace of Mary merciful!)

There open'd out the petals full

And lovesome of that snowy bloom

That is in all earth's sin and gloom

The fairest of all flowers to see,

The lily of white chastity.

Right glad was Floris of the sight,

And of the scent that from the white

Gold-hearted bells to him was lent;

And as he o'er the calyx bent

To breathe its fragrance, suddenly

There came a sound across the lea,

That was as if a lion roar'd;

And truly o'er the blossom'd sward

There ran to him a tawny beast,

Red-maned, that never stay'd nor ceased

To roar, until the knight could feel

His hot breath through the grated steel

That barr'd his vizor, and his claws

Sought grimly for some joint or pause

In the hard mail, where he might set

His tusks and through the rent veins let

The knight's life-blook upon the sward.

But Floris, lifting up his sword,

Him with such doughty strokes oppress'd

Upon his red and haughty crest,

That soon he made him loose his hold;

And in a while, no longer bold

And arrogant, he would have fled,

But that Sir Floris on his head

With the sharp edge smote such a blow,

The red blood from the rift did flow,

And with the blood the life did pass:

Wherefore from out the bloodied grass

There was uplift the rose of love,

With scent and blossom fair enough,

I trow, to guerdon many a toil

And many a battle in the coil

Of earthly woes.

But there was yet

No time for Floris to forget

His trouble in the red flower's sight:

He must again in deathly fight

Be join'd for the security

Of that fair garden's purity.

For swiftly in the lion's place

A raging leopard came, the grace

Of those sweet roses to despoil;

And as he came, the very soil

Quaked underneath him, such a might

To wreak his cholerick despite

'Gainst him that was the sovereign

Of that fair place, and such disdain

Did rage in him, that he could see

No thing for anger. So was he

Against the roses well nigh come,

Nay, was in act to spoil their bloom,

When through his heart the deadly blade

Slid cold; and turning round, he made

At Floris with a vengeful roar,

And with his claws his thigh he tore

A hand's-breadth in his agony.

Then down upon the grass fell he

And died; and in the tender sward,

Whereon his felon blood was pour'd,

The sign of humbleness was set,

The flower that men call violet.

Full faint was Floris with the loss

Of blood, that from the wound across

His thigh did run in many a rill,

And would have fain awhile been still

Without reproof. But no repose

Must he expect (nor one of those

That in God's battle fight on earth)

Nor pleasance of delight and mirth,

But many a dint and many a blow

Unceasing, till God will his woe

Be ended and the goal be won.

And so, as there he sat, anon,

Whilst wearily he look'd along

The fair wide path, he saw the long

Slow travel of a hideous snake,

That with much toil its way did make

Towards the roses where he stood.

So faint he was with failing blood,

He might not summon any strength

To smite its black and gruesome length

At vantage, crawling, but must wait

Until, with slow and tortuous gait,

It won to him. So weak he was,

He could not choose but let it pass

Towards the trellis; and eftsoon,

By him that lay in some half swoon,

Across the grass it slid and twined

Around the grating that confined

The flowers, its black and hideous length,

And breathed on them with all the strength

Of hate its envying soul could know

To gather in a breath, and so

To spoil their fresh and goodly bloom:

Whereat the blossoms with the gloom

Of its black coils, that shut the light

From over them, and with affright

And sickness of its loathsome breath,

Came very nigh to take their death.

For with such potent spells the air

Its venom darken'd of despair

And malice, that the lovely red

And white of their bright goodlihead

Was to a sickly pallor turn'd,

As if some loathly fever burn'd

Within their hearts: and in a while

No kiss of breeze or golden smile

Of sun had won them back to life,

So spent were they with the fell strife

Of that curs'd beast,--had not a sweep

Of wings awaken'd from the sleep

Of pain Sir Floris, and the scream

Of a great bird, whose plumes did seem

To brush his forehead, roused his sense

From the constraint of indolence.

Then sprang he up in strength renew'd;

And when he saw the serpent lewd

And hideous, that in his embrace

Did strangle all the life and grace

From out the flowers, he made at him

And with a grip so fierce and grim

Oppres'd his scaly swollen neck,

That with the dolour and the check

Of blood within his venom'd veins,

The snake must needs relax the chains

In which he held the rosery;

And in the act so mightily

Had leapt at Floris, that he wound

His arms and body closely round

With scaly rings, and so uneath

Did grip the knight, that little breath

Seem'd in his body to be left;

But, summoning all strength, he reft

The horrid fetters from his breast,

And flung the worm with utterest

His might full length against the ground.

There whiles it lay in seeming swound;

And Floris, thinking it was dead,

Would have lain down his weary head

Upon the grass, to take some ease

Awhile. Then from among the trees

There came that fowl, that had awoke

Him with its passing pinions' stroke,

And with so hard a buffet drove

Him down to earth, he could nor move

Nor speak awhile, but lay as dead:

And that foul bird, with eyes of red

And vulture claws, did strive the while

At every joint and crack of mail

To wound him with its noisome beak.

At last a place it found where weak

The armour was, and with such spite

Into Sir Floris' flesh did bite,

That for the fierceness of the pain

He started up from sleep again

And with so fierce and stout a blow

The vulture strake, the steel did go

Athwart the pinions and the crest,

And riving down the armour'd breast,

Did hew the gruesome snake in twain,

In whom the life began again

To flutter. So the loathly two

With that stroke died; and with the dew

Of their foul blood, the lovely green

Of the fair sward did such a spleen

And hate of its despiteous hue

Conceive, that quickly sprang to view

A twine of slow-white clematis,

The sign of sweet content that is;

And where the bird in death was cold,

There grew the glad bright marigold,

That in its gay and golden dress

Was ever symbol of largesse,

Since all along the meads there run

Its mimic mirrors of the sun,

Withouten any speck or flaw.

But none of this Sir Floris saw,

Nor how the roses lightly wore

The freshness of their bloom once more;

So weary was he and so worn

With strife, and therewithal so torn

With claws and beak of that fierce bird,

He lay aswoon and saw nor heard

Or sight or sound.

Now must I tell

A wondrous thing that here befell,

Through grace of God and Christ, His Son:

For, while he lay aswoon, came one

In white and shining robes array'd,

And touch'd him on the lips and said,

"Arise, Sir Floris, whole of wound,

And fill thy quest!
" And so was gone.

And Floris started up from ground,

And was all whole in flesh and bone

And full of heart the end to dare

Of that hard venture.

Then the air

Was of a sudden darken'd o'er

With some foul thing, that semblance wore

Of a half bird, and a half worm,

Join'd in one foul and loathly form;

And with the rattle of the scales

Upon its wings--that (as huge flails

Upon the golden garnered wheat

With ceaseless rhythmic pulse do beat)

Did lash and wound the golden air--

The songs of breezes deadn'd were,

And all was dumb for much dismay:

And with its sight the lift grew gray.

And as it wheel'd on open wings,

With many blows and buffetings

It strove to daunt that valiant knight

And enforce him for sheer affright

To yield to it and let it fill

Its hungry maw at its foul will

With those fair flowers. But Floris stood

Undaunted, and with many a good

Stout stroke of point did wound the beast,

Werewith it bled and much increased

Its ravenous rage. Then, suddenly,

He felt sharp claws about his knee,

And, looking down, no little wroth,

He saw a huge and monstrous sloth,

That with such force did hug his thighs

And gript his arms in such hard wise,

That he could scarce with bended shield

Resist him, nor with power could wield

His trusty sword; and as he strove

That monster from his grip to move,

The dragon with so fell a swoop

Against him from on high did stoop,

That down upon the ground he fell,

And in the falling did repel

The sloth from off him. Then the twain

With such foul rage at him again

Did press and buffet, that the life

Out of his breast with that fierce strife

Was well nigh chased: but, by good hap,

It chanced he fell into the lap

Of those fair blooms of various kind

That did his victory call to mind

Against the cruel beaten foes;

And, falling heavily from blows

Of beak and tallons, he with such

A grinding weight did press and crush

The blossoms in the harsh and rude

Encounter, they must needs exude

From out their chalices the sweet

And precious essences that meet

To make the perfume of a flower,

And on his face and hands did shower

Their gracious balms. So sweet they were

And of a potency so rare

For salving every earthly pain,

The life began in every vein

With their pure touch to run and glow;

And soon the weary weight and woe

That lay on Floris was dispell'd.

Then, with new strength, from him he fell'd

That hideous sloth; and being free

An instant from his tyranny

And harsh oppression, to his feet

He sprang once more, and to defeat

The wingd worm himself address'd.

That tore and ravish'd at his crest

With ceaseless fury; but it drew

Beyond his reaching, when it knew

Its comrade worsted, and was fain

To wait till it revived again.

But Floris, with a doubled hand,

Smote at the bear with his good brand

So fell a stroke, the sharp death slid

Through bone and sinew and forbid

Returning life to enter in

That loathly dwelling, foul with sin

And sloth;--and so the thing was dead.

And from the blood its slit veins bled

There came to life the blossoms sweet

And gold-eyed of the Marguerite,

Incoronate with petals white.

But that foul serpent with the sight

Of that good blow so sorely grieved

And fill'd with rage to be bereaved

Of its grim comrade was, it threw

All fear aside and fiercely flew

At Floris, with the armd sting

Of its writhed tail all quivering

In act to strike, and with so strong

A swoop the dart did thrust and throng

Through dent and ring of riven mail,

The deadly point it did prevail

To bury deep in Floris' breast.

Whereat such rage the knight possess'd

That all the dolour he forgot

(Though very fierce it was, God wot,

And sad
) and throwing down his blade,

With such a mighty force he laid

To drag that scorpion from his side,

The serpent's tail in twain he wried

And in such hideous wounds it rent,

That from the body coil'd and bent

With anguish it must needs divide.

Wherewith the cleft did open wide,

And such a flood therefrom did flow

Of blood upon the herbs below

That needs it seem'd the flowers must die;

And with the pain so fierce a cry

Of agony the dragon gave,

There is no heart of man so brave

And firm but he must quake at it.

And now the doom of death was writ

In heaven for that unholy beast;

And in a little while it ceased

To cry, and down upon the ground

It fell and died; and all around

The firm earth quaked. And as it died,

The blood--that wither'd far and wide

The herbs and 'mid the stalks did boil

For rage--was dried into the soil;

Wherefore there sprang from out the stain

The holy purple of vervain,

The plant that purgeth earth's desire.

Now may Sir Floris well aspire

To have that peace he needeth so,

And easance after toil and woe:

For there is none to fight with him

Of all those beasts so fell and grim;

Nor any sign of further foe

Within the garden is, I trow,

To let him from his victory;

And all around the place was free

From fear; the breezes were atune

Again with birdsongs, and the boon

Of scent within the flowers once more

Was golden, nor the heavens wore

The hue of horror and dismay:

And so me may be blithe and gay

And have sweet pleasance.

But alas!

No thought of this for Floris was.

Within his veins the venom 'gan

To curdle, and the red blood ran

With frozen slowness, as the sting

Of pain went ever gathering

Fresh fierceness through him. Very nigh

It seem'd to him he was to die.

He felt the chill of the last hour

Creep through him and the deathsweats pour

Adown his brow: such agony

Along his every vein did flee,

He could no longer up endure,

Nor hope for any aid or cure;

But down upon the earth he sank

Aswoon, with faded lips that drank

The dews of death, and, with a prayer

Half mutter'd in his last despair,

The sense forsook him. So he lay

Aswoon, poor knight, and (well-a-way!)

Most like to die.

But there was thought

In heaven for him that thus had fought

For that fair garden's sake. The love

Of the dear God that dwells above

Was mindful of him, though he knew

It not. And so to him there drew

A tender dream,--as there he lay

Smitten to death with that fierce fray,--

And fill'd his thought; and it did seem

To him, by virtue of the dream,

That over him an angel stood,

And with a sweet compassion view'd

His piteous state, and whiles did strew

Soft balms upon him, strange and new

Unto his sense,--so comforting

And sweet of scent, they seem'd to bring

To him the airs of Paradise;

And with their touch the cruel ice

Of death, that bound his every sense,

Was melted wholly; and the dense

And cruel anguish, that untied

The threads of living, did subside;

And gradually peace came back

Into his spirit, and the rack

Of pain and agony from him

Was lifted. So upon the rim

Of the sad soul a little life

Began to hover, as at strife

With Death, reluctant to forego

His late assurd prey; and so

The breath came back by slow degrees

To the spent soul, and in great ease

Awhile he lay: and whiles he dream'd

He was in heaven, and it seem'd

He heard the golden harpings stir

The air to glory, and the choir

Of seraphim that stand around

The throne, with one sweet pulse of sound

Corder'd, lift descant of praise

To Him that is the Lord of Days

And Ancient.

Then he seem'd to hear

A voice that murmur'd in his ear--

As 'twere a ring of broken chords

Angelic, mingled with sweet words

(So silver-clear it was)--and bade

Him open eyes: and then one laid

Soft hand upon his lids, and drew

The darkness from them. So the blue

Of heaven again was visible

To him, as 'twere some great sweet bell

Of magic flowerage in some prime

Of summer in old fairy-time:

And drinking slowly use of light

And sense of life and its delight

Back into eyes and brain, he turn'd

His gaze from where the heaven burn'd

With full sweet summer, and was ware

Of a fair champion standing there,

Past mortal beauty. All in white

And spotless mail was he bedight,

So clear that there is nothing fair

And goodly but was mirror'd there,

And yet no evil thing nor sad

Was there. Upon his helm he had

A fair gold cross. Upon his crest

A fair gold cross, and on his shield

The semblance of a lamb did wield

A fair gold cross. Upon his crest The snows of a fair plume did rest

And waved; and eke his pennoncel

Was white as is the new-blown bell

Of that fair flower that loves the wind,

And round his dexter arm was twined

A snow of silk. Full glorious

The splendour of his harness was,

And wonder-lovely to behold:

But as white silver and red gold

Are pale beside the diamond,

So was his visage far beyond

His arms in glory and delight

Of beauty. There was such a might

Of stainless virtue and of all

Perfection pictured, and withal

So woundrous tender in aspct

He was, it seem'd as if the Elect

Of Christ on earth in him did live;

That, with glad eyes, men might arrive,

Beholding him, to know that love

And gentilesse of God and prove

In him the sweetness of that grace

That shind ever in Christ's face

On earth.

And so in very deed

It seem'd to Floris that the need

Of earth was over, and his soul

Was won thereto where life is whole--

Withouten any stress or dole--

At last in joyance, and his eyes

Did view, in robes of Paradise,

That tender angel of the Lord,

That into men's sore bosoms pour'd

Sweet balms and comfort, being set

To temper justice and the fret

Of life with love most pitiful.

And whilst he thus did gaze his full

Upon the radiance of that wight,

The soft and undefiled delight,

That in his eyes did hold full sway,

So purged all Floris' awe away

And eke such boldness to him gave

That he was fain of him to crave

His name.

Then, "I am Galahad,

Christ's knight,
" he said.

Whereat full glad

was Floris, and all reverently

Unto the earth he bent his knee

Before the knight, and (an he list)

Would fain the broider'd hem have kiss'd

Of his white robe; but Galahad

Did raise him quickly up and bade

Him henceforth kneel to God alone,

That on the height of Heaven's throne

Is for man's soul the only one

Of worship, save sweet Christ, His Son.

And Mary mother pitiful;

And henceforth were no kings that rule

So blest as Floris now should be,

Since that with such high constancy

And noble faith he had withstood

The shock of that unholy brood,

And if fair fight had vanquish'd them.

Wherefore for crown and diadem

Of triumph, on the greensward freed

From those foul beasts that there did bleed

Their life away beneath his blade,

In goodly order were array'd

For him those pleasant blooms and fair,

That not alone so debonair

And blithe of aspect were, but eke

Had virtues--more than one might speak

In wearing of a summer's day--

For purging fleshly lusts away

And cleansing from his heart--who wore

Their beauty fairly--all the sore

Sad doubts and weariness of earth,

So that with an immortal mirth

And constant faith his soul was glad,

And evermore sweet peace he had

In love of God and eke of Christ,

The which against all ills sufficed

Of mortal life. And as he spoke

From the slight stems those flowers he broke

That 'midst the herbage did entreat

The eye with blossom very sweet

And gracious; and (O wonderment!)

Being in his hand conjoin'd, they blent

Their essences in such rare wise,

It seem'd from each sweet bell did rise

A sweeter perfume, and more bright

Their semblance grew, as 'twere some might

Of amity was moved in them--

Being so join'd into one stem--

To heighten each one's loveliness

With all its fellows did possess

Of blithe and sweet. And therewithal,

When from the grass those flow'rets all

Were gather'd, to Sir Floris came

That noblest knight, and in Christ's name,

With fairest look and friendliest speech,

Him of kindness did beseech

That he from him those blooms would take

And breathe their fragrance.

Scarce awake

From swoon was Floris yet; and so

He took them with dull hands and slow,

And did address himself to scent

Their breath, as one half indolent

With sleep; but when the gracious smell

Was won to him, that from each bell

Did float and hovering was blent

Into some wondrous ravishment

Of sweets,--there smote him such a sense

Of gladsome ease and recompense

Of all his labours, that the dull

Gross drowsiness, that did annul

The soul within the man, forsook

Him wholly; and withal he took

Such gladness, that in every vein

The life seem'd blithely born again;

And through his frame so fresh a flood

Of ardour pour;d, it seem'd the blood--

That in men's pulses sluggishly

Does throb and flutter--was made free

From earthly baseness and was turn'd

To heavenly ichor. For there burn'd

Within him such a fire of hope,

He felt his soul no more did grope

Within the dreary dusk of earth,

But on the wings of a new birth

Towards the highest heaven did soar.

Nor was there for him any more

A thought of weariness or woe;

But from the earth he rose, and so

Was ready for all venturing

And all the quest of holy thing

God might appoint him.

Then that knight,

That was apparell'd all in white,--

Most brightly smiling at the new

Glad ardour that did straight ensue

In Floris with those blossoms' scent,

And at the holy joy that brent

Upon the dial of his face,--

Within his arms did him embrace

And kiss'd him very lovingly.

Then in this wise to him spake he,

With grave sweet speech.

"Beyond the brine,

Where in the Orient first the sign

Of dawn upon the sky is set,--

In that sweet clime where men forget

The winter, and the summer lies

So lovingly upon the skies,

That of a truth the very night

Is lucent and the cruel sprite

Of darkness never wholly hides

The flowers, but aye some light abides,

Wherefore men call it morning-land,--

A fair and stately house doth stand,

Wherein, by help of God His grace,

Unto my lot it fell to place

That holy token of the Lord,

That He to mortals did afford

Awhile on earth to look upon

For consolation; but anon,

Moved to slow anger by their sin

And stubborn wickedness, within

His mystery He did withdraw

The blessd thing: but yet the law

Of that sad doom He temperd--

Of His great grace and kindlihead--

With mercy. For it was ordain'd

That of one kept himself unstain'd

And pure from every lust and sin,

A virgin, he should surely win

And come to taste of that sweet food

Of the Redemeer's flesh and blood.

And unto me such grace was given

That of all champions that have striven

I have been chosen from the rest

For winning of the Holy Quest;

Since that, as in the Writ we read,

God of the humblest may indeed

Be pleased to make His instrument,

Even unto me that joy was sent,

Surpassing all that of old time

Is told for us in minstrel's rhyme

Of Heaven's mercy: and, God wot,

Were passd o'er Sir Lancelot

And sweet Sir Tristam, that again

The world shall never of those twain

Behold the like, such debonair

And perfect gentle knights they were.

"Wherefore to God it seemd fit

That a fair dwelling over it

Should for its safe keeping be built:

And that no breath of sin or guilt

Might there approach, there was enroll'd

A band of knight, in whom the gold

Of virtue had been smelted out

And purified from sin and doubt

By toil and venture perilous.

And in that high and holy house

In goodly fellowship they dwell,

Until to God it seemeth well--

For long good service done--to call

One of the brethren from the thrall

Of earthly life, and with His blest

In Paradise to give him rest.

Wherefore, when one is call'd away,

It is ordain'd that from the grey

Of the sad world another knight--

To fill his place who, benedight,

Has won the guerdon of his strife--

Be chosen out, to cast off life

And with much labour and much pain

Be purified from earthly stain

And tried with woe. If he endure

And from the furnace come out pure

Of sin and lusting, he shall stand

For the dead brother in the band

Angelical, and shall be set

With those that, pure of earthly fret,

Do guard the shrine miraculous.

"In such a wise enrolld was

Sir Percivale; and Lohengrin

By like adventuring did win

Among the holy knights to sit;

And many more of whom ye wit.

And lately it the Lord hath pleased

That yet another should be eased

Of his long service and preferr'd

Among the angels to be heard

And scent the breath of heaven's rosen.

And in his stead hast thou been chosen

In much hard strife to be assay'd

And for Christ's service fitting made.

Wherefore this venture has been given

To thee, in which thou now hast striven

So wonder-well, that thou mightst win

To purge thyself of earthly sin.

And having in good sooth prevail'd

Against all dangers that assail'd

Thee and this garden's purity,

There is great bliss ordain'd for thee;

For that thy name shall be enroll'd

Among those knights in ward that hold

The blessed Grail; and thou with me

Beyond the billows of the sea

Shalt come to where that house is fair

Withouten any pain or care,

And shalt awhile taste heaven's bliss,

And on thy mouth shalt have the kiss

Of Christ the Lord, that doth assoil

All weariness of earthly toil

And gives unto all sorrows peace

Undying."

So the strain did cease

Of his sweet speaking, and awhile

The very sweetness of his smile

Did hinder Floris from reply:

And eke the thought of bliss so nigh

His lips and all the ravishment

Of promise that he did prevent

In his imagining and lack

Of words for utterance held back

His tongue from speaking anything.

But Galahad for answering

Stay'd not, but, with a doubled grace

Of sweet assurance in his face,

Began to say, in very deed,

That presently there was great need

They should withouten more delay

Towards the dawning take their way,

For many a mile the voyage was

And for great distance tedious.

Then Floris said to him, "Fair knight,

That in whole armour of pure white

Dost serve God in all chastity,

I pri'thee, lightly show to me

How we may gain that distant land

That by the rising sun is scann'd,--

Since neither boat is here nor had?"

Whereat no word spake Galahad

But with his hand the sign he made,

That makes all evil things afraid

And compasses all good about

With armour against sin and doubt;

And straightway with the holy sign

A white cross in the air did shine

A second, as for answering;

And then the stream's soft murmuring

Grew louder to the sweep of waves

Along the reed-crests and the glaives

Of rushes, and its silver thread

Into a river's mightihead

Was stretch'd; and on the stream did float

The silver wonder of a boat,

Gold-keel'd and fair with silken sails,

Such boat as, in old Eastern tales,

The genii bring at the command

Of some enchanter's magic wand.

And on the prow of cymophane--

Translucent as the pearly wane

Of that fair star that rules the night,

With an internal glory bright--

The milk-white holy bird did sit

And spread soft pinions over it,

That flutter'd with desire of flight.

Therein stepp'd Galahad, Christ's knight;

And after him did Floris come

At beckoning, wholly dazed and dumb

With wonders of that wondrous time.

And as into the stern did climb

The valiant knight, the soft sweet wind

That 'mid the blossom'd trees was twined,

Ceased from its disport in the flowers

And leafage of those magic bowers,

And with such strong yet gentle stress

Within the silken sails did press

Towards the dawning, that the keel

Slid through the waters blue as steel

As swiftly as the morning sun

Shears through the mists when night is done

And day is golden in the sky.

And as it through the lymph did fly

Of that enchanted rivulet,

The golden keel to song did fret

The thronging currents, and the ring

Of murmurous water-notes did sing

And ripple in the diamond deeps,

Such music as the West wind sweeps

From out the harps of Fairyland,

When elves are met on some sweet strand

Of Broceliaund or Lyonesse,

For revel and for wantonness.

On all sides round them as they went

The dim grey woods were sad and spent

With weariness of winter-time,

And in the fields the rugged rime

Held all things in the sleep of death,

Stern white, and void of living breath;

And with the weary weight of snow

The laden boughs were bent and low.

But in their sails a breath there blew

Of April zephyrs, and there drew

Unto their course a summer cloud

With scents of flowers and birdsongs strow'd;

And echoings of July woods--

When in the green the bluebell broods--

Were thick and sweet about their way,

And ever round the boat's prow lay

The scent of grass-swaths newly mown;

And wildflowers in gold grain and brown

Waved in the sweet dream-haunted air.

So went they,--while the night was bare

Of sound or breath to break the sleep

Of winter,--through the woodlands deep,

And past the well-remember'd plains

And towns and meadows, where the lanes

And streets were hush'd with winter-time,--

And saw no creature on the rime,

Save some stray sheep shut out from fold

Or wolf, that from his forest hold

Was by hard hunger forced to seek

Scant prey upon the moorlands bleak.

So ever without cease they sped

Above that swift sweet river's bed;

And truly, as the golden morn

From out the dim grey mists was born

And all things 'gan to wake from sleep,

They heard the silver rush and sweep

Of waves upon a pebbled shore;

And gliding past the meadows frore,

They came to where the river's tide

Was fleck'd with foam, and far and wide

The main, as far as eye could see,

Slept in a sweet serenity.

Far out to seaward fled their boat,

Across the wild white flowers that float

And blossom on the azure leas;

And swiftly as the culver flees

Among the trees with shadow twined,

They left the frozen fields behind,

And saw the spangled foam divide

The firmament on every side.

The golden calm of summer seas

Was there, and eke the July breeze

That waves upon the silver foam,

When in the azure heaven's dome

The sign of summer-prime is set:

And still no winds opposed they met,

Nor break of billows in their way;

But through the dancing ripples' play

The shallop sped towards the dawn,

As by some starry influence drawn

Over the ridges of the main

Unstirr'd and clear. And still the rain

Of blossoms fell about the stem,

And still sweet odours breathed on them

Of rose and jasmine, and the song

Of birds about the sail was strong.

So over silver seas they went,

And heaven, wide-eyed for wonderment,

Hung o'er them open blue the while,

As though all nature were asmile

To see the lovely way they made:

And ever round the sharp keel play'd

The fretted lacework of the foam,

And through the jewell'd deeps did roam

Great golden fish, and corals red

Waved in the dim sweet goodlihead

Of that clear blue; and through the wave

The shells of many a rich cave

Were visible, wherein the sea

Held in a sweet security

Treasures of pearl and lovely gold,

That eye of man might ne'er behold

Until the main should leave its bed;

And over all the deeps was shed

A glancing play of emerald light,

So that the unembarrass'd sight

Pierced through the cool sweet mystery

Of folded billows, and the eye

Was free in shadows jewel-clear.

Nor was there anything of fear

For them in lapse of hyaline

Or silver breakers of the brine;

Nor in the crystals of the air

Was anything but blithe and fair,

Sweet winds and glitter of fair birds,

Whose song was sweeter than sweet words

Between the pauses of a kiss,

When lovers meet in equal bliss.

So many a day they sail'd and long,

Lull'd by the breezes' flower-sweet song

And pipe of jewel-birds that went

Above them, fair to ravishment;

Until, one morn, athwart the lift

Of blue was visible a rift

Of purple mountain; and a spire

Of amethyst rose ever higher

Into the sapphire firmament.

And drawing nigh, they saw where blent

Its silver currents with the blue

Of that bright ocean, blithe to view,

A fair clear river that outpour'd

Its waters 'twixt soft green of sward

And slope of flower-besprinkled banks,

Where rushes stood in arching ranks,

Tipt with a jewel of fair flower

As blue as is the morning hour,

When in the golden prime of May

The sweet dawn blends into the day.

The swift keel slid between the rows

Of ripples,--as a steed that knows

The road of some familiar place,--

And past the bubbled foamy race

Of eddies, through the sapphire cleft

Of that bright pass, and quickly left

The billows of the sea behind,

As on that goodly stream the wind

Did urge it far into the land.

Surely was never kingdom spann'd

On earth by river such as this,

Where ever some enchanted bliss

Ran in the ripples, and the stream

With liquid gold and pearl did seem

To glitter. There is nought more fair

Beneath the regions of the air

Than this same river; nor in all

Birdnotes is aught more musical

Than the delight of its clear flow

Across the pebbles, soft and low.

And in the banks were wondrous things,

All lovely creatures that bear wings;

And every precious thing of green,

And flower of gold and jewell'd sheen,

Was there in such a perfect shape,

Its essence must full needs escape

The grasp of my poor minstrelsy.

The very grass was fair to see

Beyond the fairest flower of earth;

For with the gold of some new birth

It burnt, and was aflame with bright

Sweet gladness. Very flames of light

The flowers seem'd, zaffiran and blue

And crystal-clear with wonder-dew.

It seem'd their scent so heavenly was,

That into music it must pass

And soar into a perfumed song.

And as the boat was borne along

The golden ripples, in its speed

Dividing many a woven weed,

That with its many-colour'd mesh

Of trailing leaves and flowers did stretch

And wave upon the waters bright,--

Sir Floris, with what prayers he might,

That gracious Galahad besought

That from his lips he might be taught

What was that river and that realm,

That all earth's sweets did hide and whelm

In one etern forgetfulness,

And made all joys that men possess

Seem poor and naught with the delight

Of its exceeding lovely might.

And without pausing, Galahad

To him made answer fair and glad.

"Fair knight, this land through which we pass,

About the city of Sarras

Doth lie; and all the golden plain

Beyond thy vision, for demesne--

By grace and favour of high Heaven--

Unto the Holy Town was given,

Where lies in hold the blessed Grail.--

"Before from Paradise did fail

Adam and Eva for their sin,

These happy fields and glades within

The golden gates of Eden were

Wherein was nothing but was fair:

And this same river of those four

Was one, that of old times did pour

Blithe waters over all the plain,

When life was young and free from stain,

And angels walk'd upon the earth.

And (for their flow) came never dearth

Of kindly fruits nor any drought

Of summer-time the place about;

Nor for the warmth of their clear flood

Might winter nip the flowery bud

Of the perpetual spring, that rain'd

Fresh blossoms there; nor ever waned

The balms of summer in the air,

But evermore the place was fair

With all May-sweets and summer-spells.

And still,-although the cloister'd dells

Of the lost garden no more stand

Upon the peace of the fair land,--

Around its precincts, as of old,

A silver stream with sands of gold

Flows ever, which no foot of man,

Or eye, without Christ's leave, can span;

Of all the four the only one

That still with murmurous waves doth run

In the old channel. Very fair

Its marges are with all things rare;

And over all the land is strown

Thick bdellium and the onyx-stone."

And many another wondrous thing

Unto Sir Floris, listening,

Spake Galahad of that fair land,

That eye of man hath never scann'd,

Save he have won to Christ His grace.

And and as he spoke, came on apace

The tender day, and gilded all

The ripples; and the golden ball

Of the sweet sun rose high in heaven;

And unto every thing was given

New ravishment and new delight

Of very waking. Fairer sight

Saw mortal never (nor indeed

So fair within our earthly need

Is compass'd
) than the morning hour

That open'd into full sweet flower

With many a rosy flush and rain

Of golden sunlight over plain

And mead, and many a tender shade

Kiss'd into warmth--that in green glade

Lay waiting for the frolic light--

And changed to fleecy gold the white

Of dawn-clouds over hill and wold.

It was so gracious to behold

The day in that sweet Paradise,

There is no man with mortal eyes

Could drink its beauty wholly in,

For dust of care and mirk of sin

That hide much loveliness from men.

And Floris ever and again

Was dumb with awe of much delight

And wonderment; as with swift flight

The boat sped through the flowers that shone

With blazon'd gold and blue upon

That magic river of a dream,

He sat and stored the influence

Of the lush balms within his sense,

And watch'd the ripples all agleam

With jewels, and the constant smile

Of the sweet sunlight. And the while

The songs of his birds co-ordinate

And zephyrs with a peace so great

And sweet upon his soul did seize,

And whiles his spirit had such ease

In that sweet speech of Galahad,

He needs forgot that aught of sad

Or dreary in this life is set,

Or weariness of earthly fret;

And did, without a backward glance,

Yield up himself into the trance

Of that new joy.

So sped they on

Towards the orient: and anon,--

Whenas the noon was borne along

The midmost heaven, to the song

Triumphal of the joyous choir

Of birds and breezes, ever higher

Soaring in one sweet antiphon,--

There rose in the sweet sky--upon

The fair broad hem of woven gold,

That marged with many a fleecy fold

The sapphire-chaliced firmament--

A glitter of tall spires, that brent

With an unearthly radiance;

And many a jewel-colour'd lance

Of belfry pierced the golden air

On the horizon: and there bare

The wind to them a strain of song

Ineffable, the stream along--

Faint for great distance--that for joy

And triumph over earth's annoy

With such a rapturous sweetness smote

On Floris, he could neither note

The kingdom's varied loveliness

Nor the sweet antiphonal stress

Of winds and birds and rivulet,

But it alone could hear, nor let

Himself from striving up to it;

For with its melody was knit

About his soul an influence

So strong, it seem'd his every sense

Must press towards it. And at last,

For ecstasy he would have cast

Himself headlong into the stream,

That therewithal, as he did deem,

He might the swiftlier win toward

That wondrous singing and the ward

Of that bright town miraculous.

But Galahad the good knight was

Mindful of him, and by his arm

Withholding him therefrom, did charm

His soul with such sweet words, that he

Must for a while contented be

To wait the progress of the boat,

That very speedily did float,

God wot, across the ripples' race,

To where the turrets of the place

Were clear.

And so they came at last

To where the running river pass'd

From the long lapse of pleasant wood

And meadow with enchantments strew'd

Of flowers and sun-gold, and were ware

Of the bright town that all the air

With towers and pinnacles did fill,

Set on the slope of a soft hill,

That in the sun wore one clear hue

Of purple blending into blue,

Most like a great sweet amethyst.

And now the gunwale softly kiss'd

The golden shore; and, thick with gem

And coral, round the entering stem

Was wrinkled up the glittering sand.

Then Galahad upon the strand

Stepp'd lightly out; and as his feet

Upon the graind gold did meet

Of the rich shingle, there was borne

To them the noise of a blown horn,

That was as if a warder blew

To challenge, from some tower of view

Within the amber-gated town;

Wherefrom to them it floated down

And fill'd the air with echoings

So sweet, there is no bird that sings

Could find such music in his throat

Melodious. And as the note

Of welcome swell'd and waned around

The hollows of the hills,--unwound

From his mail'd breast Sir Galahad

A silver horn he thereon had

In its white baldrick, and therein

Breathing, its hollow bell did win

Unto so sweet an answering blast,

It seem'd to Floris that at last

He heard the trumps angelical.

Then at the silver clarion's call

The beryl gates were open'd wide

Of the fair town; and on the side

Of the soft hill there was to them

Made visible--upon the hem

Of woven grass with blue-bells strew'd

And asphodels--a multitude

Of holy knights, that down the sward

In a bright painted pageant pour'd,

With many a waving pennoncel

Of gold and azure; and the swell

Of clarions, co-ordinate

To mystic harmonies, did wait,

With cadences most grave and sweet,

Upon the rhythm of their feet.

So goodly were they of aspct

And in such pictured raiment deck'd

Of say and samite, there is none,

Minstrel or bard, beneath the sun,

That could have sung of their array

As it befits to sing it,--nay

Not even he who many a day

In Ferie enchanted lay

And learnt full many a year and long

The cadences of elfin song,

True Thomas; nor that couthliest wight

In gramarye, that Merlin hight.

Full bright their arms and lucent were

And of a sheen so wonder-fair,

The sun seem'd of a nobler kind

To glitter, when his beamings shined

Upon the silver-mirror'd mail.

And at the sight of them did fail

Sir Floris' courage, that till now

Had never seen thing high enow

To give him pause; for there did come

So strange a fear on him, that dumb

And cold he grew, and haply might

Have swoon'd away for sheer affright

Of wonder and great reverence

That lay upon his every sense.

Indeed, awhile the blood did leave

Its courses and great awe did weave

Strange terrors in him; and with pain

And fear despiteous, he was fain

To hide his visage from the might

Of that much brightness.

Then that knight

Sir Galahad laid hands on him,

And quickly freed him from the grim

Sad grasp of that unreal fear,

And bade him that of right good cheer

He should become, for knighthood's sake,

And for his honour comfort take

And new stout heart, for shame it was

And despite, one so valorous

And bold in arms should faint and fail,

Where he most surely should prevail,

'Midst those that now his comrades were

And fellow-knights: and with much fair

Discourse did win him from affright.

So that at last he dared the sight

Of those fair knights, and saw they gazed

Right courteously on him and praised

His hard-won victory. So he took

New heart, and with assurd look

Leapt out upon the jewell'd sand:

And as the twain were come to land,

From those knights all so sweet a sound

Of songful greeting did resound,

The blue of heaven could never tire

Of answering; and from many a lyre

And cithern the alternate joy

Of harpings join'd in sweet alloy

Its silver with that golden song.

So Floris was among that throng

Of knights received, with many a kiss

And glad embracement: nor, I wis,

Fail'd Galahad that he should name

Each knight that to the greeting came.

To him was Titurel made known,

And Percivale, to whom was shown--

With Bors--such grace of God most high,

By reason of much purity,

That they alone with Galahad

Upon the earthly questing had

The blessed vision of the Grail:

Nor Lohengrin to him did fail;

And may another noble knight

Of fabled prowess and approved

In gentilesse and all Christ loved,

Did there rejoice him with his sight.

So, for the meed of his good fight,

Into the wonder-town they bare

Sir Floris,--wherein many a rare

Delight to him appointed was.

Bright was the place and glorious

With glory of the abiding love

Of God and Christ, that is above

All splendours marvellous and fair;

And luminous its ramparts were

With pearls and rubies constellate

And diamonds into such state

And harmony as, save in heaven,

Unto no place or thing is given

To wear or look on: such a blaze

Of joy was there, without amaze;

For all was gracious and sweet

With Christ His grace. The very feet

That fell upon the jewell'd stones

Compell'd them to such silver tones

Of music, and the ruffled air

Was stirr'd to harmonies so fair,

And, for mere passage through the place,

Was won to such a subtle grace

Of perfume, that therein to be

And move, was one long ecstasy:

And there the dole of earth and stress

Of hope unfill'd and weariness

Was purged, and life was one delight

Of perfect function, by the might

Unfailing of the doubtless soul;

And every act and thought was whole

In strifeless ccord. If one spoke,

The hinder'd voice no longer broke

Into harsh sadness, spent and wried

With weary effort, but did glide

Into an unconstrain'd consent

Of harmony and ravishment

Unstressful; and the every geste

Was with like subtle grace possess'd,

And every faculty was cast

In symmetry, what time one pass'd

The portals of the place, and heard

The echoes of his feet that stirr'd

The holy quiet.

So the spell

Of the charm'd place on Floris fell

Transfiguringly, as the wide

Gold-trellised leaves on either side

Swung back for him: there came a change

Upon his senses, and a strange

Sweet ease of life, as if the soul,

Way-worn and rusted with the dole

And fret of earth, were softly riven

From him, and its stead were given

To him a new and perfect one,

In a whole body as the sun

Lucent, and worthy for the seat

Of the fair spirit.

Up the street

Gold-paven and with chrysolite

And jacinth marged, they brought the knight,

Past many a goodly hostelry

And many a dwelling fair to see,

Unto a portal sculptured all

With handiwork angelical,

In stories of the love of Christ,

And all the time it hath sufficed

To win sad living to much ease;--

And passing through with harmonies

Of choral song, they came unto

A vaulted courtyard, stretching through

A cloister'd vista to fair halls

Of alabaster, where the walls

With many a colour'd crystal shone

Of jewell'd casement; and thereon

The questing of the Holy Grail,

In many a wonder-lovely tale,

Was with bright gold and wonderment

Of colour'd jewel-fretwork blent

To harmony, depicturd.

And there, in truth, Sir Floris read,--

Beside much other venturing,

And many another goodly thing

Achieved in service of the Lord,--

The fight that he with his good sword

Had in the wonder-garden fought.

Nor, therewithal, was missing aught

Of all that did that night befall

Unto him: but upon the wall

Was in bright colours pictured forth

The tale of all his knightly worth

And service.

Little strange it is

If much he wonder'd was at this,

And could for wonder scarce believe

His eyes, that any should achieve

So vast a work and of such grace

And splendour in so scant a space

Of time. But Lohengrin besought

Him very fairly that of nought

He saw he should be wonderd,

Nor any venture have in dread;

Since that to that high Lord, that there

Did reign, all wonders easy were

And wonderless; nor of His grace

Was anything in all that place

That might avail for any fear

Or doubt, but rather to give cheer

And love and confidence was fit,

So sweet a peace did dwell in it

Of amity and holiness.

Then with slow feet they did address

Their further steps,--by a long aisle

Of cloister'd pearl, wherethrough the smile

Of sunlight filter'd lingeringly

And lay in one sweet soften'd sea

Of gold upon the silver mail,--

Towards the temple of the Grail.

And in a vestibule, that was

Thereto adjacent, did they pause

And in fair garments clad the knight,

With silver radiant and white.

And then into an armoury

They led him, very fair to see

With noble weapons, all arow

Against the wainscot. There a snow

Of plumes upon his crest they bound,

And from the swords that hung around

A goodly blade was given him,

That to the sound of many a hymn

And many a golden litany,

Had in the glorious armoury

Of highest heaven forgd been:

So trenchant was it and so keen,--

Being in celestial fires assay'd

And in strange dews of heaven made

Attemper'd,--there might none withstand

The thunderstroke of that good brand,

Except his bosom armour'd were

With equal virtue. Then the fair

Graven presentment of a dove

With eyes of gold ws set above

His helm,--most like the fowl that brought

Him to the garden where he wrought

Such deeds of arms; and on the field

Coerulean of his virgin shield

There was a like resemblant set,

That men might know him, when they met

In sharp sword-play or battle-throng.

Then, with a ripple of sweet song,

The golden doors were backward roll'd,

That in sweet mystery did fold

The holy place; and Floris came

Into a hall, where with a flame

Of jewell'd light the air was gilt;

And therewithin the walls were built

Of that clear sapphire jewelry

That can in nowise elsewhere be

Save for the pavement of the sky

And for the throne of God most high.

And under foot the floor was bright

With one clear topaz, as the light

Of the sweet sun in hue. Above

There was y-sprad a flower-bell roof

Of that sweet colour of deep blue

One in the spring may chance to view,

When in the golden-threaded moss

The deep wood-dells are odorous

With violets and the cluster'd bells

Of bee-loved hyacinths, or else

The deep clear colours pers and inde

Of wild-flowers in the gold corn twined

With many a tassel of bright blue,

When summer in the skies is new.--

And in the bell were golden lights,

Most like the tender eye-delights

Of the gold kingcups in the green,

That in quaint wise were set between

The fretted azure of the dome.

And therethrough did meteors roam,

As 'twere in truth the very heaven,

And the sweet symbols of the seven

Great angels that do rule the skies

Where therein jewell'd. In such wise

The varied lights were mixt and blent

With those that heavenward were sent

From walls and pavement,--all the air

Was with that lightsomeness most fair

And tender fill'd, that in the May

Is weft about the sweet young day,

When whiles it seems the sky is dight

With one great primrose of soft light,

Most pure and tender. On the ground

There stood fair statues all around,

Deep-set in woven flowers and green

Of lavish leafage, stretch'd between

Tall carven pillars of that bright

Jewel that chrysoberyl hight,

And many another precious stone.

Nor there were images alone

Of holy things, as one might deem;

But eke full many a lovely dream

Of tender love and constancy

Was in clear gold and ivory

With loving hand made manifest.

For there was nothing there confess'd

Of sin or wantonness in love,--

As ancient doctors teach, that prove

All pleasant things that are, to be

Unloved of God. And verily

Sir Floris wonder'd there to see

The histories that makers tell

Of Parisate and Floridelle,

The tale of Tristan and Ysolde,

Of Lancelot and Guenevere,

And many another tale of old,

That men on earth do dully lere

That we should count accurst and ill:

But there depictured were they still,

In very piteous fashion told;

And on the wall in words of gold

Was writ this legend, "Quiconque aime

Complait a Dieu en pechi mesme.
"

And while Sir Floris stood and gazed

Upon the statues,--much amazed

At all that he did hear and see

Within the temple,--suddenly

There was a fluted singing heard,

As of some wonder-lovely bird.

And then one took him by the hand,

And led him where a gold screen spann'd

The topaz paved work of the floor.

Then was he ware of a high door,

That with much wonderwork of gold

And unknown metals was enscroll'd

In many a trellis of fair flowers

And fronds enough fair for the bowers

Of Paradise; and in the leaves

There sat a bird, that was as sheaves

Of ripen'd corn in hue, and sang--

That therewithal the temple rang--

Of unknown glories of the May,

Therein where life is one long day

Of spring and never change is there,

Nor any sadness in the air.

And as he sang, the golden gate

Swung open slowly, and the great

Sweet hollow of a pure white pearl

Lay clear behind that golden merle,

Into a chamber fashiond.

There was an altar built and spread

With tapestry of silver white,

Woven with lilies; and thereon

Was set a chalice, out of one

Great emerald moulded,--with samite,

The colour of the heart's best blood,

Enshrouded; and thereover stood

A great white cross and fill'd the air

With living radiance, as it were

A sculptured work of very light.

Then with the wonder of the sight

Was Floris fill'd; and for great awe

And reverence of all he saw

Within the pearl, straightway he fell

Upon his knees. But Titurel

With counsel very fair and wise

Required of him that he should rise

From off the ground and without fear

Unto the altar should draw near

And for an offering thereon

Should lay those blossoms he had won

In parlous fight, and much duresse,

That of their blended goodliness

And eke their perfume's ravishment,

There might a sacrifice be sent,

To God and Christ acceptable.

And now a wondrous thing befell,

(God grant us all the like to see);

For as Sir Floris reverently

Upon the silver cloth did lay

The holy flowers (that, sooth to say

Were bright of bloom and sweet of scent,

Unfaded, as when first they sprent

The greensward
) and withdrawing thence

A little space, in reverence

The issue did await,--there came

A hand all shapen out of flame,

And from the emerald of the cup

The crimson samite lifted up;

And as this thing was done, there fell--

As 'twere from out the midmost bell--

A light that through the emerald sped

And mingled with the holy bread;

And with the light, came one that pass'd

Thought-swift athwart the air and cast

Himself into the cup,--as 'twere

The angel of a child,--most fair

And awful. Wherewithal thereout

There went a fire the place about,

And fill'd the temple with its breath,

Wherein was neither hurt nor death;

But of its contact there were given

To Floris very balms of heaven

For consecration; and to eat

There was vouchsafed him food so sweet

And goodly such as no man knows.

Then from the chaliced gem there rose

The semblance of a face, that was

With such a splendour glorious

And awful--and withal as mild

And tender as a little child--

There is no bard can sing of it

As it befitteth, save he sit

(And hardly then) among the choirs,

That to the throb of golden lyres

Do praise God ever night and day

With music such as no man may.--

There is but one of woman born

By whom such aspect can be worn

Of perfect love and perfect awe

Commingled.

And when Floris saw

The glory of the eyes, and knew

The holy love, that like a dew

From out their radiant deeps was shed

Upon his soul,--for very dread

Of ravishment he could not gaze

Upon their light, but with amaze

And wonderment of joy was fain

Down to the earth to bend again

His face: but ere he ceased to see

The vision, of a surety

It was made known to him (although

He wist not how he came to know)

That heavenly face no other's was

Than that same Lord's who erst did pass

Before his vision in the green

Of the fair garden, all beseen

With glittering hair.

Then as he knelt,

Unseeing, suddenly he felt

Upon his mouth a burning kiss,

That with such sharp unearthly bliss

His soul did kindle into flame

Of ravishment, the wayworn frame

Could not for frailty sustain

The rapturous ecstatic pain

Of that strange joyance, nor the spright

Embodied, 'gainst the fierce delight

Endure of that unearthly boon;

And so for bliss he fell aswoon,

And heard therein a great sweet voice,

That bade him fear not, but rejoice,

For Christ the Lord his lips had kiss'd;

And therewithal the Eucharist

Was borne into his mouth, with sound

Of harps angelic all around

Soft-smitten; nor therefore did break

His charmd sleep.

Then did one speak

To him as in the trance he lay,

And with a murmurous voice did say,

That for the service of that Lord,

To whom was sacred now his sword,

It was ordain'd that for a space

He should return unto his place

Upon the earth, and in all things

That life on earth to mortals brings,

Should for his Master's honour strive,

Until the order'd time arrive

When God should set him free from soil

And weariness of earthly toil.

And there was given him a sign

When it should please the Lord Divine

To make His will beneficent

Patent to him,--there should be sent,

Twice more before the period set

For his release from earthly fret,

To him the self-same silver dove,

The holy symbol of the love

Of Christ and of His chivalry.

And it was told him that when he

Of the white messenger had wit,

He should leave all and follow it:

For when it should of him be seen

Anew, as it of late had been,

He should be ware that God had need

Of him elsewhere--in very deed--

Upon the earth, and will'd essay

His service yet within the way

Of living: but what time he heard

The thrice-said summons, and the bird

Miraculous unto him came

A third time, in the holy name,--

He should, in following, be freed

From toil and labour and the need

And weariness of day and night,

And from the knowledge and the sight

Of men be ravish'd, to abide

In that fair town beatified,

And serve the Grail, till it seem'd fit

Unto the Lord that he should sit

Among the blest in Paradise

And praise Him ever.

In this wise

It seem'd to Floris that one spoke

To him with soft sweet speech, that broke

His slumber not, as he did lie

In that long swoon; and, suddenly,

The murmur of the speech forsook

His hearing wholly; nor with look

Or ears awhile was anything

Apparent to him, that could bring

The wonders of the holy town

Back to his senses; but the brown

And fleecy-plumaged wings of sleep

Inclosed him wholly. In a deep

And senseless dream awhile he lay,

Until it seem'd to him the gray

Of night that compass'd him about

Was by a radiance from without

Transmicate, and the fluted song

Of the gold merle again was strong

Upon his hearing. Then the dim

Gray webs of slumber were from him

Unfolded slowly, and there burst

A golden light on him. At first

The drowsy cumber on his eyes

Allow'd him not to recognize

The place wherein he was, nor know

Wherefrom the amber-colour'd glow

Of light was borne: but speedily

He was aware that he did lie

Upon his bed, and through the fold

Of silken tapestries the gold

Of the young sun upon his face

Was shed; and past the window-space,

Without the casement, could he see,--

Snow-pure against brown stem and tree,--

The charmd flowerage of that thorn

That ever on the Christmas morn

Is--for a memory and delight

Of the Lord's birth--with blossoms white

Transfigurate. And on a spray

There sat a mavis brown and grey,

That sang as if his heart were shed

Into his minstrelsy and fled

On wings of music heavenward,

A sacrifice of song outpour'd

To God most high.

Awhile it seem'd

To Floris he had surely dream'd

The coming of the dove to him

And all his strife against the grim

Fierce beasts, and all the after-bliss

And wonderment, and Christ His kiss.

But looking closelier, he was ware

At bed-head of his helm that bare

A silver dove with eyes of gold,

That on the crest did sit and fold

White wings above it; and he knew

The holy semblant on the blue

Of his fair shield, and eke the blade

Celestial, by his harness laid

Naked at bedfood. So the doubt

Was from his spirit blotted out;

And he was surely certified

That verily he did abide

That wondrous venture, and had known

Awhile the glories that alone

For those that many a toil have dared

In Christ His service, are prepared

Within the city of the Grail,

Wherein is neither pain nor wail,

But ever holiness and peace

And ravishment without surcease,

In very perfectness of rest.

* * * *

So hath Sir Floris found his quest;

And so the tale is told and done,

Of how, before life's rest was won,

The first time unto Floris came

The holy dove, in Lord Christ's name.

" Christmas, 1868"
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