The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall!
For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and hrall:
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:
I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:
Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,

And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,

And, ringing, springs from brand and
mail;

But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight-to me is given

Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes,

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
'O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near.'
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.

126

I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas-light wavers dimmer ;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,

My college friendships glimmer.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen,

Or that eternal want of pence,

Which vexes public men,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
For that which all deny them —
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake,
Tho' fortune clip my wings,

I will not cramp my heart, nor take
Half-views of men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;

There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good

All parties work together.

Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.

Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time

We circle with the seasons.

This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:

But tho' the port surpasses praise,

My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Is there some magic in the place?
Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn,
No pint of white or red
Had ever half the power to turn

This wheel within my head,
Which bears a season'd brain about,

Unsubject to confusion,

Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out,

Thro' every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
Where long and largely we carouse
As who shall say me nay:
Each month, a birth-day coming on,
We drink defying trouble,
Or sometimes two would meet in one,
And then we drank it double;

Whether the vintage, yet unkept,

Had relish fiery-new,

Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept,
As old as Waterloo;

Or stow'd, when classic Canning died,

In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side

The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She answer'd to my call,

Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar,

And set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest

Half-mused, or reeling ripe,

Is all-in-all to all:

She lit the spark within my throat,

To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor.

And hence this halo lives about
The waiter's hands, that reach

That ever came from pipe.

His proper chop to each.

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;
I think he came like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And cramm'd a plumper crop ;
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,

Crow'd lustier late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy
That knuckled at the taw:

For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, my empty glass reversed,
And thrumming on the table:

Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task;
Lest of the fullness of my life

I leave an empty flask :
For I had hope, by something rare,
To prove myself a poet :
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,

Till they be gather'd up;

The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup :

Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood

Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire

Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!
'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common;

As just and mere a serving-man

As any born of woman.

Nor much their wisdom teaches; And mcst, of sterling worth, is what

Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!

We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt

Of darken'd forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door,

With twisted quirks and happy hits,

From misty men of letters;

The tavern-hours of mighty wits—
Thine elders and thy betters.

127

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,

Which I shall have to pay?

Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books

Had made him talk for show;