PART FIRST.

      “My golden spurs now bring to me,
        And bring to me my richest mail,
      For to-morrow I go over land and sea
        In search of the Holy Grail: 
      Shall never a bed for me be spread,
      Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
      Till I begin my vow to keep;
      Here on the rushes will I sleep,
      And perchance there may come a vision true
      Ere day create the world anew.” 
        Slowly Sir Launfal’s eyes grew dim;
        Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
      And into his soul the vision flew.

    The crows flapped over by twos and threes,
    In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees,
      The little birds sang as if it were
      The one day of summer in all the year,
    And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees: 
    The castle alone in the landscape lay
  Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray;
  ’T was the proudest hall in the North Countree,
  And never its gates might opened be,
  Save to lord or lady of high degree;
  Summer besieged it on every side,
  But the churlish stone her assaults defied;
  She could not scale the chilly wall,
  Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall
    Stretched left and right. 
    Over the hills and out of sight;
      Green and broad was every tent,
      And out of each a murmur went
    Till the breeze fell off at night.

  The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang,
  And through the dark arch a charger sprang,
  Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
  In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright
  It seemed the dark castle had gathered all
  Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall
    In his siege of three hundred summers long,
  And binding them all in one blazing sheaf,
    Had cast them forth; so, young and strong,
  And lightsome as a locust leaf,
  Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail,
  To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail.

  It was morning on hill and stream and tree,
    And morning in the young knight’s heart;
  Only the castle moodily
  Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free,
    And gloomed by itself apart;
  The season brimmed all other things up
  Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant’s cup.

  As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,
    He was ’ware of a leper, crouched by the same,
  Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;
    And a loathing over Sir Launfal came;
  The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,
    The flesh ’neath his armor ’gan shrink and crawl,
  And midway its leap his heart stood still
    Like a frozen waterfall;
    For this man, so foul and bent of stature,
    Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,
    And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,—­
    So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.