my kingship, Slept my body—or died—but my soul was not sleeping, It knew that she touched not this body that trembled At the thought of her body sore trembling to see me; It lied of no bliss as desire swept it onward, Who knows through what sundering space of its prison; It saw, and it heard, and it hoped, and was lonely, Had no doubt and no joy, but the hope that endureth.     —Woe's me I am weary: wend we forward to-morrow?

Yea, well it may be if thou wilt but be patient, And rest thee a little, while time creepeth onward.

But tell me, has the fourth year gone far mid my sickness?

Nay, for seven days only didst thou lie here a-dying, As full often I deemed: God be thanked it is over! But rest thee a little, lord; gather strength for the striving.

Yea, for once again sleep meseems cometh to struggle With the memory of times past: come tell thou, my fosterer, Of the days we have fared through, that dimly before me Are floating, as I look on thy face and its trouble.

Rememberest thou aught of the lands where we wended?

Yea, many a thing—as the moonlit warm evening When we stayed by the trees in the Gold-bearing Land, Nigh the gate of the city, where a minstrel was singing That tale of the King and his fate, o'er the cradle Foretold by the wise of the world; that a woman Should win him to love and to woe, and despairing In the last of his youth, the first days of his manhood.

I remember the evening; but clean gone is the story:     Amid deeds great and dreadful, should songs abide by me?

They shut the young king in a castle, the tale saith, Where never came woman, and never should come, And sadly he grew up and stored with all wisdom, Not wishing for aught in his heart that he had not, Till the time was come round to his twentieth birthday. Then many fair gifts brought his people unto him, Gold and gems, and rich cloths, and rare things and dear-bought, And a book fairly written brought a wise man among them, Called the Praising of Prudence; wherein there was painted The image of Prudence:—and that, what but a woman, E'en she forsooth that the painter found fairest;—     Now surely thou mindest what needs must come after?

Yea, somewhat indeed I remember the misery Told in that tale, but all mingled it 

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