Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice, but none are there; Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : My spirit beats her mortal bars, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins 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; 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, Whose odours haunt my dreams; The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. 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. S 66 EDWARD GRAY. WEET Emma Moreland of yonder town And have you lost your heart?" she said; Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more "Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will · To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud. and fled over the sea: Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. "Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came thev back to-day : 'You 're too slight and fickle,' I said, "There I put my face in the grass Whisper'd, 'Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' "Then I took a pencil, and wrote "Love may come, and love may go, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. "Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONO LOGUE. O MADE AT THE COCск. PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use To make me write my random rhymes, Nor add and alter, many times, I pledge her, and she comes and dips And lays it thrice upon my lips, I pledge her silent at the board; Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; My college friendships glimmer. |