Resumo de An Adventure From The Legend Of The Sangrale

Part First.

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 piat 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.

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