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 felicité.
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 disdainèd 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 moonés 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 leaféd 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 wingèd 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 wonderèd 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 armèd 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 vanishèd; 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 fashionèd 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 wingèd 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 armèd 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 assurèd 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 Coörder'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 aspèct 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 shinèd 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 blessèd thing: but yet the law Of that sad doom He temperèd-- 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 passèd 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 seemèd 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 enrollèd 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 grainèd 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 aspèct 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 Fäerie 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 assurèd 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 àccord. 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, depicturèd. 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 wonderèd, 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 forgèd 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 pechié 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 fashionèd.
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 charmèd 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 charmèd 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.
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