IV

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms";
The happy camels may reach the spring,
But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing,
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas
In the desolate horror of his disease.

V

And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee
An image of Him who died on the tree;
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:
Mild Mary's Son acknowledged me;

Behold, through him, I give to thee!"

VI

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he Remembered in what a haughtier guise

He had flung an alms to leprosie,

When he girt 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,
And gave the leper to eat and drink,
'Twas a moldy crust of coarse brown bread,

'Twas water out of a wooden bowl,

Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed,

And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.

VII

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,

A light shone round about the place;

The leper no longer crouched at his side,
But stood before him glorified,

Shining and tall and fair and straight

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,
Himself the Gate whereby men can

Enter the temple of God in Man.

VIII

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine, And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine,

That mingle their softness and quiet in one

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon;

And the voice that was softer than silence said, "Lo, it is I, be not afraid!

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold, it is here, - this cup which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now.
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need;
Not what we give, but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."

IX

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound:
"The Grail in my castle here is found!
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
Let it be the spider's banquet hall;
He must be fenced with stronger mail
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail."

X

The castle gate stands open now,

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall As the hangbird is to the elm tree bough; No longer scowl the turrets tall,

The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; When the first poor outcast went in at the door, She entered with him in disguise,

And mastered the fortress by surprise;

There is no spot she loves so well on ground,

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land

Has hall and bower at his command;

And there's no poor man in the North Countree
But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

- JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT

Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul

And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run
In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,

And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weigh'd,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour and fade.

- CARDINAL NEWMAN.

The Islands of the Blessed! Off in the Sea of Marmora, on a spring morning, the eye discovers a little wreath of islands, floating, apparently, cloud-like in mid-air. These fairy islands, nine in number, are frequented by the wealthy Constantinopolitans, who seek repose in the lonely and lovely valleys, where the sun seems to shine forever; where the harshest sound that falls upon the ear is the silvery ring of steel as the husbandman sharpens his scythe in the meadow, or the chorus of fisherboys singing over their nets on the shore.

It is but an hour and a half's sail from the Golden horn to Prinkipo, the chief island of the group; yet, once beyond the contagious hurry of the city, you find yourself sinking comfortably into one of the easy chairs on deck, inhaling the delicious sea air, and absorbing the sunshine with genuine physical delight. I do not wonder that emperors and empresses have fled to these sea islands for repose and for security. It seems as if nothing worldly ought to touch their shores; and, indeed, the steamer that runs over and back across the sea, morning and evening, is the only suggestion of an earnest and vigorous life.

1 From "A Cruise under the Crescent." Copyright, 1898. Published by Rand, McNally & Co.