Of what Sir Lancelot encountered one day in a forest.

Oh for a vision of the forests old,
The marvellous woods of former times, when still
A sea of tossing branches waved and rolled
Far over vale and champlain, moor and hill;
There in the wilderness all track was lost,
And seldom peaceful men the awful shadows crossed.

Yet it was pleasant early to arise
From heathery couch beside some rivulet,
When the first sunbeams flushed the pearly skies,
And grass with dewy sparkles glittered wet;
A thousand wild birds from the coppice singing,
And all the solitude with life and joy out-ringing.

And pleasant in the heat of noon reclining,
Where deep and cool the shades lie all around,
And sunny streaks, like scattered emeralds shining,
Gleam 'mid the dark green shadows on the ground,
Where nothing save the insect's hum is heard,
And softly rustling leaves the wind has stirred.

Or in some open glade to breathe more free,
To urge the proud steed into fleet career,
And sweep past sunny knoll and scattered tree,
And shy upstarting herds of fallow deer;
When in the west, behind the forest fringe,
Linger the sunset clouds with red and golden tinge.
But in the calm night, when the moonbeams shone
With silver sparkle down the tangles deep,
How silent was the forest then, and lone;
Far, far away, men in their dwellings sleep --
For miles and miles the rustling woodlands lie,
In dim mysterious darkness, 'neath the starry sky.

Perchance the wanderer found, ere darkness fell,
A sandall'd hermit strolling through the wood,
Seeking, around his little cross-signed cell,
The herbs and simples for his daily food;
Or some rough for'ster bold might give him cheer,
Who dwelt amid the wilds to hunt the fallow deer.

And there were lonely abbeys far away
From all the outer world's bewildering noise,
And convents still -- where nuns, in black and grey,
In solitude sought high unearthly joys; --
But oftener far the mossy thicket gave
A harbourage to travellers lone and brave.

Dread forms, and beautiful, the woods are haunting,
Strange divers travellers wander too and fro:
Here meet two errant knights for glory panting,
Shout a defiance -- rush as foe on foe;
Shiver their spears to prove their chivalry,
And then with fair salute ride courteous by.
Here comes a damsel-errant pacing slow,
Pensive and fair, upon some mission high;
And there a troop of sturdy woodmen go,
Or some old blear-eyed witch halts mumbling by;
An uncouth dwarf darts out with yell and leap,
Or evil sorcerer pale, through thickets rank doth creep.

All bright with song and sunshine laughs the morn,
The fresh breeze shakes the dew from bower and tree:
An armed knight, on a stately charger borne,
O'er the long bending grass rides listlessly.
No path he chooses, for the jewelled rein
Lies on the unguided courser's shining mane.

The year is passed, and unachieved the Quest
Baffled, defeated, shall he now return?
Fain would he oft, and yet with sad unrest,
Still does his heart for clearer visions burn.
There floats before a glorious gueredon,
He dares not yet renounce, but still must labour on.

Now through the mazy boughs come laughter gay,
And gentle voices -- lo, an open dell,
Wherein a troop of peasant maidens stray,
And fill their pitchers at a bubbling well;
The brimming water drops in silver showers
O'er shoulders white, and bright heads crowned with flowers.
One slender maiden runs to Lancelot,
And holds to him a cup of water clear:
"Drink, noble sir," she says, "for there is not
So pure a fount as this one far or near;
Late was it dark and poisoned, haunted only
By evil sprites and brewing witches lonely,

Until a young knight, who through all the land
Rides like a guardian angel, wandered here,
Stretched o'er the wave his pure and gentle hand,
Watched, fought beside it, through the long night drear,
And freed the water from polluting spell,
So now we name the fount Sir Galahad's well."

"Sir Galahad, my son," the warrior said,
"When rode he hence, and which way did he turn?" --
"Three days ago he rode," replied the maid,
"Westward, beyond that plain of waving fern."
With blithe salute Sir Lancelot forward sped,
For vainly he for long had sought Sir Galahad.

Long in the woodlands cool his way has lain,
Now noon was glowing in the sultry sky,
And he has reached a wide and grassy plain,
A stately bannered castle towered on high;
Around it, silk pavilions bright and gay
Glittered like meadow flowers beneath the granite grey.

Full in the midst the guarded lists were set,
The mêlée wild was surging to and fro;
With thundering crash, like waves the champions met,
Recoiled all shattered, like the ebb-tide's flow,
Leaving the sand bestrewn with wounded men,
While the fierce trumpet-peal rang out the charge again.

In sable velvet rode a hundred knights,
In whitest silken surcoats were their foes;
Judge ye how Lancelot's heart, in warm delight,
Beat higher as the battle tumult rose;
Then as the white victorious seemed to be,
He thought to join the black, to advance his chivalry.

Down swept he, charging from the wooded height,
As stoops the falcon on the heronry;
Across the lists he darts like flashing light,
Unhorsed behind him half the white knights lie.
Fresh spears to him the active squires are bringing,
And with the stranger's praise the field is ringing.

"Brave lance! good sword!" the applauding people call,
"Oh hardihood and courtesy well blended."
For still he fought the mightiest of them all,
And spared the young, the weary men defended,
Until triumphantly his steed he wheeled
And sought a foe in vain -- the master of the field.

Then spurring from the castle archway near,
A white knight on a slender courser shot.
He leaped the barrier in his swift career,
And couched his spear against Sir Lancelot.
And sore it did that matchless knight astound,
To see the foe ride on, while he rolled on the ground.

For years and years he had unconquered been,
And 'twas no spirit wrought him this despite;
No spell or magic, for it was, I ween,
A courteous tourney and an earthly knight,
And all the vanquished white knights shouted glad,
"Ha, to the rescue, brave Sir Galahad!"

Sir Lancelot by them is prisoner ta'en;
For, vanquished, he might tilt no more that day.
Sir Galahad leapt the barrier tall again,
And rode into the circling wood away.
The white knights said to Lancelot courteously,
"We joy to see you, Sir, in this our company."

The jousts were o'er; Sir Lancelot departed,
Along the track where Galahad late did pass,
He rode bewildered on and heavy-hearted;
Young verdant beech-trees canopied the grass,
The sunbeams shimmered through the branches deep,
The wood seemed, in the sultry afternoon, asleep.

He laid him down beneath a chestnut tree,
Gazed on the blue sky through the branches peering,
Until he slept -- but still he seemed to see
The jousting champions, hither, thither veering;
Still fought he fiercely on the black knights' side,
And ever in his heart longed with the white to ride.

Weird and unearthly did the black knights seem,
Their hollow laughter sad, his spirit daunted;
And struggling through the anguish of his dream,
Old faces half forgot his memory haunted;
Sir Breance and Sir Tarquin bold were there,
Two evil knights he slew, now at his side they glare.

And many fallen men that formerly
In wrongful quarrel had lost sinful lives,
Thrust onward, foin and lash with yelling cry.
In vain to leave the grisly band he strives,
Strives to the white knights' ordered ranks to press,
Who stand in shining arms, all might and gentleness.

His charger stood, as rooted to the ground,
He 'lighted down, and strove on foot to pass;
He felt as though with crushing fetters bound,
And cast his shield and hauberk on the grass.
Armour and weapons has he flung aside,
And, a defenceless man, has gained the white knights' side.

They stretch their hands, and say with welcome glad,
"We joy to see thee in our company,
Though for thy darker hours in penance sad,
Thou must throw strength, and power, and honour by,
Soon in the darkness shall the morning beam;" --
And then he woke, and found it was a dream.

He rose and mounted, thoughtfully he rode,
Nor marked the lengthening shadows as he passed;
Gay in the cooler air the charger trod,
And stopped before a lowly door at last.
The knight alighted by a little cell,
Wherein, a lone recluse, a virgin pure did dwell.

Far in the forest depths her chapel stood,
All of rough wood and moss, a rustic shrine,
Through the slim western lancet poured a flood
Of reddest sunbeams on the face divine,
And black robes, of the gentle nun, who there
Passed all her days in lonely praise and prayer,

And on the brave Sir Lancelot du Lake,
Who towered all brilliant by the virgin pale,
For not a stately movement could he make,
But light shook sparkling from his jewelled mail;
Some two-and-twenty years of wandering fight,
Had braced, not worn, the strength of that most glorious knight.

Majestic ever in the lordly crowd,
Well was he named of Arthur's court the flower,
His head was backward tossed, alert and proud,
His full bright eye had depths of love and power;
The black curls to his shoulders broad descended.
In manhood's summer glory, grace and strength were blended.

But the recluse most solemnly 'gan say,
"And art thou searching for the Holy Grale,
Strong as thou art, and brilliant and gay,
In this high emprise thou art weak and frail,
And women soft and boys may conquer thee,
Thou the invincible in earthly chivalry.

"The light world mingles with thy solemn thoughts,
The gay world laughs from thine unchastened eye,
And visions of her giddiest, wildest sports,
Follow thee to the forest sanctuary.
Yet art thou favoured; angels for a space
Shall haunt thee ere they find their resting-place.

"Ah, mayest thou follow thither; leave me now."
Sir Lancelot has waved a courteous greeting,
And ridden westward in the sunset glow,
Thinking of what befell at that strange meeting,
How Galahad had won from him degree,
How he no more the matchless knight could be.

Thus, as he rode, the evening tints had faded,
The stars gleamed shyly from the darkening grey;
Tall dismal pines the roughening pathway shaded,
Wild shapeless shadows underneath them lay;
Sometimes a glimmer through the darkness thrilled,
Or busy whispers all the silence filled.

In fearless confidence rode Lancelot,
Armed at all points, and on his trusty steed;
Fierce foes, enchantments dread, he feared them not,
Sword, hand, and heart ne'er failed him at his need.
Downward the path he followed led him ever,
Until he stood beside a rushing river.

Steep rocky banks o'erhung the whirling stream,
The inky waves came hurrying into sight
In broken foam, shone with a sudden gleam,
Then swept away, as if in wild affright
Of some drear ghastly presence brooding o'er
The desolate forest, and rank weedy shore.

But the good horse has stemmed the rapid tide,
And Lancelot's heart with hope of fight beats high;
An armed horseman on the other side
He thinks amid the darkness to descry;
Gigantic, dim, and shadowy does he seem,
Like some reflection in a wavering stream.

Past flew the form, the long spear couched for battle,
Touched Lancelot's horse, and then was seen no more.
The armèd charger fell with heavy rattle,
Then stiller seemed the silence than before.
Sir Lancelot strove to raise him, but in vain,
By that fell touch the noble steed was slain.

All night he wandered through the forest drear:
Oh, with what joy he felt the morning breeze,
Saw the grey daylight in the sky appear,
Brightening behind the stunted birchen trees.
The wood was opening now, and suddenly
He saw beneath him spread the gleaming, misty sea.

Night and its evil images were gone,
Freshness and strength in the sea murmur spoke;
He clambered down the cliffs, and stood anon,
Where the low tide-wave on the shingle broke;
A thousand sea-birds rose with clamorous cry,
And whirled into the reddening morning sky.

A little ship was floating near the shore,
The knight swam out to her and entered there
There was no rudder, and no sail nor oar,
There was no master, and no mariner;
But of provisioning a goodly store,
And a rich bed with samnite covered o'er.

Sir Lancelot raised the silk -- a perfume rare,
As of frankincense, hovered all around;
Low heavenly music trembled on the air,
More felt than heard was the unearthly sound;
And there, her fair hands crossed upon her breast,
A saintly maiden seemed to take her rest.

Rest -- for all care, and strife, and toil were over;
Calmer she was than life can ever be;
The parted spirit still seemed near to hover,
The face so shone with joy and victory.
You saw it ere you marked her beauty rare,
Though she was lovely, even passing fair.

Bright errant damoisels had Lancelot seen,
Shy, yet confiding, ride through forests dim;
Sweet timid maidens who had ever been
Caged in grey dismal towers, till freed by him;
Stately enchantresses, whose beauty bright
Shone all too brilliant for mortal sight.

And she, that loveliest sorceress, whose spell
Was earthly, yet for earth too glorious far,
Even now, alas! remembered all too well
His queenly lady-love and guiding star;
None had o'er Lancelot the marvellous power
Of that mild beauteous face, in the calm morning hour.

The gay court and its snares, the battle strife,
And all the changeful tumult of the throng,
And passing glories of his stirring life,
Seemed to some far-off distance to belong.
A new world dawned around, and in his breast,
Where all was peace, serenity, and rest.

He turned to go, but saw the wizard boat
Was swiftly gliding through the rippling sea;
The coast was looming in the blue remote,
The western ocean opened wide and free;
And Lancelot, with eager joy elate,
Some high and strange adventure 'gan to await.