The Vision Of The Holy Grail.

Deere Chryste, let not the cheere of earth,     To fill our hearts with heedless mirth     This holy Christmasse time;     But give us of thy heavenly cheere     That we may hold thy love most deere     And know thy peace sublime.      *        *        *        *        *     Full merry waxed King Pelles court     With Yuletide cheere and Yuletide sport,     And, when the board was spread,     Now wit ye well 'twas good to see     So fair and brave a companie     With Pelles at the head.     "Come hence, Elaine," King Pelles cried,     "Come hence and sit ye by my side,     For never yet, I trow,     Have gentle virtues like to thine     Been proved by sword nor pledged in wine,     Nor shall be nevermo!"     "Sweete sir, my father," quoth Elaine,     "Me it repents to give thee pain--     Yet, tarry I may not;     For I shall soond and I shall die     If I behold this companie     And see not Launcelot!     "My heart shall have no love but this--     My lips shall know no other kiss,     Save only, father, thine;     So graunt me leave to seek my bower,     The lonely chamber in the toure,     Where sleeps his child and mine."     Then frowned the King in sore despite;     "A murrain seize that traitrous knight,     For that he lies!" he cried--     "A base, unchristian paynim he,     Else, by my beard, he would not be     A recreant to his bride!     "Oh, I had liefer yield my life     Than see thee the deserted wife     Of dastard Launcelot!     Yet, an' thou hast no mind to stay,     Go with thy damosels away--     Lo, I'll detain ye not."     Her damosels in goodly train     Back to her chamber led Elaine,     And when her eyes were cast     Upon her babe, her tears did flow     And she did wail and weep as though     Her heart had like to brast.     The while she grieved the Yuletide sport     Waxed lustier in King Pelles' court,     And louder, houre by houre,     The echoes of the rout were borne     To where the lady, all forlorn,     Made moning in the toure,     "Swete Chryste," she cried, "ne let me hear     Their ribald sounds of Yuletide cheere     That mock at mine and me;     Graunt that my sore affliction cease     And give me of the heavenly peace     That comes with thoughts of thee!"     Lo, as she spake, a wondrous light     Made all that lonely chamber bright,     And o'er the infant's bed     A spirit hand, as samite pail,     Held sodaine foorth the Holy Grail     Above the infant's head.     And from the sacred golden cup     A subtle incense floated up     And filled the conscious air,     Which, when she breather, the fair Elaine     Forgot her grief, forgot her pain.     Forgot her sore despair.     And as the Grail's mysterious balm     Wrought in her heart a wondrous calm,     Great mervail 'twas to see     The sleeping child stretch one hand up     As if in dreams he held the cup     Which none mought win but he.     Through all the night King Pelles' court     Made mighty cheer and goodly sport.     Nor never recked the joy     That was vouchsafed that Christmass tide     To Launcelot's deserted bride     And to her sleeping boy.     Swete Chryste, let not the cheere of earth     To fill our hearts with heedless mirth     This present Christmasse night;     But send among us to and fro     Thy Holy Grail, that men may know     The joy withe wisdom dight.