And, departing, leave behind us Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE SHIP. O SHIP, ship, ship, That travellest over the sea, What are the tidings, I pray thee, Thou bearest hither to me? Are they tidings of comfort and joy, The sweet lips softly moving And whispering love to me? Or are they of trouble and grief, To turn into torture my hopes, And drive me from Paradise out? O ship, ship, ship, That comest over the sea, Whatever it be thou bringest, Come quickly with it to me. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, When down the stormy crescent goes, Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers : A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight to me is given I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; This weight and size, this heart and eyes, The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. Until I find the holy Grail. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE HAPPIEST LAND. FROM THE GERMAN. THERE sat one day in quiet, The landlord's daughter filled their cups, Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. But when the maid departed, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 66 "The greatest kingdom upon earth "Ha!” cried a Saxon, laughing, And dashed his beard with wine; "I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine! "The goodliest land on all this earth, There have I as many maidens |