Sir Galahad, a Christmas Mystery

It is the longest night in all the year,Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born;Six hours ago I came and sat down here,And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn.

The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door,Sang out a moody tune, that went right wellWith mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor,Between my feet, until I heard a bell

Sound a long way off through the forest deep,And toll on steadily; a drowsinessCame on me, so that I fell half asleep,As I sat there not moving: less and less

I saw the melted snow that hung in beadsUpon my steel-shoes; less and less I sawBetween the tiles the bunches of small weeds:Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe

Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground,I thought: O Galahad! the days go by,Stop and cast up now that which you have found,So sorely you have wrought and painfully.

Night after night your horse treads down aloneThe sere damp fern, night after night you sitHolding the bridle like a man of stone,Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it?

And what if Palomydes also ride,And over many a mountain and bare heathFollow the questing beast with none beside?Is he not able still to hold his breath

With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow paleWith weary striving, to seem best of allTo her, 'as she is best,' he saith? to failIs nothing to him, he can never fall.

For unto such a man love-sorrow isSo dear a thing unto his constant heart,That even if he never win one kiss,Or touch from Iseult, it will never part.

And he will never know her to be worseThan in his happiest dreams he thinks she is:Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curseIn wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss.

Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out,Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, roundWarm and lithe, about his neck, and shoutTill all the place grows joyful with the sound?

And when he lists can often see her face,And think, 'Next month I kiss you, or next week,And still you think of me': therefore the placeGrows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek.

But me, who ride alone, some carle shall findDead in my arms in the half-melted snow,When all unkindly with the shifting wind,The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know

Indeed that they will say: 'This GalahadIf he had lived had been a right good knight;Ah! poor chaste body!' but they will be glad,Not most alone, but all, when in their sight

That very evening in their scarlet sleevesThe gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talkOf sitting on my tomb, until the leaves,Grown big upon the bushes of the walk,

East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hardTo see the minster therefrom: well-a-day!Before the trees by autumn were well bared,I saw a damozel with gentle play,

Within that very walk say last farewellTo her dear knight, just riding out to find(Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal,And their last kisses sunk into my mind,

Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast,Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand,That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'dAgainst his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd

By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind,Till Mador de la porte a-going by,And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined,And parted like a dream. In this way I,

With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor,Kept musing half asleep, till suddenlyA sharp bell rang from close beside the door,And I leapt up when something pass'd me by,

Shrill ringing going with it, still half blindI stagger'd after, a great sense of aweAt every step kept gathering on my mind,Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw

One sitting on the altar as a throne,Whose face no man could say he did not know,And though the bell still rang, he sat alone,With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow.

Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt,Not as one kneels in church when mass is said,But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I feltThe first time what a thing was perfect dread.

But mightily the gentle voice came down:'Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad,Good knight of God, for you will see no frownUpon my face; I come to make you glad.

For that you say that you are all alone,I will be with you always, and fear notYou are uncared for, though no maiden moanAbove your empty tomb; for Launcelot,

He in good time shall be my servant too,Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight,And who has loved him alway, yea, and whoStill trusts him alway, though in all men's sight,

He is just what you know, O Galahad,This love is happy even as you say,But would you for a little time be glad,To make ME sorry long, day after day?

Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME,The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead,Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismallyWill Launcelot at one time hang his head;

Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love.Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul!Not always is he able, son, to moveHis love, and do it honour: needs must roll

The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust,And then 'tis weary work; he strives besideSeem better than he is, so that his trustIs always on what chances may betide;

And so he wears away, my servant, too,When all these things are gone, and wretchedlyHe sits and longs to moan for Iseult, whoIs no care now to Palomydes: see,

O good son Galahad, upon this day,Now even, all these things are on your side,But these you fight not for; look up, I say,And see how I can love you, for no pride

Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down.See now you have ME always; followingThat holy vision, Galahad, go on,Until at last you come to ME to sing

In Heaven always, and to walk aroundThe garden where I am.' He ceased, my faceAnd wretched body fell upon the ground;And when I look'd again, the holy place

Was empty; but right so the bell againCame to the chapel-door, there enteredTwo angels first, in white, without a stain,And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed

Four ladies bore, and set it down beneathThe very altar-step, and while for fearI scarcely dared to move or draw my breath,Those holy ladies gently came a-near,

And quite unarm'd me, saying: 'Galahad,Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thoughtOf any other thing than being glad;Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought,

Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.'Right so they went away, and I, being weary,Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near,I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere!

O servant of the high God, Galahad!Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forthThrough the great forest, and you must be hadUnto the sea that lieth on the north:

There shall you find the wondrous ship whereinThe spindles of King Solomon are laid,And the sword that no man draweth without sin,But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd,

Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meetIn some short space upon that ship: first, though,Will come here presently that lady sweet,Sister of Percival, whom you well know,

And with her Bors and Percival: stand now,These ladies will to arm you.

Galahad,That I may stand so close beneath your brow,I, Margaret of Antioch, am glad.

That I may stand and touch you with my hand,O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad.

That I may kneel while up above you stand,And gaze at me, O holy Galahad,

O gentle knight,That you bow down to us in reverence,We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delightMust needs fall trembling.

For here, amid the straying of the snow,Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival.and all go but Galahad.

How still and quiet everything seems now:They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall.

Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save!A many marvels have been here to-night;Tell me what news of Launcelot you have,And has God's body ever been in sight?

Why, as for seeing that same holy thing,As we were riding slowly side by side,An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing,And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide,

With many-colour'd raiment, but far off;And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good;Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoffKept us all merry, in a little wood

Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir LionelAnd Gauwaine have come back from the great quest,Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved wellYour father Launcelot, at the king's behest