University of Virginia Library

I.

Young Urban keeps the burnished keys
Of the Scriptorium; and he sits
Through sunny noons in dreamful ease,
Reading or copying, by fits;
Or adding quaint and golden tints,
Or plushy purples to the page
Of mass-book, or of breviary,
Of holy father, bard, or sage;
Till all the full-lored vellums swim
In crimsons and in purples dim,
And common words, in soft array,
Prance down the page, like palfry gay,
Trapped all in gold, to bear away
The faëry form of princess prim.
And whether round the abbey blow
The soft south winds, with overflow
Of balm and honey, or the snow
Lies white upon the ground below,
And tempests round the belfry go,
'Tis all the same to him!

II.

All through the sunny summer noon,
When lilies over wall-flowers swoon,
And, in the honeyed heart of June,
The bee on roses feeds—
He pores, amid the shadiest nooks,
Over the gold-illumined books,
With earnest face, and eager looks,
Believing all he reads.

III.

Legends of saints fill up the gloom
Of winter nights, and drizzling days:—
He sees them swim along his room,
And then wind upward, in a bloom
Of roseate colours, dipt in gloom,
Wrapped in a trembling haze
Of cloudy splendour, bulging low;
Billows of fire, as white as snow,
Roll with pale crimsons down below
Their sandal'd feet, with motion slow;
And round about their bare heads go
Halos, like sunset rays!

IV.

Of holy martyrs, too, he reads—
Of blessed Blandina—Appian—
Quinta the pure—and Ulpian—
Metra—and blameless Adrian;
Until his young heart pants and bleeds
For those who, for the true faith died;
How some were torn by wild-beasts; some
Flung into boiling pitch; and some
Tormented in the murderous hum
Of Rome, were crucified;
How mangled Porphyry dauntless stood,
With flayed ribs slowly dripping blood,
Daring the tyrant's ire;
How Polycarp, with garments riven,
Went with a holy shout to heaven
On flickering wings of fire!

V.

Mingled with these were legends old
Of wondrous knights and ladies gay;
The Cid, Sir Roland, Tristram bold,
Streamed in rich trappings, jingling gold,
Over the crimson sunset wold,
Adown the sinking day;
And ladies, with a silken swim,
Fluttered along the mossy brim
Of meres, by deep woods hushed and dim,
On to the bright tournáy,

VI.

But chief he loved the mystic story
Of saintly knights, with faces pale,
Who spurned the earth, and earthly glory,
And went in quest of Holy Grail.
He followed them on by land and flood—
Sir Parzival—brave and holy knight—
And bold Sir Galahad—the good;
He heard them clanging through the night,
Over the pavements, still and white,
Their studded bridles jingling light,
Flashing amid the soft moonlight,
And saw them skim along the wood—
Up alleys of moonbeams, trembling pale—
Past church, and city, and lordly tower,
And valley, and swamp, and lady's bower,
All in the hush of the midnight hour,
In quest of Holy Grail!

VII.

Titurel's temple o'er him rose,
Blushing with gems, and gorgeous glows
Of golden domes, and twinkling spires;
Roses of rubies, and pale fires
Of clustered diamonds shook about
The wondrous fabric in and out;
And in the central sanctuary,
On a thick slab of porphyry,
Wrapped in white samite, stood the Grail,
Outshimmering like a cloudy moon;
And o'er it swelled a mimic noon
Of topaz, and of jasper bright,
Hung in the sapphire ceiling light;
Outside, the dome bulged up red gold,
With blue enamel fretted o'er;
And banners, with unruffled fold,
Hung silken out at every door;
And round about the Holy Grail
Rose two-and-seventy chapels, pale
With gold and diamonds; every two
Shot up a tower into the blue
Like sudden flame; and over those
Shook crystal crosses in the light,
Clutched from above within the claws
Of gold spread-eagles, day and night;
And o'er the central dome there rose
A huge carbuncle, with red glows
And sullen splendour, like a sun
Lighting the cypress-forest dun,
That round about the temple stood,
Filling its shadowy heart with blood:—
And none might tread that mystic hight
Of hushed Montsalvage, save the knight
Chosen of Him of holy-rood!

VIII.

And still he turns the gilded leaves;
And, rich in faith, the monk believes
Further than logic ere hath got:—
His creed soars higher than his sight—
Reason is not his only light;—
Still through the hot bewildered night,
Angels go heavenward, clad in white,
And so he reads, and doubteth not!