VII

And thro' the mountain-walls

A rolling organ-harmony

      Swells up, and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod,

      Wings flutter, voices hover clear:

"O just and faithful knight of God!

      Ride on! the prize is near."

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

      By bridge and ford, by park and pale,

All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,

      Until I find the holy Grail.