The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems

[ The Four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad. Galahad. How still and quiet everything seems now: They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall. Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and his Sister. Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save! A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has God's body ever been in sight? Sir Bors. Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, With many-colour'd raiment, but far off; And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, Perhaps is dead now; everywhere The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; In vain they struggle for the vision fair. THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS Sir Ozana le cure Hardy. Sir Galahad. Sir Bors de Ganys. Sir Ozana. A LL day long and every day, From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, Within that Chapel-aisle I lay, And no man came a-near. Naked to the waist was I, And deep within my breast did lie, Though no man any blood could spy, The truncheon of a spear. No meat did ever pass my lips Those days. Alas! the sunlight slips From off the gilded parclose, dips, And night comes on apace. My arms lay back behind my head; Over my raised-up knees was spread A samite cloth of white and red; A rose lay on my face. Many a time I tried to shout; But as in dream of battle-rout, My frozen speech would not well out; I could not even weep. With inward sigh I see the sun Fade off the pillars one by one, My heart faints when the day is done, Because I cannot sleep. Sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head; Not like a tomb is this my bed, Yet oft I think that I am dead; That round my tomb is writ, 'Ozana of…