Force and Fate behind.     —Indeed his sword might somewhat heal the blind, Were I not, and the softness I have given; With me for him have hope and glory striven In other days when my tale was beginning; But sweet life lay beyond then for the winning, And now what sweetness?—blood of men to spill Who once believed him God to heal their ill:     To break the gate and storm adown the street Where once his coming flower-crowned girls did greet:     To deem the cry come from amidst his folk When his own country tongue should curse his stroke—     Nay, he shall leave to better men or worse His people's conquered homage and their curse.

So forth they go, his Oliver and he, One thing at least to learn across the sea, That whatso needless shadows life may borrow Love is enough amidst of joy or sorrow.

Love is enough—My Faithful, in your eyes I see the thought, Our Lord is overwise Some minutes past in what concerns him not, And us no more: is all his tale forgot?     —Ah, Well-beloved, I fell asleep e'en now, And in my sleep some enemy did show Sad ghosts of bitter things, and names unknown For things I know—a maze with shame bestrown And ruin and death; till e'en myself did seem A wandering curse amidst a hopeless dream.     —Yet see! I live, no older than of old, What tales soe'er of changing Time has told. And ye who cling to all my hand shall give, Sorrow or joy, no less than I shall live.

Scene: Before KING PHARAMOND'S Palace.

A long time it seems since this morn when I met them, The men of my household and the great man they honour:     Better counsel in king-choosing might I have given Had ye bided my coming back hither, my people:     And yet who shall say or foretell what Fate meaneth? For that man there, the stranger, Honorius men called him, I account him the soul to King Theobald's body, And the twain are one king; and a goodly king may be For this people, who grasping at peace and good days, Careth little who giveth them that which they long for. Yet what gifts have I given them; I who this even Turn away with grim face from the fight that should try me? It is just then, I have lost: lie down, thou supplanter, In thy tomb in the minster when thy life is well over, And the well-carven image of latten laid o'er thee Shall live on as thou livedst, and be worthy the praising Whereby folk shall remember the days of thy plenty. Praising Theobald the Good and the peace that he brought them, But I—I shall live too, though no 

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