He dropped it, and faintly sank back in the saddle, And, turning his horse from the press and the turmoil, Came sighing to me, and sore grieving I took him And led him away, while the lists were fallen silent As a fight in a dream that the light breaketh through.—     To the tune of the clinking of his fight-honoured armour Unkingly, unhappy, he went his ways homeward.

What thing worse than the worst in the budget yet lieth?

To the high court we brought him, and bade him to hearken The pleading of his people, and pass sentence on evil. His face changed with great pain, and his brow grew all furrowed, As a grim tale was told there of the griefs of the lowly; Till he took up the word, mid the trembling of tyrants, As his calm voice and cold wrought death on ill doers—     —E'en so might King Minos in marble there carven Mid old dreaming of Crete give doom on the dead, When the world and its deeds are dead too and buried.—     But lo, as I looked, his clenched hands were loosened, His lips grew all soft, and his eyes were beholding Strange things we beheld not about and above him. So he sat for a while, and then swept his robe round him And arose and departed, not heeding his people, The strange looks, the peering, the rustle and whisper; But or ever he gained the gate that gave streetward, Dull were his eyes grown, his feet were grown heavy, His lips crooned complaining, as onward he stumbled;—     Unhappy, unkingly, he went his ways homeward.

Is all striving over then, fair Master Oliver?

All mine, lords, for ever! help who may help henceforth I am but helpless: too surely meseemeth He seeth me not, and knoweth no more Me that have loved him. Woe worth the while, Pharamond, That men should love aught, love always as I loved! Mother and sister and the sweetling that scorned me, The wind of the autumn-tide over them sweepeth, All are departed, but this one, the dear one—     I should die or he died and be no more alone, But God's hatred hangs round me, and the life and the glory That grew with my waning life fade now before it, And leaving no pity depart through the void.

This is a sight full sorry to see These tears of an elder! But soft now, one cometh.

The feet of the king: will ye speak or begone?

I will speak at the least, whoever keeps silence, For well it may be that the voice of 

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