Hark! O days grown a dream of the dream ye have won me, Do ye draw forth the ghosts of old deeds that were nothing, That the sound of my trumpet floats down on the even? What shows will ye give me to grace my departure? Hark!—the beat of the horse-hoofs, the murmur of men folk! Am I riding from battle amidst of my faithful, Wild hopes in my heart of the days that are coming; Wild longing unsatisfied clinging about me; Full of faith that the summer sun elsewhere is ripening The fruit grown a pain for my parched lips to think of?     —Come back, thou poor Pharamond! come back for my pity! Far afield must thou fare before the rest cometh; In far lands are they raising the walls of thy prison, Forging wiles for waylaying, and fair lies for lulling, The faith and the fire of the heart the world hateth. In thy way wax streams fordless, and choked passes pathless, Fever lurks in the valley, and plague passeth over The sand of the plain, and with venom and fury Fulfilled are the woods that thou needs must wend through:     In the hollow of the mountains the wind is a-storing Till the keel that shall carry thee hoisteth her sail; War is crouching unseen round the lands thou shalt come to, With thy sword cast away and thy cunning forgotten. Yea, and e'en the great lord, the great Love of thy fealty,     He who goadeth thee on, weaveth nets to cast o'er thee.     —And thou knowest it all, as thou ridest there lonely, With the tangles and toils of to-morrow's uprising Making ready meanwhile for more days of thy kingship. Faithful heart hadst thou, Pharamond, to hold fast thy treasure! I am fain of thee: surely no shame hath destained thee; Come hither, for thy face all unkissed would I look on!     —Stand we close, for here cometh King Theobald from the hunting.

Enter KING THEOBALD, HONORIUS, and the people.

A fair day, my folk, have I had in your fellowship, And as fair a day cometh to-morrow to greet us, When the lord of the Golden Land bringeth us tribute:     Grace the gifts of my good-hap with your presence, I pray you.

God save Theobald the Good, the king of his people!

Yea, save him! and send the Gold lords away satisfied, That the old sword of Pharamond, lying asleep there In the new golden scabbard, will yet bite as aforetime!

Troop past in the twilight, O pageant that served me, Pour through the dark archway to the light that awaits you In the chamber of daïs where I once sat 

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