That mingle their softness and quiet in one With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; And the voice that was calmer 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;
This crust is my body broken for thee,
This water His blood that died on the tree;
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.

NOTE.-According to the mythology of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out of which Jesus partook of the last supper with his disciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and adoration, for many years in the keeping of his lineal descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it to be chaste in thought, word and deed; but one of the keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of the knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the most exquisite of his poems.

The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) of the foregoing poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to include, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's reign.

APPLEDORE.

How looks Appledore in a storm?

I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic,
Butting against the maddened Atlantic,
When surge after surge would heap enorme,
Cliffs of Emerald topped with snow,
That lifted and lifted and then let go
A great white avalanche of thunder,
A grinding, blinding, deafening ire
Monadnock might have trembled under;

And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked,

As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill,

And to rise again, snorting a cataract

Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge,

While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge,

Gathering itself for a mighty leap.

North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers, You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres,

Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward where Duck Island lies,

And over its crown you will see arise,
Against a background of slaty skies,