When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro’ dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight—to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro’ the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: “O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near”. So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. Edward Gray First published in 1842 but written in or before 1840. See _Life_, i., 209. Not altered since. Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, “And have you lost your heart?” she said; “And are you married yet, Edward Gray?” Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping I turn’d away: “Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. “Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father’s and mother’s will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen’s grave, on the windy hill. “Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill’d I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. “Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: ‘You’re too slight and fickle,’ I said, ‘To trouble the heart of Edward Gray’. “There I put my face in the grass— Whisper’d, ‘Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!’