The Knights of the Round Table beheld with their own eyes that vision of the Holy Vessel, descending in their midst, which scattered those steel-clad heroes in all directions on the adventure of the Sangreal; but perhaps the very vows of chivalry they had registered, the very exploits they performed, originated with that restless longing they could not but acknowledge in common with all mankind for possession of the four-leaved shamrock. “And better he loved, that monarch bold, On venturous quest to ride In mail and plate, by wood and wold, Than with ermine trapped and cloth of gold In princely bower to bide. The bursting crash of a foeman’s spear As it shivered against his mail, Was merrier music to his ear Than courtier’s whispered tale. And the clash of Caliburn more dear, When on hostile casque it rung, Than all the lays to their monarch’s praise The harpers of Reged sung. He loved better to bide by wood and river, Than in bower of his dame Queen Guenevere; For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer, To follow adventures of danger and fear, And little the frank-hearted monarch did wot That she smiled in his absence on brave Launcelot.” Oh! those lilting stanzas of Sir Walter’s, how merrily they ring on one’s ear, like the clash of steel, the jingling of bridles, or the measured cadence of a good steed’s stride! We can fancy ourselves spurring through the _mêlée_ after the “selfless stainless” king, or galloping with him down the grassy glades of Lyonesse on one of his adventurous quests for danger, honour, renown—and—the four-leaved shamrock. Obviously it did not grow in the tilt-yards at Caerleon or the palace gardens of Camelot; nay, he had failed to find it in the posy lovely Guenevere wore on her bosom. Alas! that even Launcelot, the flower of chivalry, the brave, the courteous, the gentle, the sorrowing and the sinful, must have sought for it there in vain.