The yellow sunlight, coming from the east,
Through the great Minster windows, arched and high,
That tell the story of our blessed Lord
In colours royal with significance,
Takes many hues, and falls upon the head
Of a fair boy before the altar-rail.
It is the son of the brave knight Noël,
Cut off, alas! too early in his prime,
Now lying dead beneath yon sculptured stone,
But living in the hearts of the small group
In the old Minster on this sunny morn.
The proud young head is bowed in reverence
Before the holy priest of God, whose face
Is glowing with paternal love that shines
Through dignity of the official calm.
Who loves not Christalan for his blithe grace?--
For his dear eyes, so true, so fathomless,
So full of tenderness, his mother thought
They were the reflex of the steadfast love
She bore her lord Noël? Who loves him not
For his bright joyance and his laughter sweet?

But now he stands, all merry laughter stilled
By awe that groweth slowly in his eyes,
In silent quietude, a knightly lad,
Clad in a doublet of unspotted white,
Embroidered at the breast with these two words,
Wrought by his mother's hand, _Valiant and True_.