The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

THE SANGREAL:
A Part Of The Story Omitted In The Old Romances

I

How sir Galahad despaired of finding the Grail

 
Through the wood the sunny day
  Glimmered sweetly glad;
Through the wood his weary way
  Rode sir Galahad.
 
 
All about stood open porch,
  Long-drawn cloister dim;
'Twas a wavering wandering church
  Every side of him.
 
 
On through columns arching high,
  Foliage-vaulted, he
Rode in thirst that made him sigh,
  Longing miserably.
 
 
Came the moon, and through the trees
  Glimmered faintly sad;
Withered, worn, and ill at ease
  Down lay Galahad;
 
 
Closed his eyes and took no heed
  What might come or pass;
Heard his hunger-busy steed
  Cropping dewy grass.
 
 
Cool and juicy was the blade,
  Good to him as wine:
For his labour he was paid,
  Galahad must pine!
 
 
Late had he at Arthur's board,
  Arthur strong and wise,
Pledged the cup with friendly lord,
  Looked in ladies' eyes;
 
 
Now, alas! he wandered wide,
  Resting never more,
Over lake and mountain-side,
  Over sea and shore!
 
 
Swift in vision rose and fled
  All he might have had;
Weary tossed his restless head,
  And his heart grew sad.
 
 
With the lowliest in the land
  He a maiden fair
Might have led with virgin hand
  From the altar-stair:
 
 
Youth away with strength would glide,
  Age bring frost and woe;
Through the world so dreary wide
  Mateless he must go!
 
 
Lost was life and all its good,
  Gone without avail!
All his labour never would
  Find the Holy Grail!
 

II

How sir Galahad found and lost the Grail

 
Galahad was in the night,
  And the wood was drear;
But to men in darksome plight
  Radiant things appear:
 
 
Wings he heard not floating by,
  Heard no heavenly hail;
But he started with a cry,
  For he saw the Grail.
 
 
Hid from bright beholding sun,
  Hid from moonlight wan,
Lo, from age-long darkness won,
  It was seen of man!
 
 
Three feet off, on cushioned moss,
  As if cast away,
Homely wood with carven cross,
  Rough and rude it lay!
 
 
To his knees the knight rose up,
  Loosed his gauntlet-band;
Fearing, daring, toward the cup
  Went his naked hand;
 
 
When, as if it fled from harm,
  Sank the holy thing,
And his eager following arm
  Plunged into a spring.
 
 
Oh the thirst, the water sweet!
  Down he lay and quaffed,
Quaffed and rose up on his feet,
  Rose and gayly laughed;
 
 
Fell upon his knees to thank,
  Loved and lauded there;
Stretched him on the mossy bank,
  Fell asleep in prayer;
 
 
Dreamed, and dreaming murmured low
  Ave, pater, creed;
When the fir-tops gan to glow
  Waked and called his steed;
 
 
Bitted him and drew his girth,
  Watered from his helm:
Happier knight or better worth
  Was not in the realm!
 
 
Belted on him then his sword,
  Braced his slackened mail;
Doubting said: "I dreamed the Lord
  Offered me the Grail."
 

III

How sir Galahad gave up the Quest for the Grail

 
Ere the sun had cast his light
  On the water's face,
Firm in saddle rode the knight
  From the holy place,
 
 
Merry songs began to sing,
  Let his matins bide;
Rode a good hour pondering,
  And was turned aside,
 
 
Saying, "I will henceforth then
  Yield this hopeless quest;
Tis a dream of holy men
  This ideal Best!"
 
 
"Every good for miracle
  Heart devout may hold;
Grail indeed was that fair well
  Full of water cold!
 
 
"Not my thirst alone it stilled
  But my soul it stayed;
And my heart, with gladness filled,
  Wept and laughed and prayed!
 
 
"Spectral church with cryptic niche
  I will seek no more;
That the holiest Grail is, which
  Helps the need most sore!"
 
 
And he spake with speech more true
  Than his thought indeed,
For not yet the good knight knew
  His own sorest need.
 

IV

How sir Galahad sought yet again for the Grail

 
On he rode, to succour bound,
  But his faith grew dim;
Wells for thirst he many found,
  Water none for him.
 
 
Never more from drinking deep
  Rose he up and laughed;
Never more did prayerful sleep
  Follow on the draught.
 
 
Good the water which they bore,
  Plenteously it flowed,
Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no more
  Eased his bosom's load!
 
 
For the Best no more he sighed;
  Rode as in a trance;
Life grew poor, undignified,
  And he spake of chance.
 
 
Then he dreamed through Jesus' hand
  That he drove a nail—
Woke and cried, "Through every land,
  Lord, I seek thy Grail!"
 

V

That sir Galahad found the Grail

 
Up the quest again he took,
  Rode through wood and wave;
Sought in many a mossy nook,
  Many a hermit-cave;
 
 
Sought until the evening red
  Sunk in shadow deep;
Sought until the moonlight fled;
  Slept, and sought in sleep.
 
 
Where he wandered, seeking, sad,
  Story doth not say,
But at length sir Galahad
  Found it on a day;
 
 
Took the Grail with holy hand,
  Had the cup of joy;
Carried it about the land,
  Gleesome as a boy;
 
 
Laid his sword where he had found
  Boot for every bale,
Stuck his spear into the ground,
  Kept alone the Grail.
 

VI

How sir Galahad carried about the Grail

 
Horse and crested helmet gone,
  Greaves and shield and mail,
Caroling loud the knight walked on,
  For he had the Grail;
 
 
Caroling loud walked south and north,
  East and west, for years;
Where he went, the smiles came forth,
  Where he left, the tears.
 
 
Glave nor dagger mourned he,
  Axe nor iron flail:
Evil might not brook to see
  Once the Holy Grail.
 
 
Wilds he wandered with his staff,
  Woods no longer sad;
Earth and sky and sea did laugh
  Round sir Galahad.
 
 
Bitter mere nor trodden pool
  Did in service fail,
Water all grew sweet and cool
  In the Holy Grail.
 
 
Without where to lay his head,
  Chanting loud he went;
Found each cave a palace-bed,
  Every rock a tent.
 
 
Age that had begun to quail
  In the gathering gloom,
Counselled he to seek the Grail
  And forget the tomb.
 
 
Youth with hope or passion pale,
  Youth with eager eyes,
Taught he that the Holy Grail
  Was the only prize.
 
 
Maiden worn with hidden ail,
  Restless and unsure,
Taught he that the Holy Grail
  Was the only cure.
 
 
Children rosy in the sun
  Ran to hear his tale
How twelve little ones had won
  Each of them the Grail.
 

VII

How sir Galahad hid the Grail

 
Very still was earth and sky
  When he passing lay;
Oft he said he should not die,
  Would but go away.
 
 
When he passed, they reverent sought,
  Where his hand lay prest,
For the cup he bare, they thought,
  Hidden in his breast.
 
 
Hope and haste and eager thrill
  Turned to sorrowing wail:
Hid he held it deeper still,
  Took with him the Grail.
 

THE FAILING TRACK

 
Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
  Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
  The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.
 
 
Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
  By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;
The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
  Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.
 
 
Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
  There all the ships tear each its track of gray;
Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
  In each a magic finger points the way.
 
 
No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
  Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?
Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
  Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale!
 
 
The backward way one hour is plain to thee,
  Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind!
Back to confession at thy mother's knee,
  Back to the question and the childlike mind!
 
 
Then start afresh, but toward unending end,
  The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night;
So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend,
  Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.
 

TELL ME

 
"Traveller, what lies over the hill?
  Traveller, tell to me:
Tip-toe-high on the window-sill
  Over I cannot see."
 
 
"My child, a valley green lies there,
  Lovely with trees, and shy;
And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,
  Or I'll drown you by and by!'"
 
 
"And what comes next?"—"A little town,
  And a towering hill again;
More hills and valleys up and down,
  And a river now and then."
 
 
"And what comes next?"—"A lonely moor
  Without one beaten way,
And slow clouds drifting dull before
  A wind that will not stay."
 
 
"And then?"—"Dark rocks and yellow sand,
  Blue sea and a moaning tide."
"And then?"—"More sea, and then more land,
  With rivers deep and wide."
 
 
"And then?"—"Oh, rock and mountain and vale,
  Ocean and shores and men,
Over and over, a weary tale,
  And round to your home again!"
 
 
"And is that all? From day to day,
  Like one with a long chain bound,
Should I walk and walk and not get away,
  But go always round and round?"
 
 
"No, no; I have not told you the best,
  I have not told you the end:
If you want to escape, away in the west
  You will see a stair ascend,
 
 
"Built of all colours of lovely stones,
  A stair up into the sky
Where no one is weary, and no one moans,
  Or wishes to be laid by."
 
 
"Is it far away?"—"I do not know:
  You must fix your eyes thereon,
And travel, travel through thunder and snow,
  Till the weary way is gone.
 
 
"All day, though you never see it shine,
  You must travel nor turn aside,
All night you must keep as straight a line
  Through moonbeams or darkness wide."
 
 
"When I am older!"—"Nay, not so!"
  "I have hardly opened my eyes!"
"He who to the old sunset would go,
  Starts best with the young sunrise."
 
 
"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?"
  "Too steep for you to climb;
You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap
  And patient wait your time."
 
 
"How long?"—"Nay, that I cannot tell."
  "In wind, and rain, and frost?"
"It may be so; and it is well
  That you should count the cost.
 
 
"Pilgrims from near and from distant lands
  Will step on you lying there;
But a wayfaring man with wounded hands
  Will carry you up the stair."
 

BROTHER ARTIST!

 
Brother artist, help me; come!
  Artists are a maimed band:
  I have words but not a hand;
Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.
 
 
Had I thine, when words did fail—
  Vassal-words their hasting chief,
  On the white awaiting leaf
Shapes of power should tell the tale.
 
 
Had I hers of music-might,
  I would shake the air with storm
  Till the red clouds trailed enorm
Boreal dances through the night.
 
 
Had I his whose foresight rare
  Piles the stones with lordliest art,
  From the quarry of my heart
Love should climb a heavenly stair!
 
 
Had I his whose wooing slow
  Wins the marble's hidden child,
  Out in passion undefiled
Stood my Psyche, white as snow!
 
 
Maimed, a little help I pray;
  Words suffice not for my end;
  Let thy hand obey thy friend,
Say for me what I would say.
 
 
Draw me, on an arid plain
  With hoar-headed mountains nigh,
  Under a clear morning sky
Telling of a night of rain,
 
 
Huge and half-shaped, like a block
  Chosen for sarcophagus
  By a Pharaoh glorious,
One rude solitary rock.
 
 
Cleave it down along the ridge
  With a fissure yawning deep
  To the heart of the hard heap,
Like the rent of riving wedge.
 
 
Through the cleft let hands appear,
  Upward pointed with pressed palms
  As if raised in silent psalms
For salvation come anear.
 
 
Turn thee now—'tis almost done!—
  To the near horizon's verge:
  Make the smallest arc emerge
Of the forehead of the sun.
 
 
One thing more—I ask too much!—
  From a brow which hope makes brave
  Sweep the shadow of the grave
With a single golden touch.
 
 
Thanks, dear painter; that is all.
  If thy picture one day should
  Need some words to make it good,
I am ready to thy call.
 

AFTER AN OLD LEGEND

 
The monk was praying in his cell,
  With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
  For two long hours and more.
 
 
As of themselves, all suddenly,
  His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
  A man's feet close beside;
 
 
And almost to the feet came down
  A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
  In countries round about!
 
 
His eyes he lifted tremblingly
  Until a hand they spied:
A chisel-scar on it he saw,
  And a deep, torn scar beside.
 
 
His eyes they leaped up to the face,
  His heart gave one wild bound,
Then stood as if its work were done—
  The Master he had found!
 
 
With sudden clang the convent bell
  Told him the poor did wait
His hand to give the daily bread
  Doled at the convent-gate.
 
 
Then Love rose in him passionate,
  And with Duty wrestled strong;
And the bell kept calling all the time
  With merciless iron tongue.
 
 
The Master stood and looked at him
  He rose up with a sigh:
"He will be gone when I come back
  I go to him by and by!"
 
 
He chid his heart, he fed the poor
  All at the convent-gate;
Then with slow-dragging feet went back
  To his cell so desolate:
 
 
His heart bereaved by duty done,
  He had sore need of prayer!
Oh, sad he lifted the latch!—and, lo,
  The Master standing there!
 
 
He said, "My poor had not to stand
  Wearily at thy gate:
For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep
  The shepherd will stand and wait."
 
 
_Yet, Lord—for thou would'st have us judge,
  And I will humbly dare—
If he had staid, I do not think
  Thou wouldst have left him there.
 
 
Thy voice in far-off time I hear,
  With sweet defending, say:
"The poor ye always have with you,
  Me ye have not alway!"
 
 
Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor,
  The deed thou shalt not rue;
Wherever ye do my father's will
  I always am with you."_