THE TOUCHSTONE
A Man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand,
And testing all things in the land
By its unerring spell.
A thousand transformations rose
From fair to foul, from foul to fair;
The golden crown he did not spare,
Nor scorn the beggar’s clothes.
Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods;
And even statues of the gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.
Then angrily the people cried,
“The loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are:
We will not have them tried.”
And, since they could not so avail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying, “Let him test
How real is our jail!”
But though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burned,
Its doings could not be o’erturned,
Its undoings restored.
And when to stop all future harm,
They strewed its ashes on the breeze,
They little guessed each grain of these,
Conveyed the perfect charm.
William Allingham
SIR GALAHAD
(The Quest of the Holy Grail)
My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered 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 thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bowed 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 starlike 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 touched, are turned 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-armed I ride, whate’er betide,
Until I find the Holy Grail.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
PILGRIMAGE
Give me my Scallop-shell of Quiet,
My Staff of Faith to walk upon;
My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;
My Bottle of Salvation.
My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)
And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.
Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,
Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,
No other Balm will there be given.
Over the Silver Mountains,
Where spring the Nectar Fountains,
There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken Hill.
My Soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,
And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,
At those clear Wells
Where Sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.
More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their Rags of Clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me,
And when our Bodies and all we
Are filled with Immortality,
Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,
Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,
Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,
High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.
From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,
Where no corrupted Voices brawl,
No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,
For there Christ is the King’s Attorney,
Who pleads for all without Degrees,
And He hath Angels, but no Fees.
And this is mine eternal Plea,
To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,
That since my Flesh must die so soon,
And want a Head to dine next Noon,
Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,
Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.
Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,
To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.
Sir Walter Raleigh. (Condensed)
THE ROYAL COURT
In Royal Courts my Soul hath slept,
On royal meats I’ve fed;
Royal favour sheltered me,
My Soul was wellnigh dead.
The royal eye’s now turned away,
And scorn and dearth are mine;
False-hearted friends are fled afar,
My Soul awakes to pine.
“Oh! where, my Soul, seek refuge now,
While mocking foes pursue?
Oh! whither shall I flee away,
Thou Soul so full of rue?”
“Turn, turn unto this greenwood shade,
And rest beneath His Tree,
With little birds on every bough
To sing His peace to thee.
“A loyal King doth here abide,
Here is his Royal Court;
His carpet green’s enamelled bright
With flowers of every sort.
“His subjects, all the wildwood things,
He feedeth from His hand;
His messengers are birds and winds,
His will they understand.
“His table is bedecked with moss;
His almoners are bees,
The berry-vine, the leaping stream,
And all the fruitful trees.
“Here shalt thou find a Royal Court
Where flatt’ry holds no sway;
And gentle is the royal eye,
Here friendship comes to stay.
“Turn, turn unto the sweet greenwood,
O happy One! and sing
Praise with the birds and all good life,
To Christ who is our King!”
Modern, anon.