Thou dost well to draw it; (KING brandishes his sword over thelord's head, as if to strike him): soft sound is its whistle; Strike then, O king, for my wars are well over, And dull is the way my feet tread to the grave! lord's (sheathing his sword) Man, if ye have waked me, I bid you be wary Lest my sword yet should reach you; ye wot in your northland What hatred he winneth who waketh the shipman From the sweet rest of death mid the welter of waves; So with us may it fare; though I know thee full faithful, Bold in field and in council, most fit for a king. —Bear with me. I pray you that to none may be meted Such a measure of pain as my soul is oppressed with. Depart all for a little, till my spirit grows lighter, Then come ye with tidings, and hold we fair council, That my countries may know they have yet got a king. Come, my foster-father, ere thy visage fade from me, Come with me mid the flowers some opening to find In the clouds that cling round me; if thou canst remember Thine old lovingkindness when I was a king. THE MUSIC Enter before the curtain LOVE clad as an image-maker. How mighty and how fierce a king is here The stayer of falling folks, the bane of fear! Fair life he liveth, ruling passing well, Disdaining praise of Heaven and hate of Hell; And yet how goodly to us Great in Heaven Are such as he, the waning world that leaven! How well it were that such should never die! How well it were at least that memory Of such should live, as live their glorious deeds! —But which of all the Gods think ye it needs To shape the mist of Rumour's wavering breath Into a golden dream that fears no death? Red Mars belike?—since through his field is thrust The polished plough-share o'er the helmets' rust!— Apollo's beauty?—surely eld shall spare Smooth skin, and flashing eyes, and crispy hair!— Nay, Jove himself?—the pride that holds the low Apart, despised, to mighty tales must grow!— Or Pallas?—for the world that knoweth nought, By that great wisdom to the wicket brought, Clear through the tangle evermore shall see! —O Faithful, O Beloved, turn to ME! I am the Ancient of the Days that were I am the Newborn that To-day brings here, I am the Life of all that dieth not; Through me alone is sorrow unforgot.
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