My Faithful, knowing that this man should live, I from the cradle gifts to him did give Unmeet belike for rulers of the earth; As sorrowful yearning in the midst of mirth, Pity midst anger, hope midst scorn and hate. Languor midst labour, lest the day wax late, And all be wrong, and all be to begin. Through these indeed the eager life did win That was the very body to my soul; Yet, as the tide of battle back did roll Before his patience: as he toiled and grieved O'er fools and folly, was he not deceived, But ever knew the change was drawing nigh, And in my mirror gazed with steadfast eye. Still, O my Faithful, seemed his life so fair     That all Olympus might have left him there Until to bitter strength that life was grown, And then have smiled to see him die alone, Had I not been.—— Ye know me; I have sent A pain to pierce his last coat of content:     Now must he tear the armour from his breast And cast aside all things that men deem best, And single-hearted for his longing strive That he at last may save his soul alive.

How say ye then, Beloved? Ye have known The blossom of the seed these hands have sown; Shall this man starve in sorrow's thorny brake? Shall Love the faithful of his heart forsake?

In the King's Garden.

KING PHARAMOND, MASTER OLIVER.

In this quiet place canst thou speak, O my King, Where nought but the lilies may hearken our counsel?

What wouldst thou have of me? why came we hither?

Dear lord, thou wouldst speak of the woe that weighs on thee.

Wouldst thou bear me aback to the strife and the battle? Nay, hang up my banner: 'tis all passed and over!

Speak but a little, lord! have I not loved thee?

Yea,—thou art Oliver: I saw thee a-lying A long time ago with the blood on thy face, When my father wept o'er thee for thy faith and thy valour.

Years have passed over, but my faith hath not failed me; Spent is my might, but my love not departed. Shall not love help—yea, look long in my eyes! There is no more to see if thou sawest my heart.

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