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 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, Through the window-slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. PART SECOND. I. THERE was never a leaf on bush or tree, The river was dumb and could not speak, For the frost's swift shuttles its shroud had spun ; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. II. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, For another heir in his earldom sate; An old, bent man, worn out and frail, He came back from seeking the Holy Grail; No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, But deep in his soul the sign he wore, The badge of the suffering and the poor. III. Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, For it was just at the Christmas time ; And sought for a shelter from cold and snow He sees the snake-like caravan crawl O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 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 waved its signal of palms. IV. "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms " That cowered beside him, a thing as lone And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas V. And Sir Launfal said,—“I behold in thee 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: 3* Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; Behold, through him, I give to thee!" VI. Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes He had flung an alms to leprosie, When he caged his young life up in gilded mail • And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. VII. As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, A light shone round about the place; |