Then a bright mist descended over him, And in its central glory stood a shape, Wounded, yet smiling. With His bleeding hands Stretched toward that bleeding side, His eyes divine Like a new dawn, thus softly spake the Lord:-- "The blood poured out for brothers is my blood; The flesh for brothers broken is my flesh; No more in golden chalices I dwell, No longer in a vision, angel-borne: Here is the Sangreal, here the Holy Quest. Thy prayer is heard, thy soul is satisfied: Come, my belovèd! I am come for thee. As first I broke the bread and poured the wine, So have I broken thee and poured thy life, So do I bless thee and give thanks for thee, So do I bear thee in my wounded hands." Smiling, He stooped, and kissed the tortured brow, And over all its anguish stole a smile; The blood-sealed lips unclosed; the dying breath Sighed, like the rain-sound in a summer wind, Sobbing, but sweet,--"I see the Sangreal, Lord!" THOMAS DE QUINCEY. In the notice of so memorable a man, even the briefest prelusive flourish seems uncalled for; and so indeed it would be, if by such means it were meant simply to justify the undertaking. In regard to any of the great powers in literature there exists already a prevailing interest, which cannot be presumed to slumber for one moment in any thinking mind.[A] By way of notification, there is no need of prelude. Yet there are occasions, as, for example, the entrances of kings, which absolutely demand the inaugural flourish of arms,--which, like the rosy flood of dawn, require to be ushered in by a train of twilight glories. And there are lives which proceed as by the movements of music,--which, must therefore be heralded by overtures: majestic steppings, heard in the background, compel us, through mere sympathy with their pomp of procession, to sound the note of preparation.