At the solemn Feast of Pentecost Arthur the King and his chosen Knights
Sat, as we sit, in the Court of Camelot side by side at The Table Round.
None made music, none held converse, none knew hunger, none were athirst,
Each possessed with the same strange longing, each fulfilled with one
awful hope;
Each of us fearing even to whisper what he felt to his bosom friend,
Lest the spell should be snapped in sunder.
Thus we sat awaiting a sign!
When, on a sudden, out of the distance blared the bugle that hangs at
the gate;
Loud the barbican leaped on its hinges; and the hollow porch and the
vacant hall
And the roof of the long resounding corridor echoed the advent of unknown
feet,
The feet of a stranger approaching the threshold step by step irresistibly:
Till opened yonder door and through it strode to this Table the Virgin
Knight--
Strode and stood with uplifted vizor.
Fear fell on all, save only the King!
Uprose Arthur, unbarred his helmet; shone confessed the countenance chaste.
Then, for so the Spirit inspired him, set the youth on the Perilous Seat;
Brake as he pressed it a Peal of thunder and paled the firelight, paled
the lamps,
Such a sudden stream of splendour flooded the Feast with miraculous light;
Whilst, O Wonder! round the Table swathed in samite, dazzling bright,
Passed the Presence, mystical, shadowy, ghostly gliding--the Holy Grail,
Passed, though none could its shape discover, nay, not even the Virgin
Knight,
Passed, passed with strains seraphic, incense odours, rainbow hues--
Passed, passed, and where it entered, suddenly melted out of sight.