from the way through the forest— These were gone when I wakened—and once as I wandered A lock of white wool from a thorn-bush I gathered; It was gone when I wakened—the name of that country— Nay, how should I know it?—but ever meseemeth 'Twas not in the southlands, for sharp in the sunset And sunrise the air is, and whiles I have seen it Amid white drift of snow—ah, look up, foster-father! O woe, woe is me that I may not awaken! Or else, art thou verily Pharamond my fosterling, The Freed and the Freer, the Wise, the World's Wonder? Why fainteth thy great heart? nay, Oliver, hearken, E'en such as I am now these five years I have been. Through five years of striving this dreamer and dotard Has reaped glory from ruin, drawn peace from destruction. Woe's me! wit hath failed me, and all the wise counsel I was treasuring up down the wind is a-drifting— Yet what wouldst thou have there if ever thou find it? Are the gates of heaven there? is Death bound there and helpless? Nay, thou askest me this not as one without knowledge, For thou know'st that my love in that land is abiding. Yea—woe worth the while—and all wisdom hath failed me: Yet if thou wouldst tell me of her, I will hearken Without mocking or mourning, if that may avail thee. Lo, thy face is grown kind—Thou rememberest the even When I first wore the crown after sore strife and mourning? Who shall ever forget it? the dead face of thy father, And thou in thy fight-battered armour above it, Mid the passion of tears long held back by the battle; And thy rent banner o'er thee and the ring of men mail-clad, Victorious to-day, since their ruin but a spear-length Was thrust away from them.—Son, think of thy glory And e'en in such wise break the throng of these devils! Five years are passed over since in the fresh dawning On the field of that fight I lay wearied and sleepless Till slumber came o'er me in the first of the sunrise; Then as there lay my body rapt away was my spirit, And a cold and thick mist for a while was about me, And when that cleared away, lo, the mountain-walled country 'Neath the first of the sunrise in e'en such a spring-tide As the spring-tide our horse-hoofs that yestereve trampled: By the withy-wrought gate of a garden I found me 'Neath the goodly green boughs