The Vision of Sir Launfal

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Ticknor and Fields, 1866 - American poetry - 33 pages
 

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Page 30 - An image of Him who died on the tree ; Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and • side: Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me;* Behold, through him, I give to thee...
Page 9 - Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not. Over our manhood bend the skies ; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies ; With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Page 13 - Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,— Tis the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
Page 33 - ... stands open now, And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; No longer scowl the turrets tall, The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise, And mastered the fortress by surprise ; There is no spot she loves so well on ground, She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land Has hall and bower at his command ; And there 's no poor man...
Page 29 - Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, He can count the camels in the sun, As over the red-hot sands they pass To where, in its slender necklace of grass, The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, And with its own self like an infant played, And waved its signal of palms. " For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms...
Page 26 - But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and wrings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the- porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through: the window-slits of the castle old, Build...
Page 13 - That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — And hark!
Page 24 - Twas as if every image that mirrored lay In his depths serene through the summer day, Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, Lest the happy model should be lost, Had been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost.
Page 24 - But silvery mosses that downward grew; Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops, Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun, And made a star of every one: No mortal builder's most rare device Could match this winter-palace of ice...
Page 17 - In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright It seemed the dark castle had gathered all Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall In his siege of three hundred summers long, And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf...

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