After the lapse of centuries King Arthur sends his knights in quest of the miraculous vessel. There is a long account given by Arthur of its history, then of the drawing of the lots by his knights to decide the directions in which they are to ride in quest of it, then of the knights departing, and a description of the blazon and mottoes on their shields; and then—after some 400 lines has led us to the beginning of the Quest, and we expect the adventures of Sir Percival, Sir Tristan, Sir Launcelot and Sir Galahad—it all ends in a vision unrolled before the eyes of King Arthur, of the fate of Britain, in about eighty lines. We are disappointed; for Sir Thomas Malory’s “Morte d’Arthur” supplies abundant material for a long and glorious poem on the achievements of the four knights. The Poet Laureate’s “Holy Grail” did not appear till 1870, or we might suppose that the Cornish poet shrank from treading on the same ground. When we turn over Sir Thomas Malory’s pages, it is with a feeling of bitter regret that we have not his story glorified by Mr. Hawker’s poetry. The finding of the Grail by Sir Galahad, his coronation as King of Sarras, and his death, were subjects he could have rendered to perfection. The name of the poem is a misnomer. There is no quest, only a starting on the quest. But, in spite of this conspicuous fault, “The Quest of the Sangreal” is a great poem, containing passages of rare beauty. Of Joseph of Arimathea Mr. Hawker says,— He dwelt in Orient Syria, God’s own land, The ladder-foot of heaven; where shadowy shapes In white apparel glided up and down. His home was like a garner full of corn And wine and oil—a granary of God. Young men, that no one knew, went in and out With a far look in their eternal eyes. All things were strange and rare: the Sangreal As though it clung to some ethereal chain, Brought down high heaven to earth at Arimathèe. The idea of the poet:— The conscious water saw its God, and blushed— in reference to the miracle at Cana, occurs with a change in Mr. Hawker’s verses, with reference to the Last Supper:— The selfsame cup, wherein the faithful wine Heard God, and was obedient unto blood. After the loss of the Holy Grail:— The land is lonely now: Anathema. The link that bound it to the silent grasp Of thrilling worlds is gathered up and gone: The glory is departed, and the disk So full of radiance from the touch of God. This orb is darkened to the distant watch Of Saturn and his reapers when they pause, Amid their sheaves, to count the nightly stars. The Eastward craving of Mr. Hawker, the point to which his heart and instincts turned, find expression in this poem repeatedly:—